Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (59 page)

“I can’t explain what it was like,” said Will slowly. “What it felt like to have that choice taken away from me. How it felt to be speechless, helpless. I felt as though I had been tainted by something…as though something diseased and wrong had crawled inside me. I couldn’t have lived like that, Elwen. When we went after Garin, I fell ill. We were in Orléans for three months. I almost died. By the time I was well again, Garin and the book had gone to the Holy Land, Simon had found us a ship to leave on and I just knew, however much I wanted to return to you, that I had to finish it. I had to take my choice back.”

“Why didn’t you write?” she said after a long moment.

“I tried. I started a hundred letters. I couldn’t finish any of them. Then time just went and I thought you would be married and have a family, that you would be happy. I didn’t want to hurt you, or intrude on a life I knew nothing about. And I was scared,” he finished lamely, and then, quietly, “I was a fool.”

“Yes, you were.” Elwen pressed her lips together, then smiled. The expression surprised him. “Do remember how we used to talk about the Holy Land when we were young?”

Will nodded morosely.

Elwen’s smile broadened. “When I was a girl, living in the palace in Paris, I used to dream we would go there together. When the fog came in on winter days, I would close my eyes and imagine us standing on some warm marbled balcony of a golden palace, the walls and floors adorned with jewels, the bluest sea imaginable stretching before us.” Elwen had half closed her eyes. “You wore the cloak of a knight and polished armor and I wore a white silk gown. You took me in your arms and told me you loved me. I went to sleep on that dream for years.” Elwen spread her arms to encompass the cramped, smelly storehold, with its straw-littered floor and cracked, cobwebbed walls. She laughed. It was a gentle rushing sound, not mocking, nor bitter.

Will looked at her, a smile tugging at his own mouth. He tried to press it back, then it broke across his face and he was laughing with her. Then, without either of them seeming to move, she was in his arms. And they were giggling and sobbing and clutching each other. Finally, they broke away, each embarrassed by the outburst.

“I don’t even know how you got here,” said Will.

“It’s a long story,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, “and one for another day. In short, I came with a merchant. A Venetian.”

“Do you have somewhere to stay?”

“Yes, with him.” Elwen caught Will’s look and smiled. “He is a supplier to the royal household in Paris. At Queen Marguerite’s request he offered me work and lodgings here. He has a cloth factory in the Venetian Quarter. He’s a good man, and his wife is a good woman. They have three daughters I get on well with.”

Will smiled. Outside, a bell clanged. He glanced around. “I wish we could talk for longer, but…”

“I know,” she cut across him, “I’ve got to go. I understand.”

“No, you don’t. Elwen, listen, I might have to go away. It will only be for a few days, I hope. But it is just something I have to do. I’m sorry.”

Elwen nodded.

“After that,” Will continued, “we can talk some more.” He looked down at his mantle. “I don’t know what we…or even if we…”

Elwen stopped him with a finger to her lips. “There’s no need to say anything. We don’t have to think about any of this yet. It’s still so strange to be here. I need time too.” She went to slip past him, then paused, rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek. “I will see you when you return.”

Will remained alone for some time after she had gone, his cheek seeming to burn where she had touched him.

“B
e careful with it. My signature is barely dry.”

Will took the leather scrollcase Prince Edward held out to him. He eased it into his saddlebag and pulled the strap tight, feeling a profound sense of weight bearing down on him. Everard had done more than request his presence in the company; he had asked the prince to let Will lead it.

“Are you sure we are sending enough men, my Lord Prince?”

Edward turned to the Grand Master of the Hospital. “We aren’t expecting a fight, Master de Revel.”

“We don’t know that, my lord. And even if Baybars plans to honor this agreement, it is a two-day ride to Caesarea. Bedouin use the road. They may think to attack such a small party in the hope of plunder.”

“It is doubtful,” came the deep voice of Thomas Bérard, the Templar Grand Master. Edward and Hugues de Revel turned as he approached. “Besides, brother,” he added, addressing the Hospitaller Master, “we don’t want to appear too belligerent. This is a peace treaty, after all.”

Hugues de Revel pursed his lips, but gave a curt nod. “I was merely being cautious, brother. We don’t want anything to go wrong with this.”

The three men looked at Will.

Will inclined his head. “And nothing will, my lords.”

The Templar and Hospitaller Grand Masters looked satisfied and turned away to talk with the other dignitaries from Acre’s government who had come to oversee the company’s departure.

Edward lingered for a moment. “Good luck, Campbell,” he said after a pause.

Will watched the prince sweep off to his three royal knights, who were readying their horses.

Edward’s plan to secure peace in the Holy Land had so far gone more smoothly than anyone could have expected. He was also, Will knew, responsible for Garin’s release from prison. After four years in the cell, the knight had been freed without warning three days ago. He had come to find Will to say good-bye, before leaving by the servants’ entrance, pale, subdued and banished from the Temple forever. When Will had asked Everard what had made him change his mind, the priest had replied, our Guardian. It seemed, when Edward had visited Garin in the cell, that he had been moved to pity by his plight. Some months after this visit, he had spoken with Everard and the Seneschal and, when he had discovered the reasons for Garin’s imprisonment, had offered to take Garin back to England with him. The knight, the prince had told them, would aid him, in a purely secretarial post, with his work for the Anima Templi. It would be hard work and he would be granted little freedom, but he would, the prince had said, at least have the chance to use his knowledge to benefit the Brethren, rather than rotting uselessly in a cell. Following the prince’s plea, Everard, who had, for some time, been implored by Will to reconsider the harsh punishment, had eventually relented.

But although there seemed no reason for Will to doubt the prince’s motives, something about Edward still made him uneasy, like the faint hint of smoke in a forest, or an ambiguous shadow on a wall.

“William.”

Will looked round to see Everard shuffling over, his cowl pulled over his head despite the heat of the day.

“Keep it safe,” murmured the priest, nodding to the saddlebag.

“I will.”

“You hold the hope of us all.”

Will was surprised to see tears in Everard’s bloodshot eyes. The priest’s wizened face was anxious. “Perhaps I should go with you?” he said, glancing at the knights gathered in the yard, tying water skins to belts, adjusting helmets and swords. Along with Edward’s men, there were six Templars, four Hospitallers and three Teutonic Knights going with Will to Caesarea: a show both of strength and unity that demonstrated that with this covenant they spoke for all of Christendom.

“Everard,” said Will firmly, “I will make sure it gets there. I promise you.”

The priest’s lined face creased in a smile. “I know, William. I know.” He stepped back as Will climbed up into the saddle and trotted the horse over to Robert de Paris and the other Templars. Robert was talking with Simon.

Simon smiled as Will approached. “I found you one of these,” he said, holding up a water skin.

“I already have one,” said Will patting the skin that was tied to his saddlebag.

“Right,” said Simon, nodding, “of course you have.”

“But there’s no harm in taking two,” said Will, as the groom turned away. “Here,” he said, offering his hand. “Pass it up.”

As Will tied the skin beside the other, Simon puffed out his cheeks and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Well, good luck then.”

Will laughed and rolled his eyes. “Why is everyone acting as if we’re not coming back?” He looked at Robert. “It doesn’t inspire confidence, does it?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” protested Simon.

Will smiled. “We’ll see you in a few days.”

CAESAREA, MAY
22, 1272
AD

The city of Caesarea was a wasteland. The rubble of broken buildings lay scattered and the tall arches of the cathedral rose into the sky and stopped abruptly, the domed roof they once supported gone. Soot and sand and dust had blown down empty streets, through colonnades and inside houses, covering everything in a layer of powdery gray.

Baybars, looking down from the hillside at the product of one of his campaigns, felt the city’s emptiness like a pressure inside him. He turned to Kalawun, who was mounted beside him. “We’ll make camp inside the city. Send in the scouts to make sure we are the first to arrive, then post guards at the entrances. We’ll flank them as they come in.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Kalawun.” Baybars paused, his eyes drawn back to Caesarea.

“My lord?”

Baybars’s gaze focused on him. “When they arrive, you will meet them. Have guards secure the others and bring the leader to me, alone.” His voice roughened. “We must be careful, Kalawun. The Franks are all but finished in these lands. One more push and they will be gone for good. But a cornered beast is one to be wary of. They may see this as another opportunity to strike at me directly.” His eyes hardened at the reminder of the Assassins’ attempt on his life. “Make certain that does not happen.”

“Of course, my lord.”

It was early evening when Will and the knights approached the ruined city. The sun had turned the jagged rooftops and arches amber and, beyond, the sea broke against the shoreline with constant rushing sighs. Seabirds wheeled overhead, agitated by the trespassing knights. The men were silent as they entered the city’s crumbled walls, their horses’ hooves loud in the quiet. To Will, it felt like they were entering a tomb or a church, somewhere hallowed where the sound of human voices was irreverent.

“We’re signing a treaty of peace here?” murmured Robert.

Will didn’t answer. To him, Caesarea seemed like the best place to sign one. This is what was, it said. And the scroll in his saddlebag answered, this is what could be.

“We’re not alone,” said one of Edward’s men in a low voice.

As the knight spoke, a flash of gold caught Will’s eye. Mounted on a war horse, in a gap between two half-disintegrated buildings, was a Mamluk warrior. He wore the uniform of the Bahri, Baybars’s royal guard. The knights kept riding cautiously past the warrior, who regarded them dispassionately. After a few moments, Will glanced over his shoulder and saw that the warrior had come out from between the buildings. Will felt a thrill of fear as four more mounted soldiers emerged from a street opposite to join him.

“Up there,” murmured Robert, nodding to a rooftop that looked down on the street ahead.

Standing there, a bow, fixed with an arrow, in his hands, was another Mamluk. The warrior’s loaded bow followed the knights as they moved under his shadow. There was a crunching of hooves on shattered stone as two more soldiers moved out of an alley.

“What are they doing?” growled one of the Hospitallers. He had his hand curled tight around the hilt of his sword.

“Herding us,” muttered a Templar, as four Mamluks appeared ahead, blocking their path.

The knights drew closer together, most had now drawn weapons, but the four soldiers in front of them made no move to intercept them, and simply watched as they approached.

“I think they want us to go this way,” said Will, as the company came to a crossroads. To their left a wide, rubble-strewn avenue stretched down toward the cathedral, the severed arches of which were stained red by the sun, which was sinking into the sea’s dark horizon. Inside the skeletal frame of the cathedral, the rest of the Mamluks had made camp. Will could make out horses, wagons and many men, maybe a hundred or more, moving around the bright plumes of fire made by torches. “Come on,” he said quietly to the others, steering his horse down the empty avenue, as the Mamluks followed.

Will had felt tense and restless when Everard had told him he would lead the party, a feeling that had continued up until the company had left the safety of Acre’s walls. But, oddly, as they had ridden out into enemy lands, his nerves had dissipated and he had calmed. It had felt good to be on the road, to be moving toward something so definitive, so significant. It had also given him time to think of Elwen, and the private, languid moments he had allowed himself for those thoughts had kept his mind from his destination. But now, caught in the dead city’s oppressive hush, with the erratic cries of birds and the silence of the soldiers who followed them, he felt a deepening sense of dread pushing down on their little company from all sides.

He thought of his father’s fate at the hands of these men and of Everard’s warnings that he had dismissed so assuredly. He thought of Elwen. The image of her face filled his mind and he made the decision that whatever else happened tonight, he would survive. But as the Mamluk soldiers moved in behind them and the distance between their company and the small army of men inside the cathedral closed, his mind mocked him for a fool.

The knights approached the cathedral and a group of seven Mamluks came riding out to meet them. At their head was a tall man, dressed in the robes and armor of a man of rank. The group stopped a short distance away and the tall man dismounted. Will’s party came to a halt as he walked toward them.

“Trapped,” said one of the Templars, looking around at the line of Mamluks blocking the street, barely ten, twelve yards behind them.

Will dismounted and opened the saddlebag. Robert jumped down beside him as the tall man came to a stop a little way from them.

“Assalaamu aleikum,”
Will called, facing the man, hoping his years of translating Arabic treatises made his vocabulary comprehensible. “My name is William Campbell, I have come to meet with Sultan Baybars on behalf of Prince Edward of England and the government of Acre.”

The tall man smiled at Will’s awkward pronunciation, but his amusement seemed benevolent rather than mocking. “
Wa-aleikum assalaam
, William Campbell,” he replied, speaking slowly so that Will could follow him. “I am Amir Kalawun. You have the treaty?” He frowned when Will didn’t answer and repeated the question.

“I do,” replied Will, studying the man keenly.

“Come with me. Your men can wait here.”

“What does he say?” asked one of Edward’s guards of Will.

When Will told them, Robert shook his head. “No. Tell him that’s unacceptable. We must come with you.”

Will didn’t take his eyes off Kalawun. The Mamluk commander, although imposing in his physique, had a calm about him and a subtle intelligence in his brown eyes. A diplomat, thought Will, in the body of a warrior. He found it an interesting mix. “It’s all right,” he said to Robert. “I’ll go alone. I don’t think we have a choice.”

Kalawun raised his palm as Will approached. “You must leave your sword here.”

Will hesitated, then unfastened his sword belt and placed the falchion in the dust.

“Walk toward me,” said Kalawun calmly. “Lift your arms.” He patted his hands down Will’s sides and around his hips, checking for any concealed weapons.

“You knew my father,” said Will quietly, as Kalawun checked inside his sleeve. “James Campbell. Everard de Troyes has told me of you.”

Kalawun stopped, his hands around Will’s wrist. He glanced at the Bahri guards behind him, but they were well out of earshot. “I cannot claim to have known him,” he said, checking Will’s other sleeve. “We never met face to face. It would have been too dangerous for me to do so. But I felt as though I knew him.”

“I am continuing with my father’s work,” said Will beneath his breath.

“Then perhaps we will meet again, William Campbell.” Kalawun stepped back. “For now, let us take your treaty to the sultan.” He went to turn away, then paused. “Be careful,” he murmured. “Sultan Baybars has no love of your people, especially your Order, and he is wary following a recent attempt by the Assassins on his life, an attempt he believes to have been instigated by the Franks. Make no sudden movements and only speak if spoken to. His guards have orders to kill you if they suspect you mean him harm.”

Will’s insides churned uneasily as he walked with Kalawun down the long avenue into the torch-lit camp, passing scores and scores of men, and banners emblazoned with crescent moons and stars. The red cross on his mantle seemed to blaze like a beacon, commanding all their eyes to look upon him, making him feel horribly conspicuous.

Inside the cathedral, on what would have been the choir, now just a raised bed of cracked stone, was set a throne, its arms capped with two gold lions. Crumbled steps led up to it and the remaining two walls that framed it were rent in places with giant fissures, through which Will could see the sea. On the throne, erect and resplendent in brocaded gold robes and glimmering ornate armor, sat Baybars Bundukdari, the Crossbow, Sultan of Egypt and Syria, and the murderer of his father.

There was a hissing sound as Will and Kalawun came toward the steps. Will saw a tattered figure in gray robes hunched by the steps to the side of the choir, watching him with glaring white eyes and bared teeth. Behind the figure were five Bahri warriors, all of whom had crossbows trained on Will.