‘How will I protect myself on the way?’ Mainboeuf snapped grumpily. ‘The man’s a fool, he doesn’t deserve to be nursed.’
Baldwin stared in disbelief. ‘This fellow was injured saving your life!’
‘And by failing to guard himself, the fool’s left me without protection. Ach!’ The merchant looked about him and seeing a scruffy urchin nearby, commanded him to go and fetch two strong men from the house, and a cart or some other means of transporting the body. ‘And be quick if you want payment for your effort,’ he called as the boy scuttled away.
Baldwin watched Mainboeuf walk away. ‘What will happen to the Venetian?’ he asked Sir Otto.
Sir Otto considered. ‘I trust he will pay a fine for breaking the peace, and then be released. That is what I would do. We cannot afford to lose a single man from the city.’
‘So you do not think that Master Mainboeuf will succeed?’
‘With the embassy to the Sultan? In God’s name, no! The embassy is doomed. The preparations are too advanced, from the information which the good Grand Master has gleaned. They will never have an opportunity to fight like this again – not with so many warriors, if the reports are true.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘Practise with our weapons, Master Baldwin, see to the defences, gather food, and put our trust in God.’
Abu al-Fida rose from his devotions and walked out into the sun. Kerak had been a good staging-post. Now, he was happy to know that his time here was at an end. Orders had been received, and his machine was to go to Acre.
His clerk and servants were outside, all packed and ready, and he took the reins of his horse and mounted. It was a beautiful day, dry and hot, but with the edge of heat taken away by the remaining cool of winter. A time of year he had always enjoyed, before the unendurable heat started again in the late spring.
The small mare was frisky, and he patted her neck as he looked back over the immense wagon train stretching past Kerak and into the distance, and then trotted to the head of the column and waved his arm in the signal to advance.
Behind him he heard commands bellowed along the line. There was a creaking and squeaking of leather harnesses as oxen strained, and the jingle of chains and mail, and the complaining lowing of cattle and whickering of horses as the first wagons began to lumber forward. More cracks of whips, and shrieked urgings from drivers, while the camels and oxen slowly moved off.
Abu al-Fida stopped at the outskirts of the city’s territory and watched on his mare while the train rolled slowly past, raising clouds of sand and dust. He had an emptiness in his soul. His son should have been here to see this – but then if he had, Abu al-Fida knew he would not have left his comfortable life as a merchant, would not have been forced from his home by those murderous Frank crusaders, would not have travelled to Cairo to demand justice from the Sultan, and would not have been sent to build al-Mansour. He would not have been created Emir and placed in charge of a force to bear his weapon to Acre.
His son would have been proud to see his father in this position. Usmar had always been devoted to Islam, and ridding the land of the rapacious Franks had always been close to his heart. It grieved him that Acre sucked in the best merchandise, and that the markets there had always paid the best, but such was the case. That was why Abu al-Fida had lived in Acre. And because of that, his family had died.
An inevitable chain of consequences had brought Abu al-Fida to this place, to this position, and would inevitably lead to the destruction of the city.
The wagon train was slow. Oxen moved more ponderously than horses, but their strength was vital. No other creature could haul such loads. As it was, it would be a laborious undertaking to have the machine transported to Acre. In this wet, early springtime, it would take a month to travel as far as another caravan could go in a week. But that meant nothing. For Abu al-Fida, all that mattered was that he should reach that city and set up his machine. Al-Mansour would be one amongst many, but her immense power would do more damage than all the other hundred mangonels and catapults together.
All he need do was get the machine to Acre. And perhaps then, he could lay the ghost of poor Usmar to rest at last.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Edgar slept badly.
When he woke, he remembered waking in the middle of the night and being sick, and as he recalled it so he smelled the vomit all about him.
He rose blearily, and almost fell trying to cross his floor. It was like being drunk. He grabbed for the wall, standing and panting, and his legs felt like jelly. A fresh wave of nausea washed over and through him, and he closed his eyes, feeling that strange spinning sensation again.
There was a chair near the window, where his sword and belt had been set to rest, and he lurched across the room to it, clumsily knocking his sword to the floor.
The door was flung open, and a house servant entered, wrinkling his nose at the smell.
‘Water!’ Edgar managed. ‘Poison . . .’
‘You’re not poisoned, just hit on the head. You’re lucky. The master would’ve left you there to die in the street. As it was, we had to bring you here. You’ll have fun cleaning this little lot up,’ he added, staring at the vomit-soaked sheets.
Edgar closed his mouth, his head loose on his shoulders. ‘What?’
A vague recollection came to him of the street outside the castle. There were two men, and one tried to club him . . . the Templars . . . then he recalled the man slumping with Edgar’s sword in his belly, his eyes dulling – and then someone else had hammered Edgar. He desperately wanted to sleep, but something told him it would not be safe. ‘Fetch me water,’ he said imperiously. ‘Now.’
‘Don’t order me about, you English turd. Fetch it yourself. As soon as you’re well, you’re leaving. Master said he didn’t want to see you again, so you’re to go. Now you be nice to me, or you’ll be out all the sooner. And that means after you’ve cleaned up after yourself.’
‘Fetch me water,’ Edgar repeated, and at last the servant nodded and left him.
Edgar studied the chamber and saw he had been sick all over the sheets and himself. He was disgusted: he had never spewed that much, even when he was deeply sunk in ale or wine. In fact, he reckoned he was fortunate not to have drowned in his own vomit. He rubbed at his breast. The acid was still in his mouth, but no less painful was the pounding at his head.
The servant returned carrying a plain earthenware beaker which he set on the floor near Edgar, who took it up and drank cautiously. In London he had seen an apprentice after a fight, who had drunk too swiftly, and then brought it up as speedily. Edgar had no wish to be sick again. Every muscle on his torso felt strained; merely breathing was painful.
‘You say I must go?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘Master said so.’
‘Where is he? I must speak with him.’
‘He’s not here. He left for Cairo. Have you forgotten already?’ the man sneered.
Edgar made a show of setting the beaker on the floor, then his head lolled.
The servant eyed him warily, but after a few moments, with Edgar’s breath snoring, he reached towards the purse on the sick man’s belt.
Edgar’s hand whipped out, fast as a snake’s, and he pulled the servant towards him. ‘Try that again, and you’ll lose your hand,’ he whispered.
Baldwin had not slept well after the attempt upon the Templars. The sight of men drawing swords in the street had been disturbing, when all in Acre should have been pulling together. Perhaps the mob was right. Maybe Mainboeuf would negotiate a fresh peace treaty. It would be interesting to see the response from Cairo.
The city of Acre had been on tenterhooks since Baldwin’s arrival last year, and to think that the situation was as dangerous as ever was disquieting. The populace was a seething cauldron of fear and alarm; if there were no firm response from Cairo, men could no longer continue to pretend that there was nothing to fear. In many ways, it would be better to have a resolute declaration of war
and the intention to destroy Acre, as the Grand Master believed, than to have another period of unreliable peace.
Mainboeuf would be well on his way to Cairo now. Baldwin hoped he would hurry back.
At that moment, he saw a white tunic and recognised Jacques d’Ivry.
‘I hope God holds you in His blessing,’ Jacques said, a kindly smile softening his face.
‘Sir Jacques, I am glad to see you,’ Baldwin said. ‘I was thinking of the embassy to Cairo, and any distraction would be of great service.’
‘Yes, I understand how you must feel,’ Jacques said. He looked towards the south, as though his eyes could pierce the walls of the houses and city, and see beyond them, all the way to the great city so far away. ‘But there are many things still to be done in the city.’
Baldwin groaned aloud. ‘What more? I’ve moved rocks and rubble; I have learned the mason’s arts; I have constructed two catapults and helped repair two more. My arms ache, my back is almost broken, and now I have to take on more duties?’
‘You will find as you grow older, that it is good to be occupied,’ Jacques chuckled. ‘There is nothing better, in fact. That is why Templars and members of my Order are commanded to work. When a man is idle, his mind and hands may turn to less productive efforts. So if ever we are bored, with nothing to do, we are instructed to carve tent-pegs.’
‘You think I should resort to that?’ Baldwin asked indignantly.
‘I think you perhaps could find more suitable occupation,’ Sir Jacques grinned.
They had crossed beneath the inner wall from Montmusart into the old city, and now the two turned towards the castle. Ahead they saw a lurching man.
‘I know him,’ Baldwin said. ‘He is guard to Master Mainboeuf. Master Edgar?’ he called. ‘I hope I see you well?’
It was obvious that Edgar was far from well. His face was pale, and he moved with a slower gait than before.
‘Master Edgar?’ Sir Jacques prompted.
Edgar looked as though he did not recognise either of them. He stared at Baldwin with a confused frown, head set to one side. And then he began to sway.
‘Let us take him with us,’ Jacques said, and the two put their arms beneath his armpits and helped him towards the Mainboeuf house. ‘We shall see him home. He should remain there until he is well.’
‘He was hit on the head yesterday,’ Baldwin said.
‘So I should imagine. It has left him disordered. He should rest.’
‘Why aren’t you at home, man? You shouldn’t be out and about,’ Baldwin said.
‘Thrown out,’ Edgar mumbled.
They had reached the Mainboeuf house, and Sir Jacques rapped sharply on the door. There was a grumbled comment from the doorkeeper’s lodge, and then a face appeared at a grating. ‘Yes?’
Baldwin listened to the conversation while he held Edgar against the wall to stop him falling. It was clear that the doorman would not allow the injured man back inside. ‘It’s what the master told us when he left.’
‘What shall we do with him?’ Sir Jacques wondered as the door to the grating slammed shut once more.
‘Help me take him to Ivo’s house,’ Baldwin said. ‘At least there I can have him looked after by Lucia.’
‘How is Lucia?’
Baldwin was reluctant to answer, but it was hard to ignore the Leper Knight. Rudeness to him was unthinkable.
‘She is well enough,’ he mumbled.
Sir Jacques cast an eye over him. ‘She has been a slave for many years, my friend. Do not be downcast if she takes time to realise she is free. Rather, look on it as your duty to win her over. If you give her the comfort and affection she craves, you will succeed.’
‘She is devoted to her faith. She won’t consider marriage,’ Baldwin said.
Sir Jacques looked at him sadly. ‘You would marry her?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have known many Muslims, my friend. Some were good, some were bad, just like we Christians. But few were so dishonourable as to change their faith to ours.’
‘Dishon—! But to change from a false religion to accept the True Faith, that would be an act of . . .’
‘Bad faith. You remember, I told you of the Templars at Safed?’
‘The castle where they accepted death?’
‘Yes. They refused to cast aside their religion just because Baibars threatened them with death. Why should you expect an honourable Muslim to do otherwise? Do you think Lucia would be any less strong in her faith?’
‘I can have no hope she might change?’
‘You must pray to God, to ask that He too speaks with her. Ask the Blessed Virgin to enter her, and show her the path of truth and honesty. With time, perhaps, you will win her over to Christ by demonstrations of humility and integrity. All I say is, you cannot expect her to give up her past life, and the faith that supported her through her slavery, in a day or even a month.’
‘I suppose so,’ Baldwin agreed without enthusiasm.
‘But for now, what we need to do is bring this man to a bed. Here is your house, I think?’
Baldwin knocked and called for Pietro, and soon they had Edgar lying on a couch in a chamber at the rear of the house. ‘Pietro, can you wash him and clean his clothes?’ Baldwin said with his nose wrinkled. ‘He smells like he’s been living in a sty for weeks.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
In the Genoese quarter Buscarel was worried about the possible siege. His wife Cecilia kept to the house as much as possible, fretful about their fate.
It was the same matter that exercised the Council.
In every city where Genoa had a trading presence, an admiral would congregate a small council of traders of standing to discuss how best to achieve greater prominence for Genoa’s interests. Today they met over a meal seated about a table in Admiral Zaccaria’s house.
‘Gentlemen!’ Admiral Zaccaria said, when the Council members were all present. He was a short man with a body like old oak, brown and hard, and as he lifted his glass to them in a silent toast, the gold on his fingers and about his neck glinted. ‘We are living in difficult times. We all know the situation: war approaches. What should we do?’
‘There is only one course open to us,’ Grimaldi said. At three and thirty, he was nearer Buscarel’s age than the Admiral’s, although his belly was larger, and he had taken to the customs of the East more than any of the other Genoese of the quarter. ‘If the city is attacked, we have no place here. We should emulate the Venetians and take to our ships.’
‘No, I do not agree.’ Buscarel stood and leaned on the table, meeting the eyes of each in turn. ‘If we depart, we leave the city to others, and we cannot share in any triumph.’
‘Triumph?’ Grimaldi laughed, but with incredulity plastered on his face. He cast a hand about the others present. ‘How many of us anticipate a triumph if there is outright war with al-Ashraf?’
‘He has no navy,’ Buscarel said immediately. ‘If our ships bring supplies, the Muslims must fail. The worst enemy of any army is stagnation and disease. If they remain outside our walls in a protracted siege, they will grow indolent, and then disease must strike, just as all previous armies have learned. They will go, and once they have gone, Acre will be stronger than ever before. Just think of the glory in our status then.’
Buscarel had known Grimaldi would be the hardest man to persuade. He was all for an easy life, while Buscarel was happy to take risks if it meant greater profits.
‘Acre would be the jewel of the East – our East!’ he went on. ‘For Venice is known for her cowardice in the face of the Muslims. Look at their actions in Tripoli two years ago. They took all they could, and fled. It was the sight of their ships leaving the harbour that persuaded Qalawun he could storm the city. They will do the same here – they have no belly for a fight. When they leave, we shall be here to bring supplies and maintain the city. And then we shall reap the rewards, too.’
‘Rewards? Our likely rewards will be death by a Muslim sword,’
Grimaldi scoffed. ‘No, I say that when the army comes – and it will, my friends, it will – then we should be prepared to depart. There is no profit in being slaughtered.’
‘There is no profit in running away, either,’ Buscarel said. He curled his lip, staring full at the Admiral. If Zaccaria was with him, all the others would follow, with or without Grimaldi. And Zaccaria would not want to take the coward’s way out. ‘We are Genoese. We know that to get rich, we need to take risks. Would our children feel pride in their fathers and their city, were they to learn that we had fled?’
‘This is not a question of pride, Buscarel. This is simple business,’ Grimaldi said. ‘We are here to make money, nothing else. If the Muslims destroy the city, our reason for being here has gone.’
‘What do you say?’ Buscarel asked of the other men at the table.
Zaccaria sucked at his teeth, then took a long draught of wine. ‘This is a matter of money. If we stay, do we make more money, or less? I suspect we would make less.’
‘But think of the future. If there is no Acre, what will we lose in the traffic of pilgrims and crusaders across the Mediterranean? The losses would be enormous.’ Buscarel was startled that Zaccaria could go against him in this. Surely the Admiral could see that the world would view a flight of Genoese ships as a matter of betrayal. ‘We would be looked upon as traitors to the Christian faith, were we to run before heathens. If our action cost us Acre, how would others view us?’
‘How would they view us if we remained to be slaughtered, like the poor city-folk of Tripoli?’ Grimaldi said heavily. ‘For me, there is no choice. To remain would be folly. I say we conclude as much business as possible, and when the time comes, as it must, we return home.’
‘This is my home!’ Buscarel declared.
His vehemence surprised even himself. Others looked on this city as a trading post, he knew – just one of a number of little colonies strung about the seas for the benefit of Genoa. But to him it was much more. He had founded his family here, perhaps even begun a dynasty to rival the Luchettos and Zaccarias. But the Council were taking away his dreams.
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