The table grew quiet for a moment. They all knew the answer but wanted to hear the Welshman say it.
“The best shooters. God is on the side of the best shooters,” the archer said seriously.
“Praise God.” The men around the table smiled and shouted together. They hit the wooden cups on the table, spilling ale on it.
“To God, and to the best shooters. May they be on our side forever,” Red Herring added.
Ingram brought another tray of ale, but this time he sat with them.
“You know, these days here are full of newcomers. Since Lord Edward brought the news he needed stoneworkers, mason, builders, and more workers, it’s like the whole world is fighting for jobs on the new construction site.”
“What have I missed?” Owen wanted to know more.
James said nothing, but let the old tavern owner do the talking.
“Didn’t you hear? The English prince wants to build a new tower of his own, and to rebuild the weakened section of the inner wall of the city,” the old Scot said.
“So, he has the money to pay our wages?” the Welshman asked ironically.
“The Italians fight for the right to supply the goods. The Templars want to be under their supervision. The Hospitallers do not want to play the second violin. The whole project would eat a lot of funds. They all want to be involved, to earn a piece of it. Edward has a respectful reputation; even the moneylenders love him,” the tavern-keeper said.
Red Herring looked at his friend and said nothing.
“Are you suggesting our lord has money problems?” Owen asked.
They all laughed. Most of the men had not received their wages for the past year of service. Everyone knew the military campaign on this side of the world was a bloody expensive endeavor, even for a future king.
James managed to provide all that was necessary for his own men. It wasn’t easy; sometimes, they had to do some dirty work to earn their living, working as escorts or bodyguards. Most of the time they earned by plundering. Peace wasn’t a problem; it made it harder, but also more fun. As a hide and seek game. They tried to get contracts from the Templars or other orders, or Genoese or Venetian mercenaries.
“And how, Almighty Lord, he will provide the money for the construction? Or will an army of monks do the work themselves?” He smiled and looked around for any black-robed fellows that might overhear.
Owen tried to imitate one. “O, mighty God, please lift this big stone and put it over there.” He grinned. “The black hoods never get their hands dirty. They would pray for someone to build it, some other to fund it, and, of course, they would want extra donations for their help, eh?”
James was an eyewitness to most of the Church’s business in his homeland. He doubted that things here were any different, except that here, the scale would be much greater. They were in the last Christian stronghold in the Holy Land.
“Moneylenders,” David said. “I heard Edward took another loan, this time from the Templars.”
As the men spoke and drank, Red Herring enjoyed the company of his closest companions but Peter remained on his mind.
“Damned lad, where are you?” he muttered.
Owen apparently guessed what his friend was thinking.
“He will be fine. You will see; he will turn up. He is a little rogue; he survived last night, so he’ll be fine.”
James wasn’t so sure. He was supposed to look after Peter. He was indebted to him for saving his life. He was a proud Scot and he wanted to return the favor. Honor and reputation made a man; they could be ruined in a moment.
His mood turned dark. He needed to cheer up a little. A good fight would do the trick or a game of dice. Even some good news. He hoped to find this son of a bitch, Julian, soon.
King Hugh’s constable, Balian, and his men were leading the investigation of the last night events.
“That was in his jurisdiction,” Otto had told him earlier. “Who are we to take away that honor?”
“We will see,” Red Herring thought. Time never lied. James downed his ale at once and asked the tavern-keeper if he had heard anything regarding a band of dark mercenaries passing through, describing Julian with added commentary on his ugliness and the origins of his mother.
But no one had seen Julian or anyone who looked like him.
“Hey,” Ingram remarked. “Yesterday, two barges arrived. Venetians, but they had a Genoese captain with his crossbowmen, all hired to escort some merchant. They brought supplies and fresh additions of men. I don’t remember the name of the merchant, but one of their men came by for a beer and said something about some kind of a mission.”
“Said that to you?” Red Herring was puzzled.
“Oh, no. One of the whores who works for me heard it while he … you know …. He rode her well.” He smiled, and even though his mouth was bare of teeth, it hadn’t affected his charm.
Red Herring smiled at the tavern-keeper. “So, you are a lender of whores now?”
“Ah, you insult me. No, I just provide some pleasure for some hungry men; I offer full service, food, drink, bed—full and warm, of course.” Ingram grinned, then switched the topic of conversation.
“What happened last night? All anyone has talked about all morning is an assassin at the castle. I’ll bet you know.” His face looked hungry for gossip.
“I would like to know, too. My men and I were returning from a raid last night,” James replied.
“The poor bastard.” Owen nodded to the hanging corpse, which was visible from the tavern. James looked at the dead man too. It was a message to all enemies that killing the English prince was not an easy task.
“But why now, so soon after the truce was signed?” The tavern-keeper asked. “This was the most-asked question this morning in the city.”
James wondered the same thing; it was a mystery.
The old Scot smiled at him and said, “Did you hear about the assassination attempt against Sir Philip of Montfort, the old Lord of Tyre, and his nephew, Julian, the Lord of Sidon, last year?”
Red Herring snapped out of his dark mood.
“Julian? No, what happened?”
“Sir Phillip didn’t survive. It was the same scenario; two infidels entered the service of the lord, earned his trust, and waited for a good opportunity. They split up when the young Lord of Sidon left the city. A traitor exposed the plotters but decided to trade his soul and not tell his master. The old lord didn’t survive, but his son killed the assassin.”
“A nasty job,” Owen said.
Ingram continued, “They sent a messenger and a ship to warn his nephew, Sir Julian. But the other infidel had disappeared and there wasn’t an attempt on the young lord’s life. They all thought it was Baibars who stood behind the whole plot and had sent his shadow killers, but I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Lord Philip was old. Why would the sultan bother? It makes no sense.”
“Yes, God would have collected his soul soon enough,” Owen said.
“What about this Julian?” Red Herring asked.
“The Lord of Sidon sold his castle and his lands to the Templars and entered into their service a few years ago.”
“Why?” James asked.
“Some said that his lands were devastated by the Tartars and he hadn’t the funds to rebuild it,” Ingram said.
“Why would a sultan worry about an old lord and a landless one?” Red Herring was curious. Julian of Sidon—this couldn’t be a coincidence.
“The old Lord of Tyre was a real man and knight. Prudent and experienced, dangerous for the sultan. But his nephew? I couldn’t say,” the tavern-keeper said.
“Where is he now?”
“Some say he vanished, I don’t know. Why?”
“Nothing, just curious,” Red Herring lied.
So, some fresh Italians had arrived the day before. This was curious. Was it connected with the previous night’s affairs? He would feel better if he checked it. Where to find Julian, this son of a bitch? H
e wasn’t in the taverns or other places where these types were usually found.
It seemed Julian may have been under the protection of another. James remembered the letter they had found on the body—a letter of safe conduct. He slapped his forehead. Why had he not thought of that earlier? One could not find an apple in a peach garden. This was simple. He shouted an order and all his men rose at once and followed him.
“They aren’t here. We are looking in the wrong place.”
A guard arrived with word from Otto at the tavern door. He wanted James back at the castle immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
The guard had no further information.
“Owen, take five of your men and check on the Italian captain. You have one hour. Find me afterward.”
He and his short shadow, David, hurried toward the castle. The past few days had been confusing, but James suspected that this was just the start of the intrigue.
Today was Edward’s birthday and what they were doing instead of preparing celebrations? They were searching the streets and the taverns for ugly bastards and murderers. And where the hell was the orphan?
He felt Peter would play a major role in this quest.
***
He had failed to kill his target.
His whole body ached. He opened his eyes.
There she was. Her eyes could melt anything, even his conscience. Eleanor, the lady from some distant land called Castile.
For a moment, he thought she smiled at him. But he quickly shook off this thought. He had failed; he had been tied up and brutally beaten.
He knew his failure could be attributed to one single mistake: he had felt pity toward the orphan. That was a new feeling for him. Now, his fate had taken a wrong turn. He tried suppressing the fear that arose in his throat, as he had done throughout his career, but it would not be stifled. Now, he was on a verge of collapse.
He blinked again and gazed at the handsome face of Lady Eleanor.
The small room next to the Lord Edward’s chamber was his prison now, not the dungeon or the tower. This wasn’t a bad idea; the prince’s chambers, after the previous night’s events, were the most guarded place in the city.
He looked around the room. He had been here before; this was the place where he and Edward used to talk about the campaign, about the strategy, about many things.
Was he ashamed of what he had done? No. He was a professional killer; this was his trade. He was the best at it and he was proud of his reputation. Although the Christian infidels didn’t know his true name and his reputation, his family and his master did.
The brutal knight who had delivered most of his beatings approached the assassin, lifted him to sit on a chair, and threw a bucket of water over him. The cold water froze his face and woke him fully.
“There must be a reason behind what you did last night. Could you share it with us?” The kind voice of the Spanish princess made him felt unruffled.
He was trained not to give up, trained to not to tell the secrets he knew. But in her eyes, he felt the urge to say something.
He looked around the room and saw Sir Otto in one corner of the room, with his guard on his right. Otto de Grandson, the noblest and most trusted of Edward’s household—and the cleverest, too—was staring at him. Otto had never liked him. The assassin had spent almost a year trying to blend into the Crusaders’ camp and they had always stalked each other. But now, the assassin wasn’t sure what his role was.
The brute wasn’t important; he was here only to bring pain and obedience. The presence of the lady was a surprise, however. He knew what to expect; if he were on the opposite side, he would do the same. He prayed it would be a fast death.
“If you want to see the sunlight again,” Otto took the conversation. “It depends entirely on you.”
Edward the Saracen said nothing.
“Who sent you? The sultan?”
To say something or not? Ultimately, it did not matter if one said nothing or everything. The lady’s eyes were persuading.
“I am a member of the Qussad.” Edward the Saracen said.
“Who sent you?’ Was it the sultan?” Otto asked again.
“When I receive orders, I never ask who gave them.”
“Why did you attack Edward now?”
“I couldn’t say. My primary task was to observe and to fetch intelligence of your plans to my commanding officer.”
“But …?” Eleanor prompted.
“The order for assassination arrived a week ago. The man with the responsibility to do it was injured, and I took his place.”
Otto’s jaw dropped.
“You are a replacement?” he asked. “How many of you are in our camp?”
“I have no idea; we didn’t know each other.”
Otto narrowed his eyes. He had never trusted the Saracen.
“Why?” Eleanor asked.
“If one of you is captured, he cannot betray your brothers if he doesn’t know them,” Otto said.
“Yes, like me, now.” Edward the Saracen observed that Lady Eleanor was leaning forward attentively.
“So, you executed an order received from someone you didn’t know. What form of orders did you receive—verbal, written, through codes?”
“Every kind.”
“And how did you know they were not false?” Otto asked.
“I have my ways of knowing.”
Lady Eleanor behaved like a true leader. She nodded, smiled, and underlined some of Sir Otto’s questions. The whole scene was unreal—the assassin had anticipated being tortured, brutalized, and, finally, killed, but none of this was happening.
“The merchant?” the lady asked.
Edward the Saracen was surprised by the question.
“The merchant?” he repeated.
Lady Eleanor explained to him, slowly, how they had found the merchant’s house, ransacked.
“So, this black-haired orphan, Peter, turned up at the wrong place at the wrong time for me.” The assassin found some strength to smile a little.
“Why do you say that?” she asked, unaffected.
The fallen assassin explained that it was his pity which had stopped him from killing the orphan.
“And this led you to failure—what irony,” Otto said. “But maybe he was at the right place at the right time. It depends on your point of view.”
After a few heartbeats, Lady Eleanor turned to the door and called for food.
The assassin observed the princess and truly admired her. She possessed an iron will; this little female would be a perfect ruler. But they lived in a world of men. Society wasn’t ready to accept a woman as a leader. Yet, this time would come one day.
Nevertheless, she was a real master of organizing her men. He had heard that she had survived the Barons’ War a few years before, had lived in a hostile territory, alone and penniless. And she stood before him now. She questioned him without fear. She looked like a woman who achieved her goals.
After the food and the drink were served, she brought a cup of water to the assassin’s mouth, as his hands were tied with rope behind his back. She courteously waited while he drank all of it.
With the warmth of her eyes, she looked at him.
“I need your help.”
This surprised him. He was speechless. She looked like a goddess and she smiled on him. He feared she would win. He knew that she was at the beginning of her thirties, but she was already a mother, a princess, a war survivor, a land owner, an administrator, a Crusader, and now she was a truly leader of her men. And she would take it all because the winner always took it all.
The silence was strong throughout the dark room.
She continued. “The best physicians in Acre, no matter the religion or race, all speak of an extraordinary healer in Jerusalem who could cure my beloved husband.” Her gaze became heavier. “From the poison that you delivered to his body last night.”
She emphasized her last words, like a dagger piercing the flesh. Still, her face l
ooked calm.
The assassin had assumed his target was dead by now; this news shocked him. He had not expected Edward to live more than half a day—maybe a day, if he were lucky.
Someone had taken great care to keep him alive. This was admirable; maybe it was the same Saracen healer who had taken care of Lord Edward’s child. But the physician had achieved nothing but to prolong the prince’s agony. The assassin had witnessed this horrible pain in some of his previous targets.
“I need to find this Jerusalem physician for my husband.” The determination drawn on her face was unbreakable. “Could I rely on you? Your life in exchange for that of my beloved one?”
It was an easy decision: accept the lady’s proposal, and live another day.
Fate was unpredictable.
“Allah is merciful,” the assassin said, hoping it was true.
***
Julian opened the wooden door and entered.
His master was sitting behind the big, heavy desk, writing on parchment. The newcomer was nervous. He was tired, he was beaten, he had barely slept, and his target had escaped from him for the third time. This was unacceptable, and he knew it, and his master knew it, to be presented three chances and to fail. His pride was hurt too.
Julian approached his master hesitantly, his breath shallow and his heart was pounding.
“Julian, my boy, come near me.” His tone was relaxed and showed no evidence of his mood.
The blond man hesitated for a moment but walked on, toward his master. The room was richly-furnished, big, and sunny. The northern wall was a library. This gave the room a strange feeling.
Julian was at arm’s reach from his master and was alert to his reaction. The master was one of the most feared men in the Holy Land. Most of his men were afraid of his temper and his frightening decisions. With a slow move, the older man rose and looked at his subordinate with icy eyes.
“You failed me.” He said and approached Julian and patted him on the left cheek. But his eyes were focused like an arrow on the blond knight. Julian didn’t move.
“I gave you a chance to prove yourself. How many chances do you need?” The master’s tone was quiet.
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 11
