By the time he reached the village’s wall, all the other Templars were already packing and mounting. Roger bared his teeth as Baldwin appeared. Great news, isn’t it?’ he said heartily.
Baldwin eyed him helplessly. ‘What is?’
‘The leader of our enemies, man! He’s promised peace!’
Baldwin heard no more. The command was given, and in a moment the horses were off at a swift, loping trot, the two messengers riding in their wake.
‘Who do you mean?’ Baldwin said when they were under way.
‘Sultan Qalawun,’ Roger said, looking at him with exasperation. He had thought Baldwin would have picked up a little Arabic by now. ‘The murdering fiend who overran Tripoli, and wanted to take Acre too. It seems he’s sworn peace for ten years, ten months and ten days!’
‘You would take the word of a heathen?’ Baldwin asked. ‘What of his court? Wouldn’t they force him to attack?’
‘They’d soon be put in their place. Qualawun is a warlord to be feared. If he wants peace, we’re safe. His barons and nobles wouldn’t dare argue. They bicker and fight amongst themselves more than we Christians do, but not with Qalawun. He doesn’t brook any dispute. No, this is good news. With luck we can turn to the old ways soon.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Roger shot him a sharp look. He liked this tall English fellow, but he was as yet untried. Still, he seemed game enough. ‘There are many traders come here from Egypt,’ he explained. ‘We stop a few, ask them to pay our tolls, and that helps us all.’
‘Tolls?’ Baldwin had not heard of any tolls on the roads here. He had thought that the roads, such as they were, were built by slaves.
‘That’s what I call ’em,’ Roger winked. ‘The travellers have to pay if they want to continue on their way. And if they refuse, we take their money anyway. It only needs the rumour of a couple of dead men for others to fall into line.’
Baldwin was shocked. It sounded no better than banditry – but Roger was so open about it that such behaviour must be approved. If it was the custom of the country, he was in no position to question it. He was a newcomer, after all. The idea left him uneasy, but he did not want to embarrass himself or lose his new friend.
‘I will call you to join me, next time I go,’ Roger said, taking Baldwin’s silence for tacit agreement, and the rest of the way, he chattered inconsequentially.
Even as they entered the gate to Acre, Baldwin was still uncomfortable. Admittedly these people were Saracen, and therefore not to be accorded the same privileges as Christians, but still, the idea of holding them and demanding ransom made him feel like a felon.
They continued on to the Temple, the two messengers attracting the notice of the crowds as they passed, and many men and women pointed and muttered amongst themselves. At the gate of the Temple, a groom came and took their horses, and the two found themselves alone.
‘Master Baldwin, I think this calls for a well-deserved pint of wine each!’ Roger said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
News had already spread about the arrival of the messengers, and tongues were wagging with speculation about their mission. Roger took Baldwin to a little tavern which had a wide seating space outside, with vines growing over a wooden frame for shade. The two took their seats at benches near a small rickety table.
Baldwin was in the company of a good friend, and his day had been more than a distraction – it had been an education. He felt he was coming to understand the way of this country. After the first two cups of wine, he was certain Roger could teach him more about the Holy Land than Ivo or Jacques. After the third, he was convinced that he was more at home here in Acre than he had ever been in Devon.
‘You get on well with Ivo?’ Roger asked as he called for another pint of wine.
‘He has been kind to me. I was lost when I arrived,’ Baldwin said.
‘But do you like him?’
‘He is a good man.’
‘Aye, but depressing, eh? Not the sort of fellow to enjoy a game with dice?’
‘He doesn’t approve of gambling,’ Baldwin said with a snigger.
‘What about women?’
‘He doesn’t have any about the house.’
Roger belched and shook his head. ‘He ought to become a Templar. The knights aren’t even allowed to kiss their mothers or sisters, in case they get unclean thoughts.’
‘What of you?’
Roger pulled a face and his Italian accent grew more pronounced. ‘Can you imagine me taking a vow of chastity? I don’t think so. No, I am fond of feminine companionship. But I am a shipman: I have not taken the three oaths of poverty, chastity and obedience. They are the vows taken by monks. The knights, they are all monks, you see? Not me. I have agreed to become a lay-brother for a period of five years, and after that, in two years, I will be free again.’
‘Why did you do that?’
Roger shrugged. ‘When I was eight, I joined a ship. I’m a sailor, but I had no ship. I learned my craft well, and the Templars wanted shipmen. With them I was able to gain access to ships, and be my own master. Perhaps some day I will be rich enough to buy my own ship. I could bring grain to Acre to sell at market, and take away sugar-cane to sell in Lombardy or Tuscany. I’ll make my fortune.’
‘Tell me, what do you know about Ivo? He is so stern, like a disapproving father.’
Roger stared into his drink. ‘He was a strong fighter, I heard. He came here when your King was a Prince – that must be twenty years ago. But when your King returned home, Ivo remained here. He married, had children, and I suppose he was happy.’
‘What happened to his wife?’
‘Did he not say? She was in Tripoli when the assault came last year. She and their son were there.’
‘He was away buying horses?’
‘Aye, and when he came back it was too late. The siege had begun and all he could do was wait for news. There was nothing he could have done even if he’d been there, of course. One more sword wouldn’t have aided them. But that reflection would not help a man who saw his family slain.’
‘How could the people of Tripoli have been so easily taken?’
‘They did not think they were in danger. Just like Lattakieh before them, three years ago. Qalawun is a wily old devil. He gives peace treaties, but carefully hoards exclusions. Lattakieh was a principality, so Qalawun declared that it was not a part of the treaty with Tripoli. When Lattakieh was assailed by a great earthquake, and her walls tumbled to the ground, Qalawun took advantage: he rode straight in and the city capitulated. Last year, there was a dispute about who should inherit Tripoli when the Lord Bohemond VII died. Some sent to Qalawun to help them prevent the Genoese from taking the city, and he considered that absolved him from his oath and the treaty.’
‘Yes, but the city must have realised it was in danger. Were there no outriders to keep watch for an invasion? Even if there were not, surely some people from villages far away would have seen the army’s approach?’
‘He sent his army to Syria, but the people of Tripoli didn’t understand their danger,’ Roger said. He leaned forward on his elbows and explained.
The Templars knew the true target of Qalawun’s army, he said. For years the Grand Master had made good use of Templar gold, bribing officials in the Sultan’s court, and he alone had advance warning. He sent messengers to warn Tripoli an attack was imminent, but his urgent exhortations went unheeded. They thought he had his own mercantile interests at heart rather than the defence of their city and sneered at his prophetic alarms.
At last, seeing little more could be done, Guillaume de Beaujeu sent his Marshal and many knights to help, but they were too few, too late. The city fell, and all were enslaved or slain in the wholesale slaughter that followed. Only a few lived to tell of the devastation.
‘That is why Ivo is hurrying from Grenada to Lombardy and Tuscany seeking horses,’ Roger concluded. ‘The Order lost three hundred or more in Tripoli, and it is not so easy to replace trained warho
rses.’ Roger looked at Baldwin, and with a wolfish grin nodded towards three women in the corner of the room. ‘Hey, we have need of celebration, yes? We should ask those pretty things to join us.’
Baldwin was nothing loath. It was a long time since he had grappled with a woman, and the middle of these three was a goodly height, just as he liked.
Beckoning to them, Roger leaned back on his seat against the wall, appraising them as the women crossed the floor, giggling to themselves.
To Baldwin, they were almost painfully exotic. Their skin was moderately darker than the olive complexion of the Venetian ladies he had seen while taking ship, and their eyes gleamed in the dim light in the tavern, while their clothing was as skimpy as decency would permit. Baldwin could hear the blood thundering in his ears at the sight of long hair framing slender necks. He could almost feel their soft flesh, and the thought of their kisses was a sweet agony.
They stood before the two men, and one sidled nearer to Baldwin. She touched his cheek with her cool hand, and he looked up into brilliant green eyes.
It may have been the wine, but the sight of her kohl-rimmed eyes was enough for him to lose all desire. He didn’t want this woman, he wanted Maria of Lydda, the woman in green.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Abu al-Fida learned what had happened from their neighbours.
A fire in the middle watches of the night, and screams from within, but none might enter to save his family. Two men tried, so he was told, and one, a brawny Galician who had the house next door, showed him arms still raw and hairless where he had got burned in his attempt to rescue them.
‘I couldn’t do it, old friend,’ he said.
‘What caused it?’ Abu al-Fida asked him brokenly.
‘Who can tell? A falling lamp? A candle? It only takes a little to set a curtain alight, and when that happens, the whole house will catch fire. We did all we could, my friend.’
All we could. If they had only realised that there was a fire sooner, if they had gone to his poor Aisha and his girls, perhaps they would still be alive now.
But such dreams of what might have been served no purpose. His old life was ended, and he must take stock. He must find a new place to live, think about how to renew his fortunes. Grief was a luxury he could ill afford.
At least he still had Usmar.
Baldwin returned to the yard where Roger was still laughing, one of the other women on his lap. He smacked her smartly on the backside and sent her away with a coin. ‘So, you enjoyed your filly? She looked keen.’
Baldwin flushed. ‘She was very kind.’
He could not explain that he had not enjoyed the encounter. The girl had been eager enough, but there was something still about the woman with the green eyes that haunted him. The air of mystery that encompassed her only added to her allure, and this little wench was only a cheap imitation of her.
‘They were good little tickle-tails, I thought?’ Roger said, picking up on Baldwin’s reserve.
Baldwin nodded. ‘It’s not them, it’s another woman.’
‘Oh, you have an object for your affections? Who is this woman?’
‘She is a lady I have seen, a woman in emerald silk.’
‘Maria of Lydda?’ Roger whistled, and surveyed Baldwin with concern. ‘My friend, if you seek to lose your head, there are less painful ways to do it. She can bring you nothing but misery.’
Baldwin gave a weak grin. ‘What would you have me do?’
‘Forget her and make good use of these ladies?’ Roger suggested, turning to point at the women, but they were already gone in search of more lucrative companions. ‘Ach! We shall have to hope to meet them another day, eh?’
Baldwin nodded as Roger chuckled to himself. He rose, threw down some coins for their wine, and the two walked from the tavern and out into the light. There, Roger wished Baldwin godspeed and returned along the street towards the Temple.
It had been too exciting a day for Baldwin to think of going home. Instead, he made his way along the street in the opposite direction. He had a vague thought of going to see the castle, but as he reached the Monastery of San Sabas, realised he had taken too southerly a course. He decided to cut through the Venetian quarter – it would be faster. He continued on, and tried to ignore the enticing odours of fish grilling on a charcoal fire as he passed. After the wine with Roger, his head felt woolly, and he was tempted to go and ask for water from one of the houses near, but the men and women were unwelcoming.
As he was coming from behind the Arsenal, he caught sight of the German Tower ahead of him. Hearing a noise, he turned and saw a woman clad all in emerald. She was standing in a sun-filled alley, and the yellowish rock made her glow with a green fire.
Baldwin could not resist her. This time, she made no move to run from him as he approached. There was something otherworldly about her, as though she would disappear in a moment if he once looked away from her. She attracted his gaze with a magnetism that was impossible to break.
He entered the alleyway and strode towards her, and as he came closer, he saw her smile at him. It was a smile to make his heart melt.
And then the first blow caught him over the ear, and he fell at once into the abyss that opened in front of him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ivo returned from the Temple to find that Baldwin had left, and for his part he was relieved. The younger man had been grumpy ever since the day they had encountered Buscarel in the street.
During the hottest hours of the day, Ivo routinely took his rest, but today there came a babble from the streets that intruded into his peace, and soon he rose to see what was the matter. Outside was a stream of people hurrying past. He followed, feeling the tension grow in his breast, until he reached the Temple. There the throng was so thick, he could not hope to push through.
‘What is it?’ he asked the man beside him.
‘Messengers from Egypt.’
Ivo looked up at the tower, and the gilded lions seemed to blaze with sudden brilliance. ‘An army?’ he wondered with quick dread.
‘Army? No! That old bastard Qalawun has agreed peace!’
For an instant it felt as though a leaden cloak had been drawn from his shoulders. ‘What? Do you really mean it?’
Ivo could hear music, the wailing of a stringed instrument, the blaring of horns, cymbals and drums, as men and women danced with joy. A woman was shamelessly picking up her skirts and dancing with a man over at the next street, while all about her, people clapped and cheered. There was a sickening lurch in his belly at the thought that this was what should have happened in Tripoli. How dare these people survive and celebrate, when his family was dead? It was enough to make a man beat his head in fury.
The city would be making merry all night, but he wanted no part of it. He had never felt so lonely. He wondered for an instant where Baldwin was, but reflected that the boy would be sunk in a tavern, just as Ivo would have been at his age. Let him drink. There would be time for work later. This was a glorious day – for those who had not already lost everything that mattered, everything that made life worth living.
‘My friend, you are glad at the news?’
He wiped his eye quickly. ‘Jacques, I wish you a good day. God has saved us.’
‘So it would seem, old friend. You are torn, aren’t you?’
‘You always could see through my moods.’
‘Where is that lad, Baldwin?’
‘Who knows? He has wandered off on his own. He doesn’t need me!’
‘Ivo, don’t be twisted by jealousy. He’s a good man, but young. He will show his quality before long. No doubt he’s out celebrating, along with everyone else.’
‘Yes.’ Ivo was pensive. ‘I wonder if Qalawun is as pleased as these folks.’
‘Peace should gladden any heart,’ Jacques said.
‘Yes . . .’ Ivo agreed, a poisonous thought coming into his head. ‘But Qalawun is determined to exterminate Christianity. We both know that.’
‘What of it?’
‘If he put his enemies off their guard by swearing peace, that would be a good strategem, would it not? He destroyed Tripoli while he was “at peace”. It required only a pretext for him to break it: a dispute between Genoese and Venetian interests.’
‘True enough.’
‘It was rumoured that Venice sent an embassy to Qalawun to ask that he intervene to prevent Genoa becoming too powerful – not that they anticipated that their request would lead to the city being torn down stone by stone!’
‘Come, Ivo,’ Jacques said gently. ‘Do not suffer your bile to rule your head. Qalawun is a man of his word. He can be trusted if he swears peace. More so than a Genoese, anyway,’ he amended with a smile. ‘Only something dreadful would force him to break his oath.’
When Baldwin woke, his head thundered like a destrier at full gallop, and when he tried to roll over, there was a sharp pain at his wrists and ankles: he was securely bound. Overwhelmed by the need to vomit, he retched, his body convulsing, but there was nothing to bring up but a little bile, and he sagged back, panting.
It was hot here. He was in a small square, with the sun directly overhead. Perhaps it was a garden? There, at the edge of his hearing, was the tinkle and splash of water. Looking about him, he saw a pool of water, and sitting beside it, his Maria with the emerald dress. Her face was still veiled below the eyes, but that only added to her beauty, he thought.
‘You must not move. Your head will hurt,’ she said. Her French was heavily accented, and he found it captivating. She took a scrap of linen and soaked it in water. Wringing it out, she brought it over to him and rested it on his head. He tried not to wince at the sudden pain, instead staring up into her eyes.
‘Maria,’ he croaked.
Her eyes widened. ‘Not me. That is my mistress.’
‘Then who are you?’ he demanded.
‘I am Lucia. Maid to my Lady Maria of Lydda.’
He stared. She had the olive complexion of a woman of Granada, but her eyes were the cool green of water in a Dartmoor pool. He felt instinctively that he could rest by her all his life and never feel his time was wasted.
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