Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  “Eleanor, the baby, they ….” Edward whispered and fainted.

  The lone guardsman who had followed Peter looked at the prince then back to the orphan.

  “You saved his life!”

  “If he lives,” Peter said, doubtfully eying the unconscious lord.

  “Have you served him long?”

  “It’s my first day, and I hope it’s not my last.”

  Chapter Two

  City of Acre, Holy Land, Friday, 17th of June, in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ, Lord Edward’s Chamber

  Peter was shivering like a child before a punishment. He sat with his back to the wall. Although the wall was nicely cold that summer night, Peter dripped with sweat. His head still pulsated with pain. His right hand still held tight the hilt of his sword, the pommel covered in blood. Suddenly he hoped that no one would smell the piss on his pants.

  What had just happened? Peter wondered. Somehow, he felt important, no longer regretting that he had missed the night in the tavern. He felt as if he were in the center of the known world. He had prevented an assassin from delivering his final blow.

  He was a common man with a sword, but his act of courage had made him a key figure tonight and he was elated. He didn’t want to lose this sense of excitement. He was part of something great; the feeling was surreal.

  This was a new experience for him. He had never been involved in such events. He had never been in a battle, or on a battlefield, or in any military action. He had dreamt of being in a real battle and shield wall one day. He wanted to feel the fear and the danger himself, to unhorse a wealthy knight and take his warhorse and gear. To win renown.

  Someday he would become a knight and be able to afford a decent piece of land he could call home. Peter was fantasizing like a child, with an innocent smile on his face.

  Now he had been involved in defeating an assassination attempt, a killing ground, making fast and important decisions that had saved a life. “A life of a prince …” Peter smiled; he was proud of himself. Until now, he had been an ordinary man with no war experience. Having recently joined the royal household guards attached to the Lady Eleanor, his main duties consisted of delivering messages and some other general chores.

  “Life is unpredictable,” Brother John had used to say to Peter. “You will never be ready for the future so you must embrace whatever unfolds; you must face life without fear.” Peter thought fondly of the man who had raised him “God has a plan for all of us and nobody has to be afraid.” The old man used to say this whenever the time was right. The orphan liked him, and he was his closest friend.

  But now Peter was in the center of the world, in the city of Acre, the de facto capital of the remnant Jerusalem kingdom, the Holy Land, and he had saved Prince Edward’s life. Or so he hoped.

  In front of his eyes, everything was moving at a glacial pace. The newly arrived servants and guards were in a panic because of the prince. They lifted Edward, moved him to the next chamber and placed him on the bed. Peter followed them as he saw that the wounded man’s face was pale. One of the servants examined the dagger and smelled it.

  “Poison,” the servant said.

  Edward’s blood must have been poisoned by the assassin’s dagger. And now the hope for his life was evaporating like a morning mist. Peter realized that his courage and deed might mean nothing if the prince dies.

  The closest members of his household had entered the chamber moments after Peter. One of them pushed him aside; another kicked the Saracen on the ground. A third immediately started asking questions. The whole place was in disorder than minutes ago.

  Lady Eleanor entered the room.

  She froze for a moment, her eyes filled with horror as she started to shiver like a nervous rabbit. She went to her husband. She took his hand and started talking to him, sobbing.

  “My love ….” Her eyes filled with tears. “Stay with me, please.”

  Edward stared at her while another convulsion passed through his body.

  Time began to speed up again. Lord Otto appeared like thunder in the room. Otto De Grandson, a Savoyard knight, an adviser, a diplomat, and close friend to Lord Edward was in his mid-thirties, not as tall as the prince, but almost an inch above the average.

  He approached Edward, and Peter thought he saw a pain in his eyes when he looked at his friend convulsing on the bed. From the moment he entered, all the fuss stopped and all eyes were on him.

  “Bring some fresh water, call the physicians, restore the guards’ posts, and close the city gates.” Otto’s voice was calm. He stopped his surveying eyes on Peter, gave him a nod, and turned to Eleanor.

  “Save your tears, milady; he is not dead yet,” De Grandson said.

  Sir John de Vescy kicked the body of the assassin who was unconscious, once more. He pulled out his sword menacingly. But Otto stopped him.

  “Please, John put the blade away.” Otto’s words were cold. “Make sure that no one touches him; we need him. Tie him up, move him to the next room, and put him under guard.”

  It was as if someone had put a spear between De Vescy’s ribs. Peter had heard that the Scot rarely obeyed; he was used to giving commands, not obeying them. He turned quickly with a burst of anger to Otto. He opened his mouth to say something, but De Grandson was a step ahead of him once more.

  “Yes, I know, my friend. I want to kill him, too. But first, we need to find some answers. We have responsibilities. Now, go and find de Grailly.”

  His stone eyes were so determined that nobody could cross him, not even the Highlander.

  “Peter,” Otto said, “I need you to find a man and to bring him here for me. Do you know Sir James of Durham?”

  The orphan nodded.

  “He just returned from a mission; he must be in the English tavern. Now, go.”

  The common man was feeling important again after having received the order. He stood up from his resting place to obey.

  “Run fast! We have a life to save,” Otto shouted after him.

  A flicker of hope was still breathing in his mind, as Peter fled the room.

  ***

  A warm, summer breeze from the sea stroked Peter’s back as he left the castle. He was on the same route he had passed earlier. The bodies of the dead guards were still there. Peter’s mind was working again.

  Why had the assassin acted now? The peace was sealed; there was no logical reason to cause trouble by killing one of the Crusade’s leaders. And why the hell had the Saracen killed these guards, but not him? Despite the turmoil and chaos, he had recognized the attacker’s face. He wasn’t a stranger to the Crusader’s camp; he was an insider. Peter shuddered at this thought. This provoked new questions and new thoughts, which would have to wait till later.

  “This must have been an escape route for him,” Peter decided, running with his gear, his pain, and his new task.

  He turned left after passing the gate, without slowing down. The only sound present was from his rhythmic steps and from the scabbard rubbing his tattered pants. His heart beat fast; his head pulsated from the pain and drops of sweat were running down his temple and the back of his neck, but he didn’t bother to wipe them off.

  He was used to running; as a boy, he had chased other children down these streets. He often used to deliver messages from the old monk to the castle or other parts of the city. Most of the streets and shortcuts were familiar to him. Peter took one of the side streets to avoid the main road and get to his destination faster. All the paths in the city were narrow, even the key ones.

  He was following the escape route of the assailant. Had the assassin been alone? A moment later, Peter turned left and entered an alley darkened by the surrounding buildings and a few bushes and headed to a nearby big old tree in the middle of a small square.

  It was a crossroads. Southward led to the Venetians; the Hospitallers were to the west, near the Genovese Quarters. The running man was the only source of sound in the square for a few heartbeats.

  Suddenly, fo
ur shadows appeared from all directions.

  Devil’s shadows, without faces, blades in hands—with surprise on their side, they encircled the courier. Peter, the common guard with only half a day of experience at service, was hit from the back again.

  “Not again! Twice in a single night,” thought the member of the royal household guard as he fell to meet the dusty, cold street with his face.

  He was stunned, but he didn’t lose consciousness. After the first blow that night, the excitement of the following events was strong and he refused to pass out.

  “Is it him?” a throaty voice with a French accent asked in the dark.

  A hand grabbed Peter’s hair and raised his head to examine it. The orphan felt the power of the man over him.

  “By this time, it must be done already.” He felt his surcoat being tugged at.

  A younger voice split the silence. “No, some bloody, stupid royal guard, looking for a tavern—”

  The first voice, cold and older, interrupted the second one. “He didn’t look like a man searching for a drink, did he? Look at his gear; there are spots of dry blood along with the fresh ones you just made. It’s too early to be changing off the guards. Does anyone know him?”

  No answer came.

  “Kill him! He is not our goal,” a calm order was spoken in the same cold, commanding voice. “He might recognize us. Get rid of him.”

  “What about the body?” the younger voice hissed into the night.

  “That’s your concern, not mine. That’s why I’m paying you.” The older man turned away and retreated into the dark. “And Julian, please do it fast and come back here. We need to wait a little bit longer, I guess. We need assurance.”

  So, the younger man was called Julian. The orphan held his breath, trying not to move, but to listen and memorize the distinctive marks of his assailants. This small party must have been waiting to ambush someone in the dark, and it wasn’t hard to guess who their target was. They knew what was going on.

  How did they know? Only a few minutes had passed since the events in the castle. Peter’s right cheek laid on the pavement and, for a short moment, he opened his eyes and saw the man’s boots, the one called Julian. He was wearing soldier boots—expensive ones. Peter would not be able to afford boots like these in a lifetime. He knew he could find decent used leather shoes at the market for a coin, but these were rare gear: pricey, custom-made for their owner. From the moment he saw the boots, he envied his attacker. The orphan felt ashamed of his desire to have them. A different matter should have troubled him now.

  Peter had to find a way to survive this. He was alone in the dark with Julian.

  “Hey! What’s going on there?” A sharp voice came from the southern road leading to the tavern that the Englishmen frequented.

  Loud steps were approaching. Julian had been holding him and dropped him on the ground. Peter opened his eyes and saw the dark figure had vanished in the night. His life was saved and, once again, he could relax.

  He tried to stand up and continue his mission, but two hits on the head were too much for him. His body collapsed to the earth again like a rotten plank. This time he lost consciousness.

  Chapter Three

  City of Acre, Holy Land, Friday, 17th of June, in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ

  Peter opened his eyes again.

  Everything was foggy and a strange smell lingered around him. A small light from a candle was dancing to his left. The smell was familiar, yet he couldn’t place exactly what it was. He took a deep breath and tried to determine where he was.

  Peter was lying on a hard bed in a dark room. He struggled to remember the last time he had rested on a bed. The scent remained, sharp and acrid, making Peter’s skin tingle. It was like a looming, fatal end that couldn’t be avoided.

  He lay on his back, eyes open, with a strange feeling of déjà vu. Peter examined a bandage on his head. His motions were hard to coordinate, but he felt the gluey blood spots on the back of his skull. There was a pain, albeit fading, which reminded him of the night’s events.

  His eyes turned around, looking for a window, and when he found one, he smiled at the Moon. The Moon smiled back at him, it seemed. He was alive and he had survived an assault. Was this the same night or the next? He had lost his sense of time. He tried to remember what had happened.

  Peter remembered the need to piss, then the assassin and the prince. He recalled the task he had received from Otto, the shortcut he had taken, the trap he had fallen into, and the feeling of an inevitable end approaching his soul. He remembered he had been saved before he passing out. He was a lucky one.

  Peter slowly turned his gaze to a wooden door, which was barely outlined in the dancing darkness. The sound of steps approaching could be heard. At least two men were outside the room in the corridor. A sound of wood scratching the floor as the door opened woke up the night.

  The cold night air entered the room; the vivid flame of the candle flickered but a little spark survived and the light was restored. Peter tried to focus on the dark figures that entered. They were most likely men. Not that women weren’t allowed to work in the hospital, but it was rare. One of them was particularly familiar to Peter, but somehow, he couldn’t remember from where.

  “You’re awake,” the first man said as he revealed himself, stepping into the candlelight.

  “Peter? How’s your head?” His hard and harsh accent sliced the night.

  The first man was one of the tallest Peter had ever seen. His broad chest added to his presence: that of a giant oak. “A red oak,” Peter thought. His bushy, dark-red hair and his vivid brown eyes were absorbing everything. He looked like a man who was closing the chapter on his thirties but was still solid as a rock. His ironic smile, combined with his Scottish appearance, made him the most unforgettable knight from the North. He was one of the few who had followed Lord Edward from beyond the sea and his name was James. Sir James of Durham.

  Everyone knew him, even Peter. He was one of the distinguished knights from Edward’s household. A loud one, with brutally dark humor, but nonetheless a brave soldier with a fearsome reputation. Most of the men called him Red Herring, because when he got angry, his pale face turned red, like the fish from the northern sea—a herring, kippered by smoking and salting until it turned reddish-brown.

  “How are you, lad?” the Scot asked again.

  Peter was already rising up, using the wall for support and groping about in the dark with his right hand. He took a deep breath and opened his dry mouth.

  “Like an oak tree, sir.” Then he swayed and searched for some support. The man behind Sir James approached and caught Peter before he collapsed to the ground. The orphan from Acre looked at the short man who held him.

  “David, sit him down on the bed! But where are my manners, this is David, my sergeant.”

  James scratched his chin while the sergeant moved Peter effortlessly. David was short and stocky and had a cold, chubby face with enough minor battle scars that his age was indiscernible. He wasn’t talkative; he was one of the men that you could never remember.

  “A dancing oak tree, as I see,” James said as he chuckled. “You are still bleeding. Give him a cup of water.”

  While the short man was fetching the water, James said, “You know, lad, while you sleep your body dries up, and the first thing to do in the morning is to kiss some water like you are kissing a virgin.” He gave Peter a dark smile and patiently waited for him to empty the cup.

  “So, lad, I think you have a story to tell. You were unconscious for almost an hour. What happened before that?”

  Waiting eyes were on Peter, and he felt that now was his turn to say something, but the words didn’t come easily. He ran his fingers through his hair, touching the bandage that reminded him of his first adventure of the night.

  “Do you need a little help, young man?” Red Herring asked. The knight scratched his beard again. “Let’s start with this. How did you find yourself on the street with a
n enemy upon you, near that beloved tavern of ours?”

  “Ah ….” Peter searched for words. He wasn’t that shy, but the presence of the short sergeant somehow made him feel nervous.

  “You decide to take a walk with your royal household guard dress on this enjoyable night, lad?” Sir James was grinning in expectation.

  Peter told them everything—even the fact that he had been absent from his post in search of a place to take a piss. While he was telling that part, his face flushed and he secretly took a look at his pants, hoping no one noticed the stain. He was ashamed for leaving his post and for his pissed pants. He also felt stupid for being so easily knocked down on the street earlier and trapped. He was lucky Red Herring had shown up from the nearby English tavern in search of a place to unload the ale he had drunk. Peter smiled for a moment. What a pissing night; his life’s fate twisted twice. After he finished his tale, he paused and took a deep breath. He raised his eyes in search of some reaction from the men in front of him.

  The knight was dressed in an expensive mail shirt, a white surcoat with a red cross on the front, and a red scarf tied around his right arm below the shoulder. What had once been white was now worn out and looked more like yellowish dust. The sergeant’s mail shirt, in contrast, was a cheap one, riddled with rust. He obviously spent more time cleaning his master’s war gear than his own clothes. Red Herring was wearing war mail boots, reaching below the knee and tied up with laces. When he moved, the iron rings of his mail produced a mild, singing sound. David was wearing dull leather boots, finishing below the calf with the laces wrapped around them. Similar boots had been given to Peter when he had been put on the list of the royal household early that day, but his were much dirtier and older.

  James’ face was serious, pondering the situation and scratching his beard with his left hand. His right hand was on the pommel of his sword. Peter had heard that wealthy knights bought the best swords. And the best swords were purchased from a German master blacksmith. There was a cross on the round pommel, encircled with a gold decoration. The sword was simply a masterpiece. Peter wished for one desperately. He wished not simply to own it, but to be a master of using it.