“We are only defending our realm. Sacrificing all—richness, health, family and friends. Perhaps this madness will end after hundreds of years,” Edward said.
“This war will never end, as long as there are two main warring religions, my lord,” Otto said.
“‘Warring religion,’ you say, but we just defend ourselves. Is this belligerent?”
Edward paused, turned his gaze to the window, and continued, “Some said we came here to make ourselves rich, to plunder. Look at me, I am a broken man.” Edward seemed ashamed to say this in front of his closest friends. “I am forced to beg for funds to finish what I started or just to go home. This is shameful.”
“This is what kings do, my lord: borrow money,” Otto said.
“Money which someone else has earned,” Edward said.
“My lord, monarchs with grand ideas need investments,” Otto said and added, “So yes, kings need loans. It’s nothing shameful, your majesty.”
“It’s a necessity, especially in our situation,” James said.
“And what is our situation? A few people became rich by crusading. Their numbers are dwarfed by those who have been bankrupted, like me,” Edward said.
“You have options, sir. Most people do not,” Otto said calmly.
“I owe money to everyone. The Genoese, the Venetians, the Templars, the Hospitallers, and some other traders. Do I look like I could be a great king, lying here, probably dying, with not a single shilling in my pocket? Am I the desired leader of my kingdom? Am I worthy?” Edward tried to stand up from his bed. But he couldn’t.
“Crusading has brought deprivation, suffering, and, often, death. We knew this before we set off, my lord,” Otto said. “Any greatness has a beginning, no matter what.”
“We also knew that seven in ten men would never return home. It is a brutal casualty rate. Yet, we were determined to leave our mark on history. We wanted to be part of the exhausting battle between the religions,” James added.
There was silence in the air for a moment. The sound of the street arrived through the window once more.
“Was it wrong, my friend? The decision to come here?” Edward looked into the eyes of his knight.
“Some said we were crude, greedy, aggressive barbarians who attacked civilized, peace-loving Muslims to improve our own lot. Some saw us—the Crusaders—as a glorious song in a longstanding struggle in which Christian chivalry had driven back the Muslim hordes. But my lord, this is war, and soldiers do what must be done. Whether they are Muslim or Christian, every good soldier does what he is ordered to do,” Herring said.
“What is our place in history? What?” Edward’s pale face was tired.
“Let the people and history decide on their own, my lord. Do not bother your mind and body right now. You need to rest.”
“One more thing.” He spoke to James. “Whatever happens, kill him, James. Kill the bastard.” Edward said. There was no mercy in the prince’s heart for traitors. The assassin’s fate was doomed.
The English prince lay down and closed his eyes. Lady Eleanor sat near him and kissed his forehead.
The two knights left Edward’s chambers.
“What you think of Peter?” James asked.
Otto said nothing.
“He was touched by a lucky angel this day,” Red Herring continued.
“The old monk who brought him, do you know him?” Otto shot his question like a crossbow bolt. Red Herring shook his head.
“Should I?”
“There is something that the old man didn’t tell us,”
“How could you know?”
“I don’t. Call it instinct—an instinct for survival. There is something curious about Peter and his mentor. The way he appeared yesterday before me and talked to me. He reminded me of someone. For now, I can’t remember, but I’m sure it will come to me.” Otto placed his hand on Red Herring’s shoulder.
“I want you to keep an eye on Peter, James.”
It wasn’t the first time James had been charged with such a task. He grinned and rose.
“You want me to be a babysitter?”
“He saved your life; I think you need to return the favor. And to achieve that, you need to be close, don’t you think?” Otto said.
“I will send Owen to search the harbor taverns for Julian and his men. David thinks he is Italian, the dead body.” James said. “Julian didn’t look Italian; he was more like a knight in disguise. He was arrogant; he felt he was above us. But to me, he looked more like a master’s warring dog.”
“Now tell me about your last raid, every detail. Do you think there’s a connection between the events?”
Red Herring leaned back in his chair.
“I am still hungry,” he said. Otto asked the servant to bring more food and wine.
It would be a long morning.
***
Peter was in the monastery again.
He entered the kitchen from the backyard and sat at the table. No one was there to meet him. There were some dry bread and some cheese on a wooden plate. He looked at the food. Although he was usually hungry, now he wasn’t; he had had enough to eat in the castle. The orphan forced the bad memories from his head and sat at the hearth. His mind didn’t want to rest, but his body felt otherwise. He lay down to relax, and the heat made him sleep.
When he opened his eyes again there was a tall man with a familiar face above him and a blade pointed at his throat.
There was no sign of the old monk.
Julian grinned at the orphan.
“Get up!”
Peter blinked for a moment.
Where was Brother John? Where was everyone? How had he been found by this man? It was strange that the monastery was empty. It was a mid-day; there must be monks nearby. Was it mid-day? How long had he slept? He decided it was the same day.
Slowly he rose, touching the stone wall with his hands. He caught his opponent’s eyes and the arrogant expression on his face. Another man stood on the left of his assailant. A new face; he hadn’t been in the merchant’s house the night before.
Peter wasn’t afraid yet, but he was still groggy from sleep and his reactions were slow.
He was unarmed and caught off guard. He thought he ought to say something, but he couldn’t. He opened his mouth, but not a sound was released. Was there a point to saying anything? His enemy, the man who had received an order to kill him, the man whom he had fought against was now standing in front of him with a naked sword pointed to his belly.
Peter wondered if Sir James and David were in danger, and he wondered, if this man wanted him dead, why he wasn’t already dead. He stood, unhurried, leaning against the stone wall, and looked at the assailants.
Julian was overconfident. He looked more like a knight than a rogue, although his chivalric marks were missing. Maybe that was on purpose, not to attract attention or reveal himself to others.
“Where is he?” the blond knight asked.
Peter was anxious.
“Where is … who?” The orphan was confused and frozen.
In the same moment, he felt a blow from the right as Julian’s follower delivered his fist into the orphan’s ribs, hard. He had not expected such force to be used against him. “Welcome to the world of knights, mercenaries, rogues,” he thought. He almost lost consciousness and tears appeared in his eyes from the sudden pain.
The man next to Julian had red eyes. He grabbed Peter by the shoulders, picked him up, and pushed him against the wall like а practice target.
“Don’t waste our time, dog.”
Peter blinked again and took a deep breath. He was ready to answer something. Anything to buy himself some time. Julian’s face was expressionless.
The outside door of the kitchen opened.
A fat monk entered. At first, he didn’t notice the men inside, perhaps as his eyes adjusted to the dark of the kitchen. Julian and his companion turned on him. This little distraction was enough for Peter.
He kicked his captor be
tween the legs, freeing himself from the grip of the red-eyed man as the man let out a shout. He pushed his assailant aside, kicked him one more time, and ran past him to the next room. His heartbeat was fast and he felt that time had slowed again. He pushed a chair to the floor behind him as he ran. He headed to the inside corridor, which led to the storehouse and the winery.
Peter heard a scream from the fat monk and a muffled sound.
The orphan was almost at the end of the corridor when he turned to look over his shoulder to see whether he had been followed. He stopped for a moment to take a breath, placing his fists on his knees. He hoped they would abandon their pursuit. Julian and the red-eyed man came into view and Peter started to run again. The door leading to the large courtyard was ahead. Peter reached it, thanking his good luck as he found it unlocked.
He entered the garden full of flowers, trees, and sunlight. The old monk, who had looked after him since a child, appeared and grabbed his hand.
“Where have you been, Peter?” Brother John asked.
“I ….” He tried to speak, but he couldn’t catch his breath. The surprised monk moved his gaze from Peter to the men running at them from the corridor. The old man pushed the orphan behind him, putting himself between these hunters and their prey like a shield.
“Run, Peter. Find Brother Alexander.”
Peter wasn’t sure what to do. He hesitated to leave his mentor in danger.
Julian was in front, followed by his hound. He reached the old monk first and tried to push him from his path. But the old man was prepared; he evaded the attacker like a trained warrior, just like the religious knights the orphan had witnessed training in the practice yard. He stood again and swung his wooden stick, striking the blond knight. Julian’s face was all surprise and anger as he fell. His follower tried to move past his master, ready to attack. He lunged his naked sword at the holy man’s neck. But the old monk used his stick to parry the attack. He made a feint and struck the assailant at his temple. The man cried out in pain and fell.
“Run, Peter!” Brother John shouted.
Peter started running again, thinking about the surprising fight.
He had always known there was something in the old monk, had always used to think him a former Crusader, but he was surprised by the determination, moves, and stance of Brother John. This wasn’t a fight most men could hope to win—one against two.
Peter was already at the end of the inner garden, as he heard the old man cry out and turned to see him on the ground. Julian’s face was full of ferocity and a thirst for blood. The blond assailant looked at the fallen man and thrust his blade deep into his chest. Peter heard the nasty sound of a blade delivering pain and death.
“No!” The orphan shouted.
Peter hesitated, open-mouthed and ready to cry, frozen by fear and helpless. The only man who had cared for him, the only person he could call family now lay in a pool of blood. What could he do now?
He hesitated, uncertain. He wasn’t ready to confront Julian yet. Not yet, not now, and not here.
Peter ran.
Realizing that the death of the monk would be in vain if he couldn’t manage to escape, he sped up. Julian would pay, the orphan said to himself. But now it was time to run. The monk had bought him time but at what price? Peter’s heart was dark.
He felt as if he had met black-shadowed Death herself, that her scythe had swung above his head.
Peter had often wondered about death. In his miserable life, he had wanted several times to be dead. When he had been beaten almost to death and left on the street, bleeding. When he had fallen into a well. Memories suddenly appeared in his mind of hard-earned experiences. All those times in his youth, he had been weak, had wanted to give up and not to feel pain.
Now, he wanted to live and to continue his fight.
While he ran, he wiped the tears away from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He could hear Julian and his follower’s footsteps behind him. He accelerated his run. He was already out of the monastery. He crossed the street, hearing his heart pound in his chest with fear.
“Run, Peter, run,” he thought.
After a while, the sound of his pursuers faded and was replaced with the song of the street. But Peter kept running and weeping. His world was broken. In the span of one night and day, his world had changed completely.
What lay in front of him, he didn’t know, but he knew that he was part of Lady Eleanor’s household. This was his new home: the household of royalty from a kingdom beyond the sea. His tears didn’t stop, but Peter didn’t care. He surrendered to them. He passed a few streets and finally stopped.
He climbed a tree near the southern wall of a two-story, yellow, brick warehouse and sat on the roof, near the edge. This was a place he had used to hide in his childhood. He gazed at the blue sky touching the azure sea. The picture of Sun and sky dancing in front of Peter’s eyes calmed him down.
He felt lonely as he had never felt before. He was alone in this wretched world. Young and inexperienced, he knew there was much to learn and discover ahead. He looked at the sea. He liked this place; he liked the smell of salt and to watch the sea, the blue horizon, and the birds. The sound of the harbor was inviting, filling Peter with the desire to travel and explore the unknown. His spot on the roof gave him a private place to escape from the street and his problems. But he couldn’t stay here forever.
What could he do? He hesitated for a moment. He had to report to duty soon at the castle, but this would wait. The monk had told him to see Brother Alexander, an old and strange monk, a friend of Peter’s mentor. He wasn’t sure why, but it was the last wish of the man he considered as a father.
Peter had survived so far. He would survive a little more; he rose and went looking for Brother Alexander.
Chapter Seven
City of Acre, Holy Land, Saturday, 18th of June, in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ;
Lord Edward’s Birthday
The Desert Wolf, the Mamluks called him. His mother had called him Ulf, but she was long since dead. Cold sweat was on his neck.
He felt as if there were a thousand blades in his heart, piercing deep into his flesh and mind. The lifeless face of his beloved wife was before him, impossible to forget. It had left its trace for life, losing a piece of himself. He had suffered—and committed—a thousand awful deeds but none compared to this.
Sweat drops fell from his temple and splashed on the stone floor.
He had been left in a cellar under the castle. He had seen such dungeons before; Frankish castles and their structures were unmistakable. The smell of sewage was close, as well as the scent of something rotten. The smell of death hovered in the air. Humidity was high near the coast. The last remnant of the Crusaders’ kingdom was the largest maritime port of the region. Most of the prisoners were held at the Templars’ and Hospitallers’ quarters. But not him. He was in the castle of the city of Acre.
His grief broke his soul in two but his training and his instincts made his powers of observation sharp. His mind constantly calculated, searching for a weak spot, a way out. While his thoughts were in a distant field of sorrow, his habits and skills knew their jobs.
He shook his head clear of his grief and tried to evaluate his position. His household was lost; the sultan’s elite regiment had taken care of that. They had sacked his manor, ruining his present and his future. On the way to the city, from the saddle of his horse, he had listened to the raiders. They had been surprised to find rivals at the same night mission as theirs. It seemed that his manor had been the target of two warring parties at the same moment. This wasn’t a coincidence. He could understand why the Crusaders wanted his head, although his identity couldn’t have been easy to find. But for the sultan to send his elite Mamluks was a real surprise. He and the sultan had had an agreement. Now it was broken.
There was a traitor playing both sides. A dangerous game had begun whose purpose was still hidden. He had become part of this plot and his beloved one a collat
eral casualty.
He was weak, he was tired, and he was destroyed—not only physically, but from the inside, as well. His mental strength kept him from falling apart. But his grief was like a spear splitting his chest. He had received such a wound long before, the pain unbearable, yet he had survived it. This wound was a thousand times worse.
His wife was dead. His unborn child was dead. What reason did he have to live now? He hadn’t any, only sorrow and pain. Perhaps the time to lie down and surrender was near. He didn’t give a coin for his life. In the afterlife, he would meet his beloved one and be granted some peace. He hoped. He closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind.
He felt the relaxing chill of the dungeon wall against his back. The red-haired knight, who was in charge of the Crusaders, was trying to talk to him. But Ulf looked through him with his empty gaze. He had lost an idea of time and reality. There was no window in his cell. Was it day or night? He didn’t care.
“Come on, rise up, rats,” the guard had shouted earlier in the night. Ulf had paid him no attention; he simply lay on the cold, damp stone floor. He missed the cold sometimes; he missed the thick forest and freezing winter slopes of his homeland, the mountains touching the sea. The distant memory of those unnatural creatures, the fjords, made his heart shrink.
His muscles were in pain, his neck was scratched, his head was stunned, his arms and legs were raw, he was bruised, he had been beaten badly by the Mamluks, yet he didn’t care. He was trained to live with pain and he knew that pain was controlled by the mind. Not to think about it was the key.
The Crusaders had taken care of his wounds and given him water and food. He drank the water but didn’t touch the food. He was no longer hungry for food or life.
An old friend of his had used to say, “A man changes his life when his mind is open or his heart broken.” He saw his life changed at this horrible moment. Again. Perhaps fate did not want him to leave him alone to live his life with his wife.
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