Longsword- Edward and the Assassin
Page 23
Peter reassured his breath, though he was still nervous.
They were caught again. It seemed that Shams al-Din and Berrat worked together. But where was Isabella? Was she alive? His mind and heart were battling each other. This feeling was new for him, and he was eager to drink from this cup. He wanted to taste everything that life offered to him—no less, no more. But he needed to be stronger; the game wasn’t over yet. And even the pain and the hopeless situation mustn’t be given a chance to crush his desire to live. Peter heard that the door opened with a squeak.
Julian walked into the room.
The young man stared at the floor. His head was pulsating, but not from pain. His heart rate was high. He thought the sound of his breathing was filling the room and would betray his emotions. He wanted to hide, but there wasn’t any place for that. He felt exposed, unprotected. He hoped, childishly, that his antagonist would miss him in the crowd.
The blond, western mercenary walked to the host and exchanged greetings. What was he doing here?
Shams al-Din raised his hand and pointed to the hostages, explaining something to the dark knight. Julian’s eyes met Peter’s. Neither one retreated from the battle of gazes.
Julian left the throne platform and walked toward Peter.
When the knight was just a step away from him, he ducked a little and smiled at the lad. His breath was rotten and his teeth were yellowish. The smile wasn’t pleasant; it was the smile of a hunter who had caught his prey—triumphant.
Roger of Sicily was behind him, and some sergeants whose faces were hard to see from his vantage in the dim light.
“We meet again, street dog,” Julian said. “And now, there is no place to run.” He raised his hand and tapped Peter’s cheek a few times, like a lord. “You are mine.”
One of the sergeants behind Julian was familiar to the lad.
“Traitor!” Sir James’ face was furious.
David. No!
“Traitor,” the Scot shouted again, “I will rip your heart out.” Red Herring forced himself to rise and lunged toward the short sergeant.
“Scum!” The Scottish knight’s mouth was full of rage. His face was reddish and he seemed determined to reach David. James was a strong man and he reached the traitor and headbutted him in the face. The guards in the room reacted with lightning speed. They managed to hold Red Herring and drag him down. Four men were needed to tame him. Screams, shouts, and insults were flying.
“Your time is up, old man,” David said and spat some blood from the blow.
David’s blade gleamed in the air as he prepared to strike his former master, mentor, and guardian.
Peter observed all this with surprise. He squatted and jumped, aiming his head and shoulder straight forward to the group of fighting men. He surprised David and the guards from behind and managed to divert the blow of the traitor.
But not enough. As he fell, he saw the blade reach the Scot, making a cut on his chest.
Blood splattered. Peter’s face was covered in blood. Someone kicked him from behind, another hit him on the head. He instinctively tried to protect his head and eyes with his hands, but it wasn’t possible because of the ropes. He tried to look at James.
“Behave yourself, gentlemen,” the host said.
The guards separated the men.
The blow that James had received from David didn’t look bad, but it would be fatal if the wound were not treated. The Scot didn’t show any signs of pain; he was focused on the traitor. James couldn’t accept that the dog that he had fed had bitten his hand.
Red Herring was held by six guards now, and his anger slowly evaporated. He had enormous strength, but the odds weren’t on his side. Peter felt sorry for him.
“I am Shams al-Din, and I do not allow such behavior in my presence.” The host’s dark voice was harsh. As he spoke, every muscle on his face vibrated; he seemed to be trying hard to restrain his emotions.
Edward the Saracen’s eyes were fixed on the host. Peter was sure now that the spy recognized the man. But from where? He hoped to discover it; he didn’t want to miss such a story. Nickolas would have appreciated it, Peter thought, trying to smile. His old mentor had said that every smile was the enemy of the fear. But the pain inflicted on his body was hard to smile through.
Another party had arrived.
The cracking sound of the door pulled Peter from his thoughts. He shook his head and tried to focus again. The pain made him wrinkle his face, but he wanted to view the newcomers, who added to the tension in the room.
He had never seen these men before. They all had tiny thin eyes, round faces with red blushed cheeks and small chins. Their eyes were dark brown, but their skin was like the rest.
Tartars. But they looked more like Mamluks wearing the same outfit. The man who was leading them saluted Shams al-Din and nodded to the rest of the guests. The orphan became more curious despite the fear thriving inside his heart.
“Amir Siraghan al-Tatari, you are welcome,” Berrat said.
Assassins, a Mamluk lord, a Templar Knight and a Tartar lord gathered in one place. Why? And their prey was on the table.
“We are dinner for these vultures,” decided Peter. They looked like they worked together, or had conspired together.
This did not look good.
A few guards pushed him to sit next to James. He observed the pain and the anger in his friend’s eyes. No one was helping him. Red Herring was in trouble, as was the rest of the fellowship.
Peter realized that they were doomed. And he just had started a new chapter of his life. The story of himself as Peter Longsword. Untold, but true.
“Don’t worry, lad. Everything will be all right. I want to erase this traitor’s expression from his face,” James said, nodding toward David. “I know that God will give me a chance. Life always gives you a second chance, sooner or later.”
James smiled. It was a bloody smile, and painful, but honest. The guests were talking about something, arguing, but Peter and the Scottish knight weren’t listening to them.
“Lad,” he coughed, “back in my homeland, there is a place ....” He closed his eyes as if trying to visualize his memories. “There is a castle, the Castle of Durham. It has never been conquered. It's massive, old Norman stones stand today on the peninsula of Durham, on the river bank.”
Sir James opened his eyes. “I wish to see it again.”
Peter thought for a moment. He felt pity for him. Home, sweet home. At least the Scot had a home to remember and longed to see again. The young man envied him for that.
“I want,” Red Herring continued, “to show you this castle.” He spoke slowly. “To show you the green pastures, the river, the hills, and the eagles.”
Peter’s heartbeat was accelerating again.
“My land … you would love it,” the knight said.
“Don’t talk ….”
“I am sure of it.” James stopped.
The two of them somehow managed to be on these far away green pastures back in Herring’s home. They weren’t in the hands of the assassins, in their base of the citadel. They were free for a moment.
But something brought Peter back to the present.
Silence.
The orphan looked around. There was something strange. Everyone was staring at him. Apparently, he was the problem of them all. He started slowly to realize.
Such men in one place could only be united by a fearful enemy. Who was so violent, who could unite these men and to force them to act together? Who was so powerful as to make them bind their strengths and to use all their imagination to organize a vengeful plot?
Lord Edward was a pawn in this game, Peter thought. The English prince was in the right place at the right time for the plotters. They didn’t give a coin about him. Not the Tartars, not the Mamluks, not the assassins—what they would care about a Christian prince stirring up trouble on their playground? What about the Templars?
Peter’s mind woke up and began to run at full speed. “So, who was these men’s t
arget?”
He could only think of one man who was powerful enough to unite these different groups of people against himself.
Baibars, the Sultan of Egypt and Syria. The Lion of Egypt, some called him. And so he was. What a rise in power this man had experienced—once a slave from the distant land of Kipchaq, now the most powerful man in these lands. Some called him a Scourge for the Crusaders, others called him Tartar Destroyer and Sultan Slayer.
He was the enemy. These men had chosen their target well. The real man is shown by his enemies, his old mentor used to say.
Peter smiled. From the beginning of this adventure, he had thought there was some strange plot to kill Edward, the Crown Prince of England. But this raised more questions than answers.
Who would want to kill a departing Crusader? His prudence and wisdom in war affairs and his bravery had earned him a reputation. Yet, why would anyone breach a recently-signed peace agreement? Baibars would not risk a new open war. The sultan himself had agreed to this peace between Crusaders and Mamluks. Sultan Baibars wanted to secure his rear after he was about to face a new threat to his realm.
A new Tartar invasion. They had tried twelve years ago. Peter was a child, but he had heard of it and how the Mamluks had won the decisive battle. They arrived last year with an insufficient army but soon withdrew. There was a rumor that they would try again to conquer this realm.
“But ….” he continued to unleash his thoughts. Edward was a bonus, an instrument to lure the real target out. But how? The men in this room all had something in common. They had the same enemy, the same man. Who was the real threat? There was only one man who could unite this party.
Sultan Baibars.
Now, after observing the men invited to this tower, his mind rejected all irrelevant questions and answers.
They feared Baibars. They were threatened by him because he had crushed them, one by one. Eventually, he would drive them out from his dominion. Piece by piece.
Baibars was a determined man, one of a kind. His reputation stretched beyond his own realm.
Peter couldn’t believe such a man existed. Listening to stories about him, he felt the sultan was unreal. To force all kinds of men to join forces against him—Christians, Muslims, pagans, even assassins—he must be a real danger.
So, Baibars was their plan. He was the reason they were here right now.
But what was the plotters’ plan to lure Baibars alone?
Sweat beaded on the orphan’s face. No one would want eyewitnesses who could reveal a plot against the sultan and the English prince.
What about the attack on Ulf’s manor? They had intended to remove the one threat to their plan, the only one in these lands who wasn’t involved in politics or ambitious but was able to destroy them all: the Desert Wolf.
The Templars and the assassins had taken care of the leader of the Crusaders, the only one who could unite the Latin lords and manage a combined attack on the sultanate. They delivered the assassination order and tried to compromise the intelligence service created by Baibars, using Edward the Saracen. By assassinating Edward, the Templars would ignite the Holy war again and show their loyalty to the plotters. Yet, they would accuse the sultan and his network of spies. Brilliant.
The Mamluks from the north had had to kill the Wolf. A fast strike to weaken Baibars’ position. An interesting coincidence was the presence of James that night. But who had made sure the Scottish knight would be there?
The Tartars’ role wasn’t hard to accept. They were the main threat and they would organize incursion, he thought. They had tried last year and failed.
So, now all they were renegades. And now was the time to strike again. The Tartars would be the main striking force, the orphan guessed.
His mood rapidly changed. Sometimes it wasn’t fun to have an illumination. They would all be killed, that much was sure. Enemies’ eyes were on him. Could they guess what his thoughts were? Peter cursed and closed his eyes.
***
“You there,” Shams al-Din said, looking at Peter. “You were not supposed to be there that night. You ruined our plan.” He walked closer to the orphan. “We were preparing this plan for over a year.”
He approached the prisoners. “You should have stayed on the street with the other homeless dogs, where you belonged. Mongrel!” Shams al-Din said, stooping down to see the orphan’s eyes.
“Mongrel, indeed,” Julian smiled and said. “Your father, Longsword, was from a bastard line; your mother was a whore. And you? A mongrel, a street urchin from Acre. Peter Longsword—once a great name, now a label for a dirty cur.”
Shams al-Din rose and turned his back on Peter.
“It was a brilliant plan, to assassinate this irritating Englishman—Longshanks, as you call him.” He smiled. “Then, our friends, the Templars, would help the assassin to leave the city. No trace, no eyewitnesses, a simple and brave deed.”
“Is that your plan? To threaten the recently signed peace?” James asked.
“With the help of our friends, the Templars, who would attack a few villages looking for revenge, we would manage to force the sultan to come to our trap.”
“Traitorous bastards,” James said toward Julian. “Why?”
“Imagine what this would cause in our Christian world, a future king losing his life. A new wave of future pilgrims, Crusaders and donations to our order and cause,” Julian said.
“Yes,” Shams al-Din said, turning theatrically to James, “everyone would suspect only one agent for such a mission.” Shams al-Din’s eyes were filled with passion. “Piece by piece, we tried to overtake the sultan’s Qussad network.” He turned his face to a man in a corner of the room. “Thanks to him,” he said, nodding to the familiar face. It was the merchant from Acre.
“He managed somehow to discover one of the sultan’s spies,” Shams al-Din said and pointed to the failed assassin. “He was perfect for the job, an heir of a once-great assassin leader, now seeking redemption for his father’s sins by working for the sultan’s spy network. What more could I want than to ruin the reputation of the family responsible for the death of my father? Fate smiled on us.”
“Who, the merchant of Acre?” James asked. Edward the Saracen’s face became darker.
“Yes, our spy, the merchant from Acre, contacted Julian,” Shams al-Din said. “The world is a strange place, you know. Once Sir Julian was the target of our spy; now we all play in the same team.”
The host laughed.
Suddenly, his mood changed, like a hurricane. He turned and struck Peter’s cheek with such ferocity that the lad’s head was tossed aside.
“You ruined all of that!”
He turned to Edward the Saracen, or, as he called him, al-Rida.
“You are a disgrace to your kin and now you are a true failure.” Shams al-Din looked in the eyes of the failed assassin and smiled. “And that’s even better. Now you know why this is happening to you and you will die screaming, knowing your entire life has been ruined and that you will leave no legacy, no trace of your existence.”
A tense atmosphere was in the room, carefully managed by the host.
“And you ….” He turned his attention to James. “I want to know how you got there—the Wolf’s manor. Who told you about it?”
Now, Shams al-Din was furious. He kicked the wounded knight in the chest and his boot became bloodstained. James writhed in pain, as he tried to stand but the guards grabbed him and pushed him to the floor.
“Why you wanted to kill the Wolf?” James asked.
“He is the only man who would be a threat to us and our plan—” He turned to the Mamluk lord. “Your job was to eliminate him, Berrat.”
“The Scottish knight surprised the men I sent.”
“Yes, but how did the Crusaders learn of the plan?” Julian asked.
“This we must find out,” Berrat said.
“Is it important now?” Shams al-Din calmed a little. “Even in these circumstances, events turned in our favor.”
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“How is that?” Julian asked.
“Don’t you see?” Shams al-Din smiled.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” The bareheaded Mamluk looked to the host of the party.
“Exactly; we have them now.” Shams al-Din pointed to the prisoners. “Prince Edward’s best men.” He started to walk around and a big smile spread across his face.
“Their prince is dying. James’s men will unleash their anger and with vengeful minds, they will kill in a search for revenge. They will ride to unleash terror, chasing refugees, killing common men ... These dirty barbarians from the west.” Shams al-Din said.
“We will dispatch the news to the sultan. We have to be nearby to come to his aid and deliver justice.” Berrat added.
Shams al-Din face twitched with pleasure. “Justice for all.”
He looked at the other conspirators. “We will welcome Baibars, the Lion of Egypt and we will ambush him. Here is your part, Sir Julian, Amir Siraghan al-Tatari,” he said, “You and your horsemen must be hidden. When he falls into our trap, you have to cut off Baibars’ escape route.”
“Now we need to find a suitable place for an ambush,” Berrat said.
“So, your miserable lives will last a little longer than we expected,” Shams al-Din said, laughing while he watched the prisoners. Then turned his attention to the person he hated so passionately: Edward the Saracen. “But you, what do you have to lose? Yes, I think that when the sultan finds that you sided with the Christians, your fall will be complete.” He ducked to look into al-Rida’s eyes. “You are mine now, and your life’s song is over.”
He rose again, sat on his wooden throne, and ordered for someone to fetch him something to drink.
The Mamluk leader said, “We must act fast, but where?”
“What is the meaning of life if we are always in a hurry?” He twisted his head to the other conspirators. “Bring the women.”
“What about the man called the Desert Wolf?” Siraghan al-Tatari asked, speaking for the first time since his arrival.
“Don’t worry about him. He wouldn’t risk anything to save these men. He is somewhere in Jerusalem and soon my agents will find him,” Berrat answered.