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through my thoughts with him and it has been agreed that we should compile not only the treasury reports of what has been lent to the royal household over the past year, but also exactly where we believe those monies to have been spent. I will need your help with some of the details.”

    “You have it.”

    Owein nodded his thanks. “It will all serve to strengthen our case.”

    “However strong our case is, the king will not be pleased.”

    “No, he will not. But although I believe we should tread with some caution in this matter, Henry does have very little choice but to concede to the Temple’s demands. Even if he refuses, we can request that the pope order him to agree.”

    “Caution is needed, brother. The Temple may stand beyond the king’s authority, but he can still make our lives difficult. He has done it before when he attempted to confiscate several of our estates. And,” added Jacques grimly, “we currently have more than enough to worry about without having to deal with the petty reactions of jealous monarchs.” He pulled up a stool and sat before Owein. “You spoke to the Master this morning. Did he say whether he has received any further reports from Outremer?”

    “We will discuss it in the next chapter meeting, but, no, he has received nothing since we learned about the Mongol attacks on Aleppo, Damascus and Baghdad, and the Mamluks’ move to confront the horde. And that, for me, is good enough incentive to confront the king sooner rather than later about his debts. We will need all the money we can lay our hands on if we have cause to counter this new threat. If the Mamluks face the Mongols and win we will have their entire army marching triumphant and confident through our territories.” Owein straightened up the neat stack of parchments on the table with the tips of his fingers and shook his head. “I cannot think of anything more perilous.”

Ayn Jalut (The Pools of Goliath), the Kingdom of Jerusalem

    SEPTEMBER 3, 1260 AD

    T he Mamluk camp was tumultuous; noisy with exultation and preparation as the army celebrated its victory in song and officers shouted their orders, maintaining tight control of what, at first glance, would have appeared to be chaos.
    On reaching the sultan’s pavilion, Baybars reined in his horse and leapt down. Pausing to tether the beast to a hobbling post he surveyed the gorge, far beneath him. The sun had dipped below the hills, casting shadows across the valley. He could hear the dull echo of axe blades against wood as the Mongols’ siege engines were torn down for the pyres of their dead. His eyes moved to the chain of Mamluk wounded, which was winding its way slowly up the hillside from the battleground. Those able to walk were being helped by their comrades and the less fortunate were laid out on carts that bounced and rattled over the rocky ground. Come dawn, the physicians would be exhausted, but the gravediggers would be wearier still. Baybars headed for the pavilion. Guarding the entrance were two white-cloaked warriors of the Mu’izziyya regiment, the sultan’s Royal Guard. They moved aside and bowed at his approach.

    The air inside the pavilion was thick with the scent of sandalwood and the flames filtering through the oil lanterns exuded a soft, buttery light. It took Baybars a moment to become accustomed to the dim interior, but when he did his gaze was drawn first to the throne, which stood on a wooden platform that was covered by a canopy of white silk. The throne was a magnificent item, spread with embroidered cloth, the arms crowned with the heads of two lions sculpted from gold, beasts that snarled down at all those who stood before them. It was empty. Baybars looked around until his eyes came to rest on a low couch that was partially hidden by a mesh screen. Reclining there amidst a panoply of cushions and drapes was Sultan Kutuz, the master of the Mamluks and ruler of Egypt. His brocaded mantle of jade damask was drawn tight against his