The Reckoning - 3 (14 page)

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less heroic. Edward found a land in chaos, a handful of seacoast cities clinging to precarious survival in the shadow of a deadly foe, the ruthless
Sultan of Egypt, Rukn ad-Din Baibars Bundukdari. Political rivalries flourished and corruption was epidemic; Acre's Venetian and Genoese merchants traded openly with the enemy, supplying Baibars with the weapons and slaves he needed to carry on his jihad, his holy war against the Christian kingdom of
Jerusalem.
j These months in Palestine had taught Edward some sobering les-
4ms, that few men were willing to die for the greater glory of God, that few princes were willing to empty their coffers for yet another crusade. The
French King and Charles of Anjou had long since sailed for home; even Edward's brother had abandoned their quest. Edward found himself bereft of powerful allies, with less than a thousand soldiers, and his requests for additional money only brought pitiful letters from his ailing father, begging him to come back to England.
More than three weeks had passed since Hugh de Lusignan, the young King of
Jerusalem, had signed a ten-year truce with Sultan Baibars. Edward knew it was a sensible act, one that might buy the beleaguered kingdom some precious time.
But boyhood dreams die hard, and there was a corner of his soul that cried out in protest, that had yet to accept the inevitable. Disappointment and frustration and stifling summer heat were flammable elements, and when a sudden knock sounded at the door, he spun away from the window with a snarled
"What?"
Erard de Valery showed no surprise; those in Edward's service soon grew accustomed to such flashes of temper. "I thought you'd want to know," he said impassively, "that a messenger has come from John de Montfort. He arrives in
Acre on the morrow."
Edward's response was obscene, imaginative, and predictable, for John's sins were twofold. He was a cousin to Simon and thus tainted by blood, and a stalwart friend to Guy de Montfort, which made him as welcome at Edward's court as the Saracen Sultan himself. But John was also the Lord of Tyre, brother-in-law to the King of Jerusalem, a man too powerful to be snubbed, to be treated with anything but icily correct courtesyand Edward well knew it.
So did Erard, who waited patiently as Edward stalked about the chamber, damning John de Montfort to smoke and sulphur and hellish flames. "He dares to defend Guy even now, as if Viterbo were merely a lapse in manners! Fifteen months, Erard, fifteen months since Hal lay dying in the mud of that wretched piazza, and Guy is still free, living quite comfortably, too, I hear. Well, not for long, by God! When I get back to Italy, I'll see that murdering whoreson run to earth, even if I have to lead the hunt myself."

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Edward's anger soon burned itself out, though; it was too hot for such intense emotion. Gesturing for Erard to pour them wine, he flung himself down upon a couch. Erard followed with the cups and they drank in silence for a time.
"It's nigh oh two years since I left home," Edward said at last, "and all for what? I had a daughter born dead at Acre last year. My firstborn son died in
England, half a world away. So did my uncle Richard, and that death, too, can be laid to Guy de Montfort's account; my uncle never got over Hal's murder. My father is ailing, and there's turmoil throughout the Marches, for that hothead
Gloucester and Llewelyn ap Gruffydd are at swords' points again. I cannot help thinking that I ought never to have left England. Two years of my life and what did I gain? A ten-year truce that was not even my doing!"
"My lord, thaf s not so! Baibars would never have agreed to the truce if not for you. Have you forgotten your raid into the Plain of Sharon? Granted, your siege of Ququn Castle failed, but you then took Nazareth"
Erard bit off the word in mid-sentence, but not in time; Edward's mouth tightened noticeably. His capture of Nazareth had been an undeniable military triumph, but it had caused the first serious rift between Edward and his brother, Edmund. After taking the city, Edward had allowed his men to slay the
Arab townspeople, a bloody act of reprisal for Sultan Baibars's massacre of
Christians in Antioch and Jaffa. But Edmund had not approved, had argued in vain that at least the women and children should be spared. Edward's knights had been baffled by Edmund's objections, concluding that England was fortunate
Edward was the firstborn, as Edmund was plainly too soft-hearted to wield a king's power.
Erard was sure Edward did not regret the killings; they were infidels, after all. He knew, though, that Edward did regret the falling-out with his brother.
They'd eventually mended the breach, but it had left a sour aftertaste, and he was sorry he'd reminded Edward of it.
Conversation lagged; again Edward was the one to break the silence. His tone had changed; to Erard's surprise, he sounded almost wistful. "I've been thinking about my great-uncle Richard. At the battle of Jaffa, he fought so bravely that when his stallion was slain, Saladin sent out a horse under a flag of truce. Jesii, what a gallant gesture! It would have teen no disgrace to lose to such a foe. I came here seeking another ^aladin, found instead
Baibars, who adorns his castle at Safad with Christian skulls . . ."
Erard nearly blurted out that Edward had once faced a Saladin unon de
Montfort. He gulped down the last of his wine, shaken, for e knew Edward would never have forgiven him for that.

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"My lord ..." A servant hovered in the doorway. "A messenger has arrived from the Emir of Jaffa. Should we bid him enter?"
Edward nodded, then glanced toward Erard. "I want you to fetch my wife," he said, for his conscience was beginning to stir. He'd been very curt with Eleanora that forenoon, was now regretting it. It was only a month since she'd been brought to bed of their babe, Joanna, . and it had been a difficult pregnancy; she'd conceived a scant two gnonths after the death of their daughter.
The Emir's messenger was familiar to Edward; this was his fifth visit.
Beckoning him toward the couch, Edward reached for the letter. They'd been corresponding for weeks; the Emir had even hinted he might consider converting to Christianity. Edward was skeptical, but the Emir was worth courting, for he'd make a valuable ally. Sitting up, he broke the seal, began to read.
The man was quick. In one smooth motion, he drew a hidden dagger, plunged it toward the Englishman's heart. It would have been a lethal blow had Edward not been blessed with a soldier's reflexes. From the corner of his eye, he'd caught a blurred movement and instinctively flung up an arm, deflecting the knife. But the blade sliced deeply into his flesh, slashing from wrist to elbow; blood spurted wildly, splattering both men.
The assassin recovered swiftly, lunged again. Edward was just as fast, though.
Rolling off the couch, he snatched up a footstool as he hit the floor, threw it at his assailant. The man stumbled, and by the time he'd regained his balance, Edward was upon him. He took a gash across the forehead before he was able to immobilize his attacker's knife hand. Locked in a death embrace, they swayed back and forth, until they lurched into the table and Edward saw his chance. With his free hand, he grabbed for a candlestick, thrust the flame into the other man's face. As he recoiled, Edward slammed his wrist onto the table, and then he had the dagger, burying it to the hilt in his enemy's abdomen.
Jerking the blade free, Edward prepared to strike again. But there was no need. The man sank to his knees, his face contorted. Edward reeled back against the table, gasping for breath. During their life-ordeath struggle, it had not even occurred to him to call out for help. Now he looked in horror at the blood staining his tunic, the couch cushions, the tiled floor, his blood.
Beginning to shout, he jerked the tablecloth loose, sending objects flying about the chamber. A glass flagon shattered in a spray of red wine; cups went rolling across the tiles. Candles flared, guttered out as the door burst open.
Men were gasping, cursing, questioning, and a woman was screaming. It was not until she flung herself into his artns that Edward realized it was his wife.

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Suddenly there were so many people in the chamber that they were uuirtping into one another, slipping in blood as they elbowed and jostled to get closer, staring open-mouthed at the dying assassin. Edward had been attempting to wrap the tablecloth around his wound, but his left anrt hung, useless, at his side, and Eleanora was dinging like a limpet, sobbing in Spanish.
"What are you fools waiting for?" he raged. "Till I bleed to death?"
That galvanized them to action, too much so. Fully a dozen hands reached for the bloodied tablecloth. Edward was getting light-headed, and it was with real relief that he recognized the voice now shouting down the others. A good man, Erard, one to keep his wits in a crisis. Within moments, Erard had justified his confidence, steering him toward the couch, sending for a doctor, turning the tablecloth into a makeshift bandage, and emptying the chamber of superfluous spectators.
"I've sent for the Master of the Templars. I know you have no liking for them, my lord, but the Templars' hospital is the best in Acre."
Edward nodded grudging agreement, patted his wife soothingly if absent-mindedly, all the while watching the man sprawled upon the floor. "This was no act of impulse. He waited until the guards knew him as the Emir's man, no longer bothered to search him."
Erard moved away from the couch, stood staring down at the assassin.
"Hashishiyun," he said, and Eleanora shuddered, for the Hashishiyun, also known as the Assassins, were a Shiite sect infamous for political killings.
Edward looked thoughtful. "Yes," he said, "that makes the most sense. And I
know whose gold bought that dagger. I'd wager the surety of my soul that this is Baibars's doing."
At the mention of the Sultan's name, the assassin stirred suddenly. Lying in a pool of his own blood, he must have been in intense pain, yet nothing showed on his face; he seemed to be listening to voices only he could hear. But now his eyes opened. He turned upon Edward a look of chilling malevolence, and then he laughed. It was a dreadful sound, a strangled cough that ended on a broken breath. Erard was bending over, for the man's lips were moving. Looking at Edward, the man laughed again, then choked. A bubble of blood formed at the corner °f his mouth.
"Well?" Edward said impatiently. "You know I do not speak Arabic. What did he say?"
Erard straightened up slowly, and Eleanora gasped, for his face had
8°ne grey. "He said ... he said that you are a dead man, that he poisoned the dagger."
s*a

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AT sight of the man being ushered into the Citadel's great hall, the Templars'
Grand Master beckoned hastily. "Reynard, thank God!" Reynard wasted no time on preliminaries. "When did it happen?" "Thursday eve. At first we gave him centaury and fennel powder in wine, and then we tried nettle seeds, for men say they ward off the effects of hemlock, henbane, and mandrake. But I very much fear it was a poison unknown to us." I "Is he fevered?"
* The Templar nodded. "The cut on his forehead seems to be healing, but the wound on his arm has begun to fester. It is swollen and discolored, first red, now yellow, and there is a foul smell."
Reynard drew a quick breath. "It sounds," he said grimly, "as if you sent for me too late."
EDWARD'S bedchamber was in semi-darkness, drawn curtains offering a feeble defense against the noonday heat. Eleanora sat on the bed, wielding a fan as if Edward's air supply depended upon her efforts alone. She did not look up as the two men approached the bed, but when the Grand Master introduced Reynard as a physician famed for his healing arts, she turned toward her husband with sudden, hungry hope. "Querido, did you hear?"
Edward struggled upright. There was nothing prepossessing about the man before himat first glancefor he was thin, stoop-shouldered, hair and beard a muddy, grizzled brown, while his clothes proclaimed him one utterly indifferent to fashion; he wore an Arab kafiya upon his head, a too-short tunic, and monk's sandals. But he seemed unflustered by Edward's scrutiny, met the younger man's eyes with rare composure, heedless of the impression he was making, intent only upon those ugly blisters, that puffy, bruised flesh.
"If I may," he said brusquely, and without waiting for permission, began a thorough inspection of the wound. His fingers were surprisingly deft, but even so light a touch brought pain; Edward bit down on his lower lip, bit back a cry.
"Well?" he demanded. "Can you help me?"
Reynard straightened up slowly. "There are remedies we can try. A poultice of darnel, a powder made of black hellebore"
"Will these poultices save my life?" Edward asked bluntly, and sucked in his breath when Reynard shook his head. "What are you saying? That nothing can be done? I'll not accept that!"
"I'll not lie to you, my lord. Yours is a grievous wound. There is a chance, but it will cause you great pain, mayhap for naught. I can cut away the putrid flesh"

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"Dios, no!" Eleanora was on her feet, a hand jammed against her jnouth.
"Eduardo, that would be certain death. I remember a young page back in my brother's palace at Seville. He fell on a rusty nail, and the doctors cut out the flesh as this man would do. That child died in agony, Eduardo! There must be another remedy . . ."
She might as well have been speaking in Spanish for all the heed they paid her. Edward did not even glance her way, kept his eyes riveted upon Reynard's face. "Do it," he said at last, and Eleanora gave a muffled scream.
The Templar looked questioningly at the man on the bed, and when Edward nodded, he gently but firmly grasped Eleanora by the elbows. "Forgive me, Madame, but you must come with me. Better you should weep than all England should mourn."
rr was over. Reynard had given Edward a smooth piece of wood to bite upon, and the Templar and Erard de Valery stood ready to hold him down. There was no need, though. He'd quivered at the first cut of the knife, but after that, he'd lain remarkably still. Erard was astonished by his own queasiness, for he was a soldier, knew death in its goriest guises. But somehow this was different, and when Reynard heated the knife blade, began to cauterize the wound, this man who'd seen bodies beyond counting found himself sickened by the stench of burning flesh. Edward's impressive control failed him at the last; he'd jerked convulsively, then went so limp that Reynard reached hastily for the pulse in his throat. Having reassured himself that his patient still lived, he sagged down upon the nearest footstool, blotted away so much sweat that his sleeve was soon sopping wet.
He was certain Edward had lost consciousness, was surprised now to see his lashes flicker. As he leaned over the bed, Edward's eyes opened. They were sunken back in his head, so swollen and bruised that they were little more than slits, but they were lucid. Edward tried to spit out the wood, failed, and Reynard gently pried it loose; it was bitten all the way through. Edward's chest was heaving. Reynard didn't like the sound of his breathing, not at all.
But when he brought a cup to Edward's lips, he managed to swallow.
"Tell my wife ..." The words so faint that Reynard had to put his ear almost to Edward's mouth. "Tell her that . . . that I shall live," Edward whispered, and the corner of Reynard's mouth softened in a sudden smile.
"By Christ," he said, "if I do not think you will!"