The Master of Muscigny (The First Admiral Series Book 5) (13 page)

“Is that the best you can do, slave!?” Billy taunted, circling once again.

With a shout of outrage, Fatima lunged at Billy, who neatly side-stepped the clumsy attack. But, not to be beaten, Fatima then swung a tremendous slice towards her red-haired tormentor. Leaning back, Billy watched the great scything arc of the glittering blade sweep past his face by no more than a few centimetres. But, now Fatima was over balanced. With a couple of nimble steps, Billy spun round and body-checked Fatima to the ground.

“Best place for you, slave, in the dirt, where you belong,” Billy taunted.

“YOU!!” Fatima bellowed once more grabbing the sword in both hands, rising to her feet and driving it point first at Billy.

Neatly, Billy switched the Battle-Blade into his left hand and judged Fatima’s attack. Side-stepping the lunge, Billy blocked her wrists with his right hand, grabbing the grip of the sword, before setting his foot behind her and pushing her over again.

“You mock me, Sidi,” Fatima hissed a venomous curse from the ground, her frail chest heaving with anger and exertion.

“No, Fatima,” Billy replied, throwing the broadsword back to its owner and kneeling down next to the girl, “I would never mock you, only test you.” He smiled gently, trying to straighten the turban which was falling down over her eyes.

“Fighting in formation, my prickly desert flower, needs discipline,” Billy said, “That means that if someone runs away, or loses their temper, then everyone in that formation will die, do you understand? You have to be able to trust and rely upon everyone else, and keep a cool head,” he continued and twisted the mechanism on the Battle-Blade once more, which reverted to its original size.

Replacing the blade in his boot top, Billy grasped Fatima’s elbow and dragged her to her feet.

“You have the wits of a donkey and the reflexes of a snail,” Billy said, “but you have the heart of a lion.” He smiled. “If you can control that temper, Fatima, the Palace Guard at Jerusalem won’t be able to stop you,” he added, finally straightening her turban as she smiled broadly.

Turning to the people at the camp fires, Billy paused for a moment.

“Train all the women who want to learn on the bow, the sword and the shield!” Billy announced. “Starting tomorrow evening!”

Then, turning away from Fatima, he began to walk towards the Aquarius. Behind him, the people cheered and began celebrating. The drums began to beat and the feet began to stamp the ground as the high, shrill ululating cries announced the women’s “victory”.

Planet Geminus - The Templar Fortress of Acre, May 6
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Arnold of Torroja was a very happy man. Standing on the balcony of the Grand Master’s Chamber, he looked out over the noise, stench and bustle of a busy port. Leaning on the heavy wall of the balcony, he casually swirled the wine in the heavy gold beaker in his right hand as he watched the latest consignment of animals and supplies for the expedition against Baldwin of Jerusalem being unloaded from the ships berthed at the quay. Giving a silent prayer of thanks to God for delivering the second part of the Templar fleet safely to the Holy Land, Arnold raised his beaker in quiet salute to the hundreds of ships that crowded the harbour and beyond.

With God on his side, Arnold considered that he could not lose, and that the mantle of Grand Master would pass to him with the removal of Baldwin from the throne of Jerusalem. Turning from the heat and stench of the port of Acre, Arnold sauntered casually round the Grand Master’s Chamber, savouring the moment when he would be the rightful occupant of the room. On the large table that dominated the room, an accumulation of dust and unread parchments spoke of the neglect of the Order’s business since the previous Grand Master had been taken captive by the Saracens.

Grand Master Odo de Saint Armand had been a fool, Arnold considered as he strolled round the table and sat on the high backed chair with the intricately carved arms that lay at the head of the table. Lifting his legs, he casually rested his heels on the edge of the table, crossed his ankles, and laid back on the chair, cradling his beaker of wine. If Odo had decided to go gallivanting off into the desert against the heathen infidel, then that was his business. But, as Grand Master, he really had no business getting himself caught. He knew that the Order would never ransom him. It was an article of faith in the order not to expect to be rescued or ransomed, and so, Arnold considered, the brave, pious and gallant Odo would be rotting in a Saracen jail somewhere until the day he died.

Raising his beaker to toast his own good fortune and a slow miserable death for his predecessor, Arnold’s good mood was disturbed by a knock at the heavy wooden door.

“Enter!”

The heavy door creaked open in a cloud of dust and decay as four heavily armed and armoured men in white surcoats and the red cross of the Order noisily entered.

“Brothers, welcome to my humble abode, it is time to discuss our strategy against the Saracen-lover in Jerusalem,” he announced, setting his beaker down on the table.

The four men, the divisional commanders of the newly arrived contingent, looked warily at the Grand Master Designate, but said nothing.

“Gather round, Brethren,” Arnold instructed, and began to spread out a clumsy map drawing of the Holy Land.

The map, ridiculously inaccurate and bearing no resemblance to the actual scale of the terrain, was crudely drawn and coloured.

“Brothers,” Arnold began, “we are here at Acre.” He pointed with the tip of a piece of charcoal retrieved from the table. “Our first goal is the holy city of Jerusalem.” He pointed to the largest icon on the map. “And ultimately, Damascus.” He outlined the objectives’ relative positions to each other.

“Our goal is Jerusalem,” he instructed, “and, as all you students of Alexander and Caesar will know, the key to Jerusalem is the sea.” He tapped the expanse of blue that was meant to represent the Mediterranean with his mail-gloved fore-finger.

“But surely, the leper will also know this Grand Master,” a heavy, thickset man named Geoffrey of Touran commented.

“Off course he will, Brother, and we will allow him to continue to think that right until the moment we cut off his rotting and diseased head.”

“How, Grand Commander?”

“As you well know Brother, the Romans ran their troop and supply ships down the coast.” Arnold began drawing his fingertip down the coastal plain. “They landed their armies on the coast to the north and west of Jerusalem and moved inland to take the city.” Arnold demonstrated dramatically with his fingertip.

“But, as I said Grand Commander, Baldwin the leper will know this, and he will either sit behind the wall of Jerusalem or come out and try to cut us down on the approach from the sea.”

“Let him try, brother, for our true strength will not be there.”

“Grand Commander, I am confused,” said a smaller, wiry-looking man, named Martin of Couselle. “If our true strength is not to be on the coast, then where?”

“Brothers, we attack Jerusalem from the north.”

“The north, Grand Commander?” Martin queried. “It’s a long dusty road from Acre, with little water to sustain our men and horses.”

“That is true, Brother, which is why we march part way down the coast and then cut inland to approach the city from the north.”

“But, that’s not possible, Grand Commander,” Geoffrey said.

“With God’s help, anything is possible, Brothers. Our main body marches from Acre and heads south along the coast before gradually cutting east to the north of Jerusalem, and then following this road.” Arnold indicated the main road from Acre to Jerusalem.

“Meanwhile, our ships sail down the coast. The leper thus believes that our strength comes by sea.” Arnold drew his finger down the coast once again. “At pre-arranged points on the coast, supplies and reinforcements are unloaded to cut across country to replenish our main column.” He drew his finger inland from several points on the coast with short stabs.

“So, our strength in the north grows, whilst the leper watches for us to land from the sea.” Geoffrey smiled at the simplicity of the deception.

“What of our heavy siege engines?” Martin asked.

“We move quickly, brother, we don’t take any with us.”

“And, if the leper decides to hide in the city?” Martin asked.

“Well for one, he doesn’t dare leave the countryside undefended against us, and, if we need siege engines, we simply build them on site.”

“The leper has no choice but to face us to the west of Jerusalem, when the ships land,” Geoffrey nodded appreciating the simplicity of the plan.

“Precisely, Brother, and when the leper is chasing shadows on the coast with whatever men he can scrape together at short notice, our army strikes from the north,” he slammed his fist down on the icon of Jerusalem.

“Brilliant, Grand Commander,” Martin had to concede.

“We meet up with our friends from Jerusalem about a day’s march from the city,” Arnold said, lifting the piece of charcoal once again. “Here.” He circled a name on the map.

“Muscigny!”

The Catacombs, Jerusalem, May 11
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“My Lords, Welcome!” Amalric of Lusignan announced as he swept in from the shadows to take his place at the head of the huge sarcophagus that stood as a table.

The four Christian Knights who stood in the flickering torchlight around the tomb of a long-dead and venerable Lady, turned and bowed politely to the Constable of Jerusalem. Each knight, with suspicion in his eyes, watched carefully as Amalric acknowledged their respect with a short bow of his own.

“Bernard of Chatillon.”

“My Lord Constable.”

“Giles of Tripoli.”

“My Lord, Amalric.”

“Alain of Bezain.”

“My Lord.”

“And, Robert of Chattigny.”

“My Lord Constable.”

“Now that we’re all here, gentlemen,” Amalric continued, “has anyone seen Jacques of Ibelin?”

“My Lord, he has declined your invitation,” said the Templar with the scarred face, who accompanied Amalric.

“How inconvenient. Fortunately, Ibelin is too far away for Jacques to cause us any trouble.”

The Templar knight who shadowed Amalric, on instructions from Arnold of Torroja, stepped forward to the table and was pointedly not introduced by the Constable.

“My Lords, our Templar friends have marched from Acre with two thousand knights and eighteen thousand men-at-arms,” Amalric began.

Around the table, the news was met with a stunned silence. Twenty thousand Templars on the march was a formidable force.

“They are marching to Jerusalem, My Lords,” Amalric continued, “where they will join us and remove the unworthy Baldwin from the throne.”

“At last!” the knight from Bezain exclaimed, thumping the top of the sarcophagus with his mail-gloved hand in approval.

“And, when do our Templar brothers arrive?” an anxious Robert of Chattigny asked.

“My Lords,” the Templar answered, “Brother Arnold will be in Jerusalem eight days hence.”

“So soon?” Robert continued.

“Speed and secrecy were thought to be of the essence, My Lords,” Amalric responded, “not to give our enemies any warning of our plans and catch them by surprise.”

“Magnificent!” Bernard of Chatillon cheered. “I want that diseased cur’s head on the end of my lance.”

“No, My Lord, Bernard,” Amalric contradicted, “that honour shall be mine.”

“I will have his head, My Lord Constable!” Bernard shouted. “He has insulted and dishonoured my family for too long!”

“And, I say ‘No’!”

In the heat of the moment, Bernard drew his broadsword and was prepared to fight as the other three knights stepped back quickly to avoid the expected flying blades.

“My Lords, enough!” the Templar bellowed, drawing his own sword, and holding it horizontally in front of him, stopping the two men coming to blows. “The Will of God will deliver up the leper to us!”

“If the Will of God delivers the leper to anyone but me,” Bernard hissed viciously, “I’ll have their guts too.”

“Then you’ll have a Templar bounty on your head, My Lord,” the Templar said coldly in the oppressive gloom.

“I have no quarrel with the Order,” Amalric said, watching his would-be opponent closely.

“Do you wish to quarrel with the Soldiers of Christ, My Lord Bernard?” the Templar said with icy calm in the flickering torch light.

“No,” Bernard said quietly and lowered the point of his sword.

“My Lord Constable?” the Templar invited Amalric to lower his sword.

“If it be the Will of God,” Amalric smiled viciously at his challenger, lowering the sword point.

“There’ll be time enough for fighting and settling grievances once we have disposed of the leper and the heathen Saracen,” the Templar commanded, lowering his own sword.

“Aye, and there’ll be plenty of Saracen heads to take as well,” Alain laughed.

“I’ll just settle for their gold and their horses,” Robert added.

“Yes, My Lords, lots of plunder,” the Templar promised, “and all done in God’s holy name.”

“That’s the best kind of killing,” Alain interrupted. “Keep in God’s good graces, and a bit of ransom money too.”

“But,” the Templar warned, “We must finish this business in Jerusalem first, before we war on the heathen.”

“We meet, six days hence, at Muscigny,” Amalric continued, his eyes scanning the other warlords around the tomb.

“Why at Muscigny?” Giles of Tripoli finally entered the conversation.

“Muscigny is only a day’s march from Jerusalem, and is an ideal location for our forces to combine,” the Templar explained.

“What about the Citadel at Muscigny?” Robert, the anxious plotter, asked.

“It’s a broken-down hovel,” Amalric replied.

“A knight with a dozen archers could hold that broken down hovel and deny us the road for several days, My Lord,” Alain commented, “and get word to Jerusalem.”

“Nonsense!”

“No, My Lord Constable, Lord Joscelin says there are strange Outlanders at Muscigny with flying ships and powerful weapons...”

“My Lord Joscelin will jump at shadows and old wives tales these days...”

“Still, that Citadel, if it is any kind of threat, should be in our hands when Brother Arnold arrives,” the Templar cut across the conversation. “Any delay could prove fatal to our cause.”

“A few broken down walls and some scrawny chickens...” Amalric continued.

“That’s a long, open, rolling slope at Muscigny,” Alain interrupted. “If you put five hundred men to that slope you’d lose them all before you got close to the walls.”

“I saw Muscigny not three months ago, a half dozen pages could storm that Citadel with the feathers in their caps.”

“Then, you’ll have no trouble capturing it?”

“I see no point in wasting time and men in taking an empty shell...”

“Maybe My Lord Amalric is frightened of a few chickens.”

“Why you…” Amalric snarled as once again naked steel glittered in the gloom of the crypt.

“Stop it!” the Templar bellowed once again, knocking the knight from Bezain’s blade aside with a savage swipe. “My Lord Amalric, make sure that Citadel is in our hands before Brother Arnold arrives.”

“If you insist,” Amalric hissed viciously, his eyes still focussed on his second challenger.

“I do insist, My Lord Constable,” the Templar ordered. “Put down your swords, the pair of you!” he shouted.

“And, what of the Lord of Muscigny?” Robert asked as swords were lowered again.

“He’s the one who ordered his Physician to lift the curse of leprosy from Baldwin,” Amalric snarled.

“Then make sure you kill him, My Lord Constable,” the Templar said softly. “We cannot suffer anyone who denies God’s vengeance to live.”

“Oh, it’ll be my pleasure to kill that one,” Amalric hissed icily, sliding the blade back into the beautifully decorated scabbard at his left hip. “The greatest of pleasures indeed.”

And, finally, he slammed the blade fully home.