by Robyn Young
Suddenly, he felt fists pummelling at his back and legs. It didn’t exactly hurt, but it was distracting. Turning with a snarl, he lashed out, blind with drink and fury. He caught Rose on the side of the face, sending her spinning. She fell to the floor and stayed there. Garin’s vision slammed into focus as he saw her crumpled form. Letting go of Elwen, he dropped down beside her. “Rosie,” he cried hoarsely. “Rosie! I’m sorry.”
Elwen pushed herself off the table and launched herself at him, grabbing the empty jug. She slammed it down on his head and it shattered. Garin lurched forward on his hands next to Rose, who jolted awake. But even as Elwen, sobbing, her hands shaking madly, tugged at the pouch on his belt with the door key in it, Garin recovered and pushed himself to his feet. Forcing her off him, he shoved her away. She fell hard against the table, hitting her forehead on the corner of it as she went down. She slumped to the floor beside Rose, who cried out.
“Mama!”
“You think you’re leaving?” roared Garin, his shame gone as suddenly as it had come. “Think you’re leaving me? You’re not going anywhere!” Seizing the lantern, he threw it against the door, where the wine had pooled. The glass smashed and oil spattered out. The flame fluttered, almost disappeared, then flared in the oil and wine.
Garin staggered back as Rose bent over Elwen. “Mama, wake up!”
The fire spread quickly, leaping into life across the boards, alive and hungry. Garin watched it, mesmerized.
Elwen stirred and woke, looking dazedly up at her daughter. Her cap had come off and her hair hung around her shoulders. A bruise was swelling on her forehead. “What ... ?” she murmured, raising her hand to it. Suddenly, she sat up and looked aghast at the fire that was now burning merrily up the door, crackling and spitting into life with every patch of oil and wine it found. Garin stood there dazedly, a trickle of blood oozing from the back of his head where the bottle had cut him. “My God!” she shouted. “What have you done?”
He turned to look at her, his face slack and gray. “We’re staying here now.”
ST. ANTHONY’S GATE, ACRE, 18 MAY A.D. 1291
It was a scene from hell. Smoke billowed in black choking clouds as clay pots of Greek fire exploded across the street. Horses screamed and reared as their flesh burned, tossing riders into the boiling mass of men. One man, an English knight whose mount had been slain beneath him, burst into flames as one of the pots smashed against him, the fire setting his cloak alight. He thrashed blindly as the flames roared up around him and his face began to burn, his skin melting and running like tallow. The Mamluk lines were a seething wall of men and spears and shields, those in front forced forward, pushed by those behind. The first soldiers held tall shields, from behind which archers launched volleys of arrows into the Christians. Others threw javelins, and still the pots of Greek fire kept coming, until it seemed the whole world was burning.
Will was on his horse, alongside Guillaume de Beaujeu. His arms were throbbing and his mantle was torn and blackened, soaked in blood, his and others’. As another javelin was hurled at him, he lifted his shield to deflect it and crashed against the high back of his saddle with the impact. Robert and Zaccaria had been close by, but he could no longer see them through the smoke and bedlam all around him. He didn’t know if they were alive. The sound of three hundred kettledrums rang insanely inside his helmet, along with the screams of the dying scattered all around him. The white cloaks of the Templars were joined by the black of the Hospitallers. Jean de Villiers was fighting valiantly beside Guillaume as if the two grand masters had been comrades in arms all their lives and there had never been an ounce of rivalry between them or their orders. The soldiers of Cyprus, under King Henry II, were there, surcoats flashing red and gold in the sunlight that appeared through breaks in the smoke as dawn broke.
Following the beating of the thunderous drum that had continued to reverberate as the Templars gathered outside the church, the Mamluks had launched their assault. They had come as a single, solid mass. Many had fallen, crushed beneath the stones slung from the city walls or burned alive in the boiling oil that was poured onto their ranks. But many more kept coming, striding over the dead. The clouds of arrows flying up at Acre’s troops were simply too thick for the Christians to stand against, and within a short time, the Mamluks had taken the Accursed Tower. They poured in through the breach, pushing back the troops that tried to halt them, and entered the outer enceinte between the double walls. Some broke left and charged along the channel toward the Pisans’ camp, where the siege engines of the Italians were doing terrible damage to the rest of the army outside the walls. Another company, made up of several thousand, surged right through the outer enceinte to St. Anthony’s Gate. But the warning had gone up and the Templars and the Knights of St. John were there to meet them.
Time after time, the Mamluks in the front rows hefted their shields to move forward through the broken, burned gates, advancing inch by inch into the rock-strewn street. As they did so, Guillaume would let out a rallying cry and the knights would charge against them. But as soon as they came, the Mamluks would close ranks, so the knights dashed themselves against their impenetrable line. It was a hopeless struggle. The knights knew they couldn’t hold this force back much longer. But every precious second they held on for meant another body on a boat, another wife or daughter spared. This kept them going, carried them through the pain and terror, made them hurl themselves against the Mamluk lines, bringing down swords and axe blades into the heads and throats and arms of their enemy. Some men fought on with arrows piercing their sides or appalling wounds that shook them with agony every movement they made. This was it. The final stand.
In their midst, Guillaume de Beaujeu, his helmet with its bloody feathers having been knocked from his head, was roaring like a lion. His blue eyes shone in the first rays of sun, his face and beard blackened with smoke and dust and blood. Because the call to arms had come so quickly, he’d not had time to don his chain-mail armor, only a light, plate hauberk that covered his shoulders and torso. He was crying out to God to give strength to their arms and hearts, shouting that all of Christendom was with them, that they would be remembered, that they would be honored on earth and in heaven, that angels would sing for them. And his words soared like fire into the knights’ ears as they spurred their exhausted horses into the ranks, turning the world red with the cutting of their blades, turning the sting of metal across their skin to the kiss of God on their souls.
Smoke swirled, and the front lines of the Mamluks lifted their shields and began to march forward again, striding over the mutilated and burned corpses of comrades, Crusaders, horses.
Guillaume raised his sword to signal another charge. “To me!” he roared. “To me!”
At that moment, a javelin sailed out from the Mamluk lines.
It came like a bolt of black lightning, ripping through the smoke, flying straight at the grand master. Guillaume didn’t see it coming. As his men thrust their spurs into their horses and surged forward, the head of the javelin slammed straight into Guillaume’s side, just under his armpit, bared where he had raised his sword arm. The hauberk’s plates didn’t cover him there, and the javelin’s point drove five inches under his skin. Guillaume was rammed back in his saddle. His broad-bladed sword fell from his fingers. In front of him, his men were crashing into the Mamluk lines. Through the mist of pain clouding his eyes, Guillaume saw two knights go down, their horses wheeling and falling, pierced with spears. With his free hand, he grasped the shaft of the javelin and, with a bellow of agony, wrenched it from his side. He slumped forward in his saddle, just as his men began to retreat from the Mamluk shield wall.
Will was the first to see him. “My lord!” He steered his horse over, pulling the destrier up sharp alongside the grand master, just managing to grab him before he slipped from the saddle. He saw blood drenching Guillaume’s surcoat. “We’ve got to get you to the infirmary.”
Guillaume’s eyes flickered open. “No, William, I must
lead the men.”
“You cannot even ride, my lord.”
Zaccaria and several others had seen him now and were racing over, along with the grand master of the Hospital. Behind them, the knights of King Henry hefted their shields against the arrows flying down around them.
“Take him to your preceptory,” said Jean, looking from the grand master to Will. “Do what you can for him.”
Zaccaria dismounted. “Bring me a shield!” he shouted to four sergeants.
Will and the Hospitaller grand master helped Guillaume down from his saddle and eased him onto the ground. Behind them, another charge was led by King Henry’s knights.
“Jean,” murmured Guillaume, grasping his arm.
“We will hold them for as long as possible,” said Jean. “Take him,” he said to Will, then mounted his horse and rode back to his men.
Zaccaria laid the tall shield the sergeants brought him next to Guillaume. Between them, Zaccaria and Will lifted the grand master onto it. The sergeants bore him up, straining at the weight, and Will motioned to Zaccaria and three other knights. “Come with me.”
Zaccaria, his short white hair sooty, climbed into his saddle without a word. Will had the impression that the Sicilian would have followed the grand master’s body whether he’d ordered him to or not. Leaving the remainder of their knights with the Hospitallers, under the command of Theobald Gaudin, who now took charge in Guillaume’s place, Will led the knights away from St. Anthony’s Gate and back through the streets. It was slow going, the sergeants struggling with Guillaume. All around the walls, the drums and horns continued to sound. As he rode slowly, in front of the sergeants, Will’s mind was filled with the image of the Mamluk shield wall, their men dashing themselves uselessly upon it. Now he was out of the battle, able to think more clearly, he knew that it couldn’t hold for much longer. The knights would either die there, one by one, or would be forced to retreat. It was only a matter of time. Will looked at the bloodied, half-unconscious form of the grand master; then, pulling his horse around, he rode back to Zaccaria. “Stay with the grand master. Get him to the preceptory.”
Zaccaria studied Will. “Are you going somewhere, Commander?”
Will drew his horse to a stop beside Zaccaria, letting the others go on ahead. “The gate will not hold for much longer, we both know that,” he said in a low voice. “Before it falls, before the Mamluks breach the city, I must make sure those I care about are safe. I know that you will take care of the grand master.”
After a pause, Zaccaria gave a small nod. “Will we see you back at the preceptory, Commander?”
“If God will spare me.”
With that, Will turned his horse and jabbed his spurs into its flanks, as behind him, the knights defending St. Anthony’s Gate fell, one by one.
47
The Venetian Quarter, Acre 18 MAY A.D. 1291
Elwen leaned out of the window, gasping for air. Smoke surged around her, stinging her eyes and throat. Her fingers scrabbled at the outside of the house, trying to find purchase on the rough stones. There was none. The breeze prickled her skin, taunting her, just beyond reach. Beneath her, the wall fell sheer to the ground, thirty feet below. Her eyes searched the way down, looking for hope. At her feet, crouched below the window ledge and swaddled in the blankets, Rose began to cough harshly.
Elwen turned to the bed, where Garin was lying on his back. “You’re going to have to help me,” she called, holding her dress to her chest where he had ripped it. “Garin!”
His drunken gaze swiveled in her direction. His eyes and nose were red. “You’ll break both your legs if you jump,” he mumbled thickly.
“There’s a ledge beneath this window. If you lower me down, I should be able to stand on it. If I jump from there, I might be all right. You can tie the blankets together and use them like a rope. If you lower Rose down part of the way, I can catch her.”
Garin returned to his study of the ceiling.
“Garin, please! We’re going to die in here!” Elwen looked to the door. In the solar, the fire had spread rapidly, blocking their escape. They had gone into the bedchamber, but now the smoke was working its way steadily through the gap beneath the door, even though she had plugged it with one of the blankets. She could hear the crackle of flames on the other side, could feel the pulsing heat through the wood.
“We’re going to die anyway,” said Garin. “Don’t you hear the horns? They are sounding a retreat. I expect the Mamluks have breached the walls. We’ll never find a ship in time.”
“I told you! We have a ship.”
“I don’t.”
“You can come with us.” Elwen crossed to the bed. “We’ll take you to Venice. Just help me get us out.”
Garin stared morosely up at her. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do, I swear.”
He pushed himself up, swiping at his dripping nose. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy-lidded. He grasped her arm and pulled her to him. “Tell me you love me then.”
Elwen glanced at Rose, sitting huddled in the blankets beneath the window, coughing abrasively. Taking in a thin breath, she looked back at Garin. Her eyes lowered. “I love you,” she murmured.
Garin hissed and let go of her arm. “You lie,” he snarled. “You say it to save yourself.”
“God, please, Garin!” she cried. “If you want me to suffer for what I’ve done to you, then leave me here. But I’m begging you, spare my daughter. Help me get her out!” When Garin didn’t respond, Elwen went back to the window, her thoughts muddled with fear and panic. She didn’t know what to do. They could stay here and choke or burn to death, or she could try to let Rose out of the window, maybe jump down after her. But what if Garin was right, what if the Mamluks had entered the city? Would they even make it to the docks? This was her fault. Her daughter was going to die. And it was her fault. Clasping her hand over her mouth, Elwen let out a hoarse sob. Her eyes, blinded by tears from the smoke, closed and she sunk down beneath the window ledge next to Rose, who was choking and retching, her face clenched in pain. Beyond the chamber, the crackle of the flames grew louder, and the door began to blacken and blister. Elwen drew her daughter into her arms and wept into her hair. “I’m so very sorry, my beautiful girl. I should have taken you away when I had the chance.”
“Don’t cry, Mama,” said Rose, sobbing herself. Her hands came out from under the blankets and her arms went around Elwen’s neck.
“I love your father so much, Rose, as much as I love you, with every last breath. I didn’t want to leave him. I didn’t ever want to leave him. Now he’s out there fighting for us and I betrayed him so terribly. I was in pain and I was angry. I thought I wanted him to suffer too. But I didn’t.” Elwen’s body shook. She squeezed her eyes shut against the awful pain that assailed her, inside and out. “Oh God, forgive me.” Flames began to lick around the edges of the door. “Please, sweet Jesus, forgive me. Just let me see him one last time, just let me see him!”
Garin sat up groggily, Elwen’s anguish puncturing his intoxicated haze. He leaned over and began to cough. His instinct for survival was pushing through the drink now, sobering him. That blank, emotionless stupor was fading, replaced by a terrible pounding in his head and an even more terrible sinking sensation that dragged at the very core of him. He felt ragged, soaked through and sickened by the depth of the bitterness and hatred inside him. Wiping his eyes, he could just make out Elwen and Rose through the pall of smoke, clinging desperately to each other. The door burst into fire, and they cried out as heat swept into the room from the inferno beyond. Garin shielded his face with his arm. Was this hell? Was this where it ended? Staring at Rose, he recalled how much joy he had received in the simple pleasure of watching her play, all those times he had spied on her, imagining that one day she would come running to him, thread her hand through his and smile. He remembered how it had felt to be good, making his mother proud, fighting for Christendom, rescuing Elwen from Bertrand and Amaury, even though it had been a
charade. As the smoke billowed, he pushed himself from the bed and stumbled to Rose. Reaching down, he dragged her from Elwen’s arms. She was limp and unmoving. Elwen cried out as her daughter was wrenched from her. Garin drew the blanket around Rose, covering her head and face, and bundled her over his shoulder. “I’ll come back for you,” he rasped at Elwen.
Elwen stared up at him. “Get her out, Garin,” she breathed. “Just get Rose out.”
Garin turned and ran toward the fire. He staggered back as the heat hit him, then let loose a harsh cry and barreled through it.
As he disappeared into the flames, Elwen slumped to the floor, too weak from the smoke in her lungs to hold herself up any longer. “I love you, Will Campbell,” she breathed, putting her wet cheek to the warm boards. She closed her eyes, willing the words to travel whatever distance was between them, for him to hear them wherever he was. “I love you.”
Simon, red-faced and panting, was approaching the house when he saw the flames darting from the upstairs windows. He halted. The Venetian quarter was well out of range of the Mamluks’ siege engines, and he couldn’t understand why the building, so far from the battle, was burning. The front door burst open and a figure came rushing out. It was a man and he was screaming. His hair and clothes were burning. He carried something over his shoulder in a smoldering blanket that he dropped to the ground outside. Simon shouted as he saw a body roll out of the blanket, and he raced the last few yards down the sunlit street.
It had taken him much longer than expected to get here. By the time he had found the stable master in order to excuse himself, the knights were already leaving for St. Anthony’s Gate. It was some distance from the city walls to the Venetian quarter on foot and this, coupled with the barricades and guard posts he’d had to negotiate his way around, meant that more than an hour had passed since Will had ordered him to Elwen’s.
