Crusade

by Robyn Young

  Rose studied him with her intent gaze. “Is he going to stay here until you give him money?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Why can you not give it to him if it will make him leave?”

  “Because of what he will do with it.” Will smiled tiredly at her inquiring frown. “Garin’s master, King Edward, attacked Wales, where your mother was born, in order to secure more land for himself. It is rumored he has a similar desire to rule Ireland and Scotland. The king of the Scots died four years ago and his heir was his granddaughter. The last we heard was that Edward was planning to marry his son, Edward of Caernarvon, to the girl. The kings of England and Scotland have had good relations in the past, but I fear for the country with Edward’s interference. There are men in Scotland who would, I believe, resist his rule, and I do not want to see what happened to Wales happen in my homeland. If I give Garin money, the king could use it to fund a war, as he has in the past.”

  “Are you worried for your sisters? For Ysenda and Ede?”

  “For them and for the peace. And besides, I want you to see it one day, the place where I grew up. I don’t want it spoiled.”

  Rose looked up at him as they started walking. “I want to see it too.”

  Will felt his daughter’s small hand grasp his once more, but as they moved off through the marketplace a heaviness began to descend on his mind, weighing him down. The talk of his family was the cause. Those memories were still able to haunt.

  There was his sister, Mary, whose death he had caused, the aftermath of which had seen his father enter the service of the Anima Templi and his mother and three surviving sisters enter a nunnery outside Edinburgh. There was his mother, with her distant eyes and faltering last kiss as his father took him away to join the Temple in London. And there, with a stab of raw grief, was James himself, with his crow-black hair and ink-stained hands, the man he had spent his whole life trying to live up to, forever seeking forgiveness for Mary’s death, if no longer in this life, then in the next. These memories—the endings and the partings—were painful. But the others—the good memories before the deaths, before he left Scotland—were worse. The colors were faint now and some scenes were missing, but the laughter and the smell of summer gorse, and the shock of water against his legs as he waded into the loch—these things could pierce him. For years, he had kept them at bay, concentrating on his work and his duties, on his own family. Then, four months ago, the letter had come.

  Opening it, he had scanned the unfamiliar handwriting, not really reading the words until he reached the name at the end. Ysenda Campbell. It was a name that had driven something blunt and brutal right through him. It was the name of his youngest sister, whom he hadn’t seen or heard from since he was ten and she was an infant. It was a letter to inform him of the death of their mother, Isabel. She had died in her sleep from a sickness she had suffered with for some time and had been buried in the chapel of the nunnery, where she had remained since the day James and Will had left her. Reading his mother’s name, written in black, Will had seen her as he had for the last time, thirty-two years earlier. She was standing outside the convent watching them ride away, a thin woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders, one hand pushing back her springy red hair as the breeze lifted it. He had looked back after a little while to see her still standing there, a figure who had once held and kissed him, laughed with him, made indistinct by distance, a stranger on the hillside.

  The letter bore news of another death too, but almost beside the point, as if he should have known already. Their mother, Ysenda had written, had been ill since the passing of their elder sister, Alycie. Will guessed the letter informing him of that news must have gone missing. Or perhaps it had never been sent. Now only Ede and Ysenda remained. The letter had been painfully impersonal, as if the writing of it had been a duty, a burden even. In the lines, Will found a sense of blame, a sense that Ysenda, who briefly mentioned her own children without naming them, had never forgiven the brother and father who abandoned her and her mother, a sense that she wanted him to suffer. And suffer he had. Isabel never even knew she had a grandchild. He had always been too afraid to expose that secret in a letter.

  “Father, what is that?”

  Will glanced down, stirred from his thoughts. Rose was looking puzzled. He looked around, realizing he could hear the clanging of a nearby bell. It was too late to be for Nones and too early for Vespers. He was wondering how long it had been ringing for, when the bell of San Marco joined it, sending a flock of seabirds surging into the cobalt-blue sky. Other people were stopping now, frowning up at San Marco’s tower. Ahead came sounds of shouting. Five men of the Venetian Guard rode into the square. A call went up.

  “What are they saying, Rose?” asked Will.

  “Erect the barricades,” replied Rose, looking worried. “They’re saying to close the streets. There’s fighting at the docks. Lots of men.”

  Within moments, stall holders were packing away their goods. Parents grabbed the hands of children and hastened away, as the bells continued to resound and more guards appeared. Moving in a frighteningly fast tide of people, Will gripped Rose tightly and led her out of the marketplace. People were closing shutters, calling to friends and neighbors, rushing home.

  When they reached Andreas’s house, they found Elwen outside, talking worriedly with a neighbor. Her face filled with relief when she saw Will and Rose running down the street.

  “What is it?” she asked Will, pulling Rose to her gratefully.

  “A riot by the sounds of it,” Will panted. “I’ve got to get to the Temple. Go inside and lock the doors.”

  Elwen nodded and gave him a swift hug. “Be careful,” she shouted, as he sprinted off.

  THE DOCKS, ACRE, 20 AUGUST A.D. 1290

  No one knew exactly how it started. Later, when the devastation was being cleared up and picked through, the bodies dumped onto the backs of carts, a rumor went around that a group of Lombardy Crusaders had heard that a Christian woman had been raped by two Muslims the night before. There were other explanations for the violence, most involving the heat and drink and poverty. But nothing—no reasons, no justifications—came close to excusing the mindless barbarity that began on the dockside and spread out through the city, like a rock dashed into a pool, the ripples of which grow wider and more far-reaching with every circle.

  The temperature was scorching that afternoon, and the Italian peasants, who had been kicking their heels in the dockside taverns, were sunburned and hot-tempered. A company of men within the Lombardy group had been elected by the other peasants as unofficial spokespeople. The day before, these men had gone to complain to the Crusade’s leaders, who had been put in place by the pope in Rome and included the dispossessed bishop of Tripoli. The tavern owners were demanding rent and they had no money for food. The bishop and the other nobles set in charge of the Crusade couldn’t help: they hadn’t been given funds themselves; there was nothing to offer the peasants. The bishop was particularly unhelpful, remarking sourly that if they wanted bed and board they should have thought twice about spending what little they had on drink and whores. The peasants had been turned away, sullen and bitter.

  They had been promised a land of milk and honey, and indeed, they saw evidence of the East’s affluence all around them: in the majestic buildings, the rich clothing of the locals; the markets overflowing with luxuries. But none of it was for them and no one wanted them here. Even the patriarch, the pope’s representative in Acre, had been perplexed as to what to do with them. What the Christian leaders had looked for in a Crusade was well-trained soldiers under an efficient command, not an undisciplined rabble who didn’t know the ways of the East. Local merchants, fishermen and customs officials complained that they now had to wade through a sea of half-conscious men, vomit and blood each morning on the docks. Tavern owners complained of nonpayment, of damage to goods and property and staff. Prostitutes had been beaten and abused, locals had been robbed, churches vandalized. The Italian peasants had a
bandoned their families and the fields, and had sailed into the unknown in hope of a better life. Instead, they had just found flies and unbearable heat and more poverty. They had come for a war; only no one seemed to be fighting one. And so, that afternoon, bored, hot and hungover, the peasants formed their own Crusade.

  The first death occurred on the docks outside a tavern known as the Three Kings. Six men staggered out onto the harbor wall. They seemed to hang there for a moment, their faces flushed, before one of them shouted and pointed to two Arabs, leading camels loaded with panniers. With a united cry of excited fury, the six men rushed the Arabs, who stood stunned as they saw them coming. One of the Arabs was punched in the side of the head and went down, dropping the reins of the camel, which galloped off in fright across the dockside. The other man tried to run, but was leapt upon by two of the attackers. Fishermen and dockworkers watched on, hardly believing what they were seeing. Several locals tried to stop the assault, but two of the attackers had pulled planks of wood off a crate and were brandishing them like weapons. Someone hastened to the customs house to get help. But it was too late for the Arabs. By the time the punches and kicks ceased and the six staggered back, the two men had been beaten beyond recognition, their heads and faces a bloody pulp.

  Other Lombardy Crusaders, comrades of the six, were now pouring out of the Three Kings at the commotion. They looked stunned to see their fellows soaked in blood. As their gazes alighted on the dead Arabs, a couple of them stumbled away, sickened. But one man cheered. It was a guttural, animal sound, which seemed to act as a signal to the rest of the pack, a signal that a line had been crossed and there was no going back. Other cries and shouts of triumph followed. And, just like that, a mob was formed.

  “Kill all filthy Saracens!” shouted one man.

  “Kill them! Kill them!” the chant went up.

  The peasants set off across the dockside. Men, most of them Italian Crusaders, streamed out of inns to see what the commotion was. When they heard the calls, many fell into step beside their countrymen, exhilarated by the palpable fever coming off the growing crowd.

  “What’s happening?” called one man, rushing out of a tavern.

  “A Crusade,” someone shouted back. “We’re going to kill the Saracens!”

  “Then we’ll get paid!” yelled someone else.

  There was a loud cheer.

  The man’s eyes lit up with edgy excitement, and he raced back inside to tell his comrades, many of whom followed him.

  Men joined because they didn’t want to be left out; because someone said they were going to get paid; because they didn’t have anything else to do. A roar went up, started by those near the front and cascading through the crowd.

  “Deus vult! Deus vult!” God wills it! God wills it!

  As they walked, men picked up rocks or stuffed rusted nails between their knuckles and swiped the air, grinning grimly to their companions. If their leaders wouldn’t arm them, they would arm themselves. If they wouldn’t pay them, they would pay themselves. Customs officials and guards had come out of their buildings at the alarm raised by the locals, but they weren’t prepared for the fervent horde they met coming across the dockside.

  “Mother of God,” murmured one man. “We need more guards.”

  Another plucked up his courage. “Please!” he shouted to the crowd, holding up his hands. “Please! You must stop!”

  The mob surged on, jeering at the officials, laughing as the men in their fine robes and oiled hair tried to halt them.

  “Look at them!” scoffed one. “Dressed up like Saracens!”

  “You must stop!” demanded the customs official.

  Suddenly, a rock was loosed from somewhere within the crowd. It struck the official in the forehead. He went down hard. The mob halted, a ripple of unease shuddering through it. This man wasn’t a Saracen; he was a Westerner, a Christian, like them, a man of power and importance.

  Nothing happened.

  There was no bolt from heaven to strike down the Crusader who had cast the stone. The other officials grabbed their bleeding comrade and pulled him back inside their building. Even the guards followed them.

  Shouting wildly at the victory, the peasants moved on. They were invincible, unstoppable. Their newfound power was a drug, intoxicating them.

  “How do we find the Saracens?” one man wanted to know.

  “All Saracens have beards,” answered another. “We kill anyone with a beard.”

  People nodded determinedly, glad to have a focus for their rage.

  A shout rose. One of the peasants pointed. The massive iron gates that led into the city proper were being shut. Beyond lay the Pisan market. Traders were fleeing and a bell was clanging a warning, but, even so, the place was still crowded. Seeing the stalls piled high with fruits and porcelain, precious stones and silks, the peasants rushed forward. The Pisan guards made a last-ditch attempt to close the heavy barriers, but they were too late. The peasants threw themselves against the gates like a storm tide and forced them apart. At first, a trickle of men flowed out, brandishing their makeshift weapons warily. Then the dam burst and it became a flood.

  Stalls were overturned as the peasants rushed in, buyers and sellers alike were shoved to the ground. A woman started to scream as her daughter was knocked over and trampled by men eager to get to the treasures on the stalls. One merchant, a Greek, tried to save his bag of money from two peasants who rushed him. Together, they forced him down. One stamped on his head repeatedly, whilst the other tore the bag from his hands. A Bedouin woman’s veil was torn off and she was spat at, her husband’s face raked open by a set of nails jammed between one man’s knuckles. A Syrian Christian selling dates was picked up by five men and hauled, shouting and struggling, to a bakery. One man ripped off the turban the Syrian wore and tied it tightly around his neck.

  “Kill the Saracen!” another screeched.

  A third climbed up and looped the other end around the bakery’s iron sign. Together, the men hoisted him and hung him from the sign. The Christian dangled there, kicking and choking, before going limp.

  On the other side of the marketplace, three men broke into an Arab bookshop, where, after butchering the owner, they found two Arab women cowering in the back. One of the women tried to fight them off with a club, but her attackers wrestled it from her and beat her to death with it. The other woman was held down and violated. And the same scenes were repeated all across the square.

  The Crusaders swarmed over the market like locusts over a field of corn. Rubies and sapphires, gold and food were stuffed into tunics and sacks. Windows were broken, fires started in houses and shops, and the chaos spread as the locusts finished their feast and moved on into the city. There were several thousand of them, a mélange of death and destruction. They rampaged through the streets, a river that had broken its banks, slipping off into tributaries to avoid the barricades that were being erected. Fights broke out between city guards and the Crusaders, but, as yet, although the bells were ringing the alarm, an effective force hadn’t been raised to counter them. Any man with a beard the Crusaders found was killed, but as many Christians and Jews had beards, it wasn’t only Muslims who died.

  The Knights of the Temple and Hospital rode into the streets to halt the massacre, soon followed by more city guards and the Teutonics. Muslims were ushered into the safety of the Temple or let into churches and private houses. Mosques weren’t considered safe, since the Crusaders had managed to break into one and had massacred everyone they found inside, leaving the white marble walls and floors awash with blood. Little pockets of violence raged, city guards and locals joining forces to confront the mob. But the knights were moving steadily out around the city now, breaking down the peasants’ resistance, and after an hour or so, the fighting slowed.

  Finally, when it had visited terror on much of Acre, the mob broke up and scattered. Men tired and grew sober. Men, loaded down with too much loot, returned to the docks. Men woke as if from a dream to find blood on t
heir hands and staggered from houses, sickened by their own actions, leaving little scarlet chambers of anguish all across the city. In just under two hours, the peasants’ Crusade lurched to its conclusion. The knights set a curfew and roamed the streets as night fell. The rioters who were caught were rounded up and thrown in the city jails and the corpses were collected in carts. More than two hundred Italian Crusaders died in the riot. But over one thousand of Acre’s citizens had perished. And the coming of night made the fires that much brighter and the bloodstains that much darker.

  43

  The Citadel, Cairo 7 SEPTEMBER A.D. 1290

  The company rode in through the imposing arch of al-Mudarraj, into the courtyard of the citadel. The guards at the gates watched on with wary, hostile eyes as the seven riders dismounted. They were met by ten Mamluks of the Royal Guard and led through the vaulted marble passageways of the palace. Servants and soldiers stopped what they were doing and watched them stride past, their gazes curious, cautious. When they reached the double doors of the throne room, the company was told to wait. Two of the Mansuriyya disappeared inside. They were gone for less than a minute before the doors were opened again.

  Will was the first to enter. Behind him came six Templars, hoods pulled back. Will felt exposed and uncomfortable in his uniform. He had only been to Cairo in secret, in disguise. To be here now on official business felt strange. He quickly assessed the cavernous chamber: elegant pillars marching down either side of a central aisle; huge fans on the ceiling; slaves clad in white. As the Mansuriyya warriors led the company to a platform at the end of the chamber, Will’s gaze was drawn to five figures standing around one man seated on a gold throne. He guessed they were generals or advisors, although one, a young man with a mop of hair and an aloof expression, looked enough like the man on the throne for him to think they were related. As he drew closer, he thought he had perhaps seen him before, but his speculations were cut short as one of the Royal Guards announced them.