by DAVID B. COE
Landry stared at him, waiting.
At last the Turcopole paused in his labors, and indicated the nearest of the helms with a thick hand. “The metal will cool with the night air, and when it does it will gather dew. By morning, we should have fresh water to drink. Not much, but some.”
“Ingenious.”
Draper shrugged. “A trick I learned from my father. Genius would be summoning a wind.”
“I believe that would be sorcery.”
“I’d be happy for it just the same.” He glanced about, sidled closer to Landry. “Gawain’s leg grows worse by the hour,” he whispered. “The other man, Simon, he is in great pain. I can only do so much for them. We need to find a port. We need to move.”
“I’m no more a sorcerer than you are, brother,” Landry said, dropping his voice as well. “I can pray, but beyond that, I’m helpless. Not a comfortable feeling for a knight.”
Draper regarded him, his mien grim, before turning his attention back to the positioning of the pieces of armor.
The following morning, they had water to drink, but the Gray Tern remained adrift, at the mercy of the sea’s fickle currents.
So it went for days. Their supplies dwindled. The air warmed and cooled with the rise and fall of the sun, but the Templars and their fellow passengers encountered nothing more than the faintest breath of a breeze, not nearly enough to fill their sail.
Simon’s leg, splinted and bound, began to heal. Gawain’s wound proved more stubborn. Fever took him. The flesh at the site of the injury grew hot to the touch. With little water and less food, his strength flagged.
By the ninth day, they were all suffering. Adelina, the little Jewish girl, spear-thin when they fled the Holy Land, was now wasting away before Landry’s eyes.
Godfrey stood at the prow of the ship, staring out across the sea, as if he might will a wind to rise or land to appear. Brice and Nathaniel, one dark-haired, the other fair, spent much of their time practicing their swordsmanship, their blades ringing like chimes when they met. They sweated under the sun, their youthful faces flushed, but their exertions served as a welcome distraction for the others.
Landry would have liked to join them, or at least take some pleasure in their display, but Acre haunted him, as did Gawain’s continued suffering. He prowled the ship like a restless panther. On occasion he forced himself to stop, to sit and converse, or watch the swordplay. But always he found himself in motion again, scanning the horizon, avoiding Gawain’s accusatory stare.
This may have been why he was the first to discern the pale landmass to their north.
He thought it a mirage, an illusion born of too much sun, too little food, too many days lost at sea. He blinked, rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and yet it remained.
“Land,” he whispered. And then louder, “Land!” He pointed.
The others rushed to his side, their weight threatening to overbalance the ship. They pointed, faces alight. One woman wept. “Land,” they repeated again and again. “We’ve found land.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
They fell silent, all of them facing Gawain, who remained as he had been, propped against the hull, his leg extended.
“There’s no wind,” he said, speaking to them as he would to a child. “We can’t reach it. What is the use of sighting land, if we have no hope of getting there?”
“You answer your own question, brother,” Godfrey said. “Hope. Land lies to our north. If I had to guess, I would say that is Cyprus, where stands the Hospitaller fortress. Wind will come, and it will carry us to the isle’s shores. Our salvation is at hand. Hope. Faith. These will see us through until we reach those shores.” He faced Landry. “Mark well the position of that land. The currents may carry us beyond sight of it again. When a wind rises, I want to know where to point this ship.”
“Of course,” Landry said.
He crossed to the ship’s dry compass and used it to note the precise line toward the isle. Heartened though he was by their sighting, Gawain’s words had sobered him. They’d had that effect on everyone. The others wandered back to where they had been sitting or standing, although they all continued to glance northward, perhaps to assure themselves that the pale mass hadn’t vanished.
By the next morning, the currents had dragged them beyond sight of the isle, further dampening the mood aboard the vessel. But Godfrey drew their attention to the western horizon, where a different source of hope had appeared during the night.
“Clouds,” he said, voice ringing. “A change in our weather, sure to bring wind. By God’s mercy, we shall be delivered from this ordeal.”
Delivered they were. Near to midday, large white clouds began to crowd the sky above, bringing with them a steady westerly breeze. The ship’s sail billowed, and – a miracle, it seemed – the vessel crept forward, slowly at first, its speed building with the wind. Tancrede took the helm and, with Landry pointing the way, piloted them on a tacking course northward.
Within hours, they spotted the isle again. By morning it loomed large before them. Even Gawain’s spirits rose.
Certain now that they had found Cyprus, they navigated toward the bay at Limassol, confident that their trial was at an end, and that the gleaming stone structures and arid hills would provide them with all they sought: food, water, shelter, healers. The bay was broad and gently curved. Small buildings lined the shoreline, and a few larger ones loomed beyond them, including one with a lofty spire. More structures, modest but solid looking, dotted the hillside above the settlement. It was more a village than a city, but under the circumstances, Landry thought it the finest town he had ever seen.
Again, many of the passengers wept tears of joy. Landry, Draper, and Tancrede were not immune. Godfrey merely smiled. One might have thought he had known all along that they would be all right, and maybe he had.
Tancrede steered the ship to a strand near the city docks, and allowed her to glide up onto the white sand. Before the vessel had come to a complete halt, several of the passengers leapt onto the shore and dropped to their knees.
Godfrey and the other Templars followed, Landry and Draper supporting Gawain between them.
“Find a healer,” Godfrey told them. “Kolossi lies a couple of miles inland. I want his leg treated and bandaged before we attempt the journey. Tancrede and I will look for food. I believe we deserve a meal before we go much farther. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Landry grinned, as did Gawain.
“Indeed,” Landry said.
“Commander.” Something in Draper’s voice stopped them all. Every Templar looked his way.
He pointed to the ridge looming over the shoreline.
At first Landry saw nothing unusual.
“What is it?” Gawain asked.
“On the road,” Draper said, still pointing. “Heading in our direction.”
An instant later, Landry spotted them. He bit back a most unchristian oath. Warriors marched on the path Draper had indicated, bearing spears, swords, bows. Above them, rising and falling in the same wind that had been the Templars’ salvation, hung a green banner bearing the crescent moon of the Saracens.
Chapter 2
Seeing that green flag, the sickle moon, its edges as sharp as a Mamluk blade, Godfrey was overcome with memories of the final battle at Acre, of blood, of death cries, of gleaming blades blurring in the desert sun, and of the shining ferocity and resolve of Khalil’s soldiers. There was a reason why, after nearly two centuries of warfare, the Holy Land remained in Saracen hands. This was not an enemy he wished to engage again. They were too quick, too clever, too precise and deadly. He had lost enough men at Acre. He had no intention of losing more here.
As far as he could tell, the Saracens had yet to spot them. That wouldn’t last, but it offered them some chance of escape.
“Food and drink, Tancrede,” he said, his voice tight. “And whatever healing supplies you can find. As quickly as possible. We haven’t much time.”
Tancrede nodded once, eyed t
he Saracens again, and hurried toward the village.
Godfrey led Landry, Draper, Gawain, and the other Templars off the strand to a spot sheltered by a small copse of trees. Many of the passengers followed, including Simon and his daughter.
Once they were hidden from view, Godfrey faced Gawain and drew a long breath. “I’m sorry, brother. I would have preferred to find a healer for you. But we’ll have to—”
Gawain cut him off with a jerk of his arm. He shrugged off Landry’s support, and Draper’s, to stand before Godfrey. He favored his wounded leg, of course, but his hand was steady as he drew his sword.
“I’m ready to fight,” he said.
Godfrey gripped the knight’s shoulder. “Good lad. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
He stepped past Gawain to stand beside Landry at the edge of the copse. They watched the Saracens through gaps in the leaves, marking their progress as they continued down the road. Godfrey had hoped the warriors might turn off the path toward some other destination before reaching the strand. They hadn’t altered their course yet.
“We need to return to the ship,” Landry said. “I should go after Tancrede.”
Godfrey laid a hand on his shoulder. “Not yet,” he said. “The moment they see you – your mantle, your mail – they’ll attack. We will give them a bit more time. They might still take another path.”
“And if they don’t?”
Godfrey glanced his way. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, either.”
Landry quirked an eyebrow and gave a quick grin. Godfrey answered in kind. They shifted their attention back to the Saracens, waiting to see where they would go.
Gawain hobbled to Godfrey’s side. Draper followed, silent, grim.
“Can you tell how many there are?” Gawain asked.
“At least twenty. Too many for us to fight. And they have bows. They might kill us all without ever drawing a blade. I meant what I said: we’ll be better off if this doesn’t come to a fight.”
Gawain looked like he might argue. So did Landry, but both men held their tongues.
Grateful as he was for this, Godfrey knew what they wanted to say. We might not have that choice. He understood this as well, and a part of him itched to strike at these Saracens, despite the danger, despite all he had learned of their prowess in combat. Spilling blood here could not atone in any way for their failure at Acre, but it might bring some small consolation to the knights he commanded. The risk, though, was too great. Godfrey was responsible not only for the lives of the other Templars, but also for those of the twelve innocents who sailed with them. He could not afford to be lured by his desire for vengeance.
“God be praised,” Draper whispered, his accent thickening the words.
Godfrey saw it as well. A miracle. Or, at the very least, a change in their fortunes. The Saracens had veered off the road leading to the strand and followed instead a spur to the west. Godfrey didn’t know where it would take them, but just then he didn’t care.
He turned to address the men and women who had sailed with the Templars from Acre.
“It may be that some of you can make a new life for yourselves here. I don’t know what awaits us on the sea, but I am certain it won’t be an easy journey.” He indicated with an open hand towards his tabard, with its bold red cross. “For obvious reasons, my brothers and I cannot remain on this isle, not if it is patrolled by Saracens. But perhaps you can. If not in this village, then in another. None of us will begrudge you this choice.”
Several of the passengers traded looks. Simon never took his eyes off Godfrey.
“Adelina and I will find no life here. With your permission, we’ll come with you.”
“So will we,” said another man. The rest nodded their agreement.
Godfrey felt a fullness in his chest that left him speechless and overwhelmed. He could see that the other Templars were moved as well. Before their last crazed morning in Acre, most of these people had been strangers to them. In the days they had spent drifting on the waters of the Mediterranean, Godfrey had not taken as much time as he should have to learn their names, their stories. A mistake, he now realized. They were courageous and loyal beyond measure. They deserved more than his indifference, however benign.
“Thank you,” he said. “We’ll be glad to have you with us.” He lifted his chin in the direction of their ship. “Be ready now. We go on my word.”
Gawain held up a hand. “Wait.” He still stared out from the copse in the direction of the ridge from which the warriors had descended.
“What is it?” Landry asked.
“Tancrede.”
“What about him?”
“That’s where the Saracens are headed. To the village, where Tancrede is.”
“Are you certain?” Godfrey asked.
By way of answer, Gawain pointed. Not at the road, but west of there, to another stretch of lane. Dust rose from that part of the slope, obscuring details. But through the brown cloud hanging over the road, Godfrey could make out the dull gleam of armor and spearheads.
He exhaled through gritted teeth. With reluctance, he pulled his sword from its sheath. “Come on then,” he said to the Templars. “The rest of you get back to the ship as soon as you can.”
Without another word, he stepped past his fellow knights. Landry, Gawain, and the others gripped their weapons and followed.
* * *
A sword hung from his belt. He wore mail and armor. He bore a cross on his chest. It would have been a vast understatement to say that Tancrede felt somewhat conspicuous. He might as well have written in blood across his brow, I am a Templar and Crusader.
As he neared the village, he passed a dilapidated stable. Three horses stood within, a gelding and two mares, all of them old and too thin. The horses swished their tails and twitched their ears. A blanket covered one of the mares.
Tancrede hesitated, glanced about, and stole into the stable. The air inside was overwarm and thick with the buzz of flies. It stank of manure.
“Forgive me,” Tancrede said to the mare as he removed the blanket from her back. “A loan, I promise.”
It was tattered, moth-eaten, and it smelled strongly of horse, which he had expected. But draped over his shoulders and tucked in at his belt, it made him slightly less noticeable. Slightly. If one didn’t count the stink. He took care to keep his sword accessible. He had the sense that his “disguise” wouldn’t fool many.
He left the horses and made his way into the center of the village, taking stock as he walked of what he might trade for food and healing herbs. He hadn’t much by way of coin: only a few silvers from Acre. He carried a dagger, also sheathed on his belt, though he was reluctant to part with it, especially with Saracens on the road above the village. He wore a ring on a chain around his neck, a gift from his father. A Knight of the Temple wasn’t supposed to cling to such adornments, but this he had been loath to give up. Still, under the circumstances, if the silvers weren’t enough, he could part with it.
And the dagger, too, if need be.
Finding food proved easy. Fruits, cheeses, dried meats, bread. He could point, nod, hold the silvers in his palm and ask the question with his eyes: How much?
Before long, he had some food, a flask of light wine, and a container that he filled with fresh water from the town well.
But when it came to finding herbs for a poultice, he had more difficulty. None of the men or women he met spoke French, and while Draper had taught him a few phrases in Turkish, his knowledge of the language was too limited for this quest. He strode through the market, listening to conversations, hoping to hear a word of his native tongue. He had just started his second orbit, when he spotted the company of Saracens.
They had taken a different road and were approaching the village from above rather than from the strand. Had he not seen the billow of dust they kicked up, he might not have spotted them until their arrival made escape impossible.
As it was, he couldn’t keep himself from duckin
g back into the shadows, and pressing himself to the side of a wooden booth in the agora.
“You smell terrible.”
The voice of an old woman. Speaking a language he understood. It took him a breath to grasp this second point.
“You speak French!”
“How observant you are,” she said, her tone as dry as desert sand.
Tancrede marked the position of the Saracens before slipping into her small booth. The woman was petite, white-haired, with a wizened, leathery face and thin, delicate hands. She wore a simple shift, and a shawl draped over her shoulders, though it was warm in the marketplace. She sat behind a broad table laden with bowls of spices and teas, watching him with unconcealed mistrust, onyx eyes bright in the shadows.
“I need healing herbs. Do you sell any?”
She shook her head, gestured at the table. “What you see. Nothing more.”
“Does anyone here sell them?”
“Maybe. Who are you?” She motioned with her hand again, this time toward the lane, the Saracens. “Why are you so afraid of them?”
He faltered, unsure of how she would respond to the truth. “I just… I need herbs. A friend of mine is hurt.”
The woman’s gaze raked over him, head to toe, pausing fractionally at his belt. Belatedly, Tancrede shifted the old blanket to conceal his sword.
Her lips quirked with amusement. “Do you bear a cross over your chest?”
“We didn’t come here looking for a battle.”
“How refreshing.”
He peered out toward the road again. If he tarried here much longer, he wouldn’t be able to get away. “Never mind,” he said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” He started away.
“I have borage,” she said, stopping him, her voice low. “Betony, too. You might find madder root four booths down.” She pointed to the right. “The three together should help an open wound.”
“How much?”
“Do you bear a cross over your chest?” she asked again.
Tancrede turned slowly, and after the briefest pause, pulled the blanket away, exposing his tabard.
The woman stared at it. She started to reach for it, but then brought her hand to her lips.
