00 - Templar's Acre

by Michael Jecks

  But by then it was too late to help him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Lucia had not expected the crowds. At first their appearance was not alarming, just surprising. It seemed impossible so many people could have poured into the alleys.

  When the alarm was heard, Lucia was at the market with her mistress and two men. The sound was like the rushing of a torrent in full spate, and sent terror into Lucia’s heart. Lady Maria jerked her head, and they hurried towards the house, but even as they quickened their pace, a man hurtled from an alley, a bloody knife in his hand, his eyes wild. One of Maria’s men barged Lucia aside and cut at him. He died quickly, rolling in the dust with his hands at his throat.

  Now they were running. Maria was panting, panicked, but Lucia was past worrying about her. This was awful: peasants had risen to kill the wealthy. It was a reversal of normality, as if the Day of Judgement was come. Lucia felt as though her heart must burst with horror when she tripped over a man with an obscene slash in his belly. She fell into his entrails and screamed, trying to wipe her hands clean on her emerald dress, but nothing would get the blood off; it was sticky, foetid, disgusting. Already the others were running ahead of her along an alley that should take them to the house, and Lucia suddenly had a clear premonition that they would enter and bar the door whether she was with them or not. Maria would not risk her property or life to save a slave.

  Lucia lurched to her feet, weeping, but even as she sped along, she realised she had not taken the right route and must retrace her steps. It was already too late – too late – and she could not see Maria or the men, and she was all alone, and she could hear men approaching from the street where the house lay, and she couldn’t go down there.

  Her heart thundering in her breast, she stopped and stared about her wildly. There was an acrid taste in her mouth, as though she was about to be sick, and her heart was racing.

  And then she heard, and turned with a whimper to see Baldwin, accompanied by several men.

  Baldwin saw her as the mob appeared. One held a bloody knife aloft, while in the front rank, three held skins of wine.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ one of Baldwin’s companions muttered.

  The mob saw Lucia, and smiles overspread their faces. One had his hand at his cods, pulling his hosen down, when Baldwin and his men raced to them.

  ‘Back to your ships!’ Baldwin bellowed.

  They didn’t listen. The would-be rapist spat on Baldwin’s boot, while the knife-wielder ran at him.

  Baldwin stabbed the knife-man in the breast, his left hand grasping the man’s knife as he did so, then booted him from his sword; he kicked the spitter in the ballocks, and rammed his pommel into the face of the next. The crowd was forced onwards by the crush behind them, and Baldwin and the men with him had to hack and stab and bludgeon to hold their ground. It was a tight lane, barely wide enough for two horses abreast, and Baldwin lowered a shoulder, shoving the crowd back by using the nearest man as a shield, stabbing with the point of his sword . . . but there was nothing he and his men could do to prevent the mob gradually advancing. They were too many, too reckless.

  It was then, just as Baldwin thought they must soon be overwhelmed, that an unearthly shriek came from a nearby alley some yards behind the front of the crowd. Baldwin could see little of what was happening, but suddenly the press was lessened. There was another high-pitched scream, and this time he realised it was a war-cry. A sword hacked at the back of the man in front of him, and Baldwin stabbed from the front, and the man fell. Behind him stood a man in a pale tunic, with long-ish mousy-coloured hair. The man nodded at Baldwin, a lazy smile on his face, before returning to hacking and stabbing in a wild frenzy.

  The newcomer’s intervention at the flank was enough to alarm many of the mob. At last, when six men lay dying or dead, the crowd began to pull away.

  Baldwin wiped an arm over his brow, staining the linen with sweat and blood, and stared, until he was convinced that the mob was returning to the harbour.

  ‘Are you well, maid?’ he panted to Lucia.

  She looked up at him.

  Her veil had been torn away during her mad rush, and to him she looked like a terrified faun. Her green eyes were still startling, all the more so because her face was flushed, and her wide gaze was fixed upon him with so transparent a look of vulnerability that he felt he could take her up now and never let her go. He would battle the armies of Islam and Christianity alike to protect her.

  ‘I thank you, Master,’ he said to the stranger. With a man like this to help him, he would conquer any army. ‘My friend, I am glad to meet you. What is your name?’

  ‘Edgar,’ the fellow said. He paused, and then, ‘You can call me Edgar of London.’

  Lucia was in a turmoil as the men walked her up the street and away from her mistress. She submitted, because it was clear she could not go home, not yet. The mob would rape her, maybe kill her. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘You must come with us,’ Baldwin said. ‘When the streets are safe, I will bring you home.’

  She nodded. He inspired trust. Confident and tall, he strode ahead. He had a cut on his left arm, three of his companions were also nursing wounds, and the man calling himself Edgar of London followed.

  Bodies littered many alleys and corners. At one, a man lay sprawled with a dog lying dead on his body. She saw Baldwin stop and touch the dog’s head. She shivered at the unseeing eyes on the dead man. It would be a long time before she could feel safe again in this city.

  Unconsciously, she leaned against Baldwin. He was kind-looking for a Frank. Usually they stared at her with unbounded lust in their eyes, but this man did not. He made her feel safe. She was attracted to him.

  The other, Edgar, looked dangerous. He scared her. Certainly he was bold, and courageous, but there was something in his eyes that frightened her, a cold unfeelingness like an avenging angel come to earth. During the battle in the street she had caught a glimpse of him, and saw only a terrible glee at killing that chilled her.

  It made her realise that there was nowhere safe in the city. Not for her.

  To be safe, she must return to Lady Maria as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Roger Flor and Bernat had instructions to go to the port and check on the Temple’s ships. There was concern that the mob could have damaged them.

  Nothing loath, Roger took the Templars’ tunnel to the harbour. There, the curved arch of the tunnel’s roof radiated calm with its coolness. It was difficult, down here, to imagine that only yards above, men and women could have been fighting and killing each other.

  As they reached the farther end of the tunnel, and Roger walked past the guards at the door into the daylight, the day’s heat was growing more bearable. Earlier, when the mobs first rioted, the heat had been intolerable.

  He had with him three Templar sergeants and Bernat. In their brown tunics, they looked less like Templars and more like the peasants who had rioted, he reckoned. There was something about the pure white tunics that sent fear into the bowels of enemies. It was a thought: white and steel – they both petrified. Stand against them, and a Muslim would know he would soon die, because the Templars were known to be the most fanatical fighters in all Christendom.

  The ships all looked secure. He ran up the gangplanks to the first three, making sure of their moorings, seeing that nothing had been stolen from below, and then he went to his own ship, the Falcon, in which he had previously concealed a number of items. He had caused a step to be built beside the steering oar to give him a better view of the way ahead. It was a perfect hiding-place. A wooden peg concealed a trapdoor. Taking a quick, lookaround he surreptitiously opened it and he drew out the chest hidden within.

  He had enjoyed his time in the Temple. It was harsh and restrictive, but no more so than life in a manor would have been. At least no one knew the seas of the Mediterranean better than him. With his position as shipmaster came freedom. Which was why he was able to ride outside the city.
But soon his period of service would be ended, and when that happened, he needed to have money saved so he might start out again. Perhaps buy his own ship and take up a new life as a merchant – if he could cope with the boredom. Fighting was in his blood, and he would find it difficult to give up.

  He restored his chest to its hiding-place. A Templar was not permitted to possess anything during his period of service. Even a secular knight serving the Order for a fixed term could not own the horses he brought with him. They must be sold to the Order, and when he left the Temple, he would have to repay the Temple half that sum as a gift. But Roger had no intention of giving up any of his hard-earned money.

  He couldn’t be a knight even if he wanted to. Only sons of knights could become knights within the Order; even then only legitimate sons. Bastards from Brindisi were not permitted the white tunic. He didn’t care. The thought of the three vows was not appealing. Instead he would buy a ship and become rich in his own right, trading from port to port, bringing valuable rarities to Genoa and Brindisi, taking pilgrims and crusaders to the Holy Land. That would be a good life, he thought.

  Provided Sultan Qalawun left Acre alone.

  He put men-at-arms to guard the ships in case of more mob violence, then set off to walk through the city.

  ‘Have you thought any more about that man?’ Bernat asked as they walked.

  ‘If Baldwin says nothing, we are safe, and if he does speak, he implicates himself. So he will be silent.’

  ‘In his eyes there was disgust. He may decide to cleanse his soul.’

  ‘More fool him! He’ll soon become accustomed to death here.’

  Acre had been taken from the Muslims by Richard the Lionheart, and the wholesale slaughter of the people at that time had shocked even Christian chroniclers. The blood of men was set into the very mortar of the buildings here: Outremer was held by force of arms, by strength. The strong vanquished; the weak perished. That was the way of Outremer. Roger knew it. Baldwin would learn to appreciate it too.

  ‘He may accuse us,’ Bernat went on.

  ‘If he does, he will be removed.’ Roger didn’t want complications. ‘I told you before, I will speak to him.’

  ‘When?’

  Roger looked at him. Ivo was away at the moment, so now was a good time.

  ‘Today.’

  Baldwin banged on the door and was relieved to see the peephole slide open to reveal Pietro’s suspicious eye.

  ‘Eh? Who’s that?’ the old man demanded.

  ‘Open the door,’ Baldwin snarled, and as he pushed Lucia and Edgar inside, he added, ‘and fetch us wine.’ He led the way to the garden, where the air was a little cooler, and indicated a bench on which Lucia could sit.

  As Edgar took a quick, appreciative look around him, Baldwin asked, ‘Have you been in Acre long?’

  ‘A matter of days.’

  ‘Yet you wear flamboyant, local clothing – expensive muslin and silk. And your sword is of the best Damascus steel.’

  Edgar said, ‘I came here to make my fortune. I had tired of baking bread in London.’

  ‘You were born there?’ Baldwin asked, taking a goblet of wine from Pietro.

  ‘No. I come from a small village in Surrey called Clopeham. My father sent me to be apprenticed. He thought if I learned my trade in London I would be more valuable, but he forgot one thing: I had no desire to be a baker.’

  ‘So you left your master and took a ship?’

  ‘Yes. I studied with a Master of Defence, and he told me of the Fall of Tripoli, and how there should be a new Crusade to protect the Holy Land. A priest gave me money for my journey, so here I am. And I like it,’ he added, staring at the masonry, the roses, the silken cushions on the benches. ‘This is how a man can live in Acre, and how I want to. It’s better than a stinking street near the Bishop of Winchester’s stews.’

  ‘I wish you fortune,’ Baldwin said. ‘But the man who lives here has been settled in the East for many years. It’s taken him time to earn this.’

  ‘I will work faster,’ Edgar said with a patronising air, thinking of the gold he had been paid by the woman in the street. ‘All I need is a patron, and I should find one quickly enough.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  Edgar gave a quiet laugh. ‘After today? This city is seething with suspicion, fear and hatred. All the rich will want more guards.’

  ‘You think they’ll trust a newcomer?’

  ‘They will trust me rather than a dough-faced Lombard peasant with the swordsman’s skills of a seven-year-old.’

  ‘So I saw. You are competent.’

  ‘My Master of Defence taught me well.’

  ‘You learned well,’ Baldwin said and Edgar nodded. He was gifted with the ability to be still.

  ‘So . . . how will you find a patron?’

  A small cloud passed over Edgar’s face. ‘I’m determined. I will succeed.’

  Lucia said quietly, ‘You should speak with Philip Mainboeuf. He is rich, and has need of guards.’

  Baldwin looked at her. She sat quietly, hands in her lap, face fixed in despair. ‘Maid, are you well?’

  ‘Lady Maria will want to know what has happened to me,’ she said miserably.

  ‘We will soon have you home, when it is safe.’

  ‘She will be angry because I failed to stay with her. That makes me deserve punishment, in her eyes. I am a slave, you see. She owns me.’

  ‘A slave? There are none here in Acre.’

  ‘I was captured when I was young, and her family bought me. I have been with her ever since.’

  ‘What of your family?’

  ‘They were with me when I was taken. I think my mother was sold off. My father would have been killed. It is the way.’

  ‘It is a hard way,’ Edgar said. ‘Still, if you can stay away from her, you will be free, won’t you?’

  ‘No,’ she said with surprise. ‘I am hers.’

  ‘But no Christian can be held slave,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I am not Christian. I am Muslim.’

  Baldwin’s mouth fell open. ‘I . . . I had no idea.’

  ‘She took me many years ago. If I do not hurry, she will have me flogged. Then set me to work in the kitchen, or send me to the farms to work.’

  ‘Well, she locked the door against you, so it is not your responsibility, it is hers, that you are not with her now. For now, Lady, I think you had best remain here with me. I will see to your needs. I can help return you to your mistress too.’ He thought, but didn’t add, If you really want me to.

  Because looking at her again now, he thought he had never seen such a beautiful young woman.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Baldwin was not sad to see Edgar leave. There was something unsettling about him, an aura of scarcely restrained violence.

  ‘You are cold, maid?’ he asked, seeing Lucia shiver.

  ‘No, I am warm,’ she said, but there was fear in her eyes.

  ‘You need not worry. The rioters will soon be calmed and the city will be as safe as before,’ he said. She did not appear soothed by his words. ‘Why are you troubled? Is it the way your mistress treats you? Is she cruel?’

  ‘No, no. She is a good mistress.’

  ‘Please, maid, if there is anything I can do to help you, command me! I would protect you.’

  ‘What could you do to protect me?’

  ‘Keep you here, safe within my house. I can guard you night and day. If you would have me, I could marry you . . .’

  The words were out before he knew it, and he stopped, dumbfounded by his own speech.

  Lucia was as silent as he, the two a scant yard apart, but it felt as though the length of the desert lay between them. He wanted to reach for her, but feared he would scare her away, like a terrified mouse. He hesitantly lifted his hands in mute appeal, but she said very quietly, ‘I may not marry without my mistress’s permission. I am a slave.’

  ‘In a Christian city, if you agree to be baptised, you can ma
rry whom you will,’ Baldwin pointed out. ‘No Christian may hold another Christian as a slave. Renounce your faith and we can marry. I could speak to the Prelate – he would help, and—’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘Why?’ Baldwin asked. His heart was pounding, and he felt light-headed as though drunk, her sad beauty was so entrancing.

  Before she could respond, there came a knock at the gate and Baldwin cursed as Pietro opened it.

  ‘Master Baldwin, I hope I find you well,’ Roger Flor said, and then his eye fell on Lucia. ‘Ah, you must be feeling refreshed!’

  ‘This maid was caught in the riots,’ Baldwin said stiffly.

  ‘So you brought her here?’ Roger peered closer. ‘The lady with green eyes?’

  Baldwin felt a sickening lurch in his belly as he recalled the whore in the tavern. ‘She is Lucia.’

  ‘Where are you from, wench?’ Roger asked with a smile.

  Baldwin stepped in front of her, and his glower made Roger laugh aloud.

  ‘Well, I may be a Templar shipman, but I know when I’m not wanted! I’ll see you soon, Baldwin, eh?’

  Baldwin walked with him to the door, where Roger paused. ‘She is the woman you were after? I thought you wanted Lady Maria.’

  ‘She is the lady’s maid. I hadn’t realised.’

  ‘Enjoy yourself. And Baldwin – I know you didn’t enjoy your ride out with us, but keep it under your hood, eh? We don’t want news of the caravan getting out into the city. That could embarrass me.’

  ‘I see,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Good, good,’ Roger said, and chuckled. ‘I like you.’

  He patted Baldwin’s shoulder and walked off, laughing quietly, and Baldwin closed the door. Roger Flor was another like Edgar. Unsettling, and not only because of his propensity for violence. There was something else in him Baldwin found disconcerting: an appeal.

  He felt Lucia’s hand on his arm, and smiled down at her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you want me to stay here now?’

  ‘Only if you would have me. I would marry you and have you live with me.’