by Mark Butler
They were on the beach, discussing everything Artois had learned thus far. Despite his initial repulsion, Jean turned out to be extremely knowledgeable and easy-natured. The king's bodyguards were separated into two groups, essentially. There were the high-born warriors, who took their posts for political reasons and had friends in the royal court. The other group was the poor farmers and lowly soldiers, who had proved their merit in combat and likely reached the apex of their soldiering careers. Artois was clearly from the second group, but Jean didn't fit into either. He was a specialist with blades, and his skills were on display at a royal party when he was suddenly summoned to a private audience with the king. He had shown his abilities to juggle, throw, and catch blades, and he was recruited instantly.
"You do not have a weapon on you, do you?" Jean asked, as they walked along the coast.
"No, except these," Artois said, showing Jean his meaty fists. Artois suddenly pitched face-first into the dirt, and Jean's knee was on the back of Artois' neck. He felt a pinprick, a touch of cold steel that tickled the hair on the back of his neck.
"If you had a weapon, you could stab me in the leg, or perhaps swing upward and strike me. As it is now, you are helpless without a weapon. Imagine if you had a weapon and the element of surprise! You'd be unstoppable," Jean said, taking his weight off Artois.
As soon as Artois was on his feet, Jean drew a dagger and leveled it at Artois' head. "I can hit you from a hundred paces with this weapon, from cover or in the open."
"As soon as I come within reach of you, your life is mine," Artois retorted. "You rely on weapons and tricks to kill."
"So do the Muslims," Jean answered smoothly.
They returned to the command tent that evening. Artois, as the newest member, was required to watch the king's cottage during the darkest hours, for half the night. He was ordered to stand post in a copse of trees adjacent to the front door, so that he could pounce on an enemy with, as Trunk said, "crushing strength." Artois knew it was a phrasing that Trunk had invented spontaneously, to give Artois a bit of cheer during his long watch. The reality was that no one within hundreds of miles wanted to kill Louis. Well, some certainly did, but they didn't have the resources or balls to carry out such a dangerous venture. Louis was safe in his cabin, and Artois stood outside among the trees, bored to death.
The other bodyguards had astonished him thus far with their zealotry for their duties. They were completely content to follow their king around for their entire lives, behaving like trained dogs and doing whatever they were told. Artois was not the smartest man in the world, but he knew that he wanted to be free to make his own choices. With that in mind, he thought of Francois, Raul, and Christof. He didn't know which unit any of them were posted with, and he promised himself that he would visit them when he got an opportunity.
Chapter Fifteen
THE SEVENTH CRUSADE'S time in Aigues-Mortes was drawing to a close. The easy breezes of June were gone from the coastal town, and the hot breath of late summer bore down on the men who trained to go to war against the Muslims. August was half-finished, and the chief gossip among the men was the upcoming cold months, and how they would fare in the desert during those times. There would be no water, they believed, nor retreat. If the Seventh Crusade wanted to survive and come home as heroes, they would need to utterly crush the Ayyubid empire; nothing less would suffice.
Francois continued to work with the army doctors and surgeons, and his skills grew exponentially. Gone was the bright-eyed lad who had left Troyes nearly a year before. Now he had jaded eyes, patient and detached from the suffering of his patients. Francois' arms had grown wiry and stronger, and his knowledge of the human body increased. There were so many bones, so much blood! He could hardly absorb all of the knowledge each day, before he was back in the clinic, learning even more.
Olivia had lost favor with King Louis. She couldn't explain it, perhaps it was her lost fetus, which he knew nothing about, but Louis no longer bedded her with vigor and enthusiasm. Now she was just a physical outlet, something for him to distract himself from his ever-increasing daily concerns. Maybe that's all she ever was.
Artois grew to understand and appreciate working with the king's bodyguards, though he never felt like a part of them. He was an outsider. When he wasn't on duty, Artois brooded alone, drinking his pay and staring out at the ocean. He didn't want to be a nursemaid for the king; it was not what he signed up for. Artois wanted to stand with normal men in battle lines and earn the enemy's respect. He wanted to let his emotions spill out on the battlefield, where he could scream obscenities at the enemy and let their blood garnish his blade. If he was stuck with the king's bodyguards for the entire crusade, he probably wouldn't even kill a man. Artois didn't want his sole victim, the man he had killed for initiation, to be the only life he took. He couldn't explain it, but it was what he did best.
Raul and Christof fared well in their practice bouts with Dimon. Despite his initial misgivings about their ages, Dimon promoted both of them to sergeant. They were utilized as trainers for younger men; experienced voices that could calm a fearful heart or reignite a faltering charge. Raul took to the job with gusto. He had no real war experience, except the slaughter of the Cathars when he was much younger, and he pushed the new recruits hard, eager to be on the winning side of a war for once. Christof was more like Artois, and he pined for the guttural camaraderie of the infantry, where his strength and ruthlessness would be respected, not simply feared and avoided.
The Seventh Crusade set sail on August 25, 1248. They were thirty-six ships strong, with 15,000 men. There were pikemen from England, engineers from Germany, and cavalry from Spain. The majority of the men were French, however, and the ships sailed under the blue and gold standards of King Louis IX. Their first stop was Cyprus, a large, multicultural island in the center of the western Mediterranean. The island was formally under the control of the House of Lusignan, which was under the patronage of Henri I, also known as Henry the Fat. He was the son of a Jewish queen and French king, and was supported by the emperor of Rome. If King Louis of France wanted his crusade to start well, he would need to find support on Cyprus.
The Seventh Crusade's ships silently entered the port of Cyprus on a quiet, cool evening in November 1248. Despite the fading light, the wharfs were active with local children, fishermen, merchants, and Cyprian soldiers. The long, wooden piers that served incoming ships were lined with those grim-faced, dour Cyprians, and Louis was at the head of the first ship to arrive, calling orders before his ship even stopped.
"You there!" he pointed to the biggest Cyprian soldier, a heavily-armed warrior with a passive face. "Send a runner to Henry the Fat! King Louis and the Seventh Crusade have arrived!"
The soldier just stared at the clownish monarch, his expression unchanging. After a moment, another Cyprian soldier whispered furiously into the first one's ear, likely translating the words from French to Greek or Arabic, and the big soldier stiffened immediately. He issued orders to two of his nearby men, and they started running toward the city immediately, carrying Louis' words. The king of France watched them go with satisfaction, and he took a deep breath of the Cyprian air, smelling the wriggling fish that were being pulled in from the last catch of the day.
There was not enough room for all the ships at the docks. The rearmost vessels in the formation angled north up the coast, seeking a place to drop anchor. Once they were settled, small boats could take the men to land while others stayed behind. No one knew how long Louis planned to stay on Cyprus, but it could be several weeks. If necessary, the common soldiers would be forced to rotate ship duty.
As uncommon commodities, Francois and Artois found themselves in the port of Cyprus on that first night, one with the king and the other with the medical staff.
Artois pushed his mount hard, trying to keep up with King Louis as he raced across the plains of Cyprus. Henry the Fat lived on an estate five miles from the coast, and Louis had barely given his men a chance to catch
their breath before they were roaring across the plains, eager to see the lord of Cyprus. Artois and every other bodyguard formed a great ring around the king and his generals, ambassadors, and staff.
From the horizon came 1,000 men, the army of Cyprus. They were lightly armed, carrying swords and spears but no shields or armor. The sound of their approach shook the ground, and Artois swallowed hard as he realized they were outnumbered five to one. He prayed King Louis would be careful in his words. What did Artois know, though? He had no concept of these world movers and their powerful circles.
"Halt!" King Louis roared from his position. Artois was amazed that the king's little body could produce such a powerful, commanding tone. At his words, the Frenchmen stopped and tightened their circle, warily watching the army of Cyprus. Artois tried to focus on the center of their line, and he swore he could see two soldiers in one uniform.
"That's Henry the Fat," Trunk whispered. A few of the men chuckled.
The army of Cyprus mimicked King Louis' men, and they stopped in unison. With great care, Henry the Fat waltzed to the space between the forces and raised his flabby arms up, showing he had no weapons. King Louis watched Henry through slitted eyes, and he removed his armor and weapons. He walked out to Henry, and the rulers talked while their men silently watched, kicking the dirt and biting their lips. There was still the possibility of a battle, and Artois breathed deeply, readying himself for anything. After an age, King Louis returned to his men, grinning broadly.
"We shall receive the full support and assistance of the kingdom of Cyprus," he said, removing all doubt about who the greatest monarch was on the island.
Francois watched the king's retinue race out of the city and into the countryside, and he wondered if his brother was among them. Francois knew that Artois had joined the king's bodyguards, through camp gossip, but he still hadn't spoken with him. He assumed Artois was very busy with his new charge, and Francois was similarly burdened.
Many of the men on the Seventh Crusade had crossed the Mediterranean before, traveling to the many ports and nations of North Africa, or angling out toward the Atlantic Ocean and traveling north or south. Likewise, many of the men had never set foot on a boat before in their life, and sea sickness was a real problem. Vomiting dehydrates the body, and sea water is not potable, making life on the cramped ships more difficult than it already was. Some men never made it to the rails to lose their vomit, either, and disease spread through the common soldiers' cabins. As a member of the medical staff, Francois considered it part of his duty to fix this problem.
"There is nothing to be done," Henry, the senior surgeon, told him. "Men have been crossing this damned sea for thousands of years, and you either get sick or you don't."
"I have heard the Venetians do not become ill," Francois retorted.
"They are born on their ships! Those Venetian bastards learn to swim before they can walk! Their entire lives are spent at the sea; we cannot be compared to them."
"There must be something we can do."
"Education is the key to success. Tell the men about proper hygiene, about clean drinking water, and eating fruits and vegetables. They won't listen to you, but it's the most you can do."
"Aye," Francois said, standing up. The two men had become fast friends since their time together in Aigues-Mortes, and they were sitting at the docks, essentially waiting with the rest of the soldiers for King Louis to return. It was a funny thing that none of them could hardly move without first knowing the king's agenda. He was improvising the entire crusade; it seemed, down to the last detail.
"Where are you going?" Henry asked, as Francois started walking up the docks.
"I need to see about a girl," Francois answered. He knew Olivia was on the crusade, he had actually watched her board one of the supply vessels. She had no business going to Egypt. If the Ayyubids got their hands on a white, French woman, they would rape and torture her until she lost her mind.
The supply ships were docked at the end of the wharf, and Francois kept his eyes on their distant masts while he plodded along the wooden planks. The usual port businesses lined the wharf: taverns, brothels, ship repairs, and storage warehouses. Angry, muscular Cyprian soldiers patrolled the docks, too, glaring at everyone and keeping their hands on the hilts of their swords. Francois kept his eyes down as he hurried along, wondering if he would even get to see Olivia before they cast off again.
The first supply ship was piled high with rations from Europe: barley, corn, apples, bananas, and pears were stacked in crates in the belly of the supply ship. Francois saw hundreds of rats scurrying around the food, climbing to the crates they could reach and groping at the ones they couldn't. Francois considered telling Henry about the rats, but he assumed he would be brushed off as he had been before, and he moved on to the next ship.
The second supply ship was the armory. Swords, daggers, shields, and helmets adorned the walls. The tools of a professional blacksmith were also there: forges, pincers, tongs, and mallets and hammers of various sizes. That ship was not packed like the other one had been, and Francois assumed the weight of all that metal was a concern.
The next ship had people. There were cheap merchants, hoping to get rich off the war or simply hoping to start a business in Egypt. There were women, too, whores by the look of them. He saw painted faces, exposed bodies, sensual lips. Francois looked and looked, until one of the older whores walked up to him and batted her eyelashes.
"Looking for a good time, sailor?" she asked.
"I'm looking for a girl named Olivia."
"I'm Olivia, have you heard about me?"
"You're not who I'm looking for." Francois tried to look past the woman, but she stepped into his view, trying to make eye contact.
"You know you want me," she said, sounding almost accusatory.
"I seek Olivia!" Francois finally yelled. Every eye in the ship's cargo hold was on him suddenly, and he blushed bright red at the attention. Down the wharf, a few soldiers also looked his direction, and several sailors looked down on him from the upper deck.
"Hey, leave the girls alone!" a burly sailor yelled.
"If ya can't pay, then leave!" another one shouted.
"Where is Olivia?" Francois shouted again, but not as loudly. He was rewarded with nothing but blank stares, and he cursed loudly and left.
The next ship was more run-down than the previous. Millions of barnacles clung to the hull, the crew too lazy to scrape them off. The wood also looked rotten, and seagulls circled overhead, evidently believing there would be scraps of food coming from this vessel. Francois took a deep breath and approached the gangplank to the cargo hold, and he accidentally ran into a hooded young woman.
She was a tiny thing, malnourished, eyes downcast. She smelled ripe, too, and her fingernails were bright yellow. Still, Francois could see sharp cheeks beneath the hood, and an aquiline nose that spoke of high breeding. With more boldness than he thought he possessed, Francois brushed the hood off her head. It was Olivia.
Raul and Christof were on one of the ships that anchored down the coast. Their vessel was huge, carrying three hundred men and fifty crew members. The soldiers took turns at the oars below decks, and with the anchor in place, that duty was suspended. The ship used sails, too, but they were useless without favorable winds. On that first night, the captain declined to let any men go to shore.
"Let's wait and see what Louis does," was all he said. It seemed to be the mantra of the entire crusade on Cyprus.
Every ship in that fleet, and every other fleet on Earth, has an urchin. It's always a prepubescent boy, too, with filthy skin and ragged eyes. Urchins are the sons of poor sailors, or whores, and they become attached to the vessel they were born on. The crew adopts them as one of their own, and they scamp around, everyone's subordinate and nobody's responsibility. On Raul and Christof's ship, the urchin was named Makel.
Raul noticed him on their second day at sea. He was hard to miss. Black skin, almost purple, distinguished him from
every other person on the ship. He was climbing to the bird's nest, moving with the agility of a spider and carrying a brown sack in his teeth. Raul had stared and stared, wondering if he was experiencing sea delusions. But he wasn't. Makel was just there, an anomaly, an aberration in the population.
Makel was eleven, and no one seemed to truly know where he came from. Raul wanted to speak with the boy, to ask him what he remembered from his earliest days. But Raul could never catch the urchin; he was always moving.
"What's your interest in him, anyway?" Christof asked Raul, as they sat on the deck, staring at the island of Cyprus. They had been floating for two days, wasting time and breath.
"He's a child. Someone should look after him."
"He's a bastard son of some very dark-skinned folks. Not our problem. He'll grow up and be a sailor on this boat, and a damn fine one, too," Christof said. The words sounded odd to Raul's ears, like Christof admired something about the boy. He filed that tidbit in his mind for later consideration.
Chapter Sixteen
LOUIS MADE THE GENERAL ANNOUNCEMENT five days after they arrived at Cyprus. They would spend the entire winter there. Envoys from powerful nations were going to be visiting the island nation over the next few months, to discuss alliances with Louis. Virtually all of his men were allowed to come onto the island of Cyprus, while skeleton crews managed the ships.
The men divided into two spheres of opinion on spending the entire winter in Cyprus. One group, the veterans, shook their heads in wonderment at Louis' procrastination. Surely they should attack Egypt immediately, to use the element of surprise? Or, why could they not stay at their homes in Europe while Louis negotiated in Cyprus? He did not need his army here, draining his funds. Soldiers on crusade expected food, pay, and medical attention.
