Mamluk

by J. K. Swift

  Acre, the trading jewel of the Mid-Earth Sea, with its deep-water port and colorful bazaars filled with citizens of every nation imaginable, had always been a loud, vibrant city. With well over a hundred thousand people, it teemed with an intoxicating energy that Foulques had known since childhood, and one which he found lacking in all other places he had experienced in his life. But as Foulques made his way along the docks, stepping into the chaos swirling all about him, he realized that that energy had been replaced with something else entirely: sheer madness.

  The harbor was crammed with boats of all shapes and sizes. Many had seen better days, but with thousands of people trying to evacuate the city, anything that could float had been put to sea. Some of the captains were good-hearted fishermen, or the occasional merchant, who were trying to do their duty and rescue fellow Christians from the hordes of Islam. Most, however, were privateers offering passage only to the highest bidders. Acre was a rich city so there was no shortage of desperate patrons.

  A tremendous boom sounded behind him, shaking the ground at the Hospitaller’s feet. A nervous cheer rippled through the crowd and Foulques turned to see a massive catapult erected on a platform at the edge of the Pisan Quarter. Men scurried around its base while it rocked back and forth, its arm still quivering with spent energy. It had not been there the last time Foulques had been in the city. The Pisan engineers had been busy.

  Foulques was wondering at the effectiveness of the catapult blindly launching its missiles over the walls toward the enemy camp when a group of armed men pushed through the crowd toward him. In their midst was a slight figure dressed in a simple brown robe, with the hood pulled up obscuring his face.

  “Out of the way,” one of the armored men shouted. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword and he swatted frightened people aside like flies with the other. Foulques was about to step in front of the guard when the figure he escorted looked up and Foulques caught a clear glimpse of the face under the hood. It was His Eminence, the Archbishop of Acre himself, God’s chosen representative for the people of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. And he was fleeing.

  The Archbishop saw Foulques staring and quickly ducked his head. Before Foulques could say or do anything, the Archbishop’s bodyguards whisked him away through the crowd toward one of the many waiting ships. Foulques had to fight against the impulse to spit in the direction the old man had fled. Did he have so little faith in God and the good men and women who fought for Him? What kind of holy man could believe that God would allow Acre to fall to the Mohammedans? Foulques would demand answers to these questions, and more, the next time he saw him.

  Foulques began to make his way north, upstream against the crowd, but there were so many people and animals swarming toward the docks that he was forced to take a wide detour west through the Genoese Quarter. His destination was the castle. That is where the war room may be set up and where he was most likely to find King Henry’s marshal or the grand masters of the Hospitallers, Templars, Teutonic Knights, and other leaders of the defensive forces.

  His path brought him in front of Acre’s great church, the largest one in the city, and the one in which the Patriarch would oversee the most important ceremonies of the Lord. That is, if he had not fled like a kicked dog. Now, the high arching doors were barred from the inside, but that did not stop a crowd from gathering on the steps beneath them. Foulques felt a bitter taste rise at the back of his throat. As he neared, he saw several large vats lined up at the foot of the church’s stone stairs. They were filled with cold water and bald, half-naked children stood shivering in the tubs, while monks chanted verses from their bibles.

  In addition, all manner of self-proclaimed holy men hovered about, shouting to be heard over the crowd. The sour body odors of one such man forced Foulques to hold his hand over his mouth and nose as he came near. The fanatic’s once-white robe, shredded at its hems and seams, had fresh, rusty splotches hardening on its back where the man had recently whipped himself bloody. Foulques walked alongside a long line of crying mothers holding wide-eyed children of all ages. At the front of the line, nuns with knives, scissors, and razors went to work on the innocents’ hair until the scalps of their small skulls glistened in the sun. All the while, the fanatic preached to any who would listen.

  “God has brought the heathens upon us! They have been sent by the heavens to punish not only those who have lived in sin, but those who tread upon its cusp, as well. We can turn a blind eye no longer. To bear witness to sin, and do nothing, is to partake of it. Repent! Repent I say, or they will come for us all!”

  As if on cue, a shadow grew over the man and something heavy whooshed through the air high overhead. All eyes turned skyward to see a boulder launched by a Saracen catapult smash through the thatched roof of a nearby house. The thunderous crash of splintered wood and broken thatch was followed by an eruption of flame as the collapsed roofing material came into contact with a broken oil lamp or some other source of open flame. The spectacle punctuated the fanatic’s rambling so perfectly that the crowd let out a collective gasp. The fanatic himself was shocked into silence for a few seconds, but he soon recovered to continue his tirade with renewed enthusiasm.

  “They come! Who will they take? Repent, repent, I say!”

  A small girl standing in one of the water-filled vats screamed until a monk pushed her under. Her mother knelt nearby, hands clasped in prayer. When the monk brought the sputtering girl back up for air, both mother and daughter wailed in unison.

  What is happening here? Foulques asked himself. He pushed on, past the burning house, determined to put the madness behind him and talk to someone in power.

  Since his altered route had brought him so near the gates of the Hospitaller compound, he decided to make a brief stop. It was not yet midday, but its heavy timber gate was closed. Sentries standing on the walkway above recognized Foulques and immediately shouted down to the gate men. The side door opened and Foulques stepped through, where he was greeted by Brother Jimmy Goodyear. The big man slapped him warmly on the shoulder and wrapped Foulques in one of his bear hugs. After Jimmy released him, Foulques noticed there was a large gathering of men-at-arms in the main square.

  “What is happening?” Foulques asked.

  “Longshanks’s lapdog is addressing the Schwyzers. I assumed that was why you were here,” Jimmy said.

  “Lord Grandison?”

  Jimmy nodded. “Who else?”

  “That explains you volunteering for gate duty. But I do not think you need worry. Grandison no doubt has more on his mind than a fugitive from the Poll.”

  “I am not a fugitive. I relocated to take the cross.”

  “Then I shall tell Grandison there is a wistful guard at the gate that would love to talk with him about all that has happened in England in recent years.”

  Jimmy shook his head, a movement that resembled a boulder about to detach itself from a mountain. “Why did I ever open this gate?”

  Brother Jimmy had fled England years ago, when King Edward began taxing the common man. Grandison being in Acre did not surprise Foulques, for word had reached him in Cyprus that the King of England had dispatched a contingent of knights and men-at-arms to Acre’s aid. Longshanks himself had not made the journey, but he had sent his most trusted general and friend in his stead, Sir Otto de Grandison. Putting the English forces under the command of a Savoyard knight from Lausanne had no doubt upset Edward’s advisers, but Longshanks was a stubborn man, and was well known for acting independent of those in his court. What Foulques did find surprising though, was that Grandison wanted to address the Schwyzers. Foulques’s curiosity was piqued. What could a man like Grandison hope to gain by addressing them?

  Foulques set off for the square. He squeezed between two monks and found himself standing beside Sir Jean de Grailly, the commander of the French knights. He was a tall, fit man, perhaps sixty in years, and he too was a long time friend of Grandison and a member of Edward’s court. Unlike Grandison, however, Foulques had met Sir
Grailly on several occasions. He was a regular player in the politics of the Kingdom of Jerusalem and had fought at the recent siege of Tripoli.

  Sir Grailly raised his eyebrows in recognition. “I was told you were in Cyprus.”

  “I was,” Foulques said.

  “You should have stayed there. I suspect we will all be there before long.”

  Foulques was about to respond, but Sir Grailly nodded toward Grand Master Villiers as he approached a raised platform at the head of the square. Another knight followed a few steps behind. The thought Foulques had when he set eyes on Sir Otto de Grandison for the very first time was how young he looked. He expected him to be a much older man, closer in years to Sir Grailly. Grandison was in his early fifties, but no one would blink if told he was ten years younger. He was average in height, build, and looks, so much so that Foulques found himself a little disappointed. The stories about Grandison were many and some bordered on the ridiculous. Now that he had seen the man in person, Foulques wondered if the bards had more to do with his fame than his actual exploits. It would not be the first time the legend of a man grew from only a seed of truth.

  “Does not look like much, does he?” Sir Jean de Grailly said, as though reading Foulques’s mind. “Not everything you have heard about him is true. How could it be? But I can tell you a lot of it is, for I was there myself. And that bit is more than enough to earn the man his reputation. What I often wonder, is how much truth there is to the many things I was not present for? Let me give you some advice. If you are ever in a tight spot and Grandison is nearby, follow him. He has the uncanniest aptitude for survival.”

  The grand master introduced him as a special guest, a distinguished knight from the Schwyzers’ own part of the world. Grandison stepped up to the platform under a polite, but hesitant, applause. The Schwyzers were just as confused as Foulques. Some of them undoubtedly could not remember a thing about their alpine beginnings. Their home was Acre now, and Foulques found himself doubting the wisdom of bringing up the past by allowing Grandison to address them. Foulques had found himself unimpressed with the man thus far, but that all changed when he heard him speak.

  “Enough of that,” Grandison said, raising his hands for silence. “My name is Otto, and I have been waiting a long time to meet you all.”

  As soon as he uttered his first word, he looked a little taller to Foulques. There was a power in his voice. Many skilled orators project their speech with the deep rumbling of a thunderstorm. Grandison’s words came out soft and steady, but with a force all the same, like the wind that bends the trees before a storm.

  “You, friend. What is your name?” Grandison asked, suddenly pointing at a boy standing in the front row.

  “Peter, my lord.”

  “I am not your lord, Peter. You are a Hospitaller. You have only one lord, and I am most definitely not Him.” He smiled in a way that let the tension out of the room like someone had popped it with a needle. “My name is Otto, and that is what I would have you call me. If you cannot bring yourself to address such a magnificent man as myself by my Christian name, then ‘sir’ will suffice.” He laughed at this, and the honesty and richness of it infected many of his audience to follow in his stead.

  “Do not be misled. There is only one man, outside of my family, who I permit to call me Otto,” he said, his voice losing all traces of laughter. “His name is Edward, the King of England.” The earnestness of his tone drew in his audience like water to a dry sponge. “Peter. Where are you from?”

  The young lad flinched like he had been hit in the back of the head with a thrown rock. Grandison waited patiently for the boy to respond.

  “Aarau, my—sir.”

  “Truly? I doubt the Habsburgs would let a strong lad like you out of their capital city.”

  “Well, not exactly. But you would not know my village’s name…”

  “Tell me, and we shall see.”

  “It is called Baden, sir.”

  Grandison laughed. “Baden? On the Limmat river? Of course I know it. The Romans called your home the ‘Waters of the Helvetii.’ I have soaked my aching body in its hot springs on several occasions, and the inn there has quite possibly the best mutton stew I have ever eaten in my life. I talk about it all the time. Ask the King of England how tired he is of hearing about Baden’s mutton.”

  Peter smiled at this and his spine straightened just a little.

  “And you, friend. Where might you have come from?”

  “Appenzell, sir,” Marti, a youth small for his age, said.

  “Ah, Appenzell. You must be a giant of your people! They may be short there, but God had to do that because he blessed them with too much speed and honesty. I imagine you are imbued with a surplus of one of these, if not both?”

  He continued picking faces from the crowd, asking where they were from, and then made it clear he not only knew of each place, but had also traveled to it. Foulques did notice that Grandison picked the older ones. He did not know if Grandison did this on purpose, but it was a wise move if he did. It would have disturbed his momentum if a youth could not recall anything of his roots.

  “You are a strapping lad. What might your name be?”

  “Well, Otto, I am fairly sure I am Pirmin Schnidrig of Tasch!”

  The grand master and the monk next to him started at Pirmin’s familiarity, but Grandison laughed. “You have an honest feel about you, son, mixed with a lion’s share of trouble, I suspect. I have never been to Tasch, but I have seen the Matterhorn from afar, and I have heard many stories about the men and women that dwell in the valleys below.” He addressed the crowd with a voice turned serious and he thumped his chest with a clenched fist. “Stories of great honor and courage.” He looked at Pirmin. “With a fair bit of mischief, I might add. It pleases me greatly to finally meet one.” Pirmin grinned.

  Having tamed the big youth, Grandison moved on. He once again addressed the entire host of young men.

  “I know you all,” he said. “Perhaps not yet in name, but I will before the end of today. I know you, because I am you. My home too is in the Alps, near the shores of Lake Constance. And I too, was sent away by my family. Not because they did not love me, but because they loved me more than anyone or anything in this world. My father wanted more for me than he himself could give. To that end, he sent me away to a damp, cold, miserable place called England.” This earned some chuckles in the crowd. “Forty years later, I have the honor of standing before you all. I will not lie. My life has not always been easy. I have worked hard to be what I am today. But if I can make a life after being sent to dreary England, surely you can build one here in the sun and splendor of the East!”

  The Schwyzers were dismissed after Grandison’s talk. They filed out of the square slowly. Grandison took the time to clasp arms with each and every one of them and hear their names. It took a while, for there were over two hundred Schwyzers in attendance, but Foulques remained nearby, long after Sir Grailly had left. Whether out of respect, or envy, he found he could not take his eyes off Grandison. He was a true leader of men. After only a short time with the Schwyzers, Foulques was certain they would gladly fall over one another to do his bidding. Foulques now understood why King Edward entrusted the soldiers of England to the care of Otto de Grandison, a foreign knight.

  Grand Master Villiers appeared in front of Foulques. “Admiral. What are you doing here?” His words came out harsh and strained. Foulques blinked once before deciding it was indeed the grand master who was speaking.

  “I heed the call. You sent word to the world that all Knights of the Grand Cross are needed in Acre.”

  “You will return to Cyprus immediately. Be thankful the marshal is not here to see you defy his orders.”

  “Where is the marshal?”

  “On the wall.”

  “That is where I should be,” Foulques said. “Not hiding on an island in the Mid-Earth Sea.”

  Grand Master Villiers stepped in close. Foulques could smell wine on his breath.r />
  “You will return to the harbor and board your ship before the hour is up. That is my command. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, sir. But my ship has already sailed for Cyprus with a full passenger load of evacuees. And I do not know if you have been to the harbor of late, but securing passage on a ship of any kind is not a simple task.”

  The grand master said something but Foulques did not hear it, for the last of the Schwyzers had departed and Grandison was marching directly toward Foulques and the leader of the Hospitallers. Foulques was surprised when the veteran knight addressed him directly, virtually ignoring the grand master.

  “And you are Brother Foulques. Well met, sir. You have done well with these lads. They are a fine bunch and I shall be honored to stand on the wall with them.”

  “I… thank you, Sir Grandison,” Foulques said. “But I am only one of many responsible for their training.”

  “Ah, but without you they would not be here,” Grandison said.

  “I understand you were the one who suggested recruiting the Schwyzers in the first place,” Foulques said.

  “I was. The Alps breed hearty men and women. They have to be strong to survive in that terrain, but more importantly, they must learn to rely on one another. That is what makes them ideal soldiers.” He paused, then said, “Your Uncle Guillaume sends word. He was gathering more men when I saw him last, and intends to set sail as soon as he can. He looks forward to seeing his nephew when he arrives.”

  “He is coming to Acre?” Foulques had not seen his uncle for over seven years. Brother Guillaume de Villaret’s duties kept him traveling, forever negotiating with kings and lords, trying to get them to take up the cross or support the Hospitaller cause financially. The last time they had seen each other was when Foulques was still recovering from his wounds after his disastrous encounter with Badru Hashim, the Northman. Of course, Foulques was the only one who truly considered the incident a disaster. Most others considered him a hero for rescuing the children. But they had not been there to see Foulques humiliated in the eyes of God. Foulques knew the truth, but he had learned to live with his shame.