Crusade

by Robyn Young

  “My liege,” said the steward. “I present Ambassador ...”

  The rotund man’s beam widened. Before the steward had finished speaking, he was moving toward Edward. “Your Majesty,” he said expansively, bowing low, “blessings upon you. I am Rabban Sauma, ambassador of his highness, the esteemed ilkhan of Persia.” He spoke French slowly, stiltedly.

  Edward accepted the greeting graciously. “Welcome to my court, Ambassador. Can I have my servants bring you anything? Food? Wine?”

  Rabban frowned delicately and gestured to a man standing close by, who spoke quickly to him in a guttural language. Rabban smiled again and shook his head. He answered the man beside him, who at once translated his words to Edward.

  “Thank you for your kind hospitality, my lord. Some food and something sweet to drink would be most welcome, for myself and my men.”

  “We will break our fast together,” replied Edward. He nodded to his steward, who bowed and swept out of the room.

  “My liege,” Garin heard one of the advisors murmur. “Might it be prudent to ask the ambassador why he has come, before you break bread with him?”

  The ambassador, oblivious to this exchange, had wandered over to one of the high windows where Bordeaux and the surrounding sunlit fields were framed. “Beautiful,” he said in French, pointing to it. “Very beautiful.” He lapsed back into his native tongue, the translator echoing him in a stuttering stream. “I have come from Paris. Paris too is beautiful, but in a manmade way. I marveled at the splendor of its university, the elegance of its architecture, the chapels.” Rabban’s eyes widened with delight. “You have seen Sainte-Chapelle, Your Majesty?”

  Edward waited for the translator to catch up. “I have.”

  Rabban didn’t seem to notice the sour note in Edward’s tone. “King Philippe himself showed me this wondrous place. A fragment from the very crown of Christ, I saw there, conveyed by King Louis, and afterwards I took Mass with Philippe’s court. It is a day I shall forever cherish.”

  Garin, standing behind and a little to the right of the king, saw Edward’s jaw pulse at the mention of the king of France. Edward had begun his sojourn in Gascony with a visit to Paris to pay homage to the new king, an intense young man, whose subjects had already named him le Bel, “the Fair,” on account of his legendary good looks. There had been an immediate sense of rivalry between the two men on that first meeting. Partly, Garin had thought, this was because Edward disliked being Philippe’s vassal and Philippe disliked having an English monarch ruling territory in his kingdom; but possibly more, he had guessed shrewdly, because Philippe reminded Edward of himself years ago: young, ambitious and handsome, a rising star, whose light threatened to outshine that of the celebrated English king, hero of the Crusades and scourge of the Welsh. Edward didn’t like sharing glory.

  Edward’s jaw tightened further when Rabban gestured to the thin, anemic man in his party. “This is Gobert de Helleville, Your Majesty. The generous King Philippe named him as ambassador. He is to return with me to the ilkhan’s court to express the king’s wish for lasting friendship and interest in a continuing alliance between our peoples.”

  Gobert inclined his head stiffly to Edward. He looked anything but pleased at the prospect of returning to Persia with Rabban.

  “On what matter did you parley with King Philippe?” inquired Edward, ignoring Gobert.

  “The same matter that brought me here, Your Majesty.” Rabban’s childlike excitement was replaced by somber poise. “The same matter that took me first to Rome to speak with the pope, only to find that he had died and no man had yet been elected in his place.”

  Edward nodded. “We have recently been informed of his successor, who has taken the name Nicholas IV. But what, exactly, is this matter, Ambassador?”

  “The matter of a new Crusade, Your Majesty.”

  Edward listened closely as Rabban continued.

  “Although His Highness, the ilkhan, is a Buddhist, he, like many others in his court, has a great liking of the Christians. His dearest friend, and mine, a Nestorian Christian like myself, has been elevated to the position of patriarch in Iraq. The ilkhan has long harbored a wish to take back the Christians’ holy places from the Muslims, a wish shared by his close friend, the patriarch. To this end, he has sent me here to ask the kings and clergy of the West for their support. He will pledge his own men and money to this cause if the rulers of the West will do the same. Your Majesty,” he said intently, “you once formed an alliance with his father, Ilkhan Abaga, against the Mamluks. Will you do so again? Will you commit to a Crusade?”

  There was silence in the throne room. Edward was staring thoughtfully at Rabban. His advisors were looking at one another questioningly. The tension was broken by the footfalls of servants, who filed in bearing trays laden with cold meats, cheeses and hunks of warm bread.

  “Wait,” said Edward, as the servants crossed to a large trestle by the windows to set down the trays. “Bring food to my solar. The others can eat here.” He looked to Rabban. “Will you speak with me alone?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  Several of Edward’s and Rabban’s advisors tried to interrupt, looking affronted that they would be excluded from such an important discussion. But neither man backed down. Followed by the translator and servants bearing food, the two of them left the chamber.

  Garin waited until they had gone then headed up to his room, leaving the advisors talking animatedly and indignantly amongst themselves. He entered, and sweeping the drapes across the window, he wondered what the outcome of the meeting would be. He knew full well that Edward’s desire to take the Cross and return to Outremer at the head of an avenging army was far from dead. But, thus far, the king’s hopes of achieving this had been forced to one side by events closer to home.

  Twelve years ago, the king had publicly announced his decision to tackle the increasing threat posed by the prince of Wales and launched an invasion into the wild, mountainous north. After leading a rebellion, Llewelyn of Gwynedd was finally brought down and the fractured territories of northern and southern Wales were subsumed under Edward’s judicial control. Should anyone dare protest, Llewelyn’s severed head, bound in iron and stuck on a stake outside the Tower of London, was a grisly reminder of the price of treason.

  Edward had an almost obsessive need for control, and to that end he desired the creation of an orderly kingdom with established borders, all fully under his dominion. After taking Wales, he commanded the building of several impressive castles to guard his new kingdom and to maintain his hold, before leaving for Gascony to organize his French territory. Both tasks he had undertaken with the same ruthless, single-minded intensity with which he tackled everything. Garin knew that victory in the Eastern world never strayed far from his thoughts. But Ireland and Scotland had not yet been brought to heel, and with the death of King Hugh of Cyprus, four years earlier, the promise of a military base for a Crusade had vanished.

  When news of that death had come, Garin had felt a burden lift, for he had never told Edward about the plot he and Hugh had formulated to steal the Black Stone. On the return journey he had won back a portion of the money Hugh had given to him and sold his sword in a French port for more. The rest, he explained to a furious Edward, had been stolen from him, along with the funds he had managed to secure from the Anima Templi. He had fervently hoped this last lie would prevent Edward from sending him back to the Holy Land to threaten the Brethren into bending to his will, which he was terrified the king would do if he discovered Garin had disobeyed him. But even though he escaped with only a vicious, humiliating beating for his gross negligence, he had always worried that King Hugh might one day speak of the failed plan and his own involvement.

  Garin found the unfinished jug of wine placed beneath his bed and drank, only savoring the warm sharpness when he had finished it and could feel it flowing through him, smoothing the harsh edges of the world. Kicking off his mud-stained boots, he lay back on his narrow bed and stare
d at the ceiling, trying to decide what the king would do with such a bold proposition from the Mongols.

  He didn’t have long to wait for an answer.

  Two hours later, having dozed off and woken with a foul taste in his mouth and a beast of an appetite growling in his stomach, Garin was on his way to the kitchens when a servant found him and told him he had been summoned to Edward’s solar.

  Garin found the king alone, sitting at his desk, his slender fingers laced together and a pensive expression on his face. There was a letter before him.

  “Shut the door.” Edward watched Garin come forward. “I have an assignment for you. This letter is for the pope. I want you to travel to Rome immediately to deliver it.”

  Garin was surprised and displeased by the announcement, but he kept his feelings from showing, not wanting to reveal them to Edward, who always managed to exploit a person’s emotions. Instead, he kept his face carefully blank, feeling more himself now than he had earlier, with last night’s drink sour in his blood. He had been caught off guard this morning. He wouldn’t be again. “Might I ask what the letter contains, my lord?”

  “You may,” replied Edward after a pause. He leaned back in his chair. “It entreats the pope to begin gathering support for a Crusade. It asks him to send legates out around the West to kings and princes, imploring them and their citizens to join in their support of a new war to take back Jerusalem, to begin anew our fight for the Holy Land and birthplace of Christ.”

  Garin had heard such speeches before. Mostly, that was all they remained; high rhetoric spoken with grave severity and deep enthusiasm, and all ultimately flowing out into an oblivious silence. The rulers of the West were too preoccupied with what was happening in their own kingdoms to listen to such war cries. Crusades had become expensive and outdated. Edward was different; he meant what he said. But, still, Garin couldn’t see many other leaders heeding such a call. “You plan to take the Cross, my lord?”

  “Eventually, yes. But in the meantime I do not want to lose the support of the Mongol Empire. Their proposition is an interesting and welcome one, if not particularly timely. For now, I will show my support of them and their plan by these means. King Philippe has apparently sent a similar request to Pope Nicholas.” Edward’s lip twisted ever so delicately. “I hear the pope is an advocate of the Crusade, and as he is new he will no doubt want to make an impression. I believe he will listen to our requests. In the meantime, I will return to England as planned. My work here is almost done.”

  Garin knew there was more. “Can I ask why you aren’t sending a royal messenger with this, my lord? It isn’t exactly sensitive information.”

  “I want you to do something else for me.”

  Garin waited.

  “When you’ve delivered this to Rome, I want you to journey to Outremer and meet with William Campbell.”

  This time, Garin was unable to keep his emotions hidden; they flashed across his face, hateful, ugly.

  Edward noted the change, but continued without comment. “I have plans, as you know, when I return to England, plans which, for now, keep me from launching a Crusade.” He folded the letter and took a red candle from his desk, burning weakly in the sunlit room. He dribbled wax onto the join, then ground his signet ring into it, sealing the letter with his mark. “I am going to need all the funds I can lay my hands on if I am to go after Scotland.”

  Garin felt the softness of the wine drain away from him, rendering the world once more stark and harsh as Edward handed him the scroll. When he had left the Holy Land eleven years ago, he had made a promise never to return. “The Anima Templi were reluctant to offer funds to us before,” he said in a low voice. “It took me a long time to persuade them to part with their gold the last time I was there.”

  “And a short time to lose that gold once you had it,” said Edward harshly. He watched Garin hang his head and nodded, satisfied by his shame. “I do not care how difficult it proves. Whatever persuasions or threats you employed then obviously worked. Use them again now. Return to me with the money I need and perhaps I will find myself able to forgive your past blunders.”

  Garin said nothing. The thought of going back, of seeing Will, was like falling down inside.

  37

  The Citadel, Cairo 31 AUGUST A.D. 1288

  Kalawun felt the dull ache in his forehead build to a burrowing pain as the voices around him grew more aggressive. He rubbed at his brow in slow circles, his fingers slick with sweat. The sun was going down, flooding the sky with a hundred shades of crimson and gold, but the heat in the air was still merciless, refusing to dissipate as the afternoon had worn on, clogging the atmosphere, shortening tempers.

  “My lord?” There was a long pause. “My Lord Sultan?”

  Kalawun raised his head, hearing the second address. He saw a young commander staring at him impatiently. “Yes, Amir Dawud?” he said tiredly.

  “I said, the time to act is surely now. We know the ilkhan sent an embassy to the West to ask for support for a Crusade. We cannot let these powers ally themselves. Together, with fresh forces from their lands, the Franks and the Mongols could defeat us.”

  Some governors in the throne room were nodding. Others looked unconvinced.

  “I grow weary of this debate,” murmured Kalawun after a moment. “It has been a long day. Let us return to the matter tomorrow when sleep has refreshed us. Perhaps then a decision can be reached.”

  “That is what you said at the last council,” growled another amir, “and still nothing is decided.”

  “You will show our sultan the respect he deserves when you speak to him, Amir Ahmed.”

  The men looked to the source of the clear, cold voice. Prince al-Ashraf Khalil was on his feet, erect and stiff. His brown hair had fallen into one of his eyes, but the other was fixed intently on the amir who had spoken.

  Ahmed glanced at Kalawun. He bowed his head. “I am sorry, my Lord Sultan. My prince,” he added courteously to Khalil.

  Kalawun waved a hand at Khalil. “Sit, my son. The amir is correct and I understand his frustrations.”

  Some of the men looked surprised. They watched as he rose tiredly from his throne and stepped down from the dais to where they were seated on a large rug, around low tables laid with drinks and the remains of food. His broad figure was still powerfully muscled, but he seemed, to those who had known him longest, a little stooped these days. He was in his mid-sixties and his hair was streaked with waves of silver, his worn, tanned skin wrinkled around his eyes.

  When he was among them, Kalawun spoke again. “We have been having this debate for years, more years than many of you here will know. Each time it is the same. Word comes that the Mongols and the Franks are going to join forces and invade us, attack our citizens, raid our lands. People get afraid, restless.” Kalawun was pacing now, clenching a fist as he spoke. “They want to do something quickly to stop it from happening.” He paused. The young amirs who had spoken were nodding vigorously. “But word always comes,” finished Kalawun. “And the outcome is always the same. People forget that.” He shook his head as he surveyed them. “The Franks in the West have no real desire for Crusade. All sources indicate thus and have done for decades. They will not join with the Mongols.”

  “What if they did, my lord?” asked one commander. “Let us say an alliance was forged. What then?”

  “We would know about it months in advance and could act accordingly,” responded Kalawun. “Think how long it would take the Franks to muster any truly effective force. As it stands, we have far greater capabilities in terms of strength and resources. We are safe.”

  “The men who were attacked by the Knights of St. John in their raids weren’t safe, my lord,” countered Dawud.

  “We dealt with the Hospitallers,” said an older commander, whose face was carved with scars, coming to Kalawun’s defense. “The Knights of St. John paid for their attacks on our forces. We took the last of their inland fortresses in retaliation.”

  Dawud lean
ed forward, his face passionate. “We took their fortress, but not their lives. We let them go free to Acre, where they will no doubt be very useful in any further aggression against us.”

  “We have a truce with the Franks, Amir, unless you have forgotten,” said the scarred commander in a rough yet patient voice. “At present, we have no quarrel with their forces and they have none with ours. Our primary threat comes from the Mongols, and even they do not pose the danger they once did. Why do you think they have sought out the Franks to make an alliance? They know they cannot defeat us alone. Each time they tried we pushed them back beyond the Euphrates. They grow weaker with every battle they lose.”

  Kalawun was nodding. “The Franks cannot win a war against us; neither can the Mongols. We are in a stalemate.”

  “We cannot vanquish the Mongols on their own ground, I agree,” said Dawud, frustrated. “But we can tackle the Franks. They will no longer give us any problems at all if we drive them from Palestine for good!”

  “You are not listening to me, Amir,” said Kalawun in a tight voice. “We move on the Franks and the rules of the game change. The Mongols could take that opportunity to attack us from the rear. A siege on Acre will be long and costly, in terms of both money and men, and there is no guarantee we would take it.” His brow furrowed as he saw the doubt in their eyes. “You are young, many of you, and so I will forgive your ignorance, this once. My predecessor, Sultan Baybars, tried five times to take the city of Acre. Do you know how many times he succeeded? Well?” he demanded into their silence.