by J. K. Swift
She looked around her. First at the beehives, then out into the darkness of the street. “I love my home. My workshop. But I know you are right. People are saying the Mamluks will destroy us all if we stay. I had passage arranged on a ship three weeks ago, but I gave up my spot when the captain refused to let me take my bees. I honestly thought I could find some other ship.” She shook her head. “That was before the harbor became the madness it now is. It takes far more than I have to secure a spot on even a small fishing boat. Or, at least, more than I am willing to give.” She looked away, feigning interest in her bees while her eyes finished smoldering.
Foulques felt his own eyes burn. He could imagine only too vividly of what she spoke. He, too, had seen the desperate masses on the docks. This was a time for unscrupulous men to make their fortunes, or in the case of a young woman desperate to leave the city, to satiate unholy desires. The burning in his eyes spread to his throat. Why had he left this so long? He should have seen her from the city long ago.
“I have spoken with a man I know who is going to sneak a small group out of the southern gate,” Najya said. “If we can get past the Mamluk soldiers, perhaps we can join with their camp followers. We all speak Arabic, not Turkic, but I think it could work,” Najya said.
The thought of Najya sneaking past thousands of hard mercenaries, thieves, and murderers knotted his insides. These men would not have joined the sultan’s army out of a sense of duty, or some sort of loyalty to Allah. No, they were there for the spoils of war. When the walls of a rich city fell, men could make their fortunes in gold, silver, and slaves. Strictly speaking of course, by the laws of Allah, Najya need not fear being enslaved if she were caught, for a Muslim could not enslave another Muslim.
Foulques knew the laws of Muslims almost as well as his own. And like those of his own church, he saw them broken again and again. If a Muslim with loose morals truly wanted to enslave another Muslim, all he had to do was find a Christian buyer. Perhaps, if he was truly in need of a slave, simply trade for a Christian one. So Najya was not safe from the slave market if caught outside the city walls. But Foulques knew the more likely scenario was much, much worse.
If a mercenary discovered a woman such as Najya sneaking though his camp, he would not bother with trying to navigate the complexities of the slave market. These men were not planners. For a man who made his life through war, the future was a fickle thing. He lived for today. He would simply use her, then and there, and when he tired of her she would be passed around all night, until someone eventually slit her throat and left her on the muddied ground.
Foulques hated that he knew this. But evil existed in the world and ignoring it did not make it any less real. The Devil fed off the ignorance of men.
“It could work,” Foulques said, slowly. “But give me some time. I may be able to get you on a ship. Do not do anything until I say, all right? Promise me?”
Najya smiled. “My knight. Always trying to save me. But where would I go?”
“Does it matter? Anywhere along the coast would do. From there you could make your way anywhere you want and have a fresh start.”
She looked sadly at her hives. “I do not suppose I will be able to bring them?”
Foulques shook his head. “As you have seen, it will be difficult enough to find passage for a single person.”
Najya was quiet for a moment. “Thank you, Foulques. I appreciate all you do for me. You do know that?”
Foulques dismissed her gratitude with a shake of his head. “Any word from your brother?”
“He is safe, in Aleppo.”
“And… your father?”
Najya’s head snapped toward Foulques. “Why?” Her eyes narrowed. “When was the last time you saw him?”
Foulques looked up the street. “It seems like a very long time ago,” he said.
“Why do you want to know about him?” Najya asked.
She had turned hostile, putting Foulques at a loss for words. “With the city in peril, I just thought maybe he would have been in contact with you. That is all.”
“You know I would refuse to speak with him.”
“What if he could help you? Maybe he could get you out of the city.”
“I would rather die here, burned alive, than accept help from that man!”
Foulques recoiled at her choice of words. He had pushed her too far. He saw that now. He reached out a hand to her shoulder, which she promptly shrugged away.
“He let us believe he was a lentil broker. ‘I help farmers get the best price they can for their lentil crops,’ he told us. He lied to my face for years. And he would probably still be lying to me this day, if not… if not for that night.” She glared at him a second longer, until tears welled up in her eyes.
Foulques knew the night well, though he wished he did not. As with most things Najya-related there was no small amount of guilt involved as he recalled that time. For it was the worst night of her life, but perhaps the best night of his. It was the night she had become family.
He and his Uncle Guillaume were woken up late one night by a frantic, yet quiet, knocking on the door. It was Monsieur Malouf, with a skinny little eleven-year-old Najya in tow. Foulques had met her a few times before that night, but he did not know her well. Her eyes were red and puffed up so much, he wondered how she could see anything.
There had been an accident, a fire. Her mother was dead.
She stayed with Foulques and his Uncle Guillaume for the better part of two months while her father ‘reordered’ his household. It was highly unusual for a knight of the Order to have one child in his apartment within the Hospitaller compound, never mind two. One of them, a Saracen girl, at that. Threats were made against his uncle, both public and some the more serious variety. The type carried out in the streets, at night. But he paid them no heed, for he was stubborn that way. Foulques, too, was constantly getting into fights with other boys during that period. The conflict of those days brought the three of them together. And then, just as quickly as it was formed, their little family was broken apart when Malouf suddenly appeared again in the dead of night.
Najya wiped the moisture from her eyes, before the tears had fully formed, and took a deep breath. “I will not leave the city until I hear from you, Foulques.” She turned and walked between the beehive sentries and entered her small home.
Her father would have been proud, Foulques thought.
He waited there until the light seeping out around the door winked out and he was left standing in complete darkness. Then he headed to the wall.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The bombardments began in earnest the morning after the failed night raid. Foulques stood on the wall amongst the Schwyzers and watched helplessly as the spoon arms of dozens of mangonels were loaded with projectiles doused in Greek fire. The drums beat nonstop as engine after engine released its deadly load. The flames lit up the early morning sky as they arched high overhead and dropped deep in the city beyond the walls. Fires erupted occasionally when one of the incendiary missiles found a thatched or wooden roof. Fortunately, Acre was an ancient city and most of its buildings were made of stone and roofed with clay tile. And its inhabitants were still fresh, unwearied from the siege. Any fire that sprang up was quickly doused by hundreds of people working together in bucket brigades. But that would change soon enough, Foulques knew. There would come a time when the fires and destruction would overtake the resolve of the city’s inhabitants, and fewer people would turn up for each new fire, or to pick through the wreckage of a building for bodies. Eventually, they would give up entirely.
“Brother Foulques,” Roderic said, appearing suddenly on the wall. “I was sent to relieve you. The grand master would see you in the strategy room.”
Foulques let out a breath and watched one last flaming stone the size of a man’s head veer off course and crash into the harbor. It left a plume of steam as it sizzled ineffectually and disappeared below the clear blue waters.
“Very well,” Foulques
said. “While I am gone, see if you can disperse that rabble out there, will you Brother Roderic?” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the Mamluk army stretching across the entire horizon.
Roderic grinned. “I will see what I can do, Commander. Best you stay away for the better part of the morning though, if you expect results.”
Foulques laughed and shook his head. At a moment such as this, what else could a man do? Still, he knew he had made the right decision in returning to Acre. This is where he belonged, where he was meant to live out his life, however long that turned out to be. In the company of good men, like Roderic, as part of a brotherhood fighting for what he believed. Still smiling, he looked along the wall at the dozens of Schwyzer faces staring out over the ramparts. Some stoic, some fidgety, some talking and full of false bravado. All of them frightened beyond measure. Foulques had watched them grow into men. He was proud of each and every one of them, and knew they were another reason he had to come back. He had a sudden image of himself standing in their midst when the end came, not as their commander, but as simply another one of their number, a brother in arms. That was the path God had laid out for Foulques de Villaret. He had never been so sure of anything in his life.
He stepped out of the morning light into the relative darkness of the tower and circled his way down to the bottom of the outer wall. The moment he emerged once again into daylight he was greeted by a great creaking boom. He looked up in time to see a large stone fly over the walls toward the Mamluk forces. The Pisan engineers had just fired their own catapult. It was the only one in the city capable of reaching the enemy in their current location. There were some smaller ballistae and catapults on some of the larger towers, but their range was limited. Their operators would have to wait until the enemy attacked before they could be used.
Foulques crossed the killing field between the inner and outer walls, exchanged a few words with the guards as he went through the gate, and then slowly made his way to the strategy room located in the base of the tower.
When he arrived, the grand master was there. So too, was Marshal Clermont. Stuck to his side, as was common these days, was the young Hospitaller Knight, Connor Westhill. He was the marshal’s latest project for the tournaments. Every few years he would take one on, someone young and impressionable, who of course displayed an aptitude for blade and lance. Foulques figured this was a way for Mathieu de Clermont, the famously undefeated ‘Mongoose’ of a bygone era, to relive some of those glory days.
The three men stood over a new addition to the room since Foulques had been here last: a table upon which a crude model of Acre and its defenses had been shaped from clay. The grand master wasted no time in getting to the point.
“As soon as we are able to secure you passage back to Cyprus, you will return there without question. Is that clear?”
Foulques stopped where he was.
“And do not come back unless you are summoned,” Marshal Clermont said.
Foulques looked from man to man. “I believe my place to be here. The Order has put out the call for all Knights of the Grand Cross to assemble in Acre. That is my duty, and that is what I have done.”
“I am sorry, Foulques. We believe otherwise,” the grand master said.
“There is no need to worry for the well being of our men in Cyprus, or our fleet, such as it is. I left Brother Alain in command. If something should happen to me, they are all in good hands. Better even, perhaps, than if I were there.”
“And once again, you have no say in this matter,” Marshal Clermont said.
Foulques ignored Clermont and spoke directly to Grand Master Villiers. “You need me and every man you can get. I can be of use here.”
Marshal Clermont stepped between Foulques and the grand master. “Like you were last night? Tell that to the men who did not come back.” He brushed past Foulques, moving toward the door. “Come, Master Villiers. We have an appointment with the prince. Someone has to explain why our attack failed.”
The marshal left without another word, but as the grand master walked past Foulques he put his arm on his shoulder. “Do not take his words to heart. It was a well-conceived trap. No one could have made any better of that situation. We welcome your help on the wall for now, but as soon as a ship becomes available you will leave. I expect you to obey me on this, Foulques.”
The grand master too, left, and Foulques found himself staring at the model of Acre’s walls. Small flags were stuck along the length of the outer wall to denote the factions of the defenders in that section. Tiny black flags bearing the white cross of the Hospitallers covered a long section in the center, near the Gate of Saint Anthony, a short distance to the north of where Foulques stood now. They were fortunate that the Mamluks could only attack along that length of wall. Running from north to south, it was long, and would take many men to defend, but this would have been a completely different defense if the Mamluks had had a navy.
Movement caught his eye and Foulques realized Connor was still in the room.
“What do you think our chances are, Brother Foulques?” Connor asked, coming to stand beside Foulques. He was a tall man and had a languorous stride. Foulques was immediately reminded of the marshal.
“Do you think we can hold them until reinforcements arrive?”
Foulques shrugged. “Acre’s walls are strong and we have enough men to keep them at bay for a time. But I would not hold my breath waiting for reinforcements. Everyone who would come is already here.”
“I heard some of the English talking. They said Longshanks has a fleet on the way.”
“Is that so?”
Connor nodded. “I pray they do not bring too many men, for I will never tire of wetting my blade with infidel blood.”
Foulques looked back at the clay model as Connor kept talking.
“I confess I hope this siege is over in time for the King’s Tourney to take place. I have been looking forward to this one all year.”
“And training hard, I hear,” Foulques said. Connor was one of the favorites to claim the prize. Any winnings, of course, would be turned over to the Order’s treasury.
Connor turned his back to the table and leaned against it. “I do not believe you and I have ever crossed blades in training, have we, Brother Foulques?”
“No, we have not,” Foulques said.
“The marshal told me you were something in the early days. He said there was no one in the Levant who could come close when you were on your game.”
Foulques narrowed his eyes. “He said that?”
“But he said you quit the tourneys before anyone really knew your name. Mind if I ask why?”
Foulques thought about it for a moment. After a few wins, his uncle had forbidden him from entering any further contests. But truth be told, by that time Foulques’s heart was not in it any more.
“I suppose I grew tired of focusing my energies on trying to best my own allies, when we were surrounded by true enemies.”
Connor nodded sagely and interlaced his fingers at his belly like a Franciscan friar begging for alms. “I would have really liked to know you at that time. When you were in your prime.” He turned toward Foulques, suddenly, like an idea had just dawned on him. “Perhaps, when this is all over, we could train together once, for old time’s sake. Maybe see if we can knock some of that dust from your sword arm?”
Foulques turned to the marshal’s protégé and gave him a curt bow.
“I would like nothing more,” he said. “When this is over.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Foulques stood on the outer wall staring out at the massive Mamluk war engines as engineers swarmed around them, bringing them nearer to completion with every passing moment. He tried to swallow but his throat hardened like he had not had water for three days. One crenellation to his left stood Marshal Clermont. Both men were silent, a rare occurrence when they were within shouting range of one another. The assault of the night before had been a disaster. They had lost good men, men the
y needed for the defense of the city.
Foulques looked to his right at Sir Grandison, who had come to extend his thanks to Foulques and his men. The leader of King Edward’s forces leaned heavily against the wall for support and he shifted his weight from one leg to the other like he was trying to rid himself of a cramp. His normally clean-shaven face was covered in gray stubble and he had the far away stare of a man who was present only in body. He showed his age this day.
Foulques’s gaze wandered past the old warrior, down the entire length of the wall, taking in the slumped figures of its defenders. Morale had taken a hit they could not afford.
Some time later, mere minutes after Grandison had returned to the English Tower, a solitary drum began banging out a steady beat from somewhere in the middle of the enemy’s camp. A group of men began making their way to the front lines. They led horses, large horses. Foulques instantly recognized them as Templar, Hospitaller, and English destriers captured in last night’s failed raid. The sight tore at his innards, for the line of horses was long, and every one meant that a brave brother or ally was dead.
The drummer continued beating out his forlorn rhythm and when the horses reached open ground between the besiegers and the castle walls, their handlers tied them together, head to arse, and forced them to march in an endless circle. Gasps and swearing on the wall made Foulques look more closely. He had assumed that every horse meant one dead man. But he was wrong, for hanging from every saddle were at least two or three heads. Some were tied together with clumps of their own hair and then thrown over the horse like saddle-bags. But since most were Templars, their hair was cut short. In those cases, the Mamluks had punched holes through the skulls and threaded them together with rope.
“Mon dieu,” Foulques heard Marshal Clermont say under his breath. “The heathens will pay for this.”
The drummer abruptly picked up his beat and a chanting began in the midst of a mob of Mamluk soldiers. A cheer pierced the air and several of the high-pitched cries that the desert dwellers were fond of using to terrify their enemies followed. Then, a solitary form emerged from the main group and began walking boldly toward the walls of Acre. Foulques blinked and shielded his eyes from the midday sun. He looked again, sure that his cruel mind had taken to haunting him during the daylight hours, as well as the night.
