‘You feel it too?’ Ivo asked quietly. ‘There was a time when I would ignore the poor, but here, I find it more difficult. There is shame in living here in the Holy Land and doing nothing for these unfortunates.’
Baldwin made no comment, but he felt their gazes on his back long after he had passed by.
The Temple was a glorious fortress, and Baldwin looked up at it in wonder as he approached. Before him were the two towers of the Temple, with a pair of smaller towers flanking each. On top of the lower ones stood a great gilded lion, as massive as an ox. In the sunshine, they were painful to look at, they gleamed so. They seemed statements of pride, power and wealth. His impression was confirmed by Ivo a moment later.
‘You see those lions? They cost one thousand five hundred Saracen besants. The palace there, that is the Master’s, and you see the tower over there, at the sea? That is where the Templars hold their treasure. No one would get to it there! It is said that that tower was built by the Saracen Saladin when he ruled Acre. If so, he had a good eye for a place of safety. It must be the strongest part of the entire city.’
They entered the fortress and Baldwin followed Ivo as he made his way to the Master’s Palace. Two Templars in their tunics stood at the door and opened it to allow Ivo and Baldwin to pass. It was huge. The paved floor stretched away to a great dais, on which there was a table. Ivo bowed and stood in the middle of the floor. It would have been impossible to go further because of the press of people.
Looking about him, Baldwin recognised faces here and there: men he had seen in the streets, one whom he was sure he had seen on the ship on the way here, but for the most part they were rich merchants who had all the obvious signs of their wealth, with bejewelled fingers and bright, cool silks that rustled softly. Baldwin was jealous of them, standing there in his grimy shirt and old tunic.
He noticed one man in particular. He stood, tall and very strong, clad in a white Templar habit. His head was bare, showing the fine greyish stubble, and making his thick beard look peculiar. He had piercing eyes, heavily hooded, and a manner of jutting his head forward that was aggressive and contemplative at the same time. His hands were hidden in the sleeves of his habit, and Baldwin wondered whether he held a weapon in them. There was something entirely warrior-like about him, and the idea that he was unarmed seemed wrong, somehow.
Ivo pointed to him with his chin. ‘Listen carefully. That is the Grand Master of the Temple, Guillaume de Beaujeu. He knows more of affairs between us here and the Egyptians than almost any man.’
‘How?’ Baldwin whispered.
‘He has the money to pay spies,’ Ivo snapped. ‘Now, listen!’
De Beaujeu spoke with a calm authority that ensured silence in the crowd. On the dais, he towered over the people before him, glancing from one to another as he spoke. At one point his eye met Baldwin’s, and Baldwin was surprised to see that the great leader did not look away instantly, but instead studied him as if Baldwin was as important as any other in that chamber.
‘You all know that I have sent a messenger to our Father the Pope. After the fall and destruction of Tripoli, it was necessary.’
‘If we don’t provoke Qalawun, he will leave us alone,’ a man called.
‘No one provoked Qalawun, yet he attacked Lattakieh. No one provoked him, yet he attacked Tripoli. Does anyone believe that he will leave us alone here at Acre? I have heard that calls have already gone out to his people deep in the interior of Egypt, for them to gather their armies and meet him. Where is he to go? In past years, we may have thought he was making a foray into Mongol lands. But the Mongols are no threat to him. He has attacked castles. But he has Montfort, he has Krak, he has Marqab. There is only one jewel he can seek to pluck. And that jewel is Acre.’
His words rang out with simple force. No man spoke against him now.
‘So, I have sent a messenger to the Pope to beg for men to defend our city, but I fear that all too few will come. There are some hundreds who are already on their way from Lombardy, I believe, and the English have promised an army, but they do not have the men to be able to protect us. So we must see to our own protection.’
Ivo had his lips pursed as he listened. Now he shook his head. ‘We are too few,’ he muttered. Baldwin looked back to the Master.
‘The commune of Acre must invest in the walls. We must at once purchase all the timber we may, to reinforce our defences and build the hoardings. We need more machines of war, especially catapults. We need masons, to strengthen our walls . . .’
‘The walls are strong already. We would have to spend prodigiously to afford all this work!’ a man called.
‘Very well. My walls here, at my tower, are almost thirty feet thick,’ the Grand Master stated equably. ‘I shall be safe when your house is burned to the ground, with both your daughters and your wife inside it. Need I remind you how Tripoli fell? You have all heard of the violent conflagration that overwhelmed our friends there. How many of us lost friends in those massacres? Who can count the young women and children who were marched off to be sold into slavery? How many of us know women who even now are held in captivity, to suffer the shame of rape? Is that what you want for your daughters? Your wives? Do you want to die knowing that you failed to protect your families for the cost of a few ounces of silver?’
‘What of the other Orders? There are only Templars here. What of the Hospitallers?’ a man shouted.
Baldwin could see him. He half-expected a Templar to grab the fellow and pull him out for his rudeness, but no one made a movement.
The Grand Master nodded. ‘I know you, Master Mainboeuf. You and I have worked together often enough. I will say this: I will ally myself with any man, any Order, any nation, in order to protect our city. I have asked the Hospitallers to join us here, but I fear they did not heed my invitation. I hope, and pray, that they will come to discuss this before too long. Perhaps if you, or your companions, could speak to the Grand Master, he may be persuaded to come to us and talk about how we might best defend our city.’
‘You say you want wood,’ a man called. ‘Will you tell the Venetians to stop selling it to our enemies?’
The Grand Master allowed a wintry smile to pass over his lips. ‘I already have.’
It was almost noon when the meeting was closed, and the room gradually emptied. Baldwin walked out behind Ivo, blinking and covering his eyes against the sudden glare of the sunshine.
‘Those men were not very respectful,’ he commented.
‘Did you expect them to be?’ Ivo grunted.
‘I thought they would show the Grand Master respect in his own hall.’
‘He was hoping to bolster confidence. Attacking his audience would not help.’
‘I see.’
‘So, do you feel you understand the city’s position more clearly now?’ Ivo asked.
Baldwin said, ‘I would have been happier with the Hospitallers in the chamber with us.’
‘At least it shows that the merchants appreciate the dangers at last,’ Ivo said. He snorted, hawked and spat into the street. ‘I don’t think they realised how perilous our situation has become.’
Baldwin nodded, but as he did so, he saw a flash of emerald.
‘That woman! I know her!’ he cried.
‘Who? Where?’ Ivo asked distractedly.
Baldwin could see the gleam of her bright silken robes. Two dark-skinned warriors followed close behind her. He wondered at first whether she was a Saracen princess, until he saw her pale hand and wrist.
She passed through the crowds serenely. There was no need for gestures or threats, the people moved aside as she approached.
Ignoring Ivo, Baldwin hurried after her. He had to see what she looked like – but this time he wouldn’t scare her, the way he had before. Noticing a gap in the throng before him, he forced his way through it and managed to reach her side. He caught a heady odour of sandalwood and spice as he passed, and then turned to look at her.
‘My lady,’ he said, and bowed
.
That was as far as he got before the nearer of the two guards whipped out his sword and rested it on Baldwin’s throat.
CHAPTER NINE
Baldwin smiled at her. The blade didn’t worry him. Even the most determined felon would hesitate before committing murder before so many witnesses. And besides, Ivo was lumbering up nearby.
In any event, the woman was worth pausing over.
She was shorter than him, but only by an inch or so, and her body was entirely concealed beneath her flowing robes; for all that, she was arresting. Her face was hidden beneath her veil, but her eyes were wonderful. Green, unblinking and direct, she issued a challenge just by looking at him.
He bowed his head, the sword beneath his chin. ‘Your beauty is captivating, my lady.’
In her eyes there was something at that, a smile, perhaps an acknowledgement of flattery, but then she averted her head. He found himself shoved aside, and she was gone, her men behind her once more, the rearmost turning and staring at Baldwin, a warning clear in his eyes.
There was something different about her this time. The woman he had seen on the day of his arrival had eyes that were filled with terror when she saw him. This woman had the haughtiness of a princess when she glanced over him, from his scuffed boots to his uncombed hair. It was not the kind of look to inspire desire. To add to her loss of appeal, there were these guards, too. The woman he had seen in the alley had had no one to protect her.
‘What are you thinking of?’ Ivo demanded angrily. ‘You could have been killed!’
‘I wanted to see her face. I saw her before, the day I arrived here. She was in an alley near the Genoese quarter, and I scared her, I think. I called to her and she ran from me.’
‘I doubt you would have scared her,’ Ivo said. ‘Lady Maria of Lydda is a very dangerous lady.’
‘But who is she?’
‘She was wife to the Count of Lydda, a small town over towards Jaffa. When her husband died, she came to live here in the city.’
‘Why?’
Ivo shrugged. ‘I reckon she didn’t like it where she was. More to the point, I think she didn’t like her husband, and when he died, she was keen to get away from any memories. There are even stories that she hastened his death.’
‘What, you mean she hired someone to kill him?’ Baldwin chuckled.
‘You laugh? Why, boy, are you so well-versed in the ways of women as to think you understand them?’
Baldwin was thinking of her entrancing green eyes. ‘No, but I don’t think she would do something like that. She’s too beautiful.’
‘You didn’t see her face, did you? You couldn’t tell whether she was smiling or glaring.’
‘She was smiling.’
‘The rumour was that she poisoned his drink for him. She’s too much of a lady to think of getting the servants to do it for her. Once a servant gets a taste for killing his master,’ Ivo added bitterly, ‘he can never be trusted again.’
Baldwin was growing accustomed to Ivo’s changes of mood, and considered his companion carefully. ‘So, Maria of Lydda is here because she found the town distasteful. I’m sure that there are other widows who would find that understandable.’
‘Don’t even dream of that woman, boy. She is as far from your reach as the moon and stars.’
Baldwin nodded and was about to speak, but then he saw a man he recognised all too well: the Genoese captain.
‘There!’ he cried. ‘That’s the viper who stole my ring and sword.’
‘Where?’ Ivo peered in the direction Baldwin pointed. ‘I see him. Come with me! Come on, run!’
Baldwin had to make an effort to keep up with Ivo as the older man raced down one lane, up another, then along a series of narrow alleys. As they descended some steps, Baldwin saw over to the right a sudden flash of emerald, and was sure that it was the slim, silk-clad figure of Maria of Lydda. However, the instant he spotted her, she disappeared into another alley. Briefly he registered surprise that she was alone now.
Then he concentrated on following Ivo.
The horse-dealer now led Baldwin down a tatty lane, with names and graffiti carved into the old stones, and with broken and loose flags threatening their ankles at every step – until they came to a broader thoroughfare in which carts rattled noisily over the roadway.
‘Master! Master Buscarel!’ Ivo shouted.
Baldwin looked in both directions without seeing the man at first, but then, following Ivo’s stare, he saw the Genoese approaching.
Buscarel looked Baldwin up and down, a smile on his face. ‘Aha, Ivo, I heard you had taken in a waif from the streets. Perhaps this one will repay your generosity, eh?’
‘He already has – I’m glad to call him my friend,’ Ivo said. Then: ‘I am also glad to see that you returned safely from your voyage.’
‘I always do.’
‘The ship you left behind was a glorious one. I am grateful for her. Roger Flor is her master now.’
‘I had not known he was so fortunate.’
‘It is to the glory of the Order he serves, of course.’
The Genoese sneered at that. ‘Of course! I would hate to think that a man like him could seek to fill his own purse.’
Baldwin’s gaze was fixed on the Genoan’s finger. ‘That is my ring.’
‘Your ring?’ Buscarel glanced at it. ‘This is mine. It is gold. Not the sort of trinket for a penniless pilgrim, boy.’
‘You stole it from me!’
‘It is mine, I said. I do not give away my property so easily as some.’
‘You say I gave it up easily?’ Baldwin shouted, and his hand was already on his hilt when Ivo placed a hand firmly on his breast to keep him back.
‘Master Buscarel, you took my friend’s ring, and his money and weapons. He needs them back in order to remain here to protect you and your people. I look to you to return his property.’
‘Look to me? Look to yourself! You’ll have need of protection before long, fool!’ He had turned and was already walking away, down the hill towards the sea.
‘Let me go!’ Baldwin spluttered. ‘I will have my ring back!’
‘Not now. If you chase him down there, you will be killed. It’s the Genoese quarter. You cannot go in there and get out alive, not while threatening one of their captains. They’d cut you to pieces, lad.’
Baldwin growled a curse under his breath, but allowed Ivo to half-drag him away, and they returned the way they had come. Baldwin looked for her again as he passed that alley, but the woman in green was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER TEN
The following day, Baldwin was pleased to see a familiar figure enter the garden while he was practising with his sword.
‘Sir Jacques!’ he cried, thrusting his sword into the scabbard. ‘I am pleased to see you again.’
‘And I you,’ the knight said.
‘Do you know Ivo?’
‘Very well. He asked me here. He said you have made powerful enemies already.’
‘He worries too much,’ Baldwin said, irritated that his business was being discussed behind his back. It made him feel like a child.
‘Ivo seeks to help you defend yourself.’ He indicated Baldwin’s sword. ‘You practise every day?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think I need to do it so often.’
‘Oh. You have seen battle before?’
‘Yes, on the ship,’ Baldwin admitted grudgingly. Youthful pride made it hard to admit to his failure.
‘That is good. A man learns more from defeat than from victory,’ the knight smiled gently. ‘It is the way he copes with hardship that defines him.’
‘I don’t need to worry about my sword skills,’ Baldwin said smugly.
‘Oh? Good. Would you show me, then?’
Baldwin looked at him. The knight was wearing his little coif again, as he had in the street when they had first met, but meeting Sir Jacques’s gaze, he saw that as well as the gentle kindness in his eyes, there was also a measure of shrewdne
ss. Still, he was a very old man . . . He saw the knight’s eyes crinkle at the edges, as though he was reading Baldwin’s mind.
‘Yes, of course I will show you,’ he said.
Both drew, holding their swords aloft. Sir Jacques held his single-handed, almost lazily. His relaxed stance made Baldwin think he was unprepared, and he stabbed from a high guard. His sword met empty air, as the Leper Knight span about and tapped Baldwin on the shoulder with his blade, continuing his whirl away, until he was at Baldwin’s side.
Baldwin frowned. ‘I was always taught not to move my feet,’ he protested.
‘Ah, I am sorry, my friend. I have learned much from my enemies here in Outremer. They tend to fight with lighter mail, and move with great speed. It is useful, I have found, to emulate them. Please?’ With his sword held in an apparently negligent grip, he beckoned Baldwin with his left hand.
It was infuriating. Baldwin took the high guard, and slashed a blow to the left, followed by a feint to the heart and a raking movement from the right, but each time, the older knight was simply not there. Once Baldwin almost caught a trailing length of tunic, but that was the nearest he came to marking his man.
‘How do you do this?’ Baldwin demanded. ‘Whatever I try, you have moved before I strike.’
‘I have practised my manoeuvres every day for five and twenty years,’ the Leper said.
‘But doesn’t your disease slow you?’
‘Oh! You were being kind to me, allowing for my disability?’ Jacques said with a beaming smile. ‘I had not realised.’
‘No, I mean . . .’ Baldwin was confused. He had thought Sir Jacques must be leprous to be a member of his Order, but the man moved with the rapidity of a striking snake. It was clear he was no cripple.
‘I do not have leprosy, my friend. I serve my Order from compassion for others, and to repay a debt.’
‘Why did you join the Lepers, if you don’t have the disease?’
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