Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Read online

  LONGSWORD:

  EDWARD AND THE ASSASSIN

  DIMITAR GYOPSALIEV

  Copyright page

  Copyright © 2017 Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  Copyright © 2017 Dimitar Gyopsaliev - Publisher

  All rights reserved.

  Dimitar Gyopsaliev asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical figures and events, are the work of the author’s imagination.

  ISBN 978-619-90851-0-3 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-619-90851-3-4 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-619-90851-1-0 (EPUB)

  ISBN 978-619-90851-2-7 (MOBI)

  Acknowledgments

  With love to my son, Brani, who helps me enormously and challenges me every day to be a better father and person.

  Table of Contents

  Contents

  Copyright page

  Acknowledgments

  Table of Contents

  Maps

  Glossary of Characters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Historical Note

  About the Author

  Maps

  The Holy Land in 1272

  The Second battle of Ayn Jalut

  Glossary of Characters

  Lord Edward - Eldest son of King Henry III and the future king of England, also known as Edward I Longshanks

  Lady Eleanor - Eleanor of Castile, wife of Edward, daughter of Ferdinand III of Castile;

  Otto de Grandson - Knight, diplomat, and close friend of Edward; member of the House of Savoy

  Edmund Crouchback - Edward’s brother

  Peter - An orphan, raised in Acre by an old Hospitaller

  Ulf Magnusson - Also known as the Desert Wolf, or Diyaab al-Sahra; a Northman and an experienced warrior employed on various occasions by the sultan

  James of Durham - A Scottish Knight, also known as Red Herring

  Edward the Saracen - An assassin

  Sultan Baibars - The fourth sultan of Egypt from the Mamluk Bahri Dynasty, a former slave warrior who rose from the ranks

  King Hugh III - King of Cyprus and King of Jerusalem

  Balian of Ibelin - Lord of Arsuf

  Thomas Bérard - Grand Master of the Order of the Temple in Acre

  Hugues de Revel - Grand Master of the Order of the Hospital in Acre

  Jean de Grailly - A Knight and the future Seneschal of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, member of the House of Savoy

  Pope Gregory X - Teobaldo Visconti from Piacenza, a friend of Edward

  Marco Polo - A Venetian merchant traveler

  Izz al-Din Ughan Samm al-Mawt - A powerful amir from the north and an old friend of the sultan; his name literally means “Poison of Death”

  Barak - One of Ughan’s officers

  Berrat - Baibars’ most trustworthy spy

  Julian of Sidon - A Knight Templar

  Nickolas - Lady Isabella’s valet and a chronicler

  Isabella of Ibelin - Lady of Beirut

  Githa - A female Knight Hospitaller and a personal guard of Lady Isabella

  David - A Scottish sergeant in the service of James of Durham

  Owen - A Welsh archer in the service of Lady Eleanor

  Andrea Pelu - A Genovese captain

  Roger of Sicily - A mercenary warrior in the service of the Templars

  Hamo Le Strange - A lord from the Welsh Marches and a companion of Prince Edward

  William Longsword - An English Crusader who died in the Battle of Mansurah in 1250 during the Seventh Crusade

  Brother John - An old monk and a participant in the Seventh Crusade led by King Louis IX of France

  Alexander Giffard - A follower of William Longsword, a participant in the Seventh Crusade of King Louis IX of France

  King Louis - King Louis IX of France, who died in 1270 in Tunis, Leader of the Eighth Crusade

  Charles of Anjou - King Charles I of Sicily, brother of King Louis IX of France

  Amir Qalawun - A powerful amir, close to Sultan Baibars

  Ibn Abd al-Zahir - Sultan Baibars’ clerk

  Ibn al-Nafis - A personal physician of the sultan

  Shams al-Din - Son of Nonagenarian, the leader of a faction of assassins; his name means “Sun of the faith”

  Siraghan al-Tatari - A commander of Mongol horsemen, on service of the sultan

  Anna - Sultan Baibars’ youngest daughter

  Ivar the ostringer - Anna’s personal falconer

  Why?

  “The War must be for the sake of Peace” —Aristotle (Politics, book VII: 14)

  “The Templars and Hospitallers were said to deliberately prolong the war between Christians and Muslims in order to collect more money from pilgrims ....” —Anonymous Christian Contemporary of the Crusades, recorded by Matthew Paris in his Chronica Majora volume IV

  Chapter One

  City of Acre, Holy Land, Friday, 17th of June, in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ

  Peter opened his eyes.

  “Where am I?” he asked himself as he stared at the night sky full of stars. There wasn’t а single cloud in the sky. The sound of the night was dancing around him. Insects were buzzing, the summer breeze whispered its song, and the sea waves were kissing the rocks near the harbor. The Crusaders’ city of Acre was sleeping silently in peace.

  “Ah, the peace,” Peter remarked.

  Egypt and Syria were under the control of the Mamluk Sultanate – and their leader Sultan Baibars. Over the last few years, he had been gaining success against the Crusader States. After Lord Edward’s arrival last year, King Hugh of Jerusalem and other Crusader leaders had agreed to a peace with Baibars. The truce was sealed a few weeks ago. An agreement had been reached between the Crusaders and the sultan. Ten years, ten months, and ten days of peace lay ahead for the Kingdom of Jerusalem and concerned the city of Acre, the plains around it, and the road to Nazareth. The city of Jerusalem was in the hands of the sultan.

  Peter was part of the royal household of Lady Eleanor—a Spanish princess, the wife of the English crown prince, Edward. This was his first day of service. He was honored to be part of the household of the foreign lady, whose husband was a notorious Crusader.

  Peter was an orphan raised in the streets of Acre, a bastard with a miserable life so far, a novice in his job, which he had received thanks to Brother John, the old monk, who had looked after him while he was a child. Now he lay in the dark with a terrible pain.

  He had a splitting headache. He was on duty to guard the western gate with another soldier—What was his name? Peter struggled to recall the names of all the new people he had met recently. He also tried to remember how he had gotten here.

  His sergeant had given him instructions, along with some rusty soldier’s gear; a mail shirt; a dirty white surcoat, a long, sleeveless, linen garment worn over the armor; and a cheap, one-handed sword. Once he had received his equipment, he had departed to join another guard for night service.

  A raiding party had returned early in the evening from the south and there were adventure stories to be heard in the taverns. Barrels of ale and wine were waiting to be drunk, for an evening full of stories, humo
r, and warring deeds was always accompanied by food and drink.

  Jealous of those involved in the storytelling at the taverns, he had gone in search of a quiet place to take a piss, and he had found a dark corner with an old tree without leaves. Before he could accomplish his task, someone had hit him from the back in the dark and he had lost consciousness. Now he lay with opened eyes, wondering if this was his first and last day of service.

  The muscles in his neck were on fire from the pain. He blinked a few times and took a deep breath. The pain was brutal. Peter looked around; he was somewhere between the fortress wall and the street near the gate of the castle.

  He instinctively reached under his mail shirt to check his pouch. It was there, untouched. His sword was also in his scabbard. So, it hadn’t been a thief. He rubbed his neck and realized blood was running down the back of his head.

  “What a bloody mess,” Peter thought, touching the wound gingerly. He decided that he would survive. He noticed the cold of the wet on his worn-out pants. Peter remembered that he had been about to relieve himself and realized grimly what had happened. His face twitched in an ironic smile; his attacker hadn’t waited for him to relieve the pressure.

  Why? Who? Questions descended on his thoughts like a sudden, summer rain. An alarm rang in his mind—the royal chambers in the castle were near.

  The newly-hired guard—clad in a bloody mail shirt, a surcoat bearing the royal household guard’s colors, and pissed trousers—ran to his post, his rusty sword in hand.

  The same post he had abandoned to take a piss.

  ***

  The Crusaders called him a Saracen, as they called all Muslims and Arabs that way. He did not care how they addressed to him. He was a renowned assassin. He never hesitated to slit someone’s throat with his blade. He had heard his master telling another man that he was a valuable member of his company. Now, he walked with confidence toward his next task and hoped to earn a promotion soon.

  He moved calmly and swiftly as he approached a sentry, put his hand on the guard’s mouth and killed him with his knife from behind in the dark. Murdering people in the shadows was his job, a job done as easily as a hunter chasing his prey or a brewer making his ale. Or so he assumed; it was the job he had been doing all his life and he had never worked at anything else. He executed his task with calmness and with precision, never questioning the reasons behind the tasks he received nor caring enough to ask. He never left traces and he never met difficulties because he was always prepared.

  His occupation allowed him to travel, to explore unseen lands and cities, to meet new people. The services he provided to his master were rare and his knowledge gave him some rank and freedom. He was a wolf amid a herd of lambs and he loved it. And he didn’t fail his master’s trust so far, and he didn’t think there would be a time when he would not dare to use his talent.

  Nevertheless, he had always admired his next victim. And that admiration held his dagger hidden in his vambrace, a forearm armor of leather. He asked himself questions, one of them rising in his mind and making him uncomfortable.

  “Why him?”

  “Why this one?” His brow furrowed but he quickly made his face placid; years of training would not permit him to reveal any inner doubt. In his mid-thirties, he thought he had seen enough for several lifetimes, but he wasn’t prepared for this challenge.

  He needed a new strategy.

  The crown prince of England was his target. Edward the Longshanks, as his people called him. Lord Edward, at six feet two inches tall, towered head and shoulders above the average man. “Mighty tall,” as Sir James would put it. He was broad-browed and broad-chested, blond and handsome despite having inherited a drooping eyelid from this father.

  But, for the shadow killer, he had become close a friend.

  Nearly a week after the truce agreement, he had received an order to kill Edward. He knew that the time to act was close and he must make his move soon, lest his master doubt him. But the assassin wasn’t ready to fulfill his duty. Not yet. His stomach twisted and he had trouble sleeping; over the past few months, suspicion had grown in his heart along with an unstoppable storm of questions.

  He had spent more than a year blending in with the Crusaders, spying. He had been integrating well, spending hours surveying the enemy and their plans. After he gained the trust of the target himself and got him alone to complete the task, now he hesitated. He had thought it would be another target, not Edward. After the peace agreement, it had been expected that the Englishman would leave to return to his homeland. Moreover, the assassin liked Edward. Last year, on his way back to Acre, he had saved his target’s life to prove his loyalty. The prince had repaid him with recognition and trust, making him one of his most trusted spies and advisers. The short blade attached to his belt was a gift for his bravery from the prince of England. The scabbard was inscribed with the year 1271 and the words “Honor bound, Edward of England.”

  Such irony. The shadowy killer calculated his options and assessed his future risk. The future of his family was at stake. His mother and sisters were under the protection of his master. He should not fail if he wanted to see them again. Unwillingly, he decided that he had to act.

  He moved like a silent plague through the night, killing guard after guard under the cover of darkness with his poisoned dagger, hiding the short blade in his left leather vambrace. He approached through the western gate, the route he had chosen to withdraw by after his job was done. The Saracen always took precautions ahead of a job to clear those who could be obstacles to his escape.

  The only thing he had not predicted was Peter, the young man, the orphan he had taken a liking to during his time in the Crusaders’ city of Acre. How had he gotten here? The assassin felt pity for the young man. Leaving his blade in its sheath, he reached instead for his club and stunned him.

  The assassin walked through the corridor of stones straight to the door of the prince’s chambers. The last guardsman stood in front of the door. He was nearly asleep. The single sentry recognized the Saracen; everyone knew him as the infidel who had saved the life of Lord Edward. Now he was one of the most trusted men of his retinue. With his rank, he could visit the prince without a preliminary appointment—even during the night, if necessary.

  “I need to see Lord Edward right away,” the Saracen said.

  The guardsman blinked and scratched his forehead, noticing the famous gift, but said nothing.

  “It is a matter of urgency which requires the attention of the prince himself!” the Saracen added. It looked as if the sentry would fall asleep again, but he overcame his fatigue and told the visitor to wait. The guard opened the door and slipped inside. After a couple of minutes, his face appeared again, nodding in the direction of the lord’s chambers, and he allowed the infidel to enter.

  The assassin stepped into the middle chamber, which was connected to the prince’s private rooms. The sound of the night was playing and he anticipated his target to come to him from his bedroom, through the door in front of him. He wasn’t disappointed; Edward emerged, wearing only his underclothes.

  It was time for the Englishman to meet his fate.

  ***

  There was a rumor about a specially-trained spy and assassin hired from the Mamluks’ Sultan Baibars to take away the prince’s soul.

  Rumors circulated around the Crusaders’ camp all the time. But this one had been fading since the truce had been negotiated.

  The orphan was running and had almost reached his post. Near the gate, to the right of the door, Peter found his partner sitting on the ground, motionless, his kettle helmet tilted in a strange position on his right side. Peter shook his shoulder to wake him up and his hand touched something wet and sticky. Blood.

  He quickly realized that the guardsman was dead. He barely knew him, never could remember his name. Blood bubbled from the open wound on his throat. It was fresh; the killer was near, a few moments ahead at most. A quick thought ran through his mind and he asked himself why h
e had been spared and not killed like the other guard. Peter had no time for a proper answer during his savage run to Edward’s chamber. An answer would be found soon.

  Peter climbed the stone stairs in haste. He rushed into the antechamber like a hurricane, pushing aside the lone guardsman, who had almost fallen asleep. There wasn’t time to scream a warning or to explain what was happening. Peter was tired to the bone, but he drew his rusty sword and kicked the massive wooden door open, rushing forward without pausing for thought.

  After the blow he had received earlier that night, he was moving in what felt like a trance. Everything around him shifted slowly, his body flying like a feather fighting with the wind.

  Peter saw Edward, who was near the table, stabbed on the hip with a dagger. Тhe assassin was about to deliver the final blow with his blade, but the sound of the door breaking open made him turn his head. The distraction gave the prince a chance—Edward angrily slammed his fist into the attacker’s temple. The Englishman was tall and mighty and even wounded, his arms’ long reach gave him a massive advantage. The blow was delivered with such rage that it knocked the assailant to the ground for a moment. Peter sprinted toward the assassin and hit him with the pommel of his sword— a vengeful blow on the back of the head—as the man tried to get up. The assassin’s body collapsed on the ground and Edward kicked him and kicked him again as he growled. He grabbed a dagger from the nearest table and moved as if to finish him.

  But fate was unpredictable; Edward’s face jerked, he fell and went into convulsions. Before he closed his eyes, he looked at his rescuer’s face.