00 - Templar's Acre

by Michael Jecks

  ‘No?’ Roger said. He glanced at the other men. ‘All the more for us, friend Baldwin. This is the manner of our survival in this land. You understand?’

  ‘Oh yes, I understand,’ Baldwin said miserably. He was sure that the activities of these men were no worse than those of others. While they gathered up their booty, and a pair dragged the bodies a little away from the road so they might not be discovered too quickly, kicking limbs before them, Baldwin swore at himself for his folly in coming here. He was a knight’s son. Chivalry was his whole life, and chivalry did not include murdering like common felons. The shame was overwhelming.

  Roger stood, and Baldwin saw that the others had noticed their argument. There was a moment’s stillness.

  ‘Look, lad, I don’t want to see you unhappy,’ Roger said jovially. ‘We’re all friends here.’

  ‘Ivo is away, but Jacques d’Ivry knows I am with you,’ Baldwin told him, fearing some kind of retribution. ‘If I don’t return, he will want to know why. The blame will attach to you.’

  ‘Baldwin, be calm,’ Roger said, still smiling. ‘You’re safe. But if I learn you’ve been talking of our little chevauchée, you will die before me. Somewhere in a dark alley, you’ll be found, and with a Genoese dagger in your back, I expect.’

  ‘We understand each other, then,’ Baldwin said.

  Roger nodded. It was a shame, but the fellow was not going to be an ally. Nor could Roger kill him with impunity. Better to keep an eye on him, and if necessary silence him later, in Acre, when it was less likely any blame would attach to him.

  Baldwin remounted with the rest of the party. His flank stung, and he looked at it nervously. A raking slash had skimmed his ribs, but it did not hinder his sword arm. Just as well, since one glance at Roger’s face told him he must look to his own safety on the ride back.

  Baldwin rode back alone, using his injury as an excuse for riding slowly at the rear of the column, from where he could keep an eye on the others, but to his considerable relief, nothing untoward happened. It seemed Roger was content to trust him for now. Yet it was good to see the city once more, and as he rode in under the gate, Baldwin was aware of a sense of relief. He only wished he could lose his feelings of guilt and shame as easily.

  After seeing to their horses, Roger Flor found one of his sailors falling into step beside him. It was Bernat.

  He spoke quietly. ‘That fellow today – Baldwin. I don’t know if we can trust him.’

  ‘How do we know whether any man can be trusted?’ Roger said. ‘The only way is to let him have enough rope to hang himself.’

  ‘He isn’t safe, I tell you.’

  ‘He won’t let us down. I trust him.’

  ‘He may hang us.’

  Roger smiled. ‘I said, I trust him. I have spoken to him before, but if you wish, I’ll have another word with him and make him realise he must hold his counsel.’

  Bernat nodded and said no more. There was no need. They both knew that the young Baldwin was potentially a threat to them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It seemed to Edgar Bakere that all the peoples of the world congregated here in one babel of sound.

  The sight of Saracen warriors had shaken him, but the more he walked about the city, the more he grew to notice others. It was astonishing to see so many Saracens tolerated. Merchants, traders – they seemed to be everywhere. Almost more than there were Christians, and yet this was supposed to be a Christian city, with Christian beliefs. How Christians could trade with their enemies, and worse, allow them to live in the same city, Edgar did not understand.

  Nor did the other crusaders.

  He was on his way back to his inn in search of a little food when he saw the first of the fights. A woman, veiled and swathed in black material so voluminously that only her eyes could be seen, was walking with two men to guard her. For a moment Edgar reflected that Saracen women were harder to admire than Christian ones, and for that he was sorry. Edgar had always liked the company of women, and on the journey here he had enjoyed mild erotic fantasies about exotic Saracen girls . . . only to learn that they would have to remain pure speculation.

  It was not the woman who held his attention, however: it was the jeering, taunting men behind her.

  Edgar could see that she was terrified. Her eyes were wildly shooting from one side to another, and her men were as fearful. They didn’t know what to do to escape the baying mob. For that’s what it was: a mob of unruly Lombard mercenaries who had no idea how to occupy themselves. They had no discipline, and what order there had been was degraded by drink. Edgar could understand their language moderately well after spending days in their company, and now he listened with a careful ear to their insults and taunts.

  ‘Why’s she covered up?’

  ‘Come on, girl, give us a kiss!’

  ‘What’s the problem, eh? Don’t you like real men?’

  One man, bolder, or more foolish than the others, pushed his way to the front. One of the guards shot a look at his companion, and then the two tried to block the man’s path, but he truculently set his hand to his knife and stared them down, before shoving past them.

  The mob enveloped her guards like a wave washing over pebbles.

  Edgar frowned. He could leave matters, return to his hayloft and forget this woman and her guards, and yet the behaviour of the man and the rest of the mob showed that the woman would probably be raped, perhaps killed. The death of other men did not bother Edgar unduly – he was unconcerned that the two guards would almost certainly die – but he disliked the idea of the woman being ravished or slain. It offended his sense of chivalry.

  As she retreated, Edgar smilingly went to her and stood between her and the man.

  ‘Out of the way, boy,’ the man threatened, his hand still on his knife. His French was rough and, for Edgar, hard to understand.

  ‘Your pardon? What was that?’

  ‘Out of my way, fool!’

  ‘You are troubling this lady. I would see her left to go on her way.’

  ‘She’s only a Moor.’

  ‘That doesn’t give you the right to pester and annoy her. There are taverns throughout the city where even you can find a woman. You don’t need this.’

  ‘What’s she to you?’

  Edgar shrugged. ‘Nothing. But I dislike seeing a woman harried.’

  ‘You’re still in my way.’

  Edgar nodded happily. ‘I am, yes.’

  The Lombard muttered a curse and drew his knife, holding it wide of his body as he crouched. On his breath was the unmistakable reek of cheap wine.

  In the London streets in which Edgar had grown, a man soon learned to defend himself against drunk apprentices or clerks. His strength was good, his technical skills honed by the Master of Defence. He eyed the man now, his eyes moving from the Lombard’s face to the knife, gauging when the man would make his attack.

  There! The point jabbed forward, then withdrew and slashed towards Edgar’s belly, but both were feints. They hardly reached close enough to tear his tunic. Edgar didn’t move.

  ‘When in a fight, get inside your opponent’s reach,’ his Master had always instructed, ‘but if he has a knife, you must be fast and sure. Or you will be cut.’

  Today, Edgar tested his theory.

  The knife stabbed forward, the Lombard’s arm straight. Edgar darted towards him. His left arm went over the Lombard’s right, clamping the man’s knife-hand under his armpit, while he wrapped his left arm about the Lombard’s gripping his clothing at the shoulder. The Lombard was locked in his grasp, and Edgar punched twice, with stiffened right fingers, quickly, at the man’s throat. The man choked and retched, and Edgar span him around, ramming his face into the wall, then, as the man wailed, his nose flooded with blood, Edgar slammed his open hand into the man’s elbow, wrenching it sideways.

  He screamed and dropped the dagger, clutching his ruined elbow. Edgar turned him around, placed his boot on the man’s backside and pushed, hard.

&nbs
p; As the Lombard fell amongst his companions, Edgar picked up his dagger. It was a good blade, strong and well made. He tucked it away into his belt and eyed the crowd. ‘Anybody else want to try their luck?’ he challenged mildly.

  As he spoke, the two Saracen guards pushed through the crowd and went to his side, one setting his hand on his sword, but Edgar hoped he wouldn’t draw it. If someone pulled out a weapon now, the mob could become nasty. They had the ugly temper of London apprentices on riot, he thought, and he could all too easily imagine them ripping stones from the roadway to hurl at him and the two beside him. That wouldn’t be good.

  ‘You a Moor-lover, boy?’ someone shouted, and another jeered, ‘You want a whore, they’re cheaper in the tavern. She’ll cost you dear!’

  Edgar said nothing, but waited unmoving, alert. Some hotheads were all for attacking him, but already many had begun to drift away in search of wine, or easier prey.

  Before long, he was alone with the three, and he wondered as he looked into the woman’s splendid dark eyes, what she looked like. He could not even tell how old she was.

  She gave him a long study, from his head to his boots, before murmuring to one of the guards.

  ‘My Lady wishes to express her gratitude. She says you saved her when her own guards were incompetent,’ the man said stiffly.

  ‘Tell your Lady I was pleased to be of help,’ Edgar said. He tapped his belt. ‘I have been rewarded for my efforts with this dagger.’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Me? Edgar – of London,’ he said with pride.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  Edgar chuckled. ‘At an inn. They have a spacious chamber for me, where they store the fodder.’

  ‘My Lady would like to present you with this,’ the guard said, taking coins from a purse.

  Edgar stared at them, and then smiled, bobbing his head as he took them.

  ‘I am grateful to you,’ he said, and as he returned to his inn, he was pleased. Now, he thought, he would buy new clothing to replace these reeking garments. He was on his way to becoming a man of position.

  Two days later, more ships arrived with soldiers from Lombardy nd Tuscany, and almost immediately the riots started.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The first Baldwin knew of the trouble was the shouts. He grabbed his sword, buckling the belt as he went from the house. ‘Pietro! Keep the gate locked and barred, and don’t let anyone in except me or Sir Jacques!’ he shouted as he went.

  Hundreds of Muslims and Christians were running from the city into Montmusart, and he was shocked to see the naked terror in their eyes, but then, as he hurried into the city itself, he found the reason for their panic.

  It had been a wonderful harvest that year. There was grain aplenty in the markets, and traders had come in from farms all about to sell their wares. Muslims, Christians, Jews – all were to be found in Acre, generally living together without dispute or trouble.

  The arrival of the Lombard and Tuscan crusaders would change that forever.

  Leaving their ships, full of zeal to hunt down and slay Muslims, the newcomers were appalled to find the enemy walking freely about the city. They were peasants, not politicians, and their understanding of the situation in Acre was flimsy at best. They were disgusted to discover that Muslims were not only tolerated here, but for the most part were treated as equals. To those who had sailed hundreds of miles to protect Acre, it was intolerable to find that the city was already overrun.

  Later, Baldwin heard that a man had been set upon in the street for molesting a Christian woman. They didn’t realise he was not only Christian, but her husband. His beard confused the crusaders, who thought all bearded men were Muslims and therefore the enemy. They saw a Muslim walking with a woman wearing a cross, and murdered him for his supposed offence.

  That first death was only the spark that lighted the fire. Soon fights had broken out all over the city as Lombards and Tuscans ran through the alleys, far down through the Venetian quarter, up through the Pisan and Genoese sectors, and back into the main city. A hothead tried to batter his way into the Temple, but was quickly disabused of his belief that he could enter – and his unconscious body was taken away by his friends.

  Many fought with resolute incomprehension. They saw strange clothes, beards and dark skin – and did not think beyond those manifestations of an alien culture. Baldwin wondered whether they could even think. They were the poor, the uneducated, the dregs of society – and most of them were drunk. All they knew was that the Pope had sanctioned their journey here to fight Muslims. So they did, wherever they found them.

  His flank still smarting, Baldwin entered the old city. There was screaming from the area near the Hospital, and more from the market close to San Sabba, and he smelled burning. Wafts of smoke filled the alleys as he ran.

  It was as he made his way through the streets with others summoned by the shouts that he found the first bodies: a man, his face horribly disfigured by a blow, a second victim a short distance away who had been stabbed many times. Their blood was pooled in the gutter, and Baldwin waved away flies with disgust as they tried to settle on his face. It was repellent that they would gorge themselves on the dead and then smother his face. He hurried on, and when he came near to the Genoese quarter he suddenly found himself in the middle of mayhem.

  There must have been at least two hundred peasants, ill-armed, and poorly trained. A sergeant was bawling himself hoarse ordering them to stop, but those at the front were filled with bloodlust. There were already six bodies on the ground, three decapitated, and as Baldwin watched, three dragged a man forward, forced him to kneel, and a fourth, laughing with a lunatic joy, hefted a heavy butcher’s cleaver, aiming at his neck.

  As his weapon reared back to strike, Baldwin reached him.

  Afterwards he didn’t remember a conscious decision to protect the man kneeling and weeping with incomprehension in the dirt, but the sight so enraged Baldwin that his legs carried him across the square in an instant. He slammed into the executioner, and the man was sent sprawling, the cleaver clattering on the flagstones.

  ‘Release him!’ Baldwin bawled with rage, his sword already pointing dangerously at the three gripping their captive. They obeyed at once, seeing the savage anger in his face. They let go of their victim, stepping away carefully, and Baldwin felt a momentary pleasure. He had failed to protect the merchants against Roger Flor, but he would not fail this man.

  There was a scrape, and he turned to see the executioner grabbing for his cleaver. Baldwin placed his booted foot on it and held his blade to the man’s breast.

  ‘It’s mine!’ the man said.

  ‘Leave it where it is!’ Baldwin rasped.

  The crowd muttered angrily, and all might have ended badly, had it not been for a party of Hospitallers who entered the square, swords at the ready, closely followed by twenty Genoese crossbowmen. The mob-lunacy dissipated at the sight of the weapons facing them. The victim had fallen, and was retching drily on all fours in the blood of the other bodies, and Baldwin felt a pang as he glanced at them.

  ‘Why have you done this?’ he demanded loudly to the people nearest. ‘Isn’t it enough that we are in danger already, without killing our friends?’

  ‘They aren’t our friends,’ the executioner spat. His face twitched, while a hand scrabbled at his lice-infested beard. ‘They’re Moors – our enemy! If you don’t kill them, you are a heathen like them! Blasphemer!’

  ‘Really?’ Baldwin sneered. He reached down to the throat of the nearest corpse and pulled away the simple wooden cross he had seen there. ‘So now you think Muslims worship Christ as do you or I? You’ve murdered Christians, you fool!’

  He dropped the little necklace back onto the body. A Hospitaller stepped forward and grabbed hold of the executioner to lead him away.

  But Baldwin had heard another scream, and he hurried to a nearby alley. As the Hospitallers led away their captive, other men of Acre appeared. There were five behind h
im now, and seeing that he had their support, he called them to him, and ran into the alley.

  Into the Genoese quarter.

  It was after prayers, and Abu al-Fida was feeling that temporary ease which always struck him afterwards. Prayers helped him think of his lovely Aisha and his daughters more calmly. It took away the harsh edge of sadness, and replaced it with a softer pain that was at least bearable.

  ‘What is that noise?’ Abu al-Fida said as they left the lane and entered a broad roadway.

  Usmar’s face was white. ‘A rabble – they are beating men, Father!’

  ‘Come – here,’ Abu al-Fida said, thinking to evade them. He led the way back down the alley, and at the end was going to turn up the next, when they saw more men coming towards them. This time, there were only six or seven – not enough to alarm him.

  Usmar murmured, ‘Father, shouldn’t we go—’

  ‘Come. This is Acre, not some provincial village,’ Abu al-Fida said. He continued, and smiled politely at the men walking the other way.

  One nodded, and a second grinned, but then there was a shout behind him, and Abu al-Fida turned in surprise to find that another group of men was pointing at him and calling out. As he watched, they started to run towards him.

  ‘Usmar,’ he said, ‘go!’

  ‘I cannot leave you!’

  ‘You must! Run!’

  Usmar set off, and perhaps it was that which made the men act as they did. Usmar was grabbed as he bolted past, and his body slammed to the ground. Then, although Abu al-Fida shouted and tried to get to his son, he saw the flash of a blade.

  Strange. Afterwards, all he could recall was that flashing blade, as it rose and fell again, until a red mistiness enveloped him.

  A hideous blow caught his neck and he was thrown to the ground, his head an insupportable weight, as though made of lead, and he lay with his cheek against the gravel in the roadway, while he heard the sound of a man choking.

  Later, when the men in the white tunics arrived and drove the mob away, he realised the choking had come from his son.