‘Can you not see that your home is to be brought down over your head?’ Grimaldi demanded. ‘Don’t be a fool!’
‘I would rather die here than run and live as a coward,’ Buscarel said. He looked at the faces about the table. They were all decided. Not one looked up and met his gaze.
‘So be it,’ he said.
Pietro hurried by with an anxious expression on his face, and Lucia was intrigued, despite her inner desperation. He had been carrying a basket, and his face looked as though he wished he were not.
She had been working on her clothing, trying to mend a long rent in the skirts with needle and thread, but no matter what she tried, the material was so worn and frayed, the thread slipped through the fabric. She needed a new tunic, if she was to appear in public without embarrassment.
Again, Pietro scurried past like a rabbit with the hound behind, and she was tempted to laugh aloud at his earnest, fretful demeanour. ‘What is it?’ she called, but he was gone.
With a sigh, she set the needle by the ball of thread, and went to see what was troubling him so. Pietro had been a surly old man since the moment he had set eyes on her, but she wasn’t afraid of him. Sullen looks couldn’t scare her, when she was used to whips. She saw him slip into a chamber that had been used for storage. This intrigued her, and she followed without trying to conceal her interest.
The chamber was set into the southern wall of the house, parallel with the old city wall, and was sparsely furnished. There was a palliasse on the floor now, and as she craned her neck round the doorframe, she saw a naked man lying on it while Pietro washed him with water. A pot of scented oil stood nearby, the odour fighting valiantly, if unsuccessfully, against the stench of vomit.
She recognised Edgar from the day of the riot. ‘What is he doing here?’ she asked.
‘Eh? Oh, it’s you. Master Baldwin brought him here,’ Pietro said. ‘You remember him?’
‘Yes – but what has happened to him?’
Pietro told her the little that he had gathered from Baldwin and Sir Jacques, and she crouched at Edgar’s side. ‘He has a fever,’ she said, resting a hand on his forehead.
‘Aye. I could have told you that,’ Pietro said, as though infuriated with her for stating the obvious while he was doing all he could to help the man.
‘You have enough to do. Let me see to him,’ she said.
‘I can do it,’ he protested, but without his usual stubbornness. He reached to the bucket, dipping the cloth in the water.
She placed her hand on his. ‘I have nothing else to do,’ she said quietly. She made no move, but sat back on her haunches, staring at him, her hand still on his. ‘Please.’
He glanced up and caught the full impact of her sad eyes. ‘Oh, very well,’ he declared. He passed her the damp scrap of linen with which he had been mopping Edgar’s brow, and levered himself upright with an effort. ‘Call me if you need anything. Poor devil has been badly knocked about. Someone’s tried to break his head, I think.’
She nodded, reaching forward and wetting the material again, wringing it out and placing it gently on Edgar’s forehead. He moaned quietly as she did so, and she felt her heart move to think that the man who had helped to save her that day might be in danger of his life.
‘You are safe here,’ she promised in a whisper. ‘Be strong.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
It was a week since Philip Mainboeuf had set off with Brother Bartholomew and a Hospitaller, along with their servants and a clerk.
Baldwin hoped their mission would succeed, but the more he thought about it, the less sanguine he became. Fortunately, he had enough to occupy him with the twenty men of his command. It was a daunting prospect when he was first thrust in the midst of them. Ivo had gone with him on the first day, either to see to it that Baldwin was safe as he was introduced, or to give himself a laugh; Baldwin was not sure which.
There was a heavy-set, bullish man with a shock of black hair, who went by the name of Hob Atte Mull, and two skinnier, shorter men, with fairer features and paler hair, who were brothers called Thomas and Anselm. A very short, suspicious-looking fellow called Nicholas Hunfrey was the last of the competent fellows. The rest looked confused about every aspect of their duties. They had been gathered together from dribs and drabs of pilgrims and shipmen about the city, and few appeared even to have held a sword before.
‘They look like outlaws,’ Ivo grunted on seeing them, and Baldwin concurred.
‘I only hope that they are a little more reliable.’
‘Well, Master Vintenary, that’s up to you to ensure, isn’t it?’ Ivo said with an evil grin.
Hob Atte Mull stood, hawked and spat, studying Baldwin closely and without apparent satisfaction. ‘So, Vintenary, what battles have you fought in? Have you always been in the thick of it with the foot soldiers, or cowering away on a horse?’
‘I’ve been in battles at sea and on land,’ Baldwin said haughtily.
‘Oh aye. Which? Did they merit a name?’
Ignoring him, Baldwin addressed them all.
‘Have you seen to your weapons yet?’ he asked.
He saw the men glance at each other. There was no joy in their looks. The one called Nicholas Hunfrey pulled a grimace and shook his head, saying nothing, but staring down at the ground. The others began to make a show of chatting amongst themselves.
It was infuriating. A leader needed to lead and show that he was in charge, but just now he could think of nothing else to do, short of demanding that the men pick up their weapons to show him they were clean.
Ivo snorted and walked to his side, looking at each man in turn. ‘I think you’ll need to ask Sir Otto whether any of them has fought before. Not one of them has any skill with a sword, I’d reckon.’
Hob glanced at him with amusement in his sneering face.
‘They won’t practise, anyway,’ Ivo went on calmly. ‘They don’t want to show themselves up in front of you.’ He pulled his own sword free. ‘Very well. I haven’t had a test of swordsmanship in days. Are you ready?’
Baldwin nodded, drawing his own sword, wondering why Ivo had lied. It was scarcely a day since his last trial with their Saracen teacher.
Ivo drew his sword up into the two-handed guard so favoured by recent visitors to Acre, while Baldwin held his own sword in the outside guard, his right fist gripping the hilt at waist height, the point crossing before his body, tip raised slightly.
There was a flash as Ivo’s sword descended. Baldwin blocked his blade and twisted his own blade, but couldn’t snatch Ivo’s away. Ivo’s came back again, and Baldwin knocked it down and away, before launching his own swift assault. Ivo managed to slip away, giving ground, and Baldwin moved forward to harry him, the two swords flashing in the sunlight.
It was curious. Baldwin was pressing moderately hard, and while Ivo would normally defend himself vigorously and then lash out with some startling surprise attacks, today he didn’t. Perhaps he was tired, Baldwin thought. He kept his eyes fixed on Ivo’s, waiting to see if his master would try to alarm him soon, but there was nothing obvious at first. Not until he saw Ivo’s eyes quickly narrow. Then Baldwin was sure he was about to launch a new approach.
Ivo moved his feet, and then, as Baldwin stabbed at empty space, he was whirling, spinning, ready to sweep his sword round at Baldwin’s head. But Baldwin knew that move already. It was the first Jacques had shown him, and he blocked it swiftly, returning his own blade to Ivo’s, and with a competent flick of his wrist, sent Ivo’s away to safety, while Baldwin’s rested on Ivo’s breast.
‘I missed my mark,’ Ivo groused. ‘That was too easy for you.’
Baldwin smiled. But he saw that the vintaine were eyeing him with an increased respect. It was only later, when Ivo walked away and Baldwin caught a glimpse of his grin, swiftly concealed, that he understood.
‘You crafty old sodomite!’
Baldwin left his men after a day’s hard training, and made his way homewards along the alley that
led to the postern near the castle. It was a useful short cut, although it was a narrow, twisting way. Still, Baldwin was confident that his own ferocity was adequate to deter thieves and cutpurses. The day had gone well. The men were beginning to work as a team, rather than a disparate bunch of felons, and Baldwin was just congratulating himself on the way that they were learning their trade, when an arm slipped about his neck and a dagger touched the skin under his ear.
‘I have no money,’ he said.
‘I know that.’
Baldwin felt his face harden at the voice. ‘You want my ring again?’
‘No.’
Suddenly the knife was away from his throat, and he was pushed away. He turned.
‘Remember, Master. I could have killed you.’
‘Well? Why didn’t you?’
Buscarel was silent a while. In truth he found it hard to answer. ‘We need all the men we have. I am Genoese, but this is my city. My family lives here. I wouldn’t see the city weakened.’
‘So?’
‘Lady Maria told me to kill you. I could have done so just then. But I won’t kill you, nor take your ring.’
‘Good.’
‘Why did she want you dead?’
‘I have her maid. I suppose she is angry.’
‘No. I think it is more than that. Her lands are all she has. If the Sultan takes all this,’ Buscarel said, waving a hand, ‘she will lose everything. So she seeks to remain a friend of the Sultan.’
‘How so?’
‘It’s said the Templars have a spy in the Sultan’s court. Wouldn’t he have the same?’
Baldwin gave a dry chuckle. ‘That, I think, was Philip Mainboeuf. He was the spy.’
‘Really? Then he is safe.’
‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. And those words would come back to him later.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Edgar woke again that evening. He felt muzzy, distressed to find himself in a strange room, lying on an old palliasse that seemed to have more broken straws sticking into his back than a stook. He would give much for a good English palliasse.
Then his eyes snapped wide as he recalled his last interview with Philip Mainboeuf’s household. He had been thrown out like a beggar. If he saw that steward in a dark alley, he’d take a stick to the man’s head. God’s blood, but the fellow evicted him when he had been injured in the service of their master. When Mainboeuf got back . . .
That was the point, he recalled. There was no telling when, or whether, Mainboeuf would return. It was a dangerous journey, especially now, with the rumours of war apparently justified. Edgar groaned. The thought of having to start again from scratch appalled him. For the last months he had worked hard, ensuring that his master was safe, and reaping the rewards. He had enjoyed expensive clothes, decent food and other luxuries he had only dreamed of before. He wanted them again.
He sat up and gasped, pain lancing through his skull. A hand to his head, he slowly sank back to the palliasse, and moaned.
A light step, and then a soft rustling of material at his side, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself staring up at Lucia’s face.
‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘I feel considerably better at this moment,’ he croaked. ‘I know you – you are the woman we rescued from the mob.’
‘Yes. Your head was broken.’
‘Someone didn’t like me,’ Edgar agreed. ‘I think it was the way I stabbed his friend.’
‘You killed him?’
Edgar shrugged. ‘He was attacking my master. I had to stop him. His companion did this to me.’
‘You must rest.’
‘I should be going,’ Edgar said, but without conviction. The thought of rising made the nausea return. He felt sick at the mere thought of walking.
‘You can go nowhere today. It is late, and if you try to walk the streets, you will be prey to any cut-purse. You must sleep here tonight.’
‘If you are sure,’ he said with a relieved grunt. He let his head gently down on the pillow, feeling her cool hands on his head. ‘That is good.’
‘Sleep, Master. Sleep.’
She heard his meandering thoughts and dreams, and guessed much of his story. It was sad, she thought. He was another like her. Used while the whim took his master, and then, as soon as a fault was perceived, discarded. He too was little better than a slave.
* * *
Baldwin was exhausted. There had been a delivery of fresh timber, and he and his men had been ordered to go and unload the great baulks of wood and move them nearer to the walls. In the absence of a great Muslim army appearing at the top of the plain before the city, there was a distinct lack of enthusiasm among his vintaine.
‘Come on, haul!’ Baldwin bellowed. He eyed his dog with jealousy. Uther lay panting in the shade of an awning while he and the vintaine worked and sweated.
Hob and Anselm pulled with Baldwin on ropes near the head of the horse, while others pushed from the back of the cart as they manhandled the timbers up the hill towards the castle. It was hard, hot work in the rising humidity.
‘Be grateful it’s not full summer yet,’ Baldwin snarled when Thomas complained that the day was too hot, but he knew how they felt. It was impossible to get any citizens to help. People were living in a limbo, in which they could persuade themselves that the Muslim army would not come. Many of them believed that the embassy would be able to talk the new Sultan into agreeing to an extended peace. Where was the profit in destroying Acre, after all?
Baldwin, who could still recall that ant-hill of men outside Cairo, was unconvinced. So many men needed an occupation. He did, too. Perhaps he could become a merchant, as Sir Otto had suggested, but so often it seemed that everything he undertook came to naught. He wanted to marry Lucia, but could not; he had come all this way to help recover Jerusalem, but there was no bid to recover the Holy Land.
Baldwin had these bitter thoughts as he strained and hauled. They finally manoeuvred the cart and the sweating, panicky horse, to the top of the hill, and there they all stopped, a block under the tyres of the cart, while the horse bent to a drinking trough, and men sank to the roadway, panting and groaning to themselves.
‘What’s the point of a city on a hill like this?’ Thomas muttered.
‘Swyve me if I know,’ Anselm said, wiping his brow with a scrap of shirt. He looked about him. ‘Who picked it?’
‘The man who didn’t want to see the city washed away every time the tide came in,’ Hob commented drily. ‘Perhaps he was born able to use the brain in his head, unlike you lot.’
Baldwin gave them a little longer, but when all were recovered, he had them on their feet and continuing up the roadway.
At the gatehouse, they offloaded the cart, complaining nonstop, while he walked to a tavern in the shadow of the walls. There he bought two gallons of thin ale. He sent two of the men to collect the ale in jugs, and the team drank deeply, before returning the jugs to be refilled. When all twenty had slaked their thirst, he had them continue, and soon the timbers were stacked moderately neatly, without blocking the street. Then they must go back to the harbour for more. Baldwin could understand their gripes. This kind of work was more suitable for labouring peasants, rather than free men, but there were not the men available to do such work. And besides, Baldwin was all too aware of Sir Jacques’ injunction to keep the men busy. It was better that they were occupied than that they sat about drinking without purpose.
He was about to follow the men, when he heard a shout from on top of the tower. Looking up, he saw a watchmen pointing urgently towards the south. Baldwin glanced at his men. Hob was watching him with a cynical look in his eye.
‘Hob, get the men back to the harbour’, he said. ‘You begin on the next load. I’ll join you shortly.’
‘Oh. Right. Shortly,’ Hob said, and spat into the road.
Baldwin felt his hackles rise at what sounded like simple insubordination. He was about to shout at the man, but before he could draw breath, Hob had turned to t
he rest of the men. ‘So? What you lot gawping at? Think those logs are gonna get up here without help? Maybe they’ll roll themselves up the hill, eh? Now get your miserable, swyving arses back down there, and fetch the next lot.’
And the men moved off, apparently content now someone had cursed them. He heard Hob damning their souls, eyes and arses as they moved off down the hill again, but by then Baldwin was already halfway up the first set of stairs to the wall. He hurried to the tower’s door and climbed inside, past the machinery of a catapult, and into the hoarding. Uther followed him. The timbers were slick from the rains of the previous night, and his leather soles almost slid away, but then he caught hold of the wall, and stared out in the direction the guard had indicated.
There, in the haze, perhaps a mile along the bay, he made out a black dot. With fear stabbing at his heart, he peered behind it, then studied the lands to the east and south, searching for the line of black, for the inevitable fluttering of banners and pennons on the horizon – for dust in the air, anything indicating an army. Seeing nothing, he felt a sudden loss of tension that showed how anxious he had been.
‘What is that?’ he asked the guard.
‘Single rider, I think, sir. Can’t tell more at this distance.’
Baldwin nodded, looking about the plain. The shanty town was gone, and in its place there had been efforts to dig a trench to make assault more difficult, but the work had not proceeded efficiently. Too few thought there was a serious threat. That was down to Philip Mainboeuf and the contempt he had publicly shown for the promoters, as he saw them, of war.
The man on horse back was moving sluggishly, and Baldwin frowned. ‘I will go and see if he needs help,’ he said. ‘That rider looks exhausted. He may have run out of water.’
He took his time descending the stairs, not wanting to slip, with Uther pelting down ahead. He would ask for gravel to be spread on the wood later, he decided, so that in battle the men could stand securely.
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