by J. K. Swift
“Stop making threats, Northman. Stand up so I can finish something I should have a long time ago.”
Badru let out a breath. If he succeeded in carrying out the sultan’s command, Badru would once again be a true Mamluk.
One who is owned.
His life would no longer be his to live. All masters of Mamluks are favored in the eyes of Allah, but this master would be special. The Sultan of Egypt was subject to no other power on earth, save for the will of Allah, Himself. And by giving himself to the sultan, Badru would become, by default, a servant of Allah. For to serve one is to do the bidding of the other. No Mamluk could ever wish for more.
He reached to the ground in front of his knees and slowly drew his own khanjar.
And so it begins.
While still on his knees, Badru slashed at Turuntay’s legs, simply to create some room between them. He was no longer certain the old warrior deserved the respect he had given him. He still wore his armor and there were riddles in his words.
Turuntay jumped back from the slash and settled into a hidden leg stance. Badru faced him with an open stance with both his right hand, the one holding his khanjar, and his left raised in a high guard. Of course, Badru’s high guard was a modified one because of his great height. The top of Turuntay’s head only came up to Badru’s neck, but this was not a disadvantage in the small confines of the tent.
Turuntay came on fast and hard. He knew he did not have the endurance to last more than a few minutes with someone as skilled as Badru. Badru also knew this. He also knew the older man expected him to draw out the fight, use his youth and strength to advantage. Instead he stepped forward and met the seasoned warrior with a charge of his own.
Turuntay’s eyes went wide. The two men’s hands slashed and struck out in a flurry of cuts and blows that made their limbs blur together, like the blades of a windmill in a thunderstorm. When they separated, the stocky general’s chest heaved with effort. He was cut on both sides of his face and blood leaked from under his right armpit. Badru had a thin red line running across his bare chest, but other than that, he was neither winded, nor hurt.
They circled each other, making two complete revolutions around the dim tent. The only noise was Turuntay’s ragged breathing. Badru initiated the next assault. The curved blades flashed in the low light, again and again. The sound of metal on metal increased as the men tired and their technique became sloppy.
Badru struck Turuntay with his off hand, then elbowed him across his jaw with his blade arm. The older man took the blows in order to rake the point of his blade across Badru’s stomach. Badru hopped back, but the blade snagged his skin and ripped another red line to match the one on his chest.
Badru’s eyes narrowed as he looked at his blood on the point of Turuntay’s khanjar. It could have been his intestines on the tip of that blade. Somewhere in the last exchange, the older man’s face had taken on a detached look. He no longer flinched at Badru’s feints and his body had stopped trying to suck in great gasps of air. Turuntay knew he was going to die, but his body did not. It was pooling its resources, saving itself for one last desperate attempt to preserve itself. He had never been so dangerous.
Badru dropped down on one knee and backhanded his blade underneath Turuntay’s lamellar armor, opening up the major blood vessels on the inside of the general’s leg. Turuntay tried to lean back, lift his leg out of the way of Badru’s slash, but his effort only resulted in him falling over backward, with his life blood painting one wall of the tent.
Turuntay lay there, his chest heaving once again as his heart tried to regulate the flow of blood. All Badru had to do was wait. He would be dead in less than two minutes. A celebrated warrior, a fāris who had served the same sultan for over twenty years. Turuntay had fought to turn back the Mongol horde not once, but twice, and was on the verge of driving the Christians from his sultan’s lands. But he had failed. His life taken by a man whose greatest deed was to strangle a Frankish woman. Badru had succeeded in killing a great man, a man who did not deserve to die at his hands. But Badru’s fortune was about to change. His time had come, and he made a silent vow that eventually, he would be remembered as a man worthy of taking the life of the mighty Turuntay.
Badru bent over and retrieved Turuntay’s khanjar. The old man watched Badru with clear eyes as Badru took his hand and placed the blade in his grasp. He helped him wrap his fingers around the ivory handle and then pressed his hand to his chest.
“Do you know… who you are?”
Badru nodded. “I am no one.”
“Your mother’s name was Astred.”
Badru blinked. Turuntay continued, speaking quickly, for he knew he had little time.
“Qalawun was forced to overwinter in Dane’s Land. He met your mother then. He wanted to bring her back with him, but she refused. Three years later she brought you to us…” His face was pale and his words began to slur. “When she died, I tried to have you killed… but Qalawun…”
The name of his sultan was the last word to pass Turuntay’s lips. He died there on the ground, his blood clumping with dirt and sand, with only a confused and shaking Mamluk warrior to bear witness.
I have seen the white rain.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Hospitallers owned a minor estate near Limassol, on the southern edge of Cyprus. Located near the sea, it had a small natural harbor and a dock large enough to tie up the two merchantmen. The galley had to be anchored a short distance away in deeper water. The wooden dock was weathered, and badly in need of repairs, but it was still floating.
The estate was listed in the kingdom’s registry as a castle, and King Henry taxed it as such, but the property was little more than a large manor house surrounded by a six-foot-high wall. The wall offered very little security, both because of its insufficient height and the fact that it was assembled using a dry-stack method, which meant there was no mortar holding the irregular stones in place. In the event of an attack, the best Foulques could hope for from this first line of defense, was that it would crumble as the attackers climbed it and cause them injury.
Foulques claimed one of the rooms in the manor house for himself, another for Brother Alain. Three more he reserved for visiting knights or other high-ranking individuals. That left eight more rooms besides the large common area, which he left unassigned for the time being. He decided to focus his energy, and the few resources he had been granted by the grand master and King Henry, on building a barracks for the Schwyzers.
He hired two carpenters from Limassol and gave them the labor of his men from early morning until noon. The afternoons he put the Schwyzers under the direction of Vignolo.
For the first two weeks, no one set foot on a ship. Instead, Vignolo spent each afternoon teaching the men how to swim. He said the condition of their fleet demanded it. Foulques had thought it a waste of time at first, for he knew very few sailors had ever learned to swim. However, by the end of the second week Vignolo staged a demonstration where a group of Schwyzers wearing mail hauberks jumped into the deep water at the end of the dock. They sank like stones, but soon surfaced with their hauberks removed and tucked under one arm. They then proceeded to swim the cumbersome chain armor to the dock. Breathing heavily, each man successfully hoisted his hauberk out of the water and deposited it on the wooden dock. Foulques was impressed.
After the demonstration, Foulques left Vignolo and the men to their exercises. He walked the short distance from the seaside to his new home.
The room he had selected for himself was large enough for a bed in one corner and a desk in the opposite one. He kept his clothing in two trunks at the end of the bed. He entered the room and removed his Hospitaller cloak, hanging it on a hook on the wall, then sat down at his desk. A small, cloudy window let in enough light that he could write during the daytime with no need of a lantern. The desk had no drawers, only a large cubbyhole beneath the writing surface. He reached to its back and felt around until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out
the rolled up parchment and untied the ribbon keeping it closed. Spreading it out on the desk’s surface, he began to read through Thomas’s list, visualizing each young man’s face as he did so.
He had been so busy of late. First, with preparations for the move, then the voyage itself, that he had put little thought to the task he had been charged with. As he read through the list, he became acutely aware of how ridiculous his position was. He shook his head. Counting today, Foulques had only been on a half-dozen sea voyages in his entire life. Who was he to teach anyone anything about sailing? Who was he to transform one hundred boys born in the land-locked valleys of the Alps into able-bodied seamen? He looked down at the list and noted how Thomas had crossed out two names with a thick, meticulously drawn out line.
Pirmin Schwyzer. Gissler Schwyzer.
Curious, he thought.
He knew why Pirmin’s name had been crossed out. At the last moment, Marshal Clermont had not allowed Foulques to take him. He said his natural talents were needed to help defend the city. He would have to make do with ninety-nine. Foulques had shrugged, and did not even bother with a counter argument. How could he when, deep down, he envied the lad for being permitted to stay in Acre. Pirmin had narrowly escaped banishment. But Gissler? Why had he been removed?
A knock sounded on the door.
“Enter,” Foulques said, without looking up from the parchment.
Seconds passed. Foulques eventually looked up to see why whoever had knocked had not come in. He started, for a man stood before him, two feet from the front of his desk.
He was no Hospitaller, nor Frank for that matter, for he was wrapped in loose linens of white and cream. Foulques knew who he was even before his eyes settled on the curved dagger hanging from his side. He looked up, expecting to see Monsieur Malouf’s placid smile. It was indeed Najya’s father, but his face was the gray of a stormy sea rather than its usual still pond.
“Foulques. Forgive me for disturbing you.”
Foulques stood. “Not at all. Peace be upon you, Monsieur Malouf. I did not expect—”
“I know. I apologize for my unannounced entry. But I must speak with you.”
“Of course. How did you get here?”
“None of that is important now.” He paused. Foulques said nothing, but encouraged Malouf to continue with a nod.
“I have made a grave mistake,” Malouf said. “We all have. You know of Sultan Qalawun’s death, of course?”
“Yes. Through King Henry. We were both very much relieved to hear of it. It should take some time for them to choose Qalawun’s successor.”
Malouf shook his head and turned his back on Foulques. “Then I was right to come. You have not heard that his son, Khalil, has proclaimed himself sultan?”
Foulques lowered himself into his seat. “No, I did not know. When did this happen?”
Malouf turned back to the desk. “One week ago. I was not surprised that Khalil would make a play for the sultanate. Nor even when he was awarded the title. But, Allah as my witness, I never imagined he would be able to keep that title. The emir never should have allowed it.”
“What does this mean?” Foulques asked. “Surely they must return to Cairo and observe the mourning rites?”
Malouf shook his head. “However he did it, Khalil has seized control of the great army and marches toward Acre as we speak.”
Both men were silent. Foulques felt that same doubt about where he was, and what he was doing, renewed. A hundredfold.
“When will they arrive?”
Malouf looked at him. “Sooner than any messenger you send. Sooner than you yourself can.”
Something about what Malouf said did not make sense to Foulques. “Why did you say you made a mistake?”
Malouf turned his back on Foulques, once again. “Because I am responsible for Qalawun’s death.”
Those words left Foulques speechless. Then he realized it was not so much that Malouf had a hand in assassinating the sultan, but that he would admit to it.
“Why?” Foulques said, finally.
When Malouf answered, his words were barely a whisper. “There is nothing a father will not do for his daughter.”
Malouf moved to the small room’s single window and stared out. “I knew the only way the great army would disband, was if the man who had brought it together was eliminated. So I mixed the poison and set a plan into motion.”
“You poisoned him? How could you have gotten to him? I have heard it told that he has tasters for every drink, every piece of food he puts in his mouth.”
Malouf let out a sigh. “He does. But every evening he has a cup of tea before bed, which of course, is tasted. What few know, however, is that the sultan used to have a sweet tooth. He drank his tea with honey for years, until his hakim told him it was ruining his health. He gave it up, but he always kept a few long pieces of dried honeycomb next to his bed. There was no honey in them, mind you, for he was diligent in heeding the advice of his hakim. So they were little more than wax, but he considered it an acceptable treat to stir his tea with one. In his mind, it became sweeter.”
“You poisoned the wax,” Foulques said.
“Not me. I promised to provide a lifetime of care for the family of one of his slaves if she exchanged the pieces of wax for ones I provided.”
“You provided?” Foulques did not like where this was going. “Where did you get the honeycombs?”
Malouf locked Foulques in place with an unapologetic stare. “There is a certain art to what I do, Brother Foulques, whether you see it or not. It was only fitting that I use my daughter’s property to save her life.”
“Only you did not save her life. You may have made things worse. Qalawun was known to be a fair man. Sometimes, even merciful. If the things I hear about Khalil are true, he will not rest until Acre is burned to the ground, along with everyone in it.”
Malouf looked away. “Now you understand why I have come.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Foulques had billed it as a training run. He had Vignolo man the faster of the two merchantmen with a skeleton crew and then he joined them on board. Some of the lads had looked at him strangely when he boarded in full armor, wearing his red Hospitaller war tunic, but most, including Vignolo, thought he was merely playing his part as admiral. Once they were out on the water, Foulques had Vignolo set course for Acre. Understandably, Vignolo had almost thrown him overboard.
When they finally sailed into Acre’s harbor, Foulques could not believe how crowded it was. Never in his life had he seen so much activity. There was not a single open slip, and ships of all sizes jockeyed for positions as berths opened up. Vignolo decided it was safer to anchor away from the docks since he had an inexperienced crew. They lowered a skiff and he set two wide-shouldered sergeants to row him and Foulques to the dock.
Foulques kept his eyes on the people streaming near the water’s edge. It seemed that ships carrying supplies were coming in, and leaving riding even lower in the water, loaded down with people.
Vignolo had his looking glass to his eye. “This may have not been such a bad idea, Foulques. I sense there is good coin to be made by offering passage out of the city to those who want it.”
“You will not, under any circumstances accept payment from these people,” Foulques said. “In fact, I specifically want you to take as many women and children back with you as you can. Select only those who cannot afford payment. The rich can find their own way from the city, if they must leave.”
Vignolo closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples with the thumb and forefinger of one hand. “Oh, Foulques. Do you ever do anything that makes any sense whatsoever? What if it is a father with his two daughters?”
“Take the girls, but not the man. Tell him to report to the City Watch to help man the walls against the Mamluks. That will be how he pays for his daughters’ safety.”
“What if it is a priest who, for all that is holy, begs me to take him away?” Vignolo had raised his voice.
“He can stay in the city and pray for its deliverance. We will need men of God as well as soldiers. And once you are away, return directly to Cyprus. Do not, under any circumstance, come back to Acre. Am I clear on that?”
Vignolo nodded enthusiastically. “Finally you have said something that makes sense. I would not have it any other way.”
They found an opening on the lower dock area and Vignolo hopped out of the boat with the bowline in hand. He did not tie the line to a mooring, but he held the boat steady while Foulques climbed out.
“Thank you, Vignoli,” Foulques said. “I would appreciate it if you would look after things until I get back.”
“I cannot make any promises,” Vignolo said.
“Then consider that an order. Remember who controls the purse strings that feed you and your creditors.”
Vignolo rolled his eyes. “I suppose I am off to find my passengers, then.”
Foulques nodded. He turned to go but Vignolo said, “One more question, Admiral.”
“What?”
“If I have the choice between a beautiful woman and a homely woman, do I have your permission to choose as I see fit?”
“Choose the homely one, of course.”
“Of course,” Vignolo said. He gave Foulques a bow with an exaggerated flourish and turned away to finish tying up the boat.
Foulques’s legs swayed as soon as he planted his feet, a motion he attempted to conceal by taking a moment to unknot and re-tighten his sword belt. The sail from Cyprus was but a few hours, however Foulques had not taken well to his new life as a seaman. He felt his normally solid foundation to be unsteady, compromised, like someone had stolen the bones from his legs. He was the first Admiral of the Knights of Saint John, and it was all he could do to keep the contents of his stomach to himself after even the shortest ride in a stable skiff. He took in a deep lungful of the warm spring air, spit out a small piece of ginger that he was certain had saved his dignity, if not his life, and looked around with horror at the city he had once called home.
