“This man worked for me. He was designing new siege engines—bigger, more precise, and more mobile. But that is ... not the problem,” the sultan said.
“You know that when we have had a problem with some amir or a western lord, we have sent a word to the mountains and the assassins have taken care of it,” the bald Mamluk said.
“So ...?” Ughan’s face was puzzled.
“But when we have had a problem with a whole division of assassins, we have sent the Wolf. Diyaab al-Sahra, the Desert Wolf,” Berrat added.
Silence conquered the room.
“The master of the manor? That reckless soul?” Ughan asked.
The sultan looked at the ground.
“Now he knows your Mamluks have crushed his world, killed his wife. What you think he will do next? He is in the Crusaders’ hands with only one thought: revenge,” Baibars said.
“Did the Crusaders know his identity?” Ughan asked no one in particular.
“They think he is one of them, I suppose,” Berrat said.
The tension in the room abated; the guards put their weapons away and the mood lightened. Baibars glanced to Ughan.
“Bring twenty men from his regiment and hang them for punishment,” the sultan nodded to Barak.
“They just had followed orders!” Ughan’s officer shouted.
Baibars observed the faces of Ughan and his officer. Barak's face turned red and his head was slightly dropped as his eyes looked through a lowered brow. Ughan placed his hand on Barak’s shoulder.
“I hope this is enough to satisfy your loss,” the fat amir said.
“I will decide this, not you,” Sultan Baibars said and stormed out of the room.
***
Ughan was stunned. The evening had begun so pleasantly. One minute, he had been dancing drunkenly. The next, he was surrounded by royal guards, being accused of breaking an international treaty and—much worse—wronging the Desert Wolf. How had Berrat gotten this news so quickly?
He had heard about the sultan’s new secret intelligence system—that it was able to transport information from the northern part of the kingdom to the south in just four days. Nobody knew how it worked. He had heard that it had been developed and organized by the sultan’s secret regiment, Qussad. It was modeled after the assassins’ system, but more professional and had been reformed by Baibars himself. After several unsuccessful assassination attempts on Baibars’ life, he took precautions.
Ughan thought about this message system. Maybe it used water transport or pigeons. It must be something like this. Baibars surprised him with his speed intelligence.
Everything was almost perfect in their plan. The only piece missing from the flawless move was the head of the Wolf. But nothing was lost, yet. A new opportunity would arise soon, and someone had to seize it.
He smiled. His mentor was right; they must be patient and careful.
Berrat and his men also had retired to his chambers, Ughan turned on Barak like an angry, wild boar, jumping toward him.
“Why he is still alive? Your first job was to kill him, not to ransack the manor. Why did you entrust the work to someone else? The responsibility was yours!”
“The men I left behind paid with their lives, and they were also my men. Next time, we will succeed.” Barak’s face looked red and strained.
“You just lost another twenty of your men,” Ughan said. “I hope Baibars’ rage will not last long.”
“But…” Barak tried to say something, but his master waved his hand.
Ughan’s anger was satisfied for now. He called the guards.
“Bring her to my chambers.” Ughan wanted the pale young girl, to taste her heat. He needed to relax.
“Tomorrow morning you will ride to Acre,” he said to Barak. “I want you to be close to the vicinity of the city and to lead our men and allies. And please find out what you can about the Desert Wolf.”
He turned his back to his officer. Sometimes Barak angered him.
But it was a time to turn his attention to the young beauty who awaited him in his bed. The desire to taste her fruit had arrived again.
***
Baibars was in his private tent for the night, discussing events with his friend and adviser.
Lord Edward’s life was hanging in the balance; there had been an attempt on his Crusader’s soul. This news had arrived a few moments before. Baibars’ message system worked well, but he knew it could be better and faster and he had plans to improve the network.
“Are the two events connected? The attempt to assassinate Edward and the attack of the manor?” He turned his gaze to Berrat.
“We cannot be certain.”
The sultan called his private clerk.
“Send a letter to congratulate Edward for escaping death and to wish him a fast recovery. Use a diplomatic tone to assure him that our hands and thoughts are clean.”
Why now? Who was so bold as to perform this act and what was his purpose? These questions troubled his mind. It wasn’t necessary to speak out loud; his friend, Berrat, could guess his thoughts. They knew each other well.
So many questions needed to be answered. But the most troublesome worry was the fate of the Wolf. Baibars had witnessed the fury of this stranger, the fighting and tactical skills he possessed, and the dedication in his eyes. He had never failed before.
But now he had failed to protect his family. Perhaps he had become lazy and was caught off guard. Or Ughan’s forces had been lucky.
“Why was the Crusader’s party there?” Berrat asked.
The scouts had reported that the Crusaders’ gear was without any distinguishing marks. One thing the Franks loved was to show their colors before a fight. These men had come with a plan. It couldn’t be coincidence, two mounted parties from opposite sides attacking the manor of the Wolf in the same evening.
The ink on the peace treaty wasn’t even dry and war songs were on the horizon once more.
He needed peace with the Christians to strengthen his position and amass forces against the Tartars. But for now, he also needed the Crusaders’ most important maritime port to provide him goods. He had access to his own harbor, but it was smaller.
So many rivals and enemies, but life was too short.
The merchants had made themselves richer during the war. The fanatic, military religious orders of the kingdom of Jerusalem always benefitted from war. Everyone wanted war—everyone except Baibars. He wasn’t getting any younger and he couldn’t afford to be surrounded by the enemy. He was familiar with the changing tides of men; his instinct sensed a great change on the horizon.
“Send two battalions to the plain of Acre to watch the movement of the Crusaders. We need to be prepared,” he ordered Berrat. “Something will happen soon, with or without us. There is a chance that these events are somehow connected. Maybe not, but we must take precautions. We must investigate it. Someone has started a song. I want to finish it myself.”
Baibars raised his gaze to his friend and ordered some water to clear his throat.
“You know, he saved my life once.”
“The Wolf?” Berrat asked.
“I was hunting in the forest near Arsuf. I was on the trail of a beautiful hind and I was ambushed. The Wolf appeared from nowhere and killed the traitors single-handedly—all of them. He never hesitated, just did it. I survived that day because of him.”
Baibars took a cup from the wooden table.
“He wanted a bucket of green apples for thanks.”
“Apples?” Berrat asked.
“I felt powerless after that; I couldn’t repay him for saving my life. Sometimes, the world is a strange place. Fate plays with us like grains of sand in the desert.”
“You were lucky back there,” Berrat said.
“Yes, I was, but I was also terrified. I never met another man in my life like him. He made my flesh crawl.” Baibars continued, “That day, I imagined for one second what it would be like if he were on the other side. If he were my enemy. My bloo
d froze, just as it did when I heard what happened at the Wolf’s manor.”
And he drank some cold water.
***
Barak was humiliated.
The sultan was merciless; he never forgot failure or a man he couldn’t trust. Ughan hadn’t told Barak who the target was. He thought there was little chance his master didn’t know but he couldn’t be certain. Barak understood that his life was on the line for this mistake. He hadn’t known the real reason they went so far away from the main road but he wasn’t stupid; they hadn’t needed shelter. They could have made it to the main camp.
Yet, he felt that he and his men were sent there with a reason. He had misjudged the situation. He hadn’t been prepared and had made a bad decision. If the whole party had stayed together, the westerners wouldn’t have stood a chance. But he had decided to divide his force, to retreat with speed and to reach the main body of the army. He had wanted to reach the main camp quickly. He had wanted to see the pale girl who stole his thoughts these days.
And now he had to figure out how to avoid the Sultan's wrath.
Barak knew his master well and knew what his name meant: Ughan, the poison of death. He knew that his master would sacrifice Barak’s life if he needed to stay clean from this mess.
He also understood that his master regularly received messages from the north but he didn’t know from whom. Now he had a chance to discover who this source was. He needed to quickly organize his regiment; their morale was low after the casualties on the hilltop manor and the men hanged by the sultan’s soldiers.
The sultan would be a formidable opponent. Barak needed to be careful. Into the middle of this story, the Wolf had been involved. Barak had heard fairy tales told about this man: Diyaab al-Sahra, the Desert Wolf, the legendary warrior.
He hadn’t imagined that bedraggled man from the manor to be the same. Why had his master wanted to eliminate a retired warrior with engineering skills? After all, the size of the siege engines didn’t matter these days. All that mattered was their effectiveness, precision, and mobility. Even if the Crusaders obtained his new designs, could this save their necks? No, they were doomed.
The only reasons the sultan had prolonged their stay in this land were the Tartars and his need for an important logistics center, the maritime port in Acre. Baibars used the greed all men from Christendom possessed against them—especially the Italians, with their desire to control the sea trade.
The end of their Holy Land would inevitably arrive, sooner or later. The old regime would disappear, a new one would be born. There would be a battle; the victorious would be remembered throughout history. Barak wanted to be part of all this, whatever the price.
He touched the cheek which had been struck by the sultan. It was still on fire. His mood was devastated tonight; he was eager for the girl, but what had he received instead? Humiliation and not the woman he wanted.
He had found a reason to smile. “Women can be fatal, even indirectly,” he thought.
When he had seen his master’s desire for her at the party that evening, he had been disappointed. Thinking back to it, he felt humiliated again. He wanted the girl for himself but now he had to wait for Ughan to satisfy his hunger first. When his master had thrown her away like a rag bag, Barak would have her.
But he was patient; Mamluk life had taught him that. This was the world of Mamluks, where calm, strong friends and delicate political maneuvers meant everything in situations like this. Who knew how things would develop?
One day, he would seize his opportunities. Ughan, his master, would pay for Barak’s humiliation. But he had to keep his eyes wide open.
He would take another slave girl for the night to calm him down. The new dawn would rise and new options would come. He must be ready. He needed to give his men a lesson, to teach them not to let him down again.
“Soon,” he told himself. He knew fate would give him a chance to earn redemption.
He removed his mantle and called his personal servant. The work could wait until the morning. For now, he needed rest and to gather his thoughts. He had to leave the camp early in the morning toward Acre.
Chapter Six
City of Acre, Holy Land, Saturday, 18th of June, in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ;
Lord Edward’s Birthday
The city of Acre woke up; a noise of passing wooden wagons, waking hens, people arguing filled the streets: merchants, pilgrims, travelers, mercenaries, sailors, knights, priests, whores, workers, freemen, slaves, common people, children, and royalty.
The Sun woke up the orphan like the rest of the city. Now he only wanted a cup of water to satisfy his thirst. He rose from the bed. He was in the castle, in an unfamiliar room. The room was big and sunny and smelled faintly of perfume—the trace of a lady.
The bandage from last night’s adventures was joined by a new one; his cheek had a knife wound from just below his eye to his chin. The mark from Julian’s blade. It wasn’t deep. He would survive, but it was a milestone. He had received his first battle scar. He thought it must look just like a barber’s cut. He smiled. The irony he used to see himself from another angle made him feel alive. Whatever pain or humiliation he was subjected to, he could always use humor to restore his energy.
Peter had survived his first day of service. Would the next days be equally difficult? Was this what he wanted every time he dressed in his gear and went to work?
“Bloody yes.” Peter felt bad for using these words. Yet they were in his mind. Brother John had used to say that whatever was in your mind would come out sooner or later.
What had happened the night before and the way he felt, thrilled, made him want more of the same: adventure and risk, glory and renown, fights and battles. Danger and uncertainty lay ahead and Peter didn’t hesitate to embrace them. He wanted this kind of life.
All that had happened to him the night before was like opium for his mind and body, and he wanted more, much more. His desire for more was fresh, like a baby’s hunger. Peter felt alive.
When he woke up he didn’t want the story to end. He felt there would be more to come, that he was on top of a wave of events. Edward’s assassination attempt was just the beginning. Peter wanted to be part of this. Desperately.
Red Herring opened the door and showed his twisted smile.
“How are you, lad?”
“I’m not that young, but thank you, I’m fine.”
“We are expected, lad, in the most important chamber.”
He followed the Scottish knight out of the room and Peter realized they were on the second story of the palace. It was early but the Sun was shining hard.
“Lad, thank you for last night,” James said.
“For what?”
“For saving my poor soul from the sword of that bastard,” Red Herring said earnestly.
Peter had saved the life of a bannered knight from Durham. Now realizing how close to death he had been in the fight in the merchant’s house, Peter felt surreal. The orphan observed Herring; he looked like a man used to fighting and bloodshed, used to everything connected to death. Now the Scot was indebted to a common man. It was bizarre and Peter almost wanted to laugh at such irony.
Yes, Red Herring had appeared from the tavern in the streets and scared the men away from Peter who had been lucky. The Scot had saved him, and now he had saved James’ life during the fight too.
“I envy you, Peter.”
“Why?” Peter’s face flushed.
“I want to be in your place, to be young again and ….”
“Sir James, you are not too old for brave deeds,” Peter said and smiled.
“The job of experienced soldiers is to give discipline, to set an example, to lead, and to steady the nervous novices. That’s my job.” Red Herring looked into Peter’s eyes. “I’ve seen so many men on the battlefield, facing the enemy, break under the fear and pressure. I’ve witnessed so many men let down their comrades and break their oaths to their fellow soldiers, to their friends, t
heir families, and to their liege lords. Most men are mentally weak. They couldn’t stand in the shield wall. They couldn’t stand in front of the horse charge, and they couldn’t stand in front of the enemy.”
Peter tried to understand what the knight was telling him.
“But you stood your ground last night.” James smiled. “And I know you would stand by my side again.”
Peter didn’t know how to react to these words.
“So, Peter, you are not like most men these days,” James said.
Their steps sounded through the stone corridor as they walked and talked.
There were ten guards outside the prince’s chambers.
One of the soldiers told Herring that their visit needed to wait; Peter and James were supposed to enter, but they were late. Already inside the room were the Master of the Temple, the Master of the Hospital, Otto, and some other members of Edward’s inner circle.
Peter recognized these titles and had seen the men before, but never up close. After a few minutes, he observed them as they left the prince’s chambers, one by one. The Savoyard knight, Otto, watched the rest of the men depart and invited James and Peter to come in.
The memories of the previous night’s events were fresh in Peter’s mind as he entered the familiar room. His heartbeat accelerated. He remembered the assassination attempt, the wounded prince, the servants’ uproar. He noticed the place by the wall where he had stood, witnessing it all.
The Sun coming through the wide-open window made for a new atmosphere. The morning’s fresh air wafted in and the Sun lit the room with vividness and life. Edward lay on his bed, speaking with his clerk. When their conversation ended, Otto introduced Peter and James.
Edward's face was pale and pained. He wore a plain white silk shirt, but the bandage across his wound was stained red.
Edward tried to smile.
“I have never really understood this,” the prince said. He spoke slowly. “Why my written testimony is so important? I could be dead. Why I should care in the afterlife for my deeds when I couldn’t control them?”
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 6
