CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Baldwin woke late that morning, and arched his back as he stretched. In the past months he had slept on the roof, but with the recent rains he had taken Ivo’s advice and now slept in this comfortable chamber.
He would never have thought to live in such luxury. Soft linens made his bed, and even though others said it was chill at night, for him, used to the miserable damp and cold of a Devon winter, it was balmy and delightful.
Rising, he pulled a tunic over his nakedness, and made his way to the chamber where Ivo had installed Lucia. Her room was empty, and for a moment his heart fell, as though finding her again had been nothing more than a dream. Surely she had not left in the night to return to Lady Maria? But then he saw that her bed had been slept in, and there were blood spots on the sheet where her scabs had wept overnight.
The memory of the overseer taking his whip to her made Baldwin grit his teeth. Hearing a sound, he walked through into the garden and his rage disappeared at the sight of her sitting on a bench near the front door.
‘I like these moments,’ he said.
‘I am sorry?’ she asked, starting to her feet.
He waved her back down. ‘Before the full heat of the sun. I like this time, when the breeze is cool, and the air is still gentle. It is the best time of the day.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
He sat beside her. She was painfully beautiful, he thought, as she averted her gaze. She wore a simple shift of linen, and while she had tried to bind her hair decorously behind her head, the lack of hood or veil made her anxious, made her feel wanton and shameful.
‘You are troubled,’ he said quietly.
‘What should I do? I am a runaway slave! If she catches me . . .’
‘You are safe here,’ he said reassuringly.
‘My Lady Maria may not see the affair in so clear a light.’
‘It doesn’t matter. You’re free, and here, and that is all I care about.’
She closed her eyes, but the tears forced their way past. She would like to believe him, but she could still see the Kurd leaning over her. She was not meant for happiness. ‘You don’t understand. She is powerful – here, and elsewhere in the land. If she decides to have me killed, I will die. If she decides to see you dead, you will die.’
‘I am not so easy to kill.’
‘Please! You saved my life. But now, if I remain, your life will be endangered.’
‘Let it be. I shall defend us both,’ Baldwin said. ‘This house is guarded, and Ivo and I are both trained in the use of weapons. Even if someone wanted to attack us, they would think twice because we are friends to the Templars.’
She nodded, miserable.
He was persuaded to promote his offer of marriage. ‘If you wished to be safe and demonstrate that you cannot be a slave, you could—’
‘No. I will not renounce my faith. I am a Muslim. I believe in Islam. I cannot change my beliefs for a temporary convenience.’
He wanted to persuade her, to show her that the only True Faith was his own – that of following Christ – but he didn’t know how.
‘I would marry you if I could,’ he said at last.
‘I know. And I am grateful.’
He smiled and moved to kiss her. Her horrified expression startled him. ‘Why? What is it?’
‘Do not do that, I beg!’ she said, but her voice was full of suppressed rage rather than offended pride. She could not escape the picture in her mind of the Kurd, the feel of his hands on her, the rasping, sour breath.
Baldwin was hurt. Her reaction convinced him that she did not love him as he loved her, and he stood at once and walked away. She was the same as Sibilla, he thought bitterly. He had thrown away everything for her in England – home, prospects, everything – and come here to fight in the Holy Land, and now God mocked him by causing him to fall in love with another woman who did not want him.
God did not mean him to be happy with a woman. Instead, he would remain here and fight for the Holy Land as he had originally planned, and if he lived, he would find a small, quiet space far from all women, and forget about them.
He kicked at a rock and sent it flying. He would never love again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Grand Master de Beaujeu took off his habit and donned his mail and tunic. He would not walk through the streets without protection and weapons. His squires bustled about, pulling on his mail hosen, his thick felted undershirt, then the coat of mail. He had a tight-fitting, padded cap under his coif, and over all went his Templar mantle. In preference to the usual pot helmet, he chose a cap with nose-protection.
When he was dressed and armed, he walked from his chamber and met Geoffrey de Vendac and four knights in the yard.
‘So, Grand Master, we try again,’ the Marshal said.
‘If we can’t get the decision we need, I will leave the city and the Commune within to their fate,’ Guillaume de Beaujeu growled. ‘I will not tolerate the jeers of ignorant commoners again.’
‘If it is your wish, Grand Master.’
‘In God’s name, I would rather surrender myself than see a single drop of blood fall from these miserable citizens, no matter how ungrateful they are!’
He strode through the Temple’s gate and up St Anne’s Street to the castle. People in the roadway paused to watch as the Templars marched past, but at least this time there were no catcalls, as there had been before. Such insults were hard to endure for men born to pride. But many citizens thought them greedy, lazy men who sheltered in their Temple without a care for the rest of the city. Some said that if the Templars could, they would flee the city before the army of al-Ashraf Khalil arrived. Anyone who thought sensibly about it would remember that the Templars had a tunnel connecting their fortress to the docks. They had no need to conceal their movements: they could go whenever they wanted.
But Templars existed to defend pilgrims to Jerusalem and the Holy Land. They would not lightly throw away their God-given duty.
Guillaume de Beaujeu did not look to left or to right when he reached the castle, but continued on inside, his men behind him like the outline of an arrowhead.
The Commune was gathered, and as he took his position, he glanced at Mainboeuf. The man rejected the notion of Acre’s peril. Was it because he was a fool and could not see the danger? Perhaps so. He was a merchant, after all, a man who would commit usury to advance himself. The Templar held such beings in contempt.
‘I have come again to demand that the city prepares for siege,’ he began.
The jeers erupted almost instantly. One voice cut through the rest and Sir Guillaume heard the words clearly over the hubbub.
‘He’s still determined to see us waste our time and money. He demanded that we send Christians to die in Cairo – then that we should pay for our lives. What happened? Nothing!’
‘The son of Qalawun has gathered the greatest army ever seen in Outremer. It is reckoned to be two hundred and fifty thousand strong,’ Guillaume said without responding to the noise. ‘He has been building siege machines for months and has more than a hundred of them, all different sizes, to attack our walls. He has more miners than we have men inside our city. We should send away all those who cannot fight. We have ships – let our weaker citizens be withdrawn to safety, leaving only the strong and healthy.’
‘Sir Guillaume,’ Otto de Grandison said with his accented French, ‘I am sure that you argue from conviction, but many will wonder why your warnings have not come to pass. You spoke of these threats last year.’
‘As you know, Sir Otto, no army would have marched through the winter. It would be a guarantee of failure to attempt it. The army has been camped outside Cairo while the machines were prepared. Soon they will march. This is our last chance! We have weeks, no more, in which to prepare.’
‘The city is as prepared as we need,’ Philip Mainboeuf stated. He lifted his hands to the heavens as if in despair. ‘We have the most powerful defences of any city in the whole of Outremer
.’
‘The strongest fortress will fail if miners dig beneath walls and towers,’ Sir Guillaume said.
‘If you are correct and he comes here.’
‘He has stated so,’ Sir Guillaume snarled. His temper was fraying at repeating the same arguments. It was demeaning for a man used to issuing commands.
‘We know that there was an attempt on his life,’ Philip Mainboeuf went on. ‘Of course he said the things that those in his court wished to hear. It’s hardly surprising! If the Devil makes work for idle hands, He is even more adept with idle generals! I say again, as I said at the last meeting, the Muslims are good men of business. In the name of God, surely we should capitalise on our strengths? We all want trade, Christians and Muslims alike. So let’s discuss trade.’
‘The army will march to us soon,’ Sir Guillaume said. He felt an overwhelming despair. His powers of persuasion were inadequate, and he knew he was failing. ‘At least evacuate the women and those too old to fight.’
‘What, lose the solace of our wives and children?’ Mainboeuf said. ‘And, worse, leave them unprotected in a dangerous land? I would never do that to my family. However, I do have a suggestion to make. Constable? May I speak of another option?’
Constable Amalric nodded.
‘I believe we are in no danger. The Grand Master thinks we are. I propose that we send another embassy to Cairo. Hopefully it will calm the Grand Master’s fears if we can gain assurances of al-Khalil’s good intentions.’
‘Whom would you send?’ Constable Amalric asked.
‘A Templar, an Hospitaller, a layman who is competent in Arabic, and a clerk or two.’
‘Can you speak Arabic?’ Sir Guillaume asked.
‘Yes, and I would be happy to volunteer.’
And so it was decided. Sir Guillaume nodded. ‘I will supply a knight, if my friend from the Hospital will do the same.’
Later, as he left the meeting, Sir Guillaume felt a grim satisfaction. If Mainboeuf was proved wrong, at least he would not have to argue with him any more.
Baldwin left the meeting believing that the Templar was right. His own journey to Cairo had convinced him that the army of Sultan al-Ashraf was a very real threat, and he viewed the prospect of a siege with less enthusiasm than once he had. The city was strong, true, but there was an inexorable quality to that army. If all those men reached the walls of Acre, they must succeed in taking the city.
He was useless here. What was the point of a man like him, who was not a squire, let alone a knight, when battle threatened? He was just another useless mouth who would deplete the stocks of food and drink when the city could scarce afford it. Better that he should leave.
It was not only the city, of course. It was the atmosphere at Ivo’s house. Lucia was quiet and submissive, and Baldwin felt like grasping her and shaking her. He didn’t understand, and she would not tell him what was wrong. Their religions were a bar to their marriage, but there was more to her reluctance than that. There was fear in her eyes whenever he approached her. She shivered like a cowering hound. The only creature to whom she displayed affection was Uther. It was painful to see the woman he adored every day, knowing he inspired only loathing.
‘Master Baldwin, I would be grateful for a word,’ Sir Otto called as people moved out of the ward.
‘Of course,’ Baldwin said, pushing thoughts of Lucia from his mind.
‘You have been here longer than my men. I know that you are sergeant to Ivo, but one of my vintenaries has fallen prey to an unfortunate malady, and has died. I would appreciate your aid.’
‘How so?’
‘I would ask you to take his place.’
Baldwin felt his face break into a smile. ‘Me, Sir Otto? I would be honoured!’
‘Then it is decided. You will fight alongside Ivo, I trust, on the wall?’ Sir Otto looked around. ‘What is that noise?’
There was a sudden clamour from the gate, and when Baldwin glanced towards it, he saw the flash of swords, and heard a scream, but then he was running, with Sir Otto following closely. All he could see was a tightly-packed group of Templars with their swords held ready over their heads.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Edgar of London had not anticipated trouble as he left the castle.
He swaggered, confident that his master was one of the most powerful men in the city. With his pacifist approach, blocking those who sought war, Philip Mainboeuf had elevated himself to the very pinnacle of the social elite in Acre, and as his standing rose so, by association, did Edgar’s.
It had been a good decision to come here, he thought smugly. He had money, the best clothes he had ever owned, and his choice of women in the city – many of whom were grateful for a distraction from fears about their future. Life was good.
His mood was suddenly punctured when he saw the men pushing and jostling all about the Templars and his master; an alarm began to scream in his head.
Edgar darted forward, trying to get to Mainboeuf and pull him from the crush, but even as he did so, there was a sudden shout as the Templars drew their weapons.
Edgar’s sword was already out when he reached his master. The air was full of bellowing, and a woman gave a scream at the sight of blades. Edgar didn’t care – he ducked as a Venetian shipman nearby aimed a cudgel at his head, and as Edgar dropped, he stabbed upwards with his sword. He felt it sink into the man’s breast, and the sailor toppled with a look of intense surprise on his face, which gave Edgar a brief flare of satisfaction before something crashed against his head, and he felt himself tumble onto the rough gravel of the roadway – and could only watch numbly as boots moved all about him. Just ahead of him, he saw the shipman he had stabbed. The man’s mouth was moving, but no words were coming. At least, Edgar heard none. He remained staring, but then, too exhausted to continue, he closed his eyes.
Baldwin arrived as the crowd began to turn nasty, and it was a relief to hear Otto de Grandison bawling orders, barging his way through the men encircling the Templars, three Englishmen with him shoving people aside.
‘Move away! I won’t have the mob attacking unarmed men!’ de Grandison roared, ignoring the fact that the Templars were standing in a group with steel glinting in the sun. None had dared approach them. Nobody had any doubts of their ability to protect themselves.
Baldwin was standing with the remaining Venetian. ‘What was this about?’ he demanded.
Sir Guillaume spoke through clenched teeth. ‘The mob jostled us. Someone made jokes about Templar cowardice and whether we would find anyone who dared travel to Cairo.’
‘I’ll wager you won’t go!’ a man shouted.
Baldwin felt the crowd’s evil mood. One man was dead, and Edgar lay unmoving before him. He didn’t want any more injuries. In an instant, Baldwin grabbed the man who had spoken by the neck of his tunic, his sword resting against the fellow’s throat. He had never seen a man’s eyes open so wide before.
‘Is there anybody else who wants to make a comment?’ he snarled rhetorically. He shook his prisoner. ‘Now, since you are unconvinced about the Grand Master’s willingness to fight, would you offer him a challenge to single combat?’
He was wrong. Eyes could open wider, apparently.
‘Me? I’m no knight!’ the man squeaked.
‘You were brave enough when you had the mob at your back!’
‘He has armour and all!’
‘It was your choice to insult him. If you don’t apologise, I will take you to the castle’s yard now, and you can fight Grand Master de Beaujeu.’
‘I agree! I submit! I apologise!’ the man blurted.
The tension had already dissipated. Instead of angry mutterings, Baldwin heard chuckles at the fellow’s predicament. Someone imitated his high, anxious tones.
Baldwin thrust the man forward, then booted him in the backside, directing him into the crowd.
‘Disperse, the lot of you. Go on – clear off!’
‘Master Baldwin, I am grateful to you,’ Sir Guillaume sai
d as the people moved away, and he and his men felt safe enough to put up their swords. ‘What is happening to the world, when a mob will take it upon themselves to attack Templars?’
Baldwin nodded. But there had been two groups in the crowd. Now the remaining Venetian was rising from the side of his dead comrade, scowling at Mainboeuf. Baldwin jabbed his sword out before he could move towards the merchant. ‘Why did you attack him?’ he demanded, his sword almost touching the man’s throat. The man’s face was familiar, but he couldn’t think how he knew him.
‘He sent the Genoese after my ship! You were there – you were on my ship when his men attacked us and killed half my crew! I had to sail to Venice to make good the damage he caused my ship, and only returned two days ago.’
‘That was not Master Mainboeuf, it was a man called Buscarel,’ Baldwin said. ‘I know him.’
‘Buscarel was the shipmaster, but this piece of shit told Buscarel to attack my ship. You ask him! See how his eyes shift? He knows it’s true!’
‘If he did, that was out to sea,’ Sir Otto said. ‘Whatever happened out there has no force on land. You have broken the law in trying to kill him here. Murder on the streets is not permitted.’ He motioned to the three men-at-arms who were with him, and two moved towards the Venetian, kicking his knife away and grabbing him by the arms.
‘What of justice for me?’ the Venetian declared wildly. ‘That man tried to ruin me, he had many of my crew killed, and now what?’
Sir Otto shrugged and jerked his head. ‘Take him to the gaol and meet me back here,’ he said. ‘So, vintenary, I am impressed with your turn of speed.’
Baldwin was only half-listening as he studied the figure on the ground. ‘I know this man,’ he said.
Philip Mainboeuf peered down too, saying, ‘He is Edgar of London, my Master of Defence. I was expecting to take him with me to Cairo. What will I do now? It is extremely disappointing.’
‘It would have been worse if he had not saved your life,’ Sir Otto pointed out. ‘He is your man. You will need to have him taken to your home to be nursed.’
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