The Master of Muscigny (The First Admiral Series Book 5) (20 page)

“I shall certainly see what I can do, Your Majesty.” Billy rose to his feet and bowed politely to the Sultan. “I shall collect the Templar later today, then release your nephew from Jerusalem. I believe that my Physician will want to make sure that your nephew is in good health and deal with any injuries he has, so he may wish to keep him in our Hospital Deck until tomorrow.”

“If your Physician can heal crippled arms and cure leprosy, then I would expect nothing less of him for the care of my nephew.”

“Your Majesty.” Billy bowed once more, slightly puzzled as to how Saladin knew about the crippled arm of Marc of Ibelin being cured.

“One more thing, Admiral?”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“How do you do that dazzling light thing?”

“That’s a secret, Your Majesty.” Billy smiled with a cheeky wink, and issued the thought-command to the teleporter via his PES.

Then, he vanished in a blinding flash of light.

The Royal Palace, Jerusalem

“Come on, get up My Lord Constable,” the familiar voice pierced through the slumbers of Amalric of Lusignan.

It had been an entirely comfortable dream, where Amalric had claimed the throne with the heads of his enemies strewn across the High Council floor before him. Now, however, someone had destroyed that most beautiful and delicious moment of triumph. Rolling over, onto his side, Amalric hoped that whoever had ruined his dream would now go away and leave him to recapture his triumphant fantasy.

“Come on, get up!” the voice said, shaking him roughly by the shoulders.

“What is it?”

“We have to get out of here, My Lord Amalric,” the Templar knight said, grabbing the few items of clothing that were not armour or weaponry that Amalric habitually carried with him.

“What’s going on?”

“Alain of Bezain has betrayed us to the King,” the Templar announced, throwing more clothing at the servant who scampered around the room retrieving his master’s armour.

“What!?” an astonished Amalric announced in disbelief.

“The men you sent to kill the Outlander Admiral failed and have led them to Alain of Bezain, he’s told the King everything. We have to get out of Jerusalem.”

“What?” the confused and astonished Amalric questioned again, rising to his feet from the low cot he kept in his solitary bed chamber in the Palace. “How did they reach Bezain?”

It made no sense to Amalric how men sent by his own nephew could implicate Alain of Bezain in the plot.

“I don’t know! Now get a move on, My Lord, Baldwin is already arresting the other division commanders. We may have only moments before the Royal Bodyguard start knocking on your door.”

“We have to get out to the hills, and my men…”

“Don’t you understand, My Lord Constable!? It’s too late for that! The other division commanders are already taken. There’s no one to lead the soldiers in the hills. Bezain’s men won’t follow you.”

“But, my men would, there are still enough of them…” Amalric protested, throwing the mail shirt over his shoulder and grabbing his shield.

“The roads out of the city are already blocked. The Preceptory is under guard, and the only way out of Jerusalem is through the catacombs.”

“My men would never…” Amalric protested, bundling up his chain mail armour and fastening it with a belt.

“It’s over, My Lord Constable, can’t you understand!?” the Templar snarled, grabbing the front of Amalric’s shirt. “We have to run and join Grand Commander Arnold’s forces at Muscigny!”

Stunned to silence, Amalric of Lusignan nodded quietly. The dream that saw him on the throne of Jerusalem only a few moments before now hung precariously by the slenderest of threads.

“How do we reach Arnold?” Amalric asked as he slung his armour-bundle over his shoulder.

“I keep a small boat in one of the coastal fishing villages. That’ll do, get out!” he ordered Amalric’s servant, pushing him towards the door. “If we can reach the coast, we should be able to reach our fleet and join Grand Commander Arnold.”

“Come on, move!” Amalric pushed his servant out through the doorway and rushed out in the corridor himself, followed by the Templar.

Amalric of Lusignan, Constable of Jerusalem, was fleeing for his life with the shirt on his back and the sword in his hand. There was going to be no glorious march from Muscigny to Jerusalem to claim the throne. It would just be an inglorious scamper to the coast and a boat trip to safety. Cursing his back luck, Amalric pushed his servant onwards as he hurried through the Palace corridors before someone recognised him. And, as he ran, Amalric added an especial curse.

To the Outlanders who had robbed him of this throne.

The Palace Dungeon, Cairo.

The loud crunching of the heavy bolt being drawn across the cell door roused Odo of Saint Armand from his fitful slumbers. The squealing of tortured wood from the huge bolt that hadn’t moved in over a year confirmed to the dazed and confused Odo that it was not the smaller feeding hatch at the base of the huge wooden door that was being dragged painfully open.

Sitting up from the corner where he habitually slept, Odo licked his lips nervously in anticipation of what awaited him beyond the door. It had been over a year since the Saracens had grown tired of torturing him, and Odo said a silent prayer hoping that he would be spared from a return to the rack and the irons. Again, the huge bolt squealed in protest as it was dragged from its comfortable moorings. The seasons of dryness and wet had warped the wood of the bolt in its fixtures; and now, having been rudely awakened, it squealed and crunched its displeasure.

With a heavy thud, the bolt finally gave up the ghost and was dragged clear of the door frame. Then, with three massive efforts from the jailers, the door itself was heaved open, with a heavy grating sound, sufficiently for someone to enter the cell. The first to enter was Kasim, the vicious little man with the clubbed foot. His cunning rat-like face was fixed in a nervous grin as he hobbled down the worn stone stairway from the door to the dungeon floor.

“He’s still alive!” the hobbling jailer, with the heavy stick, called out to whoever was still behind the door.

Again, the base of the heavy door crunched against the ground as it was heaved further open by the other, less nimble jailers. On the sixth heave, the door finally swung open, squealing painfully on its rusted hinges. In the doorway, Odo saw the Head Jailer and two figures in pale-blue uniforms. One of the figures looked decidedly strange to Odo, having olive skin and only one nostril to its face. However, having seen some savage battle injuries, Odo did not feel unduly troubled by the sight. The other blue-clad figure was undoubtedly European with his fair skin and red hair. From the uniforms, Odo speculated that they were not Templars.

“On your feet!” the club-footed jailer ordered, dragging the still confused Odo from his sleeping corner to stand up in the centre of the cell.

The three dignitaries stepped carefully down the damp-slicked stone staircase as a shamefaced Odo of Saint Armand pulled the ragged remains of his Templar surcoat over his emaciated body to hide his nakedness. Silently, Odo watched the newcomers for any clue as to his likely fate, as the strangers slowly approached his position. But, however hard he tried to read their faces, he found no clues as to their intentions.

“Grand Master Odo of Saint Armand?” the red-haired one, who seemed to be in command of the situation asked.

“I am Odo of Saint Armand.”

“I am First Admiral Caudwell, and this is a Medical Officer who will now examine you. You have nothing to fear.”

With a shrug, the emaciated figure with the long, lank straggly hair and beard submitted to whatever the strange looking Physician was about to do.

The Thexxian Medical Officer stepped forward and swept the Med-Scanner over the filthy scrap of humanity that stood defiantly in the middle of the filth and squalor of a Saracen dungeon cell.

“Badly malnourished, underweight, de-hydrated, parasite infested and the early signs of blood poisoning, sir” the Medial Officer pronounced, and tapped the ragged figure on the shoulder with the Dispenser. “Some antibiotic to deal with the blood poisoning.”

“Very well,” Billy replied and turned to the jailers. “Thank you, gentlemen, could you please leave us for a moment? We’ll call for you when we have finished.” Billy dismissed the Head Jailer and the nasty looking one with the clubbed-foot.

“Well, Odo of Saint Armand,” Billy said when the jailers were out of earshot, “it would appear that you have become useful to us.”

“And, how would that be, My Lord Admiral?”

“It would appear that one of your underlings has plans to depose King Baldwin of Jerusalem.”

“I know nothing of such a plot.”

“Oh, we know that, we need you to stop them.”

“And, why should I wish to do that?”

“Because, Grand Master, that is the price of your freedom.”

“Freedom?” Odo said sharply, his eyes suddenly flickering with excitement. “What trick is this, Admiral? The Saracens would never set me free.”

“No trick,” Billy replied handing over the release order from Saladin. “A release signed by the Sultan himself.”

With filthy hands and battered fingernails, the Templar carefully read the parchment.

“Why would Lord Saladin set me free? I am his worst enemy.”

“Because, I have offered to exchange you for his nephew.”

“No, Baldwin would never treat for me.”

“You don’t seem to quite understand with who and what you’re dealing with here, do you?” Billy smiled and issued the thought-command to the teleporter in the Transport that hovered several hundred metres above the Palace.

Instantly, all three figures vanished in a flash of blinding white light. A moment later, the dazzled and astonished figure of Odo of Saint Armand re-appeared in the confines of the centre section of the Transport. Taken by surprise, and weak from the privations of the Saracen dungeon, Odo collapsed onto the pristine white deck behind the table and chairs that filled the centre of the compartment.

“What!” the stricken Templar gasped as the Medical Officer hauled him to his feet gently. “Where am I? Am I dead?”

“No, you’re very much alive, Grand Master,” Billy confirmed, and indicated the central of three windows on the left side of the compartment. “If you’d care to look down, Grand Master, you’ll see where you were being held,” Billy indicated.

Slowly, the filthy and bedraggled Templar peered out of the window and saw the sprawl of Cairo stretched out in front of him with the Palace directly below. Wide eyed with astonishment, the Templar turned back to Billy.

“This is...this is...it’s impossible!?”

“And, if you care to look this way, Grand Master,” Billy indicated the window opposite, “you will see two of my Eagle fighter craft.”

Staring nervously, Odo of Saint Armand was astonished to see the two wedge-shaped Eagle fighter escorts hovering next to the Transport. The masked and visored pilot in the bubble canopy of the leading Eagle snapped a cheeky salute to the amazed Templar before peeling away to the right, followed by his companion.

“Now, perhaps you have some comprehension of what you are dealing with?”

“It’s amazing!” the Templar gabbled as his mind tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

“Oh, you have no idea of what we’re really capable of, Grand Master, so, now you have a choice. Do you wish to help us or not?”

“If I help you to defend the leper, you set me free?”

“That’s about the size of it. You go back to the Order, although King Baldwin may have some grievances to discuss with you.”

“And, if I don’t want to save the leper?”

“Then you go back in the dungeon, and they throw away the key. And then, I turn my Eagles on your Order. I could shatter the walls of Acre in a few minutes and kill everyone and everything inside before moving on to wipe out your European possessions,” Billy bluffed.

“Then, it looks like I have no choice. What do you wish me to do, My Lord Admiral?” he sighed resignedly and sat back on the chair to let the Physician tend to his wounds.

The Royal Palace, Jerusalem May 18
th

Passing under the magnificent arch of St Stephen’s Gate, Baldwin the Fourth, King of Jerusalem, was greeted by the loud and affectionate cheers of his army. The morning sun blazed down on the full magnificence of the Army of Jerusalem; glittering brightly from lance tips, spear points and burnished helmets. The array of colours set out before Baldwin made him forget for just a moment how precarious his situation really was.

Resplendent in his full chain mail with Royal surcoat and gleaming helmet circled by a golden crown, Baldwin stopped for a moment to take in the sight of his army. Paraded and ready to march, Baldwin felt a surge of pride that he would once more be leading these men into battle, but this time, it was going to be different. No longer was he worn down by the exhaustion of his disease. No longer was his mind clouded by the despair of his fate. He was now fit, strong and confident at the head of his beloved army.

Climbing confidently down the final steps and climbing onto his favourite charger, Baldwin drew his sword and hoisted it into the air.

The cheering from the paraded soldiers immediately doubled in intensity, as Baldwin had hoped they would. Any good leader on the eve of battle needed to show his followers that he was strong, determined, and confident of victory. He had to stir their blood to the point where they would sweep away anyone and anything that stood in their path. And, facing nearly twenty-thousand Templars was going to require all of their strength and commitment. The Templars’ reputation for courage and tenacity in battle was well known. Their religious fervour would send them into dangerous situations that would make less pious men flinch. Now, Baldwin had to inspire his own men to even greater acts of heroism. It was going to be a tall order, but Baldwin knew that the stakes were higher than ever before.

The information from the Outlander Admiral at Muscigny had slotted the final pieces of the puzzle into place for Baldwin. It all made sense now, and the Outlander Admiral’s strategy was sound. The fleet of fifty Templar ships had shown that the seaborne force was a diversion, and, it had also shown that Amalric of Lusignan had lied. The Constable of the Kingdom had betrayed his oath, his office and his King. There would be a reckoning for Amalric of Lusignan when this affair was over, Baldwin promised himself. But first, the Templar contingent had to be turned back from the city. The Outlander Admiral had agreed to stand at Muscigny until Baldwin could bring up the bulk of the Army of Jerusalem. It was only a day’s march to Muscigny, but in these treacherous times, hours could be decisive. If Muscigny fell, there was no other natural defensive position to the north of Jerusalem. Taking on twenty-thousand Templars in open battle was not a prospect that Baldwin welcomed.

With Jacques of Ibelin ordered to watch the coast with three thousand men, there would be no landing from the sea. The other treacherous Division Commanders would be disposed of at the King’s leisure on the return from Muscigny.

Meanwhile, Giles of Tripoli would no doubt protest his innocence, but he would be banished from the Kingdom for life. The taint of conspiracy would stick to Giles of Tripoli. Baldwin had no doubt that the confessions of other plotters implicating Giles were true.

The objective now was to get to Muscigny. Urging his horse onwards, Baldwin held the sword aloft as he trotted through the ranks of his cheering soldiers. And, with Joscelin of Edessa and his personal bodyguard at his heels, Baldwin wasted no time in leading the Army of Jerusalem onto the road to Muscigny.