‘Is there a place where crusaders go?’ he asked.
‘Bars and brothels, usually,’ Ivo said shortly.
Baldwin felt his hackles rise. ‘I am not used to such places.’
‘You’ll get used to them.’
Perhaps Ivo was not the man from whom he should seek aid, Baldwin thought. He was clearly brutish and ill-mannered.
‘Master, I am sorry if I’ve offended you,’ Ivo said. ‘It’s my own bile. I am told I have a melancholy nature. Perhaps they are right. Look, if you’re sure you want to join them, you’d best go to the cathedral.’ He pointed towards the monastery. ‘It is there, in front of the Temple. You’ll find all the help you need.’
‘I thank you.’
‘Aye. And godspeed. But don’t expect too much honour and glory here. All you’re likely to find is a coffin – if you’re lucky.’
Baldwin felt terribly small as he walked the narrow streets, his pack over his shoulder. He must find the cathedral, and learn where he might acquire another sword. He needed money, too. Ivo was a kindly soul, and had given Baldwin a small leather purse and a few of the local coins so that he might buy food and drink, but it wouldn’t last forever. First, he must get to this cathedral. It was called St Anna, apparently named for the mother of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
At the harbourside there were trestles with fresh fish laid out on their boards, and soon he was walking past tables filled with foods he didn’t recognise: spices, nuts and berries, then cloths of a richness and colour he had never imagined.
The place was rammed with people. In the narrow streets, it was alarming to be jostled and pushed about by so many – but over his growing irritation, Baldwin was aware of a savage joy. He was near to where Jesus Himself was born. That was a wonderful thought.
Baldwin suddenly found his way blocked by a man in a cream-coloured cloak, wearing a white linen coif. Clearing his throat impatiently, Baldwin frowned at the delay. The man turned with an enquiring expression.
‘My apologies, my friend,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Was I hampering your advance?’
Baldwin took in the red couped cross at his breast and bowed apologetically. The man had a greying beard that reached down to his chest, and that, along with the red cross, the white robes, and the sword, marked him out as a Templar.
‘No, sir knight, I should apologise. I had no idea you were a Templar.’
‘Me?’ The man’s eyes crinkled with amusement. ‘No, I’m no Templar. Though I try to do my part. You are new to the city?’
‘I have just arrived. I am here to join with the crusade.’
‘Then you are doubly welcome. My name is Sir Jacques d’Ivry.’
Baldwin introduced himself, studying the man with interest. Templars were the only Order who tended to grow beards, he knew, while also shaving their heads. It was a sign of their rejection of secular life. This man had hair, he could see – but perhaps here in the Holy Land men would emulate priests and only shave their tonsure? Still, this knight had a gentle, kindly look in his blue eyes, like the vicar at Exeter’s sanctuary who had blessed him and sent him on this journey.
‘It is an easy mistake. I am a Knight of the Order of Saint Lazarus.’
Baldwin felt a shiver at his spine on hearing that: a Leper Knight.
He had always borne a horror of that foul disease. It was a sign of God’s rejection, many said, and the victim must be uniquely foul to deserve such a mark.
Sir Jacques did not notice his revulsion. ‘I joined the Order from an ambition to serve, and what better Order in which to protect the needy and defenceless? But many of my Order join us from the Templars, which is why our symbol is so similar to theirs. When a Templar learns he has leprosy, he will come to our house, and his service continues.’
He broke off. A man was proffering fruit from a bowl, and he took an orange with gratitude, bowing to the man and thanking him in a language strange to Baldwin’s ears.
‘What was that you spoke?’
‘Arabic, my friend,’ the knight said. He had a small eating knife in his hand and he cut the orange twice about the middle, so that the flesh came away like four petals of a flower. He left the skin attached to the orange, and studied it with a satisfied smile, replacing his knife in a sheath hidden under his tunic. ‘So, you are new here?’
‘I was told to find the cathedral.’
‘It is up that road, then turn left and keep going. You are rather out of your way.’
‘I am grateful.’
‘It is my pleasure to be of service, my friend. I hope we shall meet again.’ He pressed the orange upon Baldwin, ignoring his protestations that he could not accept it, until Baldwin took it with as good a grace as he could manage.
‘Go with God, my friend. May He guide and guard you.’ Sir Jacques looked over Baldwin at the market behind. ‘May He guard us all,’ he added quietly.
CHAPTER FIVE
Baldwin strolled in the direction Sir Jacques had indicated, eating the orange with delight. It was a rare treat for him at home, and oranges were never this sweet and juicy. As he walked, he wondered whether he was following the same paths his father had taken when he had come here.
He had often heard the story from his father’s lips. Twenty years ago, he had joined the young Prince Edward and sailed here. Prince Edward had hoped to stimulate a renewed fight to win back territories overrun by the Saracens, and could have succeeded, had he brought more men with him. But with the tiny force at his command, it was impossible.
Since his departure, as Ivo had said, the Saracens had rolled back the Christians from their borders. The Hospitallers had been forced from their great fortresses at Marqab and Krak des Chevaliers, and the Teutonic Knights had lost their castle at Montfort. Now the only protection for the cities of Outremer was the ring of castles owned by the Knights Templar. This was why so many Christians from all over the world were coming here, to Acre, just like Baldwin, in order to help the people protect their city, because the dread ruler of Egypt was threatening to overrun this last enclave.
Baldwin walked past yellow stone houses. The people here wore flowing black or white robes, with strange headgear, and their dark faces had intense brown eyes that watched him without speaking, as though he was a foreigner and had no right to be here. Never before had he felt so alien, and to be here unarmed was doubly alarming.
In the alleys were buttresses with arches beneath them for men to walk along, and irregular buildings that projected into alleys, all constructed of this golden stone. To have the money and labour to set about creating a city of stone was astonishing. He knew of some buildings – castles, cathedrals, abbeys – which depended upon such materials, but not an entire city. Here even peasants must live safe behind stone.
He kept on, marvelling, until he reached a dead end, and there he stood, gazing back the way he had come. Down there, between the buildings of the twisted lane, he could see the sun glinting off the sea, and he was compelled to stand admiringly, filled with serenity, it looked so lovely. On his way back down the hill, he stopped, wondering which road might take him to the cathedral. His sense of direction, usually acute, was failing him. Surely the cathedral must be to his right, if the sea was before him?
Hearing a door slam, he saw a woman appear in the lane, and he called to her. She ignored him, so he hurried after her. When he was a matter of yards from her, she threw him an anxious look. She was tall – and slim, he thought, under flowing emerald robes – but beyond that he could see little of her. Her face was veiled, her hair hidden in a hood, but her eyes were visible. Beautiful, they were: green, and outlined in kohl.
‘Mistress, I wondered if you could help me?’ he began.
To his astonishment, she picked up her skirts and pelted away. Ach! There was no point in chasing her. She was fleet of foot, and he was not, after his injury. His head was pounding with pain and the heat. In any case, with the luck that had dogged him since leaving Italy, she would be unlikely to speak his language.
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He stared about him dejectedly. These alleys all looked the same. After a moment’s reflection, he decided that his initial thought must have been correct. The cathedral must lie to the west. He set off down the hill.
At a crossroads he turned right, hoping that the higher ground that appeared to lie this way signalled the location of the cathedral. The alley narrowed, and then he saw that up ahead it broadened into a wider thoroughfare. Yes, it definitely had the appearance of a less intimidating, less foreign area, and he was relieved as he walked on, until he entered a square and gazed about him.
At the northern edge there was a huddle of men about a table, drinking and laughing, and he gave a sigh of relief, for none looked like Saracens. Most were sailors. He walked towards them with hope bursting in his breast that he could soon be out of here and safely at the cathedral, but then his steps faltered.
The leader of the Genoese ship was among them, staring at him with hostility as he drew a long knife.
‘Only three dead? You have done well,’ the Marshal, Geoffrey de Vendac, said. ‘Any other troubles?’
‘We had to save a ship of pilgrims.’
The Marshal nodded. He was slightly older than Ivo, strong and moderately tall, with a grizzled beard and brown eyes in a square face.
Ivo knew him well, but never took advantage. The Templars were the most powerful force in Christendom, because they answered to God and the Pope, no one else. Not even the French King had an army to compare with their Knights. But the Marshal had lost much of his confidence in recent months. He had been in Tripoli during the siege, and Ivo knew he felt guilt for surviving when so many innocents had died. People like his wife Rachel and their young son Peter.
‘Pirates?’ the Marshal asked.
‘Genoese.’
‘They’re a menace to all shipping,’ the Marshal said, scowling. ‘They plunder without thinking they harm all Christians.’
Ivo shrugged. ‘It’s always been the way between Venetians and Genoese.’
‘It has grown worse in the last year.’
Ivo nodded at that. The Genoese blamed the Venetians for losing Tripoli, and their rivalry had once more exploded into open war at sea.
Their business concluded, Ivo was gathering his pack before leaving, when the Marshal asked quietly, ‘Is there any news?’
Ivo shook his head. ‘There can be none,’ he said with fierce certainty. He thrust the last items into his bag and pulled the strap over his head. ‘They are dead, Marshal. You know that as well as I do.’
It was more than a year ago that the Marshal himself had brought the news that Tripoli was overrun.
Ivo had not expected it. No one had. At the time, the Egyptians had seemed content. They had taken castles, towns and villages – the whole of Outremer was open to their attacks – and then they took Tripoli too.
Ivo had heard much about the attacks. How massive catapults were erected and were firing their missiles within hours. A corner tower crumbled, then a second between that and the sea, and suddenly the whole city was open to assault.
The Venetians were blamed because it was they who pulled out first. They grabbed their money, crammed their goods on board their ships, and sailed away with their men-at-arms. The Genoese, fearing the Venetians had learned of some imminent disaster, took to their own vessels. Seeing the galleys of both leave the harbour, it was plain that the city must fall. Women wailed in despair, men stood shocked, watching their allies flee.
But not for long.
Muslim soldiers scaled the rubble where the wall had collapsed, and were over it and into the city in no time, slaughtering the men, capturing women and children for slaves. Some inhabitants managed to make it to the little island where St Thomas’s Church stood, praying for sanctuary, but the Muslim cavalry saw them and waded out to the island.
Not a single Christian escaped that carnage.
Tripoli had been a beautiful city. Wide roads, large houses, great churches and markets, and now, all was destroyed. The Sultan had declared that Christians would never again live there, and had ordered that every stone should be removed. And as he had commanded, so had it come to pass. The city in which beauty had reigned was a place of rubble with, here and there, the bones of the inhabitants showing bleached white.
Ivo knew. He had seen it.
‘I am sorry, Ivo,’ the Marshal said. His eye held a tear. He blinked it away.
Ivo replied stoically, ‘It’s nothing.’
‘You have my prayers.’
‘I’m grateful, but save them for the people here. Acre is his next and last target.’
‘Prayers will aid those who seek to help themselves,’ the Marshal said. He crossed the floor to a sideboard, filled two mazers with wine and passed one to Ivo. ‘We must do all we can.’
The door opened, and Ivo turned to see Guillaume de Beaujeu, the Grand Master of the Order. He bowed deeply.
De Vendac passed his own mazer to his master, and poured a third.
‘The horses are here?’ asked the Grand Master.
He was a tall man, immensely powerful, with broad shoulders, the thick neck of a knight used to wearing a heavy steel helm, and a sun-bleached beard. His head was bald above his handsome, Viking face. Ivo knew him to be courageous, but also sly and shrewd when it came to politics. It was said he had spies even in the court of the Sultan at Egypt.
‘We lost only a few, Grand Master,’ Ivo said.
‘Good. We have need of as many as we can find.’
‘It is not only mounts. We need men,’ the Marshal pointed out.
‘We have messengers riding to the Pope and all Christian kings,’ the Grand Master said, and drained his cup, adding more quietly, ‘But whether they can help, I doubt me. We lost too many at Tripoli.’
Walking from the Temple’s gates and out into the bright sunlight, Ivo was content to know that there would be more work for him. The weight of the coins in his purse was a comfort. There was a truth and honesty in money – and money bought wine and forgetfulness.
He kept on towards the cathedral. The Patriarch of Jerusalem had based himself here since the capture of his city. Ivo had a notion to go there and pray for his wife and son. When he had visited the ruins of Tripoli, he could not find their bodies among the piles of skeletal remains to bury them. He just hoped their deaths had been swift.
CHAPTER SIX
The moment of stillness was all too fleeting. Baldwin turned, but behind him he heard a bellow from the Genoese, and two more shipmen set off in pursuit.
There was one alley, which Baldwin might reach. He bolted for it, his boots slapping on the paved square, panting already with the exertion. The heat was not oppressive, but the humidity was, and he felt the sweat bursting out all over his back, under his arms, across his chest. He would give anything for a long draught of water from the stream at Furnshill. Just the memory of that chill, refreshing liquid was a torment. He slipped at a corner, and pelted up a second passage, narrower than the first. With no idea where he was heading, he simply kept running, his feet beating a regular tattoo.
In the shade of the alleys, he ran at full tilt, surging past traders, women, urchins and hawkers of all types. One man he butted into lost all his goods from a wicker basket, and hurled abuse after Baldwin as he raced off again, his wound pounding with each step, his head feeling that it must burst.
There was a roaring in his ears, and the hot air scalded his throat. He was using muscles that had grown moribund during his long sea-passage and did not know if he could keep running. Pain reached along the top of his thighs, and when he turned a corner and glanced back, he saw that the men were catching up. Gritting his teeth, he pounded onwards.
After another thirty yards he found himself in broad daylight in a wider thoroughfare. Ahead he saw a mass of people and was deafened by their cacophony: shouting voices, rattles and squeaks, the thunder of cartwheels and hooves. A glance behind showed his pursuers within a matter of yards, and he continued at a breakneck spe
ed, hoping to lose them. Each breath was painful, not helped by the dust and sand in the air. Twenty yards, fifteen, and he had to leap over a boy who scrabbled in the dirt and yelped as he passed, and then he was in the street. He joined the throng, making his way past carts and donkeys, until he was in the midst of the people, and there suddenly caught sight of the magnificent church of St Anna’s.
With a quick glance behind him that showed his pursuers were out of sight, he hurried on towards the cathedral.
A man stood in front of him. It was the Genoese.
He gripped his long knife, grinning, and called to his friends. Baldwin unthinkingly put his hand to his scabbard, only to remember that his sword had been taken along with his purse and his ring.
The knife moved from side to side like a serpent, and Baldwin could only stare in horrified fascination. He dared not look behind for the other men.
There was a shout as a stall-holder saw the flash of the blade, and men called to each other in some foreign tongue. The Genoese snarled something, and Baldwin had just steeled himself to try to wrest the knife from his hands, when he heard a gentle cough.
‘Master Baldwin, I see you have some difficulty. May I help?’
Baldwin threw an agonised glance over his shoulder to see the white-clad knight again. Jacques d’Ivry’s eyes held a menacing gleam. His thin features were set as he moved to Baldwin’s side, his hands resting on his sword-belt, head jutting as he studied the Genoese.
‘This man attacked our ship,’ Baldwin panted. ‘He killed many of the pilgrims.’
‘I see,’ Jacques said, without taking his eyes from the Genoese. ‘Master, I think you should put away your blade before you cut yourself.’
The Genoese hesitated, but when he saw the Leper Knight’s hand move to his sword-hilt, he rammed his blade back into its sheath, turned on his heel and strode away, muttering curses.
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