Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (4 page)

“I do not wish to speak of this, sir,” said Will in a low voice. “I won’t!”

“We won’t have to,” said Owein calmly, seating himself on the bench, “if you start behaving like the sergeant I know you can be.” When Owein saw he had the boy’s attention, he continued. “You have a sharp mind, William, and your enthusiasm and skill on the training field is laudable. But you refuse to apply yourself to the most fundamental obligations of our Order. Do you think our founders wrote the Rule for their own amusement? We must all strive to follow the ideals they prescribed in order to fulfill our role as Christ’s warriors on Earth. Being able to fight well is not enough. Bernard de Clairvaux himself tells us that it is useless to attack exterior enemies if we do not first conquer those of the interior. Do you understand that, William?”

“Yes, sir,” said Will quietly. The sentiment touched something deep inside him.

“You cannot continue to jeopardize your position by flouting the Rule whenever you think it dull, or senseless. You must start obeying me, William, in
all
of your duties, not just the ones you enjoy. You must learn discipline else you will have no place in this Order. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir Owein.”

Owein sat back, satisfied that Will had listened and understood. “Good.” He picked up one of the scrolls that was lying on the table. Unrolling the parchment he smoothed it flat with his palm. “Then your next duty will be to bear my shield at a parley between King Henry and Master de Pairaud.”

“The king? He’s coming here, sir?”

“In twelve days.” Owein looked up from the parchment. “And his visit is a private affair, so you are forbidden from speaking of it.”

“You have my word, sir.”

“Until then, you will be assigned to the stables as punishment for neglecting your responsibilities this morning. This will be in addition to your daily work. That is all, sergeant. You are dismissed.”

Will bowed and headed for the door.

“And William.”

“Sir?”

“My threats may have seemed without substance in the past. But if you test my patience any further, I won’t hesitate to have you expelled from the Order. Stay out of trouble. The good Lord knows it follows you around like a stray dog, but the next time you turn and pet it, it may well bite you.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Will had gone, Owein rubbed at his brow wearily.

“You are far too lenient on the boy, brother.” A tall knight with flint-gray hair and a leather patch over his left eye appeared from around the wooden screen, where he had been sitting throughout the meeting. He crossed to Owein, holding a sheaf of parchments. “To bear the shield of a Templar is a great honor, greater still given the setting. His punishment seems more like a reward.”

Owein studied the scroll before him. “Perhaps the responsibility will help to temper him, brother.”

“Or lead him to worse abuses of his rank. I fear your affection for the boy has blinded you. You are not his father, Owein.”

Owein looked up, frowning. He opened his mouth to object, but the flint-haired knight continued.

“Boys of his age and breeding are like dogs. They respond better to the whip rather than the word.”

“I disagree.”

The knight gave a tiny shrug and laid the sheaf of parchments he held on the table. “It’s your decision, of course. I merely offer my opinion.”

“Your opinion is noted, Jacques,” said Owein, mildly but firmly. He picked up the parchments. “Have you read them all?”

“I have.” Jacques walked to the window and surveyed the Temple’s grounds. The leaves on the trees were beginning to wither, turning brown and crumpled at the edges. “What does Master de Pairaud say? Is he confident that Henry will concede to our demands?”

“Fairly. As I have been dealing with this matter for some months, Master de Pairaud has, to some extent, left it in my hands as to how we proceed during the parley. I have talked through my thoughts with him and it has been agreed that we should compile not only the treasury reports of what has been lent to the royal household over the past year, but also exactly where we believe those monies to have been spent. I will need your help with some of the details.”

“You have it.”

Owein nodded his thanks. “It will all serve to strengthen our case.”

“However strong our case is, the king will not be pleased.”

“No, he will not. But although I believe we should tread with some caution in this matter, Henry does have very little choice but to concede to the Temple’s demands. Even if he refuses, we can request that the pope order him to agree.”

“Caution is needed, brother. The Temple may stand beyond the king’s authority, but he can still make our lives difficult. He has done it before when he attempted to confiscate several of our estates. And,” added Jacques grimly, “we currently have more than enough to worry about without having to deal with the petty reactions of jealous monarchs.” He pulled up a stool and sat before Owein. “You spoke to the Master this morning. Did he say whether he has received any further reports from Outremer?”

“We will discuss it in the next chapter meeting, but, no, he has received nothing since we learned about the Mongol attacks on Aleppo, Damascus and Baghdad, and the Mamluks’ move to confront the horde. And that, for me, is good enough incentive to confront the king sooner rather than later about his debts. We will need all the money we can lay our hands on if we have cause to counter this new threat. If the Mamluks face the Mongols and win we will have their entire army marching triumphant and confident through our territories.” Owein straightened up the neat stack of parchments on the table with the tips of his fingers and shook his head. “I cannot think of anything more perilous.”

T
he Mamluk camp was tumultuous; noisy with exultation and preparation as the army celebrated its victory in song and officers shouted their orders, maintaining tight control of what, at first glance, would have appeared to be chaos.

On reaching the sultan’s pavilion, Baybars reined in his horse and leapt down. Pausing to tether the beast to a hobbling post he surveyed the gorge, far beneath him. The sun had dipped below the hills, casting shadows across the valley. He could hear the dull echo of axe blades against wood as the Mongols’ siege engines were torn down for the pyres of their dead. His eyes moved to the chain of Mamluk wounded, which was winding its way slowly up the hillside from the battleground. Those able to walk were being helped by their comrades and the less fortunate were laid out on carts that bounced and rattled over the rocky ground. Come dawn, the physicians would be exhausted, but the gravediggers would be wearier still. Baybars headed for the pavilion. Guarding the entrance were two white-cloaked warriors of the Mu’izziyya regiment, the sultan’s Royal Guard. They moved aside and bowed at his approach.

The air inside the pavilion was thick with the scent of sandalwood and the flames filtering through the oil lanterns exuded a soft, buttery light. It took Baybars a moment to become accustomed to the dim interior, but when he did his gaze was drawn first to the throne, which stood on a wooden platform that was covered by a canopy of white silk. The throne was a magnificent item, spread with embroidered cloth, the arms crowned with the heads of two lions sculpted from gold, beasts that snarled down at all those who stood before them. It was empty. Baybars looked around until his eyes came to rest on a low couch that was partially hidden by a mesh screen. Reclining there amidst a panoply of cushions and drapes was Sultan Kutuz, the master of the Mamluks and ruler of Egypt. His brocaded mantle of jade damask was drawn tight against his huge frame and his long black beard was sleek with perfumed oil. As usual, the sultan was not alone. Baybars quickly studied the rest of the men who occupied the pavilion. He had trained himself, on entering any enclosed space, to assess who was there and how many were armed. Invariably, the answers to these questions when in the presence of the sultan, were all those who mattered and everyone but the servants. Baybars had long thought that Kutuz’s status was marked less by the slim band of gold that circled his brow, than by the retinue that always surrounded him. Attendants bearing trays of fruit and goblets of hibiscus cordial moved deftly between the royal advisors and the military governors of the various Mamluk regiments, who stood in small groups talking quietly. More of the Mu’izziyya were just visible in the shadows.

A gust of cool air swept into the pavilion with a messenger who hurried over to one of the governors. The draft stirred the incense smoke into fitful clouds. Kutuz looked up. His dark eyes fixed on Baybars.

“Amir.” Kutuz beckoned. “Come forward.” He waited as Baybars approached the couch. “My praise to you,” he said, watching Baybars bow. “Because of your plan, we have won our first victory against the Mongols.” Resting against the cushions, Kutuz took a goblet from one of the proffered trays. “What do you believe our next move should be?” He shot a glance at a group of men who were standing at the side of the pavilion. “Some of my advisors have suggested that we fall back.”

Baybars didn’t take his eyes from the sultan. “We should move out to engage the remaining Mongol forces, my lord. The rest have fled east and reports from the borders indicate concern over the throne in Mongolia. It would be good to strike while they are in disarray.”

“That may be difficult,” voiced one of the governors. “It is a long road east and—”

“No,” interrupted Kutuz. “Baybars is right. We must strike while we are able, if we are to complete our success.” He motioned to a scribe, who was seated at a table in one corner of the pavilion. “I have drafted a letter to the Western rulers of Acre, informing them of our victory and asking for their continued support of our campaign. Have one of your officers take it to the city and place it in the hand of the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights.”

Baybars took the scroll reluctantly. The act of asking their enemy for permission to enter their territories,
stolen
territories, had affronted him and the brief rest the Mamluks had taken in Acre on their journey through Palestine had only reinforced his hatred. While the army was camped outside Acre’s walls, the Teutonic Knights, a military Order from the Kingdom of Germany, had invited Kutuz into their stronghold to feast at their table, where the sultan had asked them for an alliance of arms against the Mongols. Negotiations between the Christian and Muslim forces were not uncommon. There had been many such alliances forged since the first Crusaders had come, at the call of their pope, to redeem the birthplace of their Christ from the unbelievers, spurred by the promise of absolution in the next life and the prospect of land and riches in this. On new shores they had become the infidel themselves and, over time, had learned to negotiate with their enemy, until, in the midst of conflict, trade and even friendships had flourished. But, on that day, although the Western rulers had permitted the Mamluks to cross their territories, they had bluntly refused the entreaty for a military alliance.

Baybars, seated in silence at the sultan’s side for the feast, had watched grimly as Muslim servants had brought the platters to the boards. In Acre, those the Muslims called
al-Firinjah
—the Franks—held the power. It was a term used broadly for the fighting classes of the West whatever their nationality, but the two things the Franks had in common were their Roman Christianity and that they had come to the East uninvited. In the towns and cities ruled by the Franks, native Christians, Jews and Muslims were allowed to work, practice their religions and organize their own administrations. But what the Franks saw as tolerance was insult to Baybars. The Western Christians, who had come to take their Holy Land by force, had enslaved his people and were growing fat and happy on the spoils. Acre’s rulers could try to hide behind their adopted refinements, their perfumed hair and flowing silks, but Baybars still saw the filth of the West on them and all the soap in Palestine couldn’t wash them clean. He stared at Kutuz. “I would rather take a war to the Franks than a message, my lord.”

Kutuz drummed his fingers on the arm of the couch. “For now, we must concentrate our forces on one enemy alone, Amir. The Mongols must pay in full for their insult to my position.”

“And,” interjected Baybars, “for the eighty thousand Muslims they killed at Baghdad?”

“Indeed,” replied Kutuz, after a pause. He drained the goblet and handed it to an attendant. “At least the Franks show me courtesy.”

“They show you courtesy, my lord, because they fear to lose territory to the Mongols. Not willing to lift their own swords, they have let us fight their battle for them.”

Baybars held Kutuz’s gaze easily. A tense silence descended, broken only by the footfalls of the attendants and the muted sounds of the camp outside. Kutuz was the first to look away. “You have your orders, Amir.”

Baybars said nothing. There would be time during their campaign to turn Kutuz to his will. “There is the matter of a reward, my lord.”

Kutuz sat back with a nod and the tension in the pavilion was expelled like a breath. “The spoils of war will always benefit the soldiers who fight them, Baybars.” He motioned to one of his advisors. “Have a chest filled with gold for the Amir.”

“It wasn’t gold I was seeking, my lord.”

Kutuz frowned. “No? Then what do you want?”

“The governorship of the city of Aleppo, my lord.”

Kutuz didn’t speak for several moments. Behind him, some of the advisors stirred uneasily. The sultan laughed. “You request a city held by the Mongols?”

“It won’t be for much longer, my lord. Not now we have broken a third of their force and prepare to march on their strongholds to finish what we’ve started.”

Kutuz’s smile faded. “What game are you playing?”

“No game, my lord.”

“Why do you request such a prize? What would you do with Aleppo when your greatest desire is to lead my army to war against the Christians?”

“The position of governor wouldn’t deter me from that cause.”

Kutuz folded his arms across his chest. “Amir,” he said, his soft tone belied by the hardness of his gaze, “I don’t understand why you wish to return to a place so full of memory.”

Baybars stiffened. He knew that Kutuz made it his business to learn everything of his officers, including their histories. But he hadn’t thought anyone, Kutuz included, knew of his time in Aleppo.

Seeing that he had struck a nerve, Kutuz smiled slightly.

“I have served you and your predecessors since I was eighteen.” Baybars’s deep voice filled the pavilion and advisors and attendants alike stopped what they were doing to listen. “In that time I have brought fear to the enemies of Islam and triumph to our cause. I led the van at the Battle of Herbiya and killed five thousand Christians. I helped capture the Franks’ king, Louis, at Mansurah and killed three hundred of his best knights.”

“I am grateful for all you have done for me, Amir Baybars, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t give up such a jewel, even if it became mine to give.”

“Grateful, my lord?” Baybars’s voice was light, but his hands were fists at his sides. “If not for me you wouldn’t have a throne to sit on.”

Kutuz rose quickly from the couch, scattering the cushions. “You forget yourself,
Amir
! In the name of Allah, I should have you whipped!” He strode to the throne and stepped onto the platform. Turning, he seated himself and grasped the heads of the lions.

“I beg your forgiveness, my lord, but I believe I am deserving of this reward.”

“Leave!” spat Kutuz. “Leave now and do not return until you have considered the position of a sultan and the position of a commander and have a clearer understanding of which is the greater. You will never have Aleppo, Baybars. Do you hear me?
Never!
”

Out of the corner of his eye, Baybars saw that several members of the Mu’izziyya had stepped forward. Their hands were resting on the pommels of their sabers. He forced himself to bow to Kutuz, then swept out of the pavilion, the scroll clutched tightly in his fist.

As he strode through the Mamluk encampment the men fell back at the rage that enveloped him like a cloud. The sun had set and down in the gorge the pyres of the Mongol dead were burning, the flames leaping high into the purple skies. The sounds of laughter and cheering drifted on the chill desert air and, closer, a woman’s screams. When he reached his own tent, Baybars wrenched open the flaps. He stopped in the entrance. Standing in the center of the tent was a Mamluk officer, a lean man with a plain, honest-looking face and a slightly crooked nose.

“Amir! I missed you in the battle, but I’ve already heard ten tales of your valor.”

Baybars handed his swords to an attendant who was waiting nearby, as the officer came forward and embraced him.

“All I hear when I walk through the camp are men praising your name. They exalt you.” The officer motioned to a low couch, before which was a chest laden with platters of figs and spiced meats. “Take off your armor and drink with me in celebration.”

“The time for celebration is passed, Omar.”

“Amir?”

Baybars glanced at his attendants. The one who had taken his swords had set about cleaning them. Two others were stoking the charcoals in the braziers and a fourth was pouring water into a silver basin. “Leave us.”

The attendants looked up in surprise, but seeing their master’s expression left their stations hurriedly. Baybars tossed the scroll onto the chest and pulled off his bloodied cloak, letting it fall to the sand. He sat heavily on the couch and seized a goblet of kumiz. He drank deep, the fermented mare’s milk soothing his throat.

Omar sat down beside Baybars. “Sadeek?” he pressed, reverting, now that the attendants had gone, to the more familiar appellation,
friend
. “In the eighteen years I’ve known you I’ve never seen you angered by victory. What is the cause?”

“Kutuz.”

Omar waited for him to continue and remained silent as Baybars spoke of the sultan’s denial of his request. When Baybars had finished, Omar sat back and shook his head. “Kutuz is obviously fearful of you. Your reputation precedes you and he is only too aware of the military’s capability in the deposition of a sultan. After all, he too took the throne by force. Kutuz has reigned for only one year and his position isn’t fully secured among all in the regiments. I would say he believes you would have too much power should he give you Aleppo. Power that you, in turn, may use against him.” Omar spread his hands. “I cannot see what you are to do, though. The sultan’s word is law.”

“He must die,” said Baybars quietly. So quietly that Omar wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.

“Sadeek?”

Baybars glanced at him. “I will kill him and place a more suitable ruler on the throne. A ruler who rewards his officers. A ruler who will bring them the victories they deserve.”

Omar’s eyes moved to the tent entrance. The flaps were open and outside he could see the flickering torchlight and the shadows of men who were hauling the plunder they had taken into the camp. “You cannot even think such things,” he murmured. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow is a new day and your anger may diminish with your dreams.”

“You may be one of my highest officers, Omar, and you may be as a brother to me. But if you believe that then perhaps you don’t know me at all. You were there when we killed the Ayyubid, Turanshah. It was my hand that wielded the blade that took that sultan’s life. I can do it again.”

“Yes,” replied Omar quietly. “I was there.” He stared into Baybars’s eyes and couldn’t see one shred of doubt or indecision there. Omar had seen that look before.

On that day, ten years ago, he had been resting with the other officers of the Bahri regiment, following a victory against the Franks at Mansurah, a victory won by Baybars. At the time, the Bahris had been the Royal Guard of Sultan Ayyub, whose predecessors had gathered and raised the Mamluk army. Shortly before the Battle of Mansurah, Ayyub had died and his heir, Turanshah, had ascended the throne. Turanshah had riled the Mamluks by putting his own men in positions of power and Baybars had been ordered by Aibek, the commander of the Bahris, to rectify the situation with the persuasion of cold steel. He had come to Omar and the other officers late that night when Turanshah was holding a banquet. With swords concealed beneath their cloaks, the party had stormed the feasting hall. Turanshah had fled to a tower on the banks of the Nile, but Baybars had followed him doggedly, ordering that the tower be put to the torch. As the flames devoured the wood the sultan had jumped into the river and there, like a half-drowned rat, had begged for his life. Baybars had vaulted down the bank and ended the sultan’s cries and the line of the Ayyubids with a single stroke, securing the seat of power for the Mamluks and making the slaves the masters. Omar would never forget the moment when Baybars had plunged his sword into Turanshah’s belly, his face twisted beyond recognition by the fervor that consumed him.