00 - Templar's Acre

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I wanted to offer my life in service. If it pleases God, and I hope my efforts do, then I can die knowing my life has not been wasted. And helping a young Crusader must also give comfort to God. Or so, at least, I pray.’

  Baldwin was feeling the strain. His arm was tired, and the air from the sea humid; his armpits were sweaty, his back running with moisture. He wiped his face.

  ‘Come, Master Baldwin. Another bout?’

  Again that infuriating beckon. Baldwin took his time, placing his feet carefully, thinking. Each time the Leper Knight had whirled, he had moved to the right, coming back behind Baldwin’s sword hand. This time, he resolved, he would meet his opponent as he went.

  His sword rose into the True Gardant, his fist above his line of sight, the swordpoint dropping down before him, aiming at the knight’s belly, and then he moved. He stabbed downwards, then span, bringing the sword round to hack at the knight’s thigh – but the knight wasn’t there.

  A sword tapped his head.

  ‘Sorry, I thought you might try that.’

  Baldwin was furious. He gritted his teeth, grasping his sword tightly, almost thinking to attack in earnest, but then he saw the smile on the knight’s face grow pensive.

  ‘My friend, I hope I have not offended you? However, if you are to survive here, you will need to practise with a Saracen I know. He can teach you much. It is not that your skills are at fault, but here men use curved blades, and a drawing cut. If you wield a sword in battle against men in armour, it is less a cutting device than a hammer. You wield a hand-and-a-half sword like a long-handled maul, because cutting through mail is not easy. Sometimes you may use it as a spear, which can work, but not always. However, in the city here you will find few wear mail. Good swordsmanship is more important. Especially against the Genoese.’

  Pietro walked into the garden bearing a tray of cool drinks, and behind him was Ivo.

  ‘I asked Sir Jacques to test you,’ Ivo said. ‘If you become embroiled in a fight with Buscarel, you will need more speed and guile than the skills you learned in England.’

  ‘So you think me incompetent with a sword?’ Baldwin snapped.

  ‘No. You are good. Just not good enough,’ Ivo said.

  Sir Jacques chuckled. ‘We all had to learn when we came here.’

  ‘If I fought the Genoese, I would die in moments,’ Baldwin said sulkily, shoving his sword away. He felt a wave of self-pity. ‘I didn’t land a single blow on you.’

  ‘If you met with a man as old and feeble as me, perhaps yes,’ Jacques chuckled.

  ‘I came here to fight, and at that I am a failure. In my first battle at sea, I was beaten; in the streets you had to save me. I cannot fight anyone. I am pathetic.’

  ‘You have much skill, my friend,’ Sir Jacques said kindly. ‘But you need to learn how to watch your opponent and anticipate his moves.’

  ‘What, am I to spend my time learning and not fighting?’

  Ivo nodded. ‘There are no great battles to fight yet. Some time soon, perhaps, we’ll have need of more swords. The Sultan Qalawun wants all Christians thrown from this land.’

  ‘You see, he hates us,’ Sir Jacques continued, ‘and so he should, for we wish nothing less than the denial of all his ambitions: we seek the recovery of Jerusalem for God’s chosen people, for the Christians. There will come a day when your arm’s strength may lead to the protection of the people of this city. Until then, you must prepare yourself, as the Knights of Saint Lazarus do, and as the Knights of the Temple do: by practising with sword and lance and knife and mace – until you can wield all weapons to their best effect, to the glory of God.’

  He stood and rested his hand on Baldwin’s shoulder. ‘Come! You fought well today. With practice, you will fight still better, and be a great joy to all Christians.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was a few days later that Baldwin met the Templar shipmaster Roger Flor again.

  For the last few days, Ivo had been taken up with business. More horses were needed for the Order, and Ivo was the Templars’ chief trader in horseflesh. He was known, Baldwin learned, all over the Mediterranean for his fairness, but also for his determination to win a good deal for his clients.

  Well, that attitude was fine in business, but Baldwin thought it made him too easy-going. Ivo was happier to negotiate than protect his own interests, but Baldwin was the son of a knight. He had a duty to avenge any slur, and the Genoese had gravely insulted him. Baldwin would have his day.

  But not with Ivo’s help.

  Baldwin took to walking about the city in the early morning before the heat began to hammer at the senses. He liked it best just after daybreak, when he would walk to the cathedral to listen over the hubbub of merchants haggling and children playing to the solemn prayers. The scent of incense lifted his spirits, and in there it was hard to believe the dire warnings from Guillaume de Beaujeu of an army being raised by the Egyptians to overwhelm the city. God would protect His own. He would not see His last city destroyed, giving His Holy Land to the heathen.

  Walking from the cathedral one morning, Baldwin stood in the sunshine and snuffed the air. There was a fresh breeze from the sea, and he could imagine the waves chopping at the hulls of the ships in the harbour, the hum of the great cables as the wind plucked at them.

  ‘Master, I am glad to see you once more,’ said a familiar voice, breaking into his reverie. ‘I hope Ivo the killjoy has not completely destroyed your pleasure in gaming?’

  ‘Master Roger – I am glad to see you,’ Baldwin said, grinning. It was easy to smile at such a welcoming face, especially since Roger Flor was only a little older than himself. Baldwin felt a ready affinity for him which he could not feel for Ivo. After all, stern Ivo was old enough to be his father.

  ‘What, no Ivo today?’

  Baldwin grinned as Roger made a show of peering high and low in all directions. ‘No, he is at the Temple. He prefers to spend his time counting coins there.’

  ‘Ah, an honourable occupation, I doubt me not. Being a Templar, I’m assured there is no nobler way for a man to spend his time,’ Roger stated, nodding sagely.

  ‘I would prefer to be busy with my sword,’ Baldwin said. ‘I came here to fight the enemies of all Christians.’

  ‘You should be a Templar, then. We exist to serve the pilgrims,’ Roger said.

  Baldwin laughed at that. ‘What, serve? With the riches owned by your Order? You’d do better to give money to people so they can afford to travel here!’

  Roger looked at him, and there was an unwonted seriousness in his voice. ‘Don’t make that mistake, Master. There are many who deride the Templars, but we need that money. It is essential. If pilgrims are attacked here, they need help here, and were it not for the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, they would be entirely at the mercy of the Saracens. But come! We will not fall out over such affairs.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ Baldwin said, ‘but I should like to know, if the reason for the Templar Knights’ existence is to protect others, how can they do it from inside a great fortress like that?’

  Roger followed his pointing finger and gazed at the tower of the Temple. ‘We don’t,’ he said simply. ‘Our service lies in bringing people here by ship, like you, and then protecting them all about here.’

  ‘In the city?’

  Roger looked at him. He still wore his customary little smile, but there was a hardness in his eyes Baldwin hadn’t seen before. ‘If you want to see what we can do, come with me today. I’m riding with a reconnaissance out to the south, into the bay. You may join us, if you wish.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Their journey had been a great success, and the trader Abu al-Fida was glad as he paid off the leader of the caravan and took his leave.

  Abu al-Fida smiled at his son. ‘You did well this time, Usmar.’

  ‘I had a marvellous teacher, Father.’

  ‘This is true,’ Abu al-Fida said contentedly.

  He and his
son had hired a pony, and now, with the proceeds of their sales in Damietta laden on the beast’s back, they began to walk along the narrow streets to their home. Many Muslims lived here, in the Christian city of Acre, but few had a past like Abu al-Fida’s. He had once been a warrior, but for him the days of lust and slaughter were closed away behind a sealed door in his mind. Once in a while he had awoken his darling Aisha with his screams in the night, but she would comfort him through his nightmares, and over time, his dreams had lost their virulence. It was many years now since Antioch’s fall, when he had clambered up over the rubble with his sword drawn, to deal death to the inhabitants. It was to escape his past that he had come here to Acre, to forget machines of war, to become a simple merchant. A man of peace.

  He shuddered. It was peculiar that he should have begun to have such dreams again.

  They were passing the castle now, and soon would be at Montmusart, where they would go along the alley to their little house. There, his wife and daughters would be waiting. It was a good place to live, a good city. Acre was rich, and had made Abu al-Fida comfortable. He had a good reputation.

  Passing under the gate of the inner wall that separated Montmusart from the old city, he entered the lane that would take him to their house.

  ‘Usmar – you should buy a gift for your mother,’ he said with a frown.

  ‘I shall buy her flowers, Father.’

  ‘Very good. I will meet you at home.’ Abu al-Fida watched as his son hurried away. He smiled to himself. His boy, already twenty, was becoming a masterful negotiator in his own right.

  He continued, anticipating his welcome, turning over in his mind different ideas for new ventures, and how he might make best use of his son’s skills, until he reached the house, and there he stopped.

  He must have come to the wrong street, he thought at first. This wasn’t his home.

  For where his house had stood only a shell remained, a twisted mess of charred and broken timber and rubble.

  ‘What has happened? Where is my wife?’ he called, but no one came. Only Usmar, who reached him gripping a brightly coloured rose in a clay pot.

  ‘Father?’ he said. ‘What has happened?’

  Abu al-Fida did not answer. He fell to his knees, his hands scrabbling in the ashes and stone as if searching for his family.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  His first view of the lands about the city surprised Baldwin. When he had climbed onto the walls near the Lazar Gate in his first week, he had looked out over square, mud-built homes with low roofs on which were tables and cushions laid below stretched awnings for shade. Many slept on their roofs at night when the hot, humid air sucked a man’s energy.

  Today he saw a different land. Riding from the Patriarch’s Tower, they rode through the little homes built close to the wall, and thence out to fields bright with orchards and vegetable gardens, and the ever-present olive groves. The land was ablaze with colour, with flowers and fruits: pomegranates, roses, sweet-lemon and grenadine all grew in profusion, he had heard. Before them, heat-haze made the horizon wobble and dip confusingly.

  ‘It hardly looks like it needs protection,’ Baldwin commented.

  Theirs was a party of fifteen. A knight in a white tunic led them, but he was an old-school Templar who arrogantly ignored the others. The rest were all like Roger, brown-clad sergeants, with lighter arms. This was only a reconnaissance, not a force in strength.

  They followed the coast, past beached ships and on until they reached a road that led away from the sea.

  Baldwin was already sweating profusely. He wore a new shirt, but even with the fine muslin, the heat was intolerable, and the fine dust thrown up by the hooves before him made breathing difficult. He had copied the men about him, pulling a scarf over his face and trying to breathe through that, but it was uncomfortable and he felt as if he was lurching along the road to Hell.

  They had ridden up a slight rise, and all about here was scrubby vegetation, with an occasional olive grove. They stopped at a village, where the Templar demanded water and bread, and Baldwin was glad to climb down from his saddle. He soon drained the goatskin he had brought with him, and went to the well to refill it.

  When he returned, Roger motioned to him, and he sat at Roger’s side to share flatbread and olives.

  ‘So, do you like the countryside?’ Roger asked.

  Baldwin looked around at the dry walls of the village buildings, the pale soil and sparse plants. ‘I think it could do with a little Devon rain,’ he said.

  There was a shout from the edge of the village, where a man had been set to watch the road, and Roger sprang to his feet. The knight was already at his side, and staring out towards the distant hills.

  ‘What is it?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Looks like people on horseback,’ Roger said, and there was a suppressed excitement in his tone that Baldwin could feel in his own breast.

  In the distance, travellers had been betrayed by the cloud of yellowish dust that enveloped them. Now, in the midst of the dust, Baldwin saw figures. Horses or camels, he couldn’t make out from here, but he felt they were likely camels because their legs were so long. Surely these were Saracens, he thought, and the idea brought a tingle to his blood: he would see his enemy at last.

  The knight snapped a command at Roger, who hurried to his horse, calling Baldwin as he went. Baldwin mounted, still chewing his bread, and the two trotted from the village and down a slight incline to the roadway. Side-by-side to avoid dust, they loped along.

  ‘Saracens often ride into our territories,’ Roger said. ‘Usually they are just travellers, but occasionally we get the odd outrider who is here to study our defences. When we find them, we send them on their way.’

  Baldwin nodded. He stared at the men riding towards him, but was already prepared for disappointment. Nothing in the Holy Land was as he had expected.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We shall talk to them,’ Roger said, glancing at Baldwin. ‘This isn’t a riding out.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. I just wasn’t expecting to come all this way and not fight. I want to be useful.’

  ‘Maybe later,’ Roger said. ‘You’re game, Baldwin. You’ll be a good friend in a fight, I think.’

  Baldwin brooded. ‘Scouts for the enemy are to be left to ride home – no matter what information they carry?’ He was a knight’s son, and pride dictated that enemies should be engaged and vanquished, not sent on their way.

  ‘Oh, there will be time for profit later,’ Roger laughed. ‘Yes, later we can see what such men have, if we’re lucky. I think I’m glad I found you.’

  Baldwin wasn’t sure what Roger meant, but it was clearly intended in a friendly light, and he was prepared to take any compliment.

  As the party drew nearer, Baldwin saw that the heat haze had deceived him. The three newcomers were all on horseback. The horses’ legs had seemed longer because of the mirage.

  Holding up his hand, Roger walked his horse to them.

  Baldwin heard him give the Muslim greeting and studied them as they chatted. The man in the front was a tall, thin fellow with a grey beard that covered half his breast. Behind him were two younger men, both also bearded. The one nearest Roger had narrow, suspicious eyes, and Baldwin thought he looked the sort who would be glad to kill a Christian.

  Their mounts were all well-caparisoned, sturdy ponies, designed for stolid journeying rather than for racing, and looked as if they had covered many miles already. As spies’ beasts would, Baldwin thought to himself. Deep in his belly, he felt misgivings grow.

  Three was an odd number to be wandering, he thought. And it was peculiar that there were two young men with one older man. He would have expected all to be similarly young. But perhaps this leader was an experienced spy, with knowledge of the area hereabouts, and had been sent with two young guards to assess the land, to find the best routes for an army to take to invest Acre.

  There was no news of an army from Egypt, but Baldwin had heard that the a
rmy which had overrun Tripoli had appeared from nowhere . . . yet it had brought machines of war and tens of thousands of men. Perhaps, in the weeks before that battle, there had been men such as these, who had ridden about the land before the city had realised an army was on the move. Parties like the one of which he himself was a part, could have been surrounded and cut to pieces so that they were unable to return to the city to warn of the approaching disaster.

  He threw a look over his shoulder. The Templar stood watching. Baldwin returned his gaze to the three, feeling a heightened alarm. If they were to draw their swords and set about Roger, it would be difficult for Baldwin to protect him. Still, he remained where he was, his hand resting on his saddle’s crupper near his sword hilt. If need be, he could draw steel quickly.

  Over the shoulder of the old man, a patch of dust caught his eye – a rider, making short work of the roads.

  Baldwin’s distrust increased. If there was one rider, there could be more. He shouted to Roger, pointing, and set his hand on his sword. In a moment, the two younger men had drawn theirs, too. Roger snapped something at Baldwin, shaking his head, but Baldwin couldn’t make out his words as he hefted his sword to charge the group about Roger. His feet were out, preparing to spur his mount on, when he realised that all three and Roger had turned to face the gathering dust-cloud.

  There was more than one man approaching, he saw. There were two, and both were cantering with a lazy motion that could eat up the miles with ease.

  Roger bowed to the older man, hand on breast, and remained on his horse, staring at the approaching pair as the other three rode on towards Acre and the sea.

  ‘This doesn’t look too good,’ Roger said.

  He could not have been more wrong.

  Their ride back was a hurried affair.

  When Roger was given the news by the two messengers, his roar of laughter could have been heard in Acre, Baldwin reckoned. Roger had turned and spurred his horse towards the village at full gallop, Baldwin struggling to persuade his own mount to turn and join him.