Beasts of the Seventh Crusade (The Crusades Book 4)

by Mark Butler

  The other popular opinion of the soldiers was one of ecstasy to stay on Cyprus. It was a gift, they said, a few more months of life before they went to the hot desert and battled the murderous Muslims. They would have more time to train, fuck Cyprian girls and boast of the accomplishment they would have in Egypt. Regardless of what the men felt, they obeyed Louis' orders and there were no desertions, no threats of mutiny. When one of the most powerful men on Earth makes a decision, his soldiers follow, trusting his wisdom. Never mind that their allegiance gave him his power, and without an army, Louis was little more than an international figurehead. Despite his status, he never expected the two men who sought an audience with him after one week on Cyprus.

  Louis lived with Henry the Fat during his time on the island. The man's estate was a sprawling complex of barracks, towers, supply stores, and servant's quarters. There was a mountain behind the estate, towering to the heavens. It was called Mount Olympus, a remnant of a forgotten religion, though some indigenous peoples still traveled there for religious reasons. To the west was a lake surrounded by trees, and you could not see it until you were practically in the water. The surrounding countryside was flat, however, and the guard's voice on the eastern tower rang out one early morning.

  "Riders! Two of them!"

  This caused a small ripple of activity on the estate, and the captain of the guard rode out to meet the men before they got any closer.

  "What is your business at the home of Lord Henry?" the captain demanded, trying to stare the men down. They did not divert their gazes, and the captain recognized the hardness of their muscles, the ease with which they sat on their horses. These men were warriors.

  "We come from the khan of the Mongols," the brown-haired one said. "We bring a message for King Louis of France."

  Their names were David and Marc, and they were made to sit at an outdoor table until King Louis decided if he would see them or not. The men did not complain, and they seemed to enjoy the fuss that their presence was making. They had used a word rarely heard around European circles, a word that carried such weight, such severity, that few dared say it. Mongols. For that reason, Louis did not make them wait long.

  He appeared in simple clothing, his bare arms showing. Louis had a bow strapped to his back, though he had never shot one in his life, and a sword hung naked at his waist. He had not shaved in three days, and his stubble was like the grass on the ground, brown and coarse.

  "I am King Louis," he said when he reached the table. To his surprise, David and Marc stood and bowed deeply. On each of their necks hung heavy crosses.

  "We are Christians from the Far East, where wild men of the plains dominate the land. They are called Mongols, and we have been sent by their leader, Khan Guyuk, to give you this message." One of them pulled a parchment from the folds of his shirt and held it up to read:

  The king of the world demands that there shall not be, by the grace of God, any difference between the Latins, Greeks, Armenians, and all those who honor the Cross. All of them are equal before our eyes, and we ask the great king to do the same

  He finished reading and held the parchment for Louis to inspect. Louis took it, felt the calfskin between his fingers, and looked at the words. The symbols were foreign to his eyes, nonsense. He gave the parchment back to the man.

  "What is all this about?" Louis finally asked, with more calm than he felt. He had heard about the Mongol hordes, merciless horseback archers who swept aside their enemies like the river sweeping aside pebbles. They were born warriors and their numbers were in the millions. The Mongols were nothing short of the most magnificent, destructive army in the world. Louis wanted their khan's approval, his blessing, but he wouldn't beg for it.

  "We are here to tell you the khan has converted to Christianity, along with his most senior generals. We are here to say the Word of God has pierced the souls of those men, and the khan wants nothing but peace between our mighty nations."

  Louis said nothing. The khan of the Mongols was not his concern. He didn't care if the man called himself a Christian, Muslim, or worshipped whatever pagan gods came from that dark corner of the world. Louis had other things on his mind, and he made a snap decision.

  "Bring me my tent!" he yelled.

  It took six servants to carry the tent, which could be erected to form a makeshift chapel. Before the eyes of David and Marc, the tent was raised. It was stunning. Dark, royal purple cloth provided backdrop scenes from the life of Jesus—turning water to wine, overturning the tables of the money changers in the temple, Jesus' baptism, the last supper, and the crucifixion. The scenes were sewn into the tent with exquisite detail, and the sheer size of the tent already made it greater than anything any of the men there had ever seen.

  "Take this to your khan, with my blessing," King Louis said, smiling. He hoped, prayed, that the incredible gift would placate the leader of the vicious Mongols. Louis could not afford to anger that man, no matter what the cost. "And take twenty men to escort you back to Asia Minor! Of course, you may stay here as long as you like and enjoy French hospitality."

  David and Marc thanked King Louis. This gift, the escort, made their three-month journey worth the effort. They prostrated themselves on the ground and kissed King Louis' ring, thanking him for promoting peace and harmony among the nations. For his part, King Louis felt a strange, encompassing warmth resonate throughout his chest. If you can't beat them with arms, lull them with gifts and flattery, he thought.

  Chapter Seventeen

  FRANCOIS SAT ON A LOG, watching Olivia wash her feet in a river. Since he had found her on the docks, Olivia told him everything—the rough sex with the king, the other men she slept with, and her desires for him, and him alone. Initially, Francois was privately repulsed. He did not want the leftovers of some other man's sexual appetite. Francois desired his lover to be pure, though he wasn't. But Olivia had a quickness of wit, a shyness, an ability to discern Francois' thoughts that he couldn't turn away from. She intoxicated him with her smile, her economy of movements.

  They spent almost every evening together on Cyprus during that winter of 1248. Olivia no longer slept with the king, and she helped Francois during the day at the clinic that Henry had set up on a docked ship. Olivia could always be found by Francois' side with fresh bandages, clean water, and herbs from the countryside to brew into tea.

  "Who are you?" Olivia suddenly said, looking past Francois' shoulder.

  "Artois."

  Francois rose and his brother was there, huge and smiling. He looked so different. His uniform was clean and fitted his frame, a polished long sword hung at his hip, and his boots were brown and muddy. "Artois!" Francois hugged his brother, smelling the familiar must in Artois' hair and feeling his big hands on his shoulders.

  "Francois, it's been months."

  "As a member of the king's bodyguard, I'm sure you're very busy."

  "I should have visited earlier, though. I knew you were with the medical unit, but tracking you down has proven quite the chore. What are you doing out here?"

  Francois smiled and Olivia watched their exchange with amusement, as they went to the river.

  "Artois?" Olivia said. She knew him, of course, from living in Troyes. But at first glance? Artois looked like any one of the trained killers in the king's service, a faceless, nameless warrior who carried out his orders emotionlessly.

  "Olivia, I remember you well," Artois said. He and Olivia embraced, and the three of them sat on Francois' log, enjoying the Cyprian countryside and isolation from the rest of the crusade. They made quite the trio. First, the studious healer, who was a warrior at heart but preferred the finer things in life, the deep satisfaction of embracing art and science. And second, there was the former prostitute, a used woman who was finally regaining her strength, her self-esteem. Third was the king's bodyguard, a mountain of a man who was capable of terrifying violence or surprising gentleness, whatever the situation called for.

  There was no snow on Cyprus, but icicles hung fr
om the leaves on top of the highest trees, and there were no insects or bugs to speak of. Wildlife was sparse, engaged in their struggles for survival, and Francois caught sight of an owl once, perched on a high branch, watching the three of them ruminate. The bird's eyes were huge and it cocked its head to the side. Francois swore the bird kept turning its head, until it made a full revolution on its neck.

  "I'm getting tired and my eyes are playing tricks on my mind. It's time to go," Francois said.

  "Aye, I should be returning to Henry the Fat's estate, it's a rather long walk," Artois said.

  "You don't have a horse?" Olivia asked. All the king's bodyguards had horses, usually more than one. Amazingly, a red flush rose in Artois' cheeks.

  "I'm not a horseman," he said.

  "What happened?"

  "My first one broke its leg; the second broke its back. My commander, Trunk, said I was too heavy or too clumsy, and that I would have to purchase my own if I wanted another. And I don't. Horses are foul-tempered, angry brutes that require too much cleaning, and I prefer to walk. At least I can control where my own legs go," Artois said. Francois burst into laughter at Artois' petulant tone, like a spoiled child who kept cutting himself while playing with his father's sword.

  They began the long walk back to the town. Francois felt good with his brother by his side, and not just because of the protection. He was home with Artois; he was in a place that suddenly made sense again.

  "Have you spoken with father or Christof?" Francois asked.

  "I heard through a friend that knows Lieutenant Dimon. Do you remember him?" Francois nodded. "He said they were put with the infantry divisions that are taking turns coming to shore. I don't imagine we'll see those two again until Egypt. I don't know when I'll see you again, either."

  "How is the king?" Olivia blurted out. She had been wondering ever since she saw Artois and knew he was a part of that group. A part of her hoped Louis was suffering in her absence, brooding that one of his best bedmates had stopped begging at his palace doors, beseeching his guards for access.

  "I do not engage him personally, but he is bothered. Forget the good omens that the priests speak of, forget the numbers that we have on this crusade. The Egyptian Ayyubid Army is fierce, and their warriors are trained to hate our kind from the moment they take a breath. They will defend their homeland vigorously, and Louis knows this, though he feigns courage."

  It was not the answer Olivia was looking for, but she was satisfied that Louis was not entirely happy. She wanted to ask if other girls were gracing his sheets at night, but she already knew they were. Besides, she couldn't ask a question like that in front of Francois.

  They bade Artois farewell at the edge of the town, and the big man walked alone toward the estate, the darkness enveloping him almost immediately. It was amazing, Francois thought, that they were brothers. His parting words were, "If you hear from father, tell him I think of him often and hope to see him soon."

  "And the same for me, if you see him," Artois had replied.

  Something was not right with Christof, Raul knew. His brother was usually boisterous, confident around rough men, and vocal. But the longer they idled at Cyprus, going to and from the shore, bored, Christof began acting strangely. He was quiet, avoided eye contact. Raul knew his brother, or he thought he did.

  "What troubles you, Christof? We will be at war soon, and your blade will be sated by the blood of hundreds, nay thousands, of Muslim dogs. You should be happy."

  "I am content," Christof said, staring at his feet. They were back on their ship after three days on Cyprus, and Raul thought Christof was happier on the ship than on land.

  "You are not well, should we see the doctors?"

  "I am fine!"

  "Yelling that you are fine does not make it true, brother. You can't scare me like these little soldier boys who are two years removed from their mother's tit."

  Christof snorted and brushed past Raul, moving toward the ladder that led to the deck. Raul waited a moment, and followed. The deck was weather-beaten and cold. Raul watched Christof amble along, keeping one hand on the rail and the other on his hip, presumably to keep his sword from impaling him if he slipped. Raul followed him from a distance, tasting the snot that ran from his nose and froze on his upper lip. The spring was not far off, and winter was at its worst. Spit froze before it struck the ground. Fingers, toes, ears, and noses were perpetually numb. If a man fell overboard, he was as good as dead; if not from the cold water, then from the inevitable fever and breathing sickness that followed. It was a hard time to be aboard a ship, and Raul prayed his sons were faring better than he.

  Christof rounded the prow of the ship and was briefly out of Raul's view. The wind picked up, and Raul closed his eyes and ducked his head. He was going to figure out what was wrong with his brother. There were rumors about Christof and things he did during his career as a slaver. He was said to have an affinity for male servants, and there were the rumors of what happened to that little boy when they were teenagers . . . but Raul couldn't believe Christof was capable of such atrocities. Sadly, if Christof had ever confided in anyone, it was not Raul.

  Christof stooped and pulled on a rope, and a trapdoor in the deck opened. He got on his knees, gingerly, Raul noticed, and turned to enter the hole. When he turned, he looked directly at Raul. His eyes went from surprise to shock and anger in a heartbeat.

  "Are you following me?" Christof growled.

  "No," Raul answered, his words carrying on the cold breeze.

  "Then what are you doing?"

  "I might ask you the same thing."

  Christof got up and closed the trapdoor. He looked at his brother with an expression that Raul had not seen in years; hatred. It was an expression that a man might adopt if he were denied sex, or riches, or both.

  "Do you have something you want to ask me?"

  "No."

  Christof bared his teeth and shouldered past Raul, back the way he had come. Raul watched him go, perplexed. Christof was likely going back to their cabin, which was adjacent to the soldiers they instructed and offered little in the way of entertainment or stimulation. Raul began to follow him, but a creak in the floorboards of the deck stopped him. He looked down and saw eyes, big and brown, staring up at him. He didn't know there was a space under this part of the deck; he thought it was solid, a counterweight of reinforced wood to the cargo and soldiers on the other side of the ship. That would have made sense, to prevent the ship from capsizing during a storm. Just as quick as the eyes were there, they were gone. Raul's gaze drifted to the trapdoor that Christof had opened, but he couldn't bring himself to investigate the hole. For some reason, he didn't want to know what was down there.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE FIRST HINTS OF SPRING were like honey on the tongue of a dying man. To Francois, the changeover from winter to spring seemed to happen overnight. He woke up on the makeshift medical ship, Olivia next to him, breathing softly, eyes closed. He donned his heavy, wool robe and went to the deck, instinctively holding the rail lest he slip on the ice.

  The ice cracked beneath his soft, leather boots and the cold water soaked through. Francois cursed, but then felt the sun on his face, its warmth a thing of resurrection, no longer a cold light that only helped one see the ice more clearly. He heard sailors chatting on the wharf, and a few of them were wearing short-sleeve tunics, their bare chests exposed to the morning air. Birds sang over the water, flying in intricate formations, playful. Winter had finally eased its cold grip over Europe and the Mediterranean.

  King Louis did not want to waste a single day. His senior men assembled that morning outside Henry the Fat's estate, standing on hard soil that would become soft in the coming months, where grass and wildflowers would grow and hunters would take rabbits and deer for evening meals. There were 200 men in Louis' formation, and he stood in front of them, letting his smile and confidence warm their hearts. Behind Louis, his bodyguards stood ramrod straight, looking dangerous and edgy as always.<
br />
  "Men, today we sail for Egypt! For victory! For Christendom!"

  The soldiers dutifully cheered. They were not under any delusions that the invasion of Egypt was about Christendom or Jesus or Allah or anything like that. This war was about power and land, wealth and status. But if King Louis needed to say the politically correct lines to satisfy the numerous ambassadors and scribes, foreign and domestic, who were present, who were they to criticize?

  "Our first target is the city known as Damietta, which was successfully captured by the Fifth Crusade, as many of you know. But the Fifth Crusade was a failure! They did not press on; they did not persevere and capture Cairo, the center of the evil that is the Ayyubid Empire. And that is our goal, men. I will accept nothing less than total destruction of the Ayyubids!"

  The soldiers cheered again. Louis was playing to their bloodthirstiness, to the savage pleasure that they would take in killing their enemies and owning their possessions. It was the tone that he wanted to be passed down to the lowest soldiers, who knew that they could keep whatever they captured; they could legally possess whatever they had the strength to acquire.

  The fleet wasted no time in casting off from Cyprus. Louis paid the proper respects to the ambassadors from Italy, England, Constantinople, and the host nation, Cyprus. The stop had been a remarkable success. Louis had forged trade treaties and alliances that would last generations, provided he could wage a successful crusade in Egypt.

  Christof was like his old self again once the fleet got moving. Raul was happy to attribute Christof's previous uneasiness to impatience, the strange sensation that older men feel when they know they have little time left on the Earth, and that they must make every moment count. When the fleet was sailing, all thirty-six ships cutting across the southern Mediterranean, ready to bring fire and judgment and death down on the Ayyubids, Christof was more than content. He was elated.