Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  “James.” He nodded to Red Herring, then took a glance at Peter and sought Otto’s gaze. Edward’s usual confidence and determination usually conquered the room and his followers. But not today.

  “Today is my birthday, and what present has fate given me? An assassination?” the prince asked ironically.

  “A chance, my lord, and a lad who saved your life,” James replied.

  “That’s Peter. The young man I told you about, lord.” Otto’s voice was calm.

  Edward’s eyes focused on the orphan.

  “John, the old monk, the Hospitaller I told you about, convinced me to find him a job. I found work for him in the lady’s household,” Otto added.

  The prince’s gaze was still on Peter; he seemed to be waiting for something.

  The orphan’s skin was frozen despite the Sun that played around him. In the presence of Edward, he felt nervous. He knew his place wasn’t here with these people. He was an orphan, a lowborn lad who had grown up on the streets of Acre.

  “Do you know your father?” Otto asked.

  “No, sir,” Peter said. His father had died before his birth, his mentor had said.

  “So, you were raised by the old monk?”

  “I am afraid so,” Peter said.

  The laugh of Red Herring followed. Even the prince tried to smile through his pain.

  “Did you know he was a knight once, from the Order of the Hospitallers, the old monk?” Otto asked the orphan.

  Peter didn’t answer. He considered this. He had assumed that the old monk was experienced in war by the way the old man moved, how he stood, and by the way he talked about training and battle. Once, the orphan had tried to ask him about it, but the old man had changed the subject immediately and had never spoken about it again.

  “He never talked about it, sir.”

  Lord Edward gestured to the orphan to come close to the bed. Peter obeyed. Edward tried to rise a little from the bed, but his face showed agony.

  “Only one physician was bold enough to propose that they cut the poisoned flesh from my body,” Edward said.

  Had the Prince agreed? Judging by his red bandage and his pain, he had.

  There was gossip regarding who had sucked the poison out of the prince’s body. Red Herring had said he believed it to be Otto, the man Edward trusted most. But Peter preferred to think it had been Lady Eleanor.

  Even the best physicians in the city feared failure. If a high noble patient died under the care of a physician, his career was ruined. Rumors were born fast and escalated quickly.

  Yet, Edward’s face looked pale. The prince needed a miracle. Or an antidote.

  Now, he tried to find the strength to rise.

  “These days, the most important thing is to have loyal friends. Nothing more and nothing less.” He looked into the orphan’s eyes. “Sometimes you find them in unexpected places and in unusual circumstances.”

  Peter said nothing. The mighty figure of the prince now looked fragile.

  “I am grateful you did what you did last night.” Edward’s eyes were on Peter—it was a privilege which few common men had witnessed in their lives. The prince spoke slowly and never turned his gaze from the orphan.

  “When I understood that it was your first day in our service, I was even more impressed.” Weak, he paused frequently. “Otto has told me about Brother John, who he was and what he told us about you ... I guess I am lucky.”

  He fell back on his bed again. The red stain spread across his bandages. His face twisted with pain. Nearby servants scurried to take care of their master.

  Otto waved his hand at Peter and James, motioning them to follow him into the next room. They obeyed silently and left the servants to tend to the royal patient. The next room was smaller but somehow more vivid and sunnier. There was a small, wooden table near the window. The men sat at the table, the chairs creaking a tragic melody, warning others that everything grew old. Otto sat close to the window and directed a servant to bring them some breakfast.

  “You must be hungry,” he said.

  “Like devils,” Herring said. Peter was silent.

  “Lord Edward wanted to thank you personally,” Otto observed the young man. “The last person to save the prince’s life turned out to be an assassin!”

  “I am not ….” Peter’s face turned red.

  “Calm down, lad,” Herring said.

  “Tell me, Peter. Tell me everything about last night’s events, down to the smallest detail,” Otto commanded.

  The orphan was a little shy, but he described it all. While he talked, the food arrived: bread, salted ham, boiled eggs, carrots, and cheese.

  Peter and Herring ate like hungry wolves. Otto didn’t touch his plate. He drank a cup of water, listening carefully and directing Peter’s story with pointed questions. When the story reached the point where Peter met Red Herring, Otto stopped him. He was interested in the mysterious men who had attacked the orphan.

  “So, the ambush wasn’t for you. And you were lucky. Julian was the name you heard, is that right?”

  “In the fight in the merchant’s house, we saw him again, a big ugly bastard,” Red Herring said, emphasizing the last.

  “I heard you were on the verge of losing the fight in the house?”

  “Peter saved my life. They were experienced and damn good soldiers; we underestimated them. I, David, and Peter—we were surrounded, yes. But Owen, the archer from Lady Eleanor’s household, led in a dozen shooters to interrupt our little dispute. And they saved us, I must admit it,” James said.

  Otto smiled.

  “Lady Eleanor is a prudent person. She was acting like her husband, disciplined and practical. She wisely sent an archer’s party to search Acre in the night and to bring you to the castle.”

  “The lady?” James asked.

  “She has a unique ability to hire the proper people. Owen was the perfect choice—our only Welshman, eh.” Otto gave them a half smile. “He told me some interesting news from your journey to the south, too.”

  “Yes,” Herring agreed. “Something is happening behind the scenes. There is a shadow plot to be exposed.”

  Peter had stopped listening; he was remembering the merchant’s house.

  They had been in the second-story room. Through the open wooden windows, the cold night air was joined by flying arrows. A small group of archers stood on the roof of a building across the street, screaming something. Peter heard footsteps from the lower story. He turned his gaze to the dark mercenaries with whom they fought; they looked like evil knights. There weren’t distinguishing marks and colors on them, only dark garments.

  The opponents reacted instantly to the newly-arrived threat. Julian and his men pushed aside Peter and his followers, jumped through the door of the eastern terrace and disappeared into the night. One of the assailants was pierced by arrows like a pincushion full of needles and he fell near Peter. Blood bubbled from the wounded one’s mouth. His face looked sour as he examined the arrows that stuck up from his chest, then he died.

  “An unforgettable night,” Peter thought.

  Owen appeared and sent some of his archers on the trail of the enemies. A night raid on the roof was a doomed adventure—most of the experienced soldiers knew that but they knew they must try.

  Peter was exhausted, like fish out of water after a long struggle to return to the sea.

  He was elated that the archers had shown up. Peter’s eyes investigated the merchant’s lair. The house had evidently been abandoned in a hurry. It looked as though things had been packed fast; the occupants had left their food and some less important belongings behind.

  On the first story, near the stable, was enough forage for two horses for a month. Peter assumed the owner of the house must have been waiting for someone but was surprised. The facts indicated that the dwellers had left earlier in the day.

  Something or someone had foiled the merchant’s plans. Now, these mercenaries were searching the house. Why? The orphan had many questions bu
t there were no answers.

  “He can’t be that far,” James said, mostly to himself.

  “The merchant?” Peter asked. The Scottish knight had opened the wardrobe on the first story room near the kitchen. There were fresh footprints, outlined by sandy grit.

  “Someone was hiding here,” James said.

  “And he left when we started upstairs,” Peter assumed. “So, he must be close.”

  Red Herring was lost in his thought.

  “Owen, how many men are with you?” the Scot asked.

  “A dozen, plus me,” the Welshman replied.

  “Well, continue searching the city.” Herring didn’t hesitate to give the order.

  Peter, Red Herring, and David examined the merchant’s house again.

  Just as the intruders had done, they rummaged through the entire house, the stable, the warehouse, and the store up front. They didn’t find anything interesting apart from their initial discoveries.

  “Tell me about the merchant,” James said.

  “He was an ordinary-looking Saracen who traded, imported and exported goods. His face wasn’t memorable,” Peter said. He knew that merchant’s importance now was at the forefront.

  “The merchant is our main clue and he is gone. Julian is the second one—gone, as well.” James said.

  “He looks like an Italian,” The sergeant nodded to the dead body, which had been taken downstairs and was lying on the floor.

  “And how the hell do you know that?” Red Herring held back his laughter. “Do you know his mother?”

  “No, but …” David tried to say something but James didn’t let him finish.

  “Or is it because of his eyes and his face?” Herring was in a jovial mood. “He looks like an Italian to you? Or to you?” He looked at the orphan. “Maybe it’s because of the dried salt on his clothes, David? If there is sea salt, it means he’s Italian?” James laughed. “Look at his pockets; maybe you can find a note. ‘In case of inflicted death, I’m Italian. Please send my body back home to my mother, over the sea.’”

  Sir James and his humor were unstoppable. Peter also smiled. David did not.

  Owen returned from dispatching orders to his men. His age was hard to determine, Peter thought. His Welsh face had freckles and brown eyes. His wild, dark-red hair was shaggy. His roguish look seemed to invite trouble. But there had to be a reason he was one of the most trusted men of Lady Eleanor’s household.

  “What have I missed?” Owen asked.

  Red Herring, through a laugh, replied, “Our Italian friend with your arrows in his belly told us a story.” And the knight wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “Tell me, please, do you think this is good archery? Four arrows to kill a bastard?” James nodded to the dead body. “I think you should have hit him with at least five arrows to look more like a pincushion, am I right, lads?” Herring laughed harder.

  Owen said nothing at first. Suddenly, he laughed, pointing to the corpse.

  “So, you want to say thank you? I accept your sincere gratitude.”

  James grinned and nodded. Then he stepped forward to the dead body and searched him. They found some coins, a short blade, leather belt, and some dry cheese in his small bag.

  There was also a safe conduct letter for passing the guards in the city.

  “Where did he get this letter?” Owen asked.

  “It’s difficult to obtain one, but not impossible,” David said.

  “Perhaps he worked for the military orders or Italian merchants,” Herring said.

  “Does anyone know his face?”

  No one did.

  They had one more lead, if he was still alive: Edward the Saracen.

  Peter related all this to Otto in Edward’s chambers, with Red Herring adding his humorous commentary. In the end, he felt as if he had emptied his bags of knowledge earned the night before and felt some heaviness lifted from his shoulders.

  “Peter,” Otto said, “I understand that it was your idea to check the merchant’s house. May I ask why?”

  “I used to do some jobs for the old monk—shopping, delivering supplies and messages. I remembered I often saw Edward the Saracen hanging around the merchant’s house. I just happened to know about him. I had a feeling we should check there.” He paused for a moment, then continued, “I tried to put myself in his shoes. I tried to guess how I would manage to escape the city, which route I would use ..., besides the trail of guards marked the assassin’s getaway path, led in the direction of the merchant’s house.”

  Otto laughed.

  “I see we will have to keep an eye on you,” he said and looked at Peter’s face with his cold eyes. “You have saved two of the most important people in this household. You think the same way as the assassin, and you know the traitor’s habits.”

  Peter was not sure whether this was criticism or admiration. He hoped it was the second.

  “So ….” Otto gave a tiny smile.

  Red Herring said nothing.

  “What do we have? A name—Julian—a dead body, and the assassin.” Otto said to no one in particular.

  Peter turned his eyes to the window, which faced the cursed tower where convicted criminals hanged to death.

  “It's a fresh corpse there,” Otto said. “I helped the news spread quickly that he was the failed assassin who had tried to kill Lord Edward the night before.”

  A rumor infected the city that the western prince had evaded the attack and killed his assailant with his bare hands. But nobody mentioned Peter and his part in the story.

  “It is difficult to interrogate a corpse, don’t you think?” James asked ironically. “Or you have already done it?”

  Otto’s face showed no emotion. He stood up from his chair, turned to the window, and leaned against the stone wall.

  “The assassin is not dead,” Otto said, “… yet.”

  “So, who is that?” Peter asked.

  “Nobody important.” Otto carefully observed the orphan’s reaction.

  “If I were you, sir, I would assume that the assassin did not act alone. He had a backup. That’s obvious. I would show the traitor’s body or someone that looks like him so that everyone can see it,” Peter said.

  The two knights didn’t say anything but listened.

  “Judging by the fact that he is a spy, his training, and his dagger skills, it seems it would be hard to make him talk. But that is no reason not to try. I would make the hanging body hard to recognize before hanging it. Then I would have paid men to spread the news that Edward killed the assassin in the taverns and set a bait. And then we wait to see who’s going to move out from the shadow. There are many questions to be answered and Julian and the assassin are our only leads now that the merchant is gone. I am sorry if I am out line, sir,” Peter added.

  Red Herring and Otto were immensely surprised and their mouths hung open.

  The two knights started to talk quietly together. Peter could not make it out.

  The orphan stood and paced around, observing the room. Something to his left stole his attention. There was a big bookshelf, almost big as the stone wall. On it, stood a book with a bright cover embellished with beautiful drawings of knights. The colorful illustrations on the cover left the orphan wide-eyed. He looked at the book, which seemed to represent his ambition to become a renowned warrior himself. This book might be able to tell him what it would take to become a knight. He desperately wanted the book. It seemed, over the past twelve hours, that he wanted everything he saw, like a child. He had desired Julian’s boots, Red Herring’s sword, and now this book.

  This time the temptation was stronger than he.

  Peter drew close to the bookshelf. He took a look at the two knights. They were still talking. He grabbed the book and put it under his tunic. He had learned a few things on the street. In the moment of his decision, he didn’t think; he was calm. He was controlled by his desire to have this fabulously-decorated book with its eye-catching cover.

  He knew he would regret
the theft later. He wasn’t proud of what he had done but his curiosity was stronger than he was. Now he needed to learn how to read. And how to silence his conscience.

  Brother John had tried to teach him how to read and write, but he had shown no enthusiasm. Now the coin had turned upside-down; now he was motivated. In the monastery, most of the books were in Latin—he wasn’t interested in them. This was different; his curiosity and determination had led him to steal and would lead him to learn to read.

  It was just a book; nobody would notice it was missing, especially after the events of the previous night. Sure of this fact, he smiled. Yes, he had stolen, but royalty had so many books, surely no one would notice one book missing. His desire to look inside would have to wait until reached his bed in the old monastery.

  Thinking of home, he was eager to go there and to share his experience with the old monk. He had always wanted to earn the approval of John, who was like a father to him and had taught him all he knew. The monk was old and barely spoke, but he was the only person he trusted.

  Peter was released by Red Herring and Otto. He smiled to the Sun; he was going home. He ran toward the old monastery.

  ***

  Edward had a fever. Darkness was in the room.

  The English prince moaned and talked to Otto.

  “In this never-ending war between Christians and Muslims, there is no light in the tunnel. Their expansion to the west started with the dying Roman Empire. Slowly, we, the Christians, and our forces managed to return, to retrieve some of our lost lands and establish a kingdom overseas. Now we must defend it because this is our last line of defense against Islam.” Edward stopped for a moment. Otto listened; James and Eleanor were behind him.

  “Of the five most sacred cities to the Christians, three of them—Jerusalem, Antioch, and Alexandria—are in the hands of the followers of Islam. Only Rome and Constantinople belong to us.”

  “Times are changing, my lord,” Otto said.

  “And how many times have Christian forces attacked either Mecca or Medina? The answer, of course, is never.” Edward put this strange monolog to his friend but mostly to himself. “Did we ever attack one of their sacred places? Did we ever attack their Mecca?” It was a rhetorical question.