‘Masters, it is a good morning, and I think a wonderful opportunity for a ride,’ the Leper Knight declared, pulling his gloves from his hands as he entered. He gladly accepted a beaker of watered wine, and peered at Ivo and Baldwin over the rim with eyes that danced with happiness.
‘What are you talking about?’ Ivo demanded. He set his wax tablet on the floor and scowled up at his friend.
‘The sun is up, and I consider it possible that a short ride to north and east may provide our young companion with a profoundly desirable encounter.’
‘You mean you’ve found her?’ Baldwin said, standing quickly and gaping. ‘My Lucia?’
‘I may have, yes. A slave-trader told me he took a woman to Lady Maria’s manor towards Tiberias. I would not be surprised if we were to find your woman there.’
‘My friend! I don’t know what to say!’
‘Then it may be best to say nothing until we know that she actually is there, Master Baldwin,’ Sir Jacques said, recoiling from Baldwin’s enthusiasm.
‘Aye, yes,’ Baldwin agreed, trying to control his grin of delight.
‘How sure are you?’ Ivo asked.
‘The man said that there was only one woman and it was shortly after the riots. I trust our friend has not seen the woman since then? Then it is possible, if not probable.’
‘That road is not safe.’
‘No, Master Ivo. But if the young woman is there, it would be a kind act to rescue her.’
Baldwin’s face fell. ‘How can I do that? If she is being held, I have no right to take her. Even if I wanted to, it would be hard with one against a number of men.’
‘Perhaps you would not be alone,’ Jacques said with a smile that Baldwin could only think of as sly.
He had never seen such an expression on his friend’s face. ‘W-would you come with me?’ he stammered.
‘There is need of a patrol to the north,’ Jacques told him. ‘The Templars and Knights of Saint Lazarus will be leaving later. We should be glad of your company, Master Baldwin.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
A short time after Jacques had left, Baldwin was ready to go out on patrol with him. He had pulled on a mail shirt and tunic, and with his sword belted over the top, he looked almost like a squire in his own right.
Ivo was about to clout the lad over the shoulder in an unaccustomed display of affection, when he heard the sound of men at the door again. The moment Ivo clapped eyes on the messenger, he felt his elation subside.
‘Who is this?’ Baldwin asked.
‘A messenger from Cairo,’ Ivo said. He beckoned the man to him, and took the proffered message.
‘What is it?’ Baldwin wanted to know next.
‘I must visit the Marshal,’ Ivo said heavily. ‘Ride fast and safe, and return quickly, lad.’
Ivo then took up his sword and made his way to the Temple, where he was soon brought before the Marshal. Geoffrey de Vendac was looking pale, Ivo thought.
Squat pillars supported the ceiling, and candles flickered and smoked from sconces set into pillars and walls of the Temple. The Marshal waved Ivo into his chamber, and when Ivo was seated, he motioned to his servants to leave them.
‘I am glad you could come, old friend,’ he said, and cleared his throat. ‘We have heard more from Cairo.’
‘I guessed as much.’
‘There has been an attempt upon the life of the new Sultan. As you know, all too often a man’s blood is dissipated in his children. Our misfortune is that our foe has left another capable leader behind.’
‘His son?’
‘Al-Malik al-Ashraf Salah al-Din Khalil ibn Qalawun,’ the Marshal agreed, rolling the lengthy name over his tongue like a man suspecting a poison in his wine. ‘Yes. When Qalawun was dying, he called al-Ashraf Khalil to him and made him swear to continue the war against us. This the man agreed. During the time he took to have his father buried, we hoped we might get another chance for negotiations.’
‘What happened?’
‘An Emir called Turuntai attempted to hasten the process of succession. He organised a plot to remove al-Ashraf Khalil, but the Sultan came to hear of it. Turuntai is dead, and the Sultan more firmly installed on his throne than before. He has already issued commands to the army.’
‘They won’t attack yet,’ Ivo said. ‘It’s winter. They’ll not advance until spring.’
‘That’s right. Our spies tell us that there are sixty thousand horse and a hundred and forty thousand men-at-arms. Two hundred thousand, all told.’
‘That means nothing unless there are machines and miners.’
‘He has them. Thousands of miners, and over a hundred engines.’
‘Over a hundred?’ Ivo asked, shocked.
‘Some of the largest catapults ever created, Ivo.’
‘How many men are there here in the city?’ Ivo asked, calculating.
‘There are perhaps forty thousand souls all told. Of them, fewer than a thousand are knights, and perhaps there are sixteen thousand men-at-arms. The rest . . .’ He let his words hang in the air for a moment, then continued: ‘There is no need for horses now. When the army of al-Ashraf Khalil descends upon us, they would serve only as food for the people of the city.’
‘I understand.’
‘However, you can help the Temple and the city with other work.’
‘How? Tell me how I can assist you?’
To Ivo’s consternation, the Marshal let his face fall into his hands and could not speak for some moments. Ivo stood, unsure what to do or say. He shuffled, looked about the room. Sir Geoffrey had always been so strong and purposeful. To see him reduced to this was deeply disconcerting.
‘Master Ivo, I am sorry,’ the Marshal said. He took his hands away and stiffened his back. ‘My apologies. I must soon go to the chapel, so I shall be brief. I know your wife and child were in Tripoli.’
‘I tried to return to them,’ Ivo said steadfastly.
‘I know. I was there, as you are aware. I was persuaded to leave on a ship before the end, and my comrades remained to do all they could. It was little enough. All died. Master Ivo, I saw that city in all her glory, and I saw the devastation of the Mameluk attacks. The rocks thundering into walls. Men and women crushed – babies, too. I have never seen such appalling sights. Those who survived the fury of the missiles were slaughtered by the Muslims running through the streets. Master Ivo, I would not have that happen again.’
‘I see.’
‘I wish you to plan for all those who are not committed to fighting for the city, to be taken away. The Genoese and Venetians should be able to evacuate the women and children to Cyprus. They will be safe there. And with them gone, my friend, we shall all be able to fight more bravely, knowing that whatever we do, we do not risk the lives of the poor and weak. We fight for God and God’s land.’
Ivo nodded. He was still thinking of Tripoli.
Buscarel could see the Temple towers from his door.
While he despised the Templars, being more comfortable with the Hospitallers as a Genoese, he appreciated the sight of their great building with its immense towers. He had always held a fierce love for this city. It was where he had installed his woman, and two sons too. His love for Acre was as strong as his hatred for Venice and her allies, but today, walking through his door, he felt only relief to be back at his home.
The door gave onto a short passageway that led to the square enclosed garden within. It was not enormous, but was fitting for a merchant seaman of his importance and wealth. He was lately returned from a short journey seeking fruits, and hoped to surprise his woman.
She stood, flustered and surprised as he entered. ‘I thought I should visit my wife,’ he said affectionately.
‘You will need food! Wine! Please, let me . . .’
‘Cecilia, sit, wait with me.’
She made as though to go to the kitchen, but his calm beckoning persuaded her, and she walked to him, her face downcast. ‘Was it a successful voyage?’
&
nbsp; ‘Master Mainboeuf will be content. Where are my sons?’
She smiled. Cecilia had the olive complexion of a southern woman, and although she was almost thirty years old, her looks had not faded. When she smiled, her eyes danced with joy.
‘They are with their nurse at the house of the merchant of Pera.’
‘Manuel? Good. It would be pleasant to have some time alone with my wife,’ he said.
He walked with her to their bedchamber, and they kissed, then made love. When they were done, he remained naked on the bed, drinking wine as he gazed out of his window towards the sea and the great port, over the roofs of the Venetian houses and palaces.
Venice! he thought. The thieves of the Adriatic! Their piracy was notorious throughout the Mediterranean, especially with their alliance with the Templars. Look at Acre! The city could be the jewel of the East, if the Genoese had their way; unfortunately, the Genoese quarter had no access to the sea, without passing through the Venetian quarter. The harbour was all theirs, and they had their lands and privileges guaranteed by the Templars. No one could fight both.
He was no hypocrite. It was true that Genoa had profited from her investment in Tripoli. If that city had survived, Genoa’s wealth would have been guaranteed, for the merchants there were keen to deal with Genoa, almost to the exclusion of all others. That was why Tripoli had fallen. All knew it. Someone had travelled to Qalawun to demand that he intercede on behalf of those poor men from other cities who could not trade in the way they had in their past. Because Genoa was become the monopolistic trader with Tripoli.
Yes, all knew what had happened. Venice had sent an embassy to Qalawun in Cairo, and he had responded with overwhelming force. Poor Tripoli. Poor Genoa.
‘What is it, my love?’ Cecilia said, walking back into the room. She bore a tray with more wine and a flat bread.
‘I was thinking of those murderous bastards!’
She was still for a moment. When he allowed his anger to show, it always scared her, and her fear was a spur to his anger. There was no need for her to be scared of him, unless she actively sought to enrage him. He would not hurt her, and the alarm in her face was demeaning to both.
He swallowed his annoyance, and tried to force a less bitter expression into his eyes. ‘Come. I am not angry with you. I was thinking of them – that was what enraged me.’
‘I am fortunate to have such a good husband,’ she asserted, and sat on the couch beside him.
‘They have cost us much,’ he said.
She nodded, pouring him wine.
It was because of Venice that Genoa was fighting for survival. The Venetians possessed the bulk of all trade from the East because they controlled the sole remaining city. In future, everyone must go to Venice for silks, for spices and sugar, for all the luxuries that cost men in Saxony or Paris so much. All the items which allowed a shipman to make good on his investments would be denied to Genoa.
His people must defend their trade. Except no one was willing to do so. They sat in their houses and drank wine and dreamed of the days before the loss of Tripoli, or proposed stupid plots to retake their city, or to remove the Venetians from Acre.
‘You are troubled?’ Cecilia asked.
‘It is nothing for you to worry about,’ he said reassuringly. He closed his eyes so that she would not see the anxiety in his face.
Acre was the last stronghold on the coast. While she lived, Genoa would be impoverished. But Acre was his home. And while he hated the thought of serving the interests of Venice, he would defend this city to the last.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
It was a tense ride for Baldwin. He was glad to be out, but still more glad that there were so many men about him. There were two other Leper Knights with Sir Jacques, as well as their squires and sergeants. The remainder of the thirty were Templars.
Their way took them over the plains, and thence between some low, yellow hills.
‘All this land once was ours,’ Sir Jacques said, looking about him. He was wearing his full armour, and the nose-guard looked incongruous, being slightly bent at the bottom. It pressed upon Sir Jacques’ nose, pushing it in and to the right. Baldwin was tempted to ask why he didn’t have it bent back. ‘The Kingdom stretched all the way from Antioch in the north, down to Gaza,’ he went on. ‘The Templars and other Orders built strong defences along the border to protect Jerusalem and the other cities, but over time we have lost all.’
‘How?’
‘You mean, how did men’s folly permit such a disaster? Or how could God have allowed heathens to take His land?’ Jacques asked lightly.
‘Both, surely.’
‘I think not. God gives us the strength to do His will, but that does not mean He commands us in all we do. He likes to test us with new trials, and this is just one more.’
‘But how can it be a trial when we know He cannot allow us to lose?’ Baldwin said.
Jacques looked at him. ‘And you are certain of that? Perhaps the trial is to see whether we have the resolution to see this through. But if we fail, perhaps it will be for another brotherhood of Christians to return to wrest the land from the heathen, and thereby bring about His divine wishes.’
‘He cannot allow heathens to take it, surely?’
‘Why not? If we are not strong enough, someone must have it.’
‘If God were to allow the Kingdom of Jerusalem to fail, surely that must mean the end of the world.’
Jacques smiled at the solemn young man. ‘And would that be so terrible? He has already given Jerusalem to the Muslims. What would it mean to give up Acre as well? Not so very much in comparison. I do not think He has been very impressed with His people in recent years. If He were, would He truly have allowed the slaughter at Tripoli?’
Baldwin closed his mouth and stared ahead. Speaking was painful, for every word meant swallowing sand kicked up by the horses ahead. Still, the thought that God might permit His lands to be invaded was ridiculous; He must help Christians throw back the godless.
‘Look there! I think that is the Lady’s farm.’
Baldwin followed Sir Jacques’ pointing finger, and saw some drab buildings in the distance. ‘There?’
‘It is a small farm for her slaves, I think,’ Jacques said.
Lucia was bent at her work when she heard the approaching thunder of hooves. Dimly, she could make out the white tunics, grubby with sand and dust, of the Templars. They were a large force, and dressed for battle. The knights wore mail, with helmets on their heads and swords at their sides. The overseer cracked his whip, and the slaves bent to their work once more. Lucia watched as two knights rode forward at an easy canter, reining in at his side, and began to speak. And then she saw him. The strange Frank called Baldwin.
It almost made her drop her spade. She tottered and, as the overseer shouted at her, she ducked below his lash. Too late, for the leather end caught her across the shoulders, and she cried out with the pain. A second blow struck her torso, and the end whipped about and caught the side of her breast.
The pain was unimaginable. She wept as she struggled to return to her work, feeling the slickness of fresh blood running down her spine.
Baldwin saw the overseer lift his hand, and felt his face grow black with rage. He spurred his mount onwards, thrusting himself and his horse between the slave-driver and Lucia.
The overseer glanced up at Baldwin with a frown of incomprehension. This was one of his slaves, and he was right to maintain control. It was his duty and his job. He edged around Baldwin’s horse.
‘Keep back, churl!’ Baldwin snarled. He looked down at Lucia and his heart was almost broken to see her. She was nearly unrecognisable. The lady in green he had fallen in love with was now a broken woman in soiled, torn linen.
‘My Lady,’ he said, ‘I offered you my hand once. I offer it again.’
The overseer darted around, to stand before Lucia, smiling wolfishly, daring her to speak.
Baldwin forced his horse on, and it barged into the
slave-driver. ‘You try to hurt her again,’ Baldwin said, ‘and I’ll kill you!’
She stood, leaning on the haft of her spade wearily. ‘Sir, I cannot. As I told you, I am Muslim. I cannot betray my faith.’
Even as she spoke, the overseer darted round Baldwin’s horse and the whip cracked.
Baldwin didn’t hesitate. His sword flashed, and he thrust it into the man’s throat. There was a sudden gout of blood, and the man fell back, both hands clutching at his neck as if trying to stem the flow.
‘No!’ Lucia cried as he collapsed on the ground.
‘I will allow no man to hurt you again,’ Baldwin said. He was looking about him at the other slave-masters. One had already cast aside his whip and was fleeing, back to the farm. Another stood gaping, but made no threatening gestures.
‘Lady Maria will hear of this! She will have me killed!’ Lucia wailed.
‘I offered you my hand,’ Baldwin repeated steadfastly. ‘Come, Lucia, ride with me. It’s many leagues to Acre, and I do not think you can walk it.’
Ivo sat in his garden as the sun sank, sipping wine and thinking about the Marshal’s words. Sir Geoffrey had been deeply moved. Perhaps he felt guilt for escaping when he had. Just as Ivo felt the guilt of being absent when his wife and son needed him most.
He drank. Wine dulled the pain.
The knock at the door made him start. Pietro was in his little chamber near the gate, and he rose, complaining loudly as usual, and went to the door. And then, to Ivo’s surprise, Baldwin walked in, carrying a young woman in his arms.
‘I am sorry if this causes trouble,’ he said, standing in the doorway. ‘But I couldn’t leave her to suffer. Not like this.’
Ivo nodded, and stood aside to let the young man pass. But somehow, as he watched Baldwin walk through his little garden, the image was strangely familiar. And then he understood: in his dreams he had seen himself, just like Baldwin, carrying his wife and child, bearing them to safety from the flames of Tripoli.
At least Baldwin had been able to save his woman, he thought, and his eyes fogged with tears.
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