The Red King Read online

  THE RED KING

  A Soldier With Richard the Lionheart, Part II

  ROBERT BROOMALL

  Copyright ©2018 by Robert Broomall

  All Rights Reserved

  A Bluestone Media Publication

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Books by Robert Broomall

  California Kingdoms

  Texas Kingdoms

  The Lawmen

  The Bank Robber

  Dead Man’s Crossing (Jake Moran 1)

  Dead Man’s Town (Jake Moran 2)

  Dead Man’s Canyon (Jake Moran 3)

  Death’s Head, A Soldier With Richard the Lionheart

  K Company (K Company 1)

  Conroy’s First Command (K Company 2)

  The Dispatch Rider (K Company 3)

  Murder in the Seventh Cavalry

  Scalp Hunters (Cole Taggart 1)

  Paradise Mountain (Cole Taggart 2)

  Wild Bill and the Dinosaur Hunters

  For James, Heather, Diane

  and

  Claire

  PROLOGUE

  ABU FLATH LED the horse toward the castle.

  The castle was small and nondescript—shabby almost, if a castle could be called shabby. It was formidable, though. It sat at the top of a steep mountain with a sheer drop behind it, and the pine trees all around had been freshly cut down so that an enemy could not advance upon it unawares.

  The horse was a big Frankish war beast with a high-backed saddle. Across the saddle lay a suit of Frankish armor, the mail gleaming in the summer sun. A Frankish longsword and conical helmet were tied to the saddle’s pommel.

  As Abu Flath neared the castle gate, he was challenged by a guard on the wall. “What do you want?”

  Abu Flath, who in another life had been called Tarik, cried, “I bring a gift for the emir.” With a sweep of his hand, he indicated the horse and armor.

  “Leave it,” the guard told him.

  “I wish to offer it to the emir personally. I wish to join your company.”

  The guard conferred briefly with one of his fellows, then disappeared. Abu Flath waited a long time in the sun, then the castle gate creaked open and the Emir Sanjar al-Imani appeared, flanked by a pair of heavily armed guards. Sanjar approached Abu Flath while the guards ran behind them and took positions facing down the mountain, as though expecting an attack.

  Sanjar was a mean-looking fellow with a greasy face and bad teeth. His oily moustache twisted upward at the ends. He wore a robe of expensive red silk, though, trimmed in gold thread, and the sword at his side was of the finest Damascus steel.

  Sanjar stared at Abu Flath with hard eyes. “You have something for me?”

  Abu Flath indicated the horse and armor.

  Sanjar walked around the horse, looking it over, patting its rump and neck. He examined the armor, tested its weight. He took the sword from its scabbard, swung it a few times. “It is a good horse,” he said. “The armor is of no use to us, but it is well made and we can sell it back to the feringhees for a good price. The sword I may keep for myself. How came you by this?”

  Abu Flath said, “A feringhee warrior, lord. I found him asleep at a well, and I killed him.”

  Sanjar considered. “He must have been lost, or maybe running from a fight with our people. A scout would not be so heavily armored. How did you kill him?”

  Abu Flath drew a thumb across his throat. “I left his head by the well as a warning to the infidels.”

  “Good work.” Sanjar nodded in appreciation. “This armor belonged to a big man. You must be very strong for one so young.”

  Abu Flath said nothing.

  “And you wish to join us?”

  “I do, lord, if it pleases you.”

  “Tell me why I should not take this gift and send you on your way, or—better yet—kill you?”

  Abu Flath gave a half-shrug and smiled. “Because if you do that, my long journey here was for naught.”

  Sanjar grinned at this audacious young man. “You are fortunate. It happens we have need of a man. You may join us.”

  “Thank you, lord.”

  “Where do you come from? Homs or thereabouts, from your accent.”

  “Yes, lord. I was left on my own at an early age, and I have been living by my wits ever since. I wish to make my way in the world, but I have found I cannot do it by myself. I had heard of you, and I was on my way here to offer you my services when Allah sent me the feringhee so that I might demonstrate my skills.”

  Sanjar stared down the mountain in the direction the guards were facing. “Tell me, have you seen any soldiers about?”

  “Feringhees? No, this is the only—”

  “Our people, these would be. Nizari fanatics.”

  “Nizaris, lord?”

  “A religious sect. Foul creatures who demand I pay them tribute, even though they have no authority over me. Others have given in to them, but by the beard of the Prophet, I shall not.”

  Abu Flath shook his head. “I have seen no one, lord.”

  “You’re certain? No one who could have been a spy, perhaps?”

  “No, lord.”

  Sanjar seemed to relax. “Good, good.” He beckoned Abu Flath. “Come.”

  Sanjar led Abu Flath through the castle gate, the two guards following, walking backwards, still facing down the mountain. The first thing Abu Flath saw in the castle yard was a post to which a man was chained. At least it seemed to be a man—he was so starved and burned by the sun it was difficult to tell. His clothes were in tatters; his blistered, blackened flesh hung off him in strips, the newly exposed skin beneath bubbling in the sun. He was so covered with flies and maggots that he seemed to be moving in some kind of eerie dance. A guard gave him a sip of water—just enough to keep him alive and prolong his agony.

  “This is the man you are replacing,” Sanjar told Abu Flath. “He disobeyed an order.” Sanjar smiled. “You won’t disobey me, will you?”

  §

  Sanjar took Abu Flath to a guest room for the night, as a reward for killing the feringhee. In the morning they would find him a permanent billet.

  If the outside of the castle was nondescript, the inside was anything but. The room Sanjar gave Abu Flath was small but well furnished, which was to be expected since Sanjar and his men made their living by brigandage. Sanjar himself had begun as a roadside thief and murderer near Aleppo. He had formed a gang and eventually they had taken this castle from its owner and claimed it as their own. That was years ago. They raided caravans, travelers, villages—anyone or anyplace where money or items of value might be found. Sanjar was adept at following the political winds, and he had always stayed in good stead with those in authority, paying them well, which was why he had never been hunted down and punished.

  Abu Flath was provided with new clothes, food and drink. “Would you like a woman?” Sanjar asked. In deference to Abu Flath’s youth, he added, “You have had a woman before?”

  Abu Flath didn’t want a woman, not tonight, but he said, “I have, lord, and, yes, that would be most excellent.”

  They sent him a slave girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. She offered to stay the night, but Abu Flath sent her on her way when he was finished with her, claiming weariness. After that, he lay on his bed, waiting.

  §

  It was late. Quiet.

  Abu Flath rose. He left the guest room and made his way through the castle. He moved silently, as he had practiced a hundred times in the Old Man’s castle, passing the few guards and servants who were awake without their seeing him, as though he were invisible. He left the hall and went to the mews, where Sanjar kept the falcons which he loved more than life itself, or so it was said. He stayed there for a few minutes and left, carrying a sack. He then went to the stables, where he procured a long coil of rope.

  He slung the rope over his shoulder and crossed the castle yard to the steps leading up to the catwalk. He searched for the nearest guard, found him. The man was stationary on the catwalk, gazing over the darkened mountain side.

  Silently Abu Flath mounted the steps. He watched the guard, matched the man’s breathing, became one with him. He crept up behind him, cupped a hand over the man’s mouth and slit his throat in one smooth, practiced motion—not like his fumbling efforts the first time he had killed a man, in training.

  He lowered the dead guard to the catwalk and moved further down the walk so that he would not slip in the guard’s blood. He tied one end of the rope over a merlon and lowered the rest of the rope over the side.

  He waited, watching for more guards, but none came. There was a tug on the dangling rope and it tightened. Sounds of scraping. A black-clad figure appeared on the rope and climbed over the parapet. It was Abu Flath’s trainer, Harun al-Asad, the lower end of his black keffiyah pulled across his face. He was followed up the rope by a dozen other men.

  Wordlesslly Abu Flath led the party to Sanjar’s house. They killed the dozing guard at the door and hid the body.

  They entered Sanjar’s chambers, which were as lavishly furnished as those of a sultan, and followed the sound of snoring to Sanjar’s bed. The emir lay with two naked women, one on either side of him.

  One of the women seemed to sense their presence. She opened her eyes to see Abu Flath, who placed a finger to his lips for silence. Terrified, the woman nodded. Asad gently laid a hand over the other woman’s mouth and woke her. Her eyes went wide in the semi-darkness but she knew enough not to struggle. Th
e dagger in Asad’s hand was inducement for that. The women were quietly assisted from the bed, and two of Asad’s men ushered them from the chamber, still naked.

  Abu Flath took the sack he had brought from the mews. He stuck his dagger inside and drew it back out, with Sanjar’s prize gyrfalcon, Jabalea, impaled on its tip. The bird’s head hung loose where Abu Flath had snapped its neck.

  Abu Flath held the dead falcon under Sanjar’s nose, letting the feathers tickle him. Sanjar snorted and shook his head. Abu Flath tickled him with the feathers again. Again. Sanjar sniffed, shook his head harder, and woke to see the dead bird in his face.

  Sanjar gave a shout and scrambled backwards on the bed. He looked around at the men standing there. He was naked; his greasy hair tumbled over his forehead and face. Recovering his wits, he grabbed for his dagger but it was not there. Asad had taken it.

  Asad nodded to Abu Flath, who tossed the dead gyrfalcon in Sanjar’s lap. Sanjar stared at his prize possession.

  “You owe tribute to the Master Sinan,” Asad told Sanjar. “We have killed the falcon because you are late. You will pay what you owe now, or you will die.”

  Sanjar was finally able to take his eyes off the bird. “I will pay,” he said hurriedly. “I will pay.”

  “One thing more. Your tribute is now double. See that it is paid on time from now on. We will not be so friendly when next we visit you.”

  “Yes, yes,” Sanjar burbled. “I will.” His eyes darted between these black-clad men and his dead falcon. His eyes met those of Abu Flath, but Abu Flath showed no emotion.

  §

  “It is time,” Asad said.

  Abu Flath’s training was complete.

  He had learned riding and climbing. He had learned the use of sword, knife and strangling wire. He had learned how to employ poisons and how to move as silently as a shadow. He had learned to go long periods without food or shelter, with only the word of Allah to sustain him.

  He had been punished when he did badly, deprived of food and warmth, and he had been rewarded when he did well, with hashish and alcohol and women. He was told the women were virgins but suspected they were whores or slaves. He didn’t care. The true virgins would be his when he reached Paradise.

  Asad wore a black robe and turban, as always, and for this occasion Abu Flath dressed in the same fashion, as Asad led him into the great hall of Masyaf and the presence of Sinan, the Old Man of the Mountains.

  Originally from Persia, Sinan had been master of the small Nizari sect for more years than anyone in the hall could remember. The Nizaris had formerly been among the most fundamentalist of Muslims, but under Sinan’s direction they abjured the strictest tenets of their faith, especially concerning the use of alcohol. Their headquarters was the mountain fastness of Masyaf, from where they demanded tribute from lords as far away as Damascus. Those who did not pay were assassinated by Sinan’s men—indeed, the Nizaris were sometimes called the Assassins—and as a result, treasure flowed in. No man, however well protected, was beyond their reach. Even the great Sultan Yusef, Salah-ad-Din, feared the Nizaris and had made peace with them.

  The hall was large and ornately decorated. From his seat the Old Man watched the two men approach. For all his wealth, Sinan dressed plainly and his grey beard grew long down his chest. It was said that he had once ordered one of his disciples to leap off the mountain top to his death in order to impress a visitor with his men’s loyalty, but Abu Flath did not know if this was true.

  Asad knelt before Sinan, head down. Abu Flath did the same. At last Sinan said, “Rise.”

  The Old Man studied Abu Flath with cold, hard eyes. It was said that the Old Man had the power to read minds, so Abu Flath tried to keep his own mind blank. To Asad, Sinan said, “He has passed all his tests?”

  Asad said, “He has, lord.”

  “Good.” To Abu Flath, Sinan said, “You are now ready for the task which has brought you to us, the task that will gain you entrance to Paradise.”

  The Old Man beckoned a waiting servant, who advanced, bowed and presented Abu Flath with a dagger.

  So it was to be a stabbing. Traditionally the Old Man presented his assassins with the weapon to be used in their mission. The dagger looked plain, but the blade was sharp as a razor’s and the balance was perfect. It was a weapon of beauty.

  The Old Man beckoned another servant, who handed Abu Flath a white robe.

  “Put it on,” the Old Man ordered.

  Abu Flath unfolded the robe. It was of an unfamiliar cut, with a deep hood attached. It was made from heavy, coarse wool, the kind that rubbed the skin raw. Forgetting himself, Abu Flath showed his distaste for the garment. “What is this, lord? What is my mission?”

  At another time, the Old Man might have erupted in deadly rage—he did not tolerate being questioned. Now he merely chuckled and said, “You are to become a feringhee holy man.”

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  ROGER RECOGNIZED HIS assailant’s voice—he’d heard it hundreds of times in the last year—but it was difficult to reply with the dagger’s blade pressed against his throat. “The ring is mine,” he croaked. “My father gave it to me.”

  The blade pressed harder; Roger felt blood trickle down his neck. “You lie,” the voice said.

  “I’m telling the truth! My father left me at an abbey as a babe, along with this ring and a bag of silver for my upbringing.”

  The blade’s pressure eased a fraction. “Which abbey?”

  “Huntley. In England. Trentshire.”

  “Who was your father?”

  “I don’t know. He never gave the abbot his name.”

  The blade was removed from his throat. Roger drew a deep breath, gulping in air, and turned to face one-eyed Henry of Deraa. Henry was still in his armor and covered with dried blood.

  The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Henry’s good eye gave away nothing, but realization sank in on Roger. He could scarce believe it, but it had to be true. There could be no other reason for Henry’s reaction. He had recognized the ring, and he could only have recognized it if --

  Henry fetched Roger a blow on the jaw that laid him on his back.

  Roger lay on the floor of the church turned stable, blinking and trying to recover his senses.

  “You damned fool!” Henry said. “You imbecile!” He went to kick Roger in the side and only with effort held himself back. “I left you at Huntley so you’d have a secure life, so you’d never have to endure hardship like this, and the first chance you get, you run off and become a damn soldier. You addle-pated pile of camel dung.” Then he did kick Roger in the side. “Why did you throw it all away?”

  Roger knew enough not to tell Henry how he had longed for adventure and to see the world, how he’d hated life in the cloister. So he told him about Ailith and how he had saved her from being tortured as a witch, and how he’d killed Auberie in the process and had to flee for his life.

  Henry growled, thinking that over. “A witch, eh? Hmph, I guess it couldn’t be helped.” He kicked Roger in the stomach again. “For an idiot, you’ve done well for yourself. A knight already, and commanding a company of footmen, though I’d be a sight happier were you still in the cloister.”

  Roger started to say something but Henry beat him to it. “Why are you lying on the ground? It’s not bed time. Get up.”

  Roger climbed to his feet, and Henry indicated his sliced cheek. “You’ll have a nice scar there.”

  “At least I still have both my eyes,” Roger shot back.

  To Roger’s surprise, Henry laughed at that. “Observant little bastard, aren’t you? Well, you’re here and there’s bugger all to be done about it. You’ve a lot to learn about being a knight, but I’ll train you.”

  “Maybe I don’t want you to train me.”

  Henry kicked him in the knee.

  “Ow!” Roger said, bending over.

  Henry said, “Maybe I don’t care what you want. You’ll do what you’re told. The first thing a knight has to learn is how to follow orders.”