To be honest, this is my least favourite chapter so far, but it's an essential one as far as developing the plot goes.
Spoiler! :
Chapter 3
27th July 1204-The Temple, Acre
‘This is a disgrace!’ boomed the Marshall as he crushed the parchment scroll he held in his hands, his knuckles turning white as they wrapped around the letter.
‘Cowards and fools the lot of them!’ His deep voice with a hint of a French accent resonated through his spacious chamber. He rose up from his seat, almost throwing it against the wall in his rage. After a few moments of staring at the desk, he spoke.
'Fetch me Brother Gottlieb,’ he said, in a disturbingly calm and malevolent voice. His voice was hidden by a mass of black hair with the exception of his eyes, two grey spheres of burning fury. The guard standing at the doorway nodded and disappeared into the corridor beyond.
The Marshall strode over to the table next to the window and removed two goblets, along with a bottle of wine, from its drawer. He gazed out the window. It was midday in Acre and from his position, high in the preceptory, he had a fine view of the city. There was the dock; dominated by the Tower of The Flies which watched the vital lifeline like a giant stone monolith. There were the numerous bustling markets and the various districts. Beyond the walls, the sapphire blue sea vanished into the distance. Running adjacent to the sea flat, barren desert stretched for miles; bleak and uninhabitable, dotted only with the occasional tree. It was a dangerous place. It could kill you in so many ways; thirst, hunger, poisonous animals. And Saracens. All were a threat. And of course the enemy knew it well. Quite typical of a backwards people the Marshall had always though. The Temple had learned of these dangers the hard way.
With the pain of other previous defeats, the abomination of ‘De Sang’ was painfully brought back to him. He wondered how his apparently fellow brothers could do this. ‘De Sang’ was a mighty fortress, jutting out from the cliffs and, with almost two years worth of supplies, even a well planned out siege with a strong force would prove difficult. Indeed it had cost them many good men to retake it three years ago. Scanning through those in command in that garrison he suddenly realised. Robierre Leveque. He had known that the old man was no stranger to shirking away from combat, especially when the odds were heavily against him. The man made the Marshall sick. How one man could be so cowardly yet so well respected astonished him. This reluctance to fight was fine for any ordinary soldier, but not for a Templar. It was their job to stand and fight; to fight when others would not and to provide victory when others could not.
Now a vital defence had been lost, and their northern frontier was all but disintegrated. A cruel grin, full of malice grew on his face. Robierre would pay for this, as would the whole garrison, regardless of their loyalty. They couldn’t afford to lose any more defences. He would draw the line himself.
Just as he sniggered quietly to himself at his plan, Brother Gottlieb emerged through the doorway, having to duck in order to get through the arch due to his massive stature.
‘Yes my Lord,’ he said with his deep German accent as evident as ever. He brushed a strand of his blonde hair out of his face with his enormous hand, revealing a deep wound on his cheek.
‘How is the wound Edmund?’ inquired the Marshall as he poured out a goblet of wine, still facing the window. He offered him a seat and handed him the goblet. Edmund groaned as he sat down, propping his head up with his hand as the Marshal again turned to the window. Edmund took a sip of his drink before replying.
‘It’s healing, thank you sir.’ Running his fingers across the wound he grinned, remembering the look on the merchants face as he was cornered by Edmund and his knights. The merchant had been caught selling information on the city’s defences; Edmund had been given the task of arresting the man. The merchant, quite conveniently Edmund thought, had been armed as they burst into his home. The merchant had initially pleaded innocent, but as he was forced into a corner, he drew his dagger and swung wildly at his attackers. Edmund, who had removed some of his armour for the task was grazed on the cheek, but a lifetime of training and combat shunned this pathetic attack. The man died quickly, too quickly for Edmund’s liking, but dead none the less. The voice of the Marshall cruelly disturbed his thoughts.
‘I was impressed with the…efficiency of your last assignment’ Edmund chuckled; he had heard this speech before. ‘But I now require of you another task, one requiring a little more restraint.’ Edmund sat up abruptly; this was not in the Marshal’s usual speech. ‘You have probably heard that the garrison at ‘De Sang’ surrendered not long ago; a disgrace by any standards. I should have these men arrested and executed for this, but now is not the time. We have little enough men already and the loss of ‘De Sang’ has made things no better. I want you Edmund,’ he turned to the seated knight, his figure silhouetted against the light pouring in from the window, and looked straight into his eyes, piercing into Edmund’s mind ‘to infiltrate this group.’ Edmund’s attention was now firmly gripped by the Marshal's gaze. ‘I want you to gain their trust, earn their respect, find out why they deserted and, when the tables have turned, hand them in for arrest. Is that clear?’
Edmund was shocked; he knew that the Marshal could sometimes use slightly unorthodox and underhand methods in his managing of the troops but this was brutally extreme, even for a seasoned killer like Edmund. He pondered for a second over the dilemma. He knew that it was morally wrong but to refuse would be do forfeit his position in the Temple. What could he do? If he refused the Marshal he himself would be arrested, and he had a family to support. His mind flickered back to his sister and her daughter, only two years old, back in Bavaria. Although externally he showed no response to the Marshal’s task, inside he was in turmoil. It shattered every moral rule he had ever been taught. Murder he didn’t mind, that was an unavoidable part of life but betrayal! After a few short moments he swallowed.
‘Yes sir. Just tell me where to head,’ he slowly closed his eyes as the Marshal again turned to the window. He knew he was doing wrong but his sister needed his help, and surely that was more important than his conscience. The Marshal laughed,
‘No need to be so sombre my good man. It’s for the greater good Edmund; a few men sacrificed when the time is right will secure our position here, possibly for good. I’ll offer you some more wine later to heal your spirits. But firstly, let us talk of your task.’
……
Several hours later
Edmund stumbled as he left the Marshal’s tower. It wasn’t just the steep and deteriorating sandstone steps that were to blame; he felt sick, sick like he had never felt before. Not when plunging his blade into the chest of an enemy, or when taking part in the execution of prisoners. He was now a traitor. Although he was still, in the Temple’s eyes, a servant of God, he knew that this was not God’s will, at least not his God. Striding through the preceptory courtyard he was oblivious to the men training and chatting around him in the cool shade of the evening. The sun still had not set and the preceptory bathed in the evening's golden light. He was about to head to his quarters when his niece's face appeared in his mind. All his muscular and physical strength was shed as he collapsed inside. He wasn’t this kind of man. He was a killer, there were very few men here who weren’t, but he was never meant to betray his brothers for a so called ‘just cause’.
He turned, facing the gate that lead into the city, and began walking slowly, but still in large strides towards the two huge doors. He was heading to the inn beside the port. He knew many people there; and none of them were Templars. Reaching down to his waist, he felt for the bag of coins tied to his belt and sighed; his entire payment for his last three tasks. Soon to be gone; all because the Marshal wanted to exact revenge on others who had used their heads and not their swords. He again felt sick, glancing back as he exited the preceptory he cursed; he hated this place. The Templars inside felt so safe, yet few had even ventured even twenty miles from Acre. Those who had fought and seen their friends die were either ignored or outlawed. He felt powerless to do anything. The Pope's constant calls for a new crusade made peace seem even more unlikely than ever.
Turning away from the gate he headed down the hill towards the dock, and prayed that those captured at ‘De Sang’ would be executed before the Temple got hold of them. He prayed he would not have to see brave men hung for trying to survive. He prayed that God would have mercy on him for this heinous act. Several minutes later he stood outside the door to the inn. Its large wooden sign hanging over his head seemed to watch over him, glaring down as if it knew his secret. Looking up from the ground Edmund reached forwards and opened the door. Warm, stale air blasted him in the face. Shouts and cries came from within. Solemnly Edmund stepped inside. He had a feeling that his sack of gold would be considerably smaller in the morning.
……
Now seated at his desk, the Marshall drained his goblet before flinging it across the room, its clanging against the ground doing nothing to improve his mood. He had relied on that fort to draw more troops from the west. Now not only would Saracens pour down through the mountains into the regions of Antioch, Aleppo and Edessa, but the European Kings would now be less willing to send troops. The first time they had lost ‘De Sang’ was planned; the Marshall knew that when the European Kings saw that their lands in the east were threatened, they would send vast numbers of troops to defend them. He could command these men himself to keep the Crusader Kingdom from being driven back into Europe.
He remembered the feeling when he had met with the Saracen emissary a year ago to hand over the information of the defences at ‘De Sang’. He had felt a mixture of duty and deceit; he knew that it would be for the better good of these lands, yet something within him stayed his hand as he held out the withered scroll to the emissary. He could see in the man’s eyes something much deeper and much more intense than the pride he felt for his role in the Temple. It was something more than the look men had in their eyes after fighting for their god. It burnt into the Marshall, embedding itself in his mind sticking with him until now. It was an unquenchable desire to wipe the lands clean of the Crusaders. If he had not been disguised, the Marshall was quite sure that he would have been noticed and slain on the spot. Noticed not because of his skin of his hair colour, but because of the horror than ran across his face as he faced the momentous truth of what he was doing. He was sending hundreds of men to their deaths, and he was drawing maybe thousands more into the same hell that the garrison would face.
With another glare from the emissary this was forced back into his mind, and the scroll was handed, although it seemed more like it was grabbed, over to the Saracen. With a speechless departing from each other’s presence the bells of the Temple’s chapel began to ring for the evening prayers. As the Marshall ascended narrow alley leading up to one of the Temple’s hidden passages he muttered a quiet prayer, a prayer for the men he had sent to their graves.
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