00 - Templar's Acre

by Michael Jecks

  At the bottom he spoke to the porter at the gate, and found a stable where he was able to borrow a sturdy rounsey. On that, he rode out to the south with a fresh waterskin, cantering gently, Uther panting to keep up.

  The man was a dark stick on the edge of the horizon when he started out, but soon he was able to discern a horse and man, and then the fact that the man had a turban wound about his head. In the midst of the turban a shining steel spike sparkled, almost blinding Baldwin.

  ‘Friend, are you well?’

  ‘I have travelled far.’ His voice was hoarse.

  Baldwin peered. ‘Do you need water? I brought you some to ease your last mile.’

  ‘I am thankful for that,’ the man said. His lips were broken and scabbed from dehydration, and his eyes were so narrowed that it was apparently difficult for him to open them more than a small amount.

  He was oddly familiar, and Baldwin found himself running through the various Muslims he had met, trying to jerk his memory. Nothing struck him, and he was forced to ask at last, ‘I know your face, I think. Do you remember me?’

  The man tipped a little water into his hand and wiped it over his face, then more over the back of his neck. ‘In Cairo last year, when you were meeting with my master, the Emir al-Fakhri.’

  ‘Of course,’ Baldwin said with a smile. ‘I hope your master is well? You have come from Cairo on your own? It is a weary long way for a man alone.’

  ‘My master bade me come, and not to rest,’ the man said. ‘I have news for Acre.’

  ‘It is not secret?’

  ‘No. The embassy sent to speak with the Sultan al-Ashraf has not succeeded.’

  ‘Not succeeded? You mean that they didn’t reach Cairo?’ Baldwin said. Sometimes the Bedouin would attack people, he knew, but rarely a Templar or Hospitaller. That was curious, certainly, and he was about to ask more, when the man gave a hacking cough and continued.

  ‘No, the men reached Cairo, but the Sultan refused to see them and had them thrown into his cells.’

  Baldwin felt the news as a punch in the belly. Then his shoulders sagged. He had wanted a clear and unequivocal response to the embassy, he recalled.

  ‘So it is war, then,’ he breathed.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Baldwin stood with Sir Otto as the Commune met to hear the message.

  It was a quiet and attentive meeting. The representatives were gathered in a semi-circle about the Constable. Baldwin noticed that in particular. In the past there had been two groupings: on the one side the merchants and tradespeople who wanted to avoid antagonising the Muslims, and on the other the Orders. Now there appeared to be a feeling of unity in the Commune that Baldwin had not seen before.

  The messenger from al-Fakhri stood anxiously before the Constable, who glowered from his throne. ‘Speak.’

  Al-Fakhri’s servant turned to the crowd, and spoke clearly in slightly accented French.

  ‘My master, the Emir al-Fakhri, bids you welcome. He prays that the Franks of Acre are thriving and sends his good wishes to all his friends in the city.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ the Constable snarled.

  ‘Your messengers arrived on the Thursday before last. My master saw them with his own eyes: one Templar, one Hospitaller, and their servants and assistants. They were arrested as soon as they entered the city, and all were refused permission to meet with the Sultan. They were taken directly to the gaol.’

  ‘But they were emissaries travelling under promise of safe conduct!’ the Grand Master of the German Order protested.

  The messenger shrugged. His manner indicated that if the Sultan did not extend safe conduct, there was little security for them.

  The Constable leaned back in his seat. There was a moment’s absolute stillness in the chamber. High overhead, a flag flapped and cracked in the wind from the sea, and Baldwin was startled by its loudness. Birds wheeled and soared, their cries oddly plaintive, as if they were announcing the disaster to come. Baldwin reckoned all in the square felt the same wretched discouragement.

  ‘Is there more?’ the Constable asked quietly.

  ‘My master bids you prepare your defences. The Sultan swore to bring his army here on his father’s deathbed, and it was his generals who advised him to wait until after the winter rains. The rains are finished. The army marches.’

  ‘Do you have any idea of numbers?’ Guillaume de Beaujeu demanded.

  ‘I was told sixty thousand cavalry, and one hundred and sixty thousand men-at-arms on foot.’

  The Constable’s jaw fell open. ‘You mean the total of marching men and cavalry was one hundred and sixty thousand, surely?’

  ‘No. The total is two hundred and twenty thousand warriors. There are more, but they are miners and masons to attack the walls.’

  There was an appalled silence as the men absorbed this. Only Baldwin and Guillaume de Beaujeu were unsurprised.

  ‘Sweet Mother of God,’ a man murmured. It summed up the feeling of the men in the chamber.

  ‘How soon will they arrive?’ the Grand Master asked, bringing them back to the present dilemma. ‘How long do we have?’

  ‘They will be here in the first week of April, I think. There are many obstacles since the rains. They have more than a hundred siege engines, and the wagons for them take time to cross rivers.’

  Guillaume de Beaujeu bowed to the messenger. ‘I am grateful for your news. It shows what needs be done.’

  The messenger looked warily at the Commune members before him, then at the Constable, who gave a motion with his hand. The messenger then bowed low, wished them all peace, and left, his eyes going from side to side as though he feared to be attacked on his way out. One man did reach for his dagger, but another put a hand on his and shook his head. There was a sense of futility, of despair beyond comprehension.

  Baldwin found himself staring at the spot where the messenger had stood. In his breast he was aware of a relaxation of tension, oddly. At last the dreadful waiting was to end.

  A merchant Baldwin recognised as a friend of Mainboeuf’s, spoke wonderingly. ‘This must surely be a mistake? The Sultan would not unnecessarily take a peace envoy, would he? Perhaps we should send a message asking the Sultan to release our friends and explain again the reason for their embassy? Maybe it was the presence of two warlike ambassadors that gave the Sultan the wrong impression? We know he detests the Orders.’

  Guillaume de Beaujeu turned slowly to stare at him, and when he spoke his contempt was acid.

  ‘Do you mean he thought we had sent an army of two knights to take his city? Are you blind to the facts? Our position is clear: we cannot negotiate. We had two options: flight – or fight to defend our city. But there is now no choice. All Christians have a sacred duty to remain here. We in the Temple know our duty.’

  ‘The Hospital will remain with the Temple,’ the Grand Master declared. ‘This is the destiny of our Orders, to fight and die if need be in the service of God and the Kingdom of Jerusalem.’

  ‘The Knights of Saint Lazarus too will fight.’

  There was a moment’s pause, and then the Grand Master of the German Order, Burchard von Schwanden, grunted his own assent. Baldwin thought he looked distraught, whereas the other Grand Masters were steadfast in their commitment.

  The Constable nodded and looked over the remaining members of the Commune. ‘The city will soon be at war. From this moment, all supplies of food must be subject to the demands of the city’s defence. I wrote last year to ask for more help from our friends, and with luck we shall gain some support from there. What of the Orders? Can we hope for help?’

  Guillaume de Beaujeu spoke first. ‘I have hope that I can call on more knights.’

  The Hospitaller nodded to de Beaujeu. ‘I will order my knights to send all who may be spared.’

  The only unhappy Grand Master was von Schwanden. ‘My men are already involved in the Crusades in Lithuania and Poland. I do not know if I can have men here in time.’

  ‘So, we h
ave a thousand knights and sergeants on horseback,’ the Constable said. Against the Sultan’s army.’

  ‘Sir, the most important thing now is to send away all those who are no use to the defence of the city,’ Jacques d’Ivry said.

  Baldwin noticed that Sir Jacques appeared to feel no concern for himself, as always. His faith was so strong, it preserved him from fear.

  The Constable considered. ‘It will take time to arrange such a plan. We have so many thousands to evacuate.’

  ‘We have planned for this already,’ Ivo put in. ‘We can begin to remove those people as early as next week.’

  ‘Very well, I agree. Gentlemen, my Lords, we all have much to do. Any questions should be addressed to my clerk.’ The Constable stood. ‘Good luck, and may God go with us all.’

  Turning, he made his way to a curtained doorway. Baldwin watched, and was shocked to see him stumble, clinging to the doorpost like a frail old man.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  When the Genoese ships slipped their moorings and rowed into the bay, there forming up into their fleet, Buscarel was at the harbour watching, gloom filling his soul. He could have gone with them. Perhaps he should have, but the thought of deserting his city was too hard. His heart was in his throat as the first of the ships moved slowly past the Tower of Flies and out to sea, and he felt dizzy, like a man who has spent too much time in the sun. But when the third ship had gone out, suddenly all that disappeared, to be replaced by a bitter rage.

  ‘Damn them,’ he swore.

  This was his home. He wouldn’t run from it.

  The ships unfurled their great sails, and he felt a lurch in his gut to see how the pennants fluttered. From over the sea, he heard the creaking of the cordage, the straining cracks of the timbers, as the wind caught the canvas. The sun. It was odd to think that this could be the last time he ever saw his country’s fleet – because it would not return. That had been made plain.

  Zaccaria had invited him to the Admiral’s house. ‘We cannot get back in time to rescue people if things go badly,’ he had warned him.

  ‘There are women and children to be taken away,’ Buscarel said. ‘You could carry some to Cyprus.’

  ‘We are clearing our warehouses,’ Zaccaria told him. ‘We both know that when the Muslims arrive, they will destroy the city.’

  ‘Not if there are enough men here to defend her. If the women and children could be evacuated, so that only fighting men remained, we could protect Acre,’ Buscarel declared.

  ‘No. You cannot hope to do that.’ Zaccaria shook his head. ‘So we have to empty all our goods from here. The investment in buildings is a sore loss, but we can do nothing about them. Besides, it is good that this city was Venice’s jewel. The loss will hurt her more than us.’

  ‘This is a Christian city, Admiral. Could you not bring back men? Even a few thousand would help, and if you—’

  ‘No. I will return to Genoa and tell our people what I believe: that Acre is lost. There is no point sending ships or men here to die,’ Zaccaria said flatly. ‘If you have any sense, my friend, you will come with us.’

  ‘While there is hope, I must remain,’ Buscarel argued. ‘One question: will you take my woman and sons with you? I would be happier to know that they were safe.’

  ‘They must go to Cyprus with the other women and children. There will be scarcely enough room on my ship for my goods.’

  ‘Please, Admiral. All I ask is a little space. They will take less room than I would.’

  ‘Yes, but they cannot work their passage like you would. Perhaps if you had not lost a second ship to the Templars last year, there would be more space aboard, but as it is, with one ship fewer in my fleet, it is going to be a tight fit.’

  ‘Then I will remain here with them.’

  ‘Then you will die. And die a fool, at that.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I won’t die a coward!’

  Zaccaria looked at him bleakly. ‘Be careful how you speak to me, Buscarel.’

  ‘Or what? You will leave me here to die?’ Buscarel laughed scornfully.

  Today, he walked along the harbour, then out along the breakwater to the Tower of Flies where he climbed the steps to the very top, staring out to sea.

  ‘They’ve all gone, have they?’ one of the garrison of sentries asked, watching the Genoese ships with him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are they coming back?’

  ‘No. They sail away to protect their money,’ Buscarel said.

  ‘Well, we’re better off without them, then,’ the sentry said with a shrug.

  Buscarel stared at him, dumbfounded. And then he began to feel his despondency fall away. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Yes, I suppose we are.’

  The plans for the evacuation of the majority of women and children were already well advanced, when Baldwin met Ivo for lunch.

  The two had been working their men on the walls near the Tower of St Nicholas, and now they sat and rested their backs against the wall in the shade of the new hoarding roof while they chewed bread and drank thin ale.

  ‘This ale’s going off already,’ Ivo said with a wince.

  ‘Well, it gives you an excuse to drink it all the faster,’ Baldwin chuckled.

  Ivo gave him a dirty look, but Baldwin was in a good mood. He had the trust of his men, and for all that their situation was alarming, he was determined not to show concern. When the fellows needed to be jollied along, it was Ivo who invariably sprang into action, making them laugh, and forget adversity.

  Baldwin and his men spent that day strengthening the catapult-bases on top of the towers. In the last few days they had constructed larger ones behind the city’s walls, too, up near the Lazar Gate and the Gate of Maupas, where the defences had been insufficient beforehand. The timber from Venice had been put to good use. With the catapults being built now, the city could retaliate with determination against any attack.

  Later, when Baldwin returned to the house, Pietro let him in wearing an expression of great irritation. ‘Worse and worse,’ he snapped.

  ‘Eh?’ Baldwin asked, but then Pietro was gone, and Baldwin walked through to the garden.

  The weather was improving now, and the table and chairs had been taken from the house and put back into the garden. Here, the sound of the birds singing in the little fruit trees was a source of delight always to Ivo, and he liked to sit with his eyes closed, listening.

  Today, however, he sat with his eyes wide open, a mazer of wine in his hand. When Baldwin walked in, the young man could see the bleak expression in his eyes.

  Lucia was there, and she brought him a mazer of wine, bowing her head. He wished she could stop behaving like a slave, treating him like a master who had power of life and death over her, but there seemed nothing he could do or say that would change her manner to him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, taking the cup and drinking deeply. It was hot working on the towers, and his throat was parched. Then: ‘Ivo, what’s the matter?’

  The older man walked to the table and sat down next to a large bowl of olives. A dish of seafood was soon brought in by Pietro. ‘Likely won’t have decent food much longer,’ the servant grumbled to himself as he set out the food, and left again.

  Baldwin sat, and motioned to Lucia to join them. She shook her head quickly, and went out to the kitchen to help Pietro.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked Ivo again, his eyes on Lucia as she left.

  ‘Would you believe, the Grand Master of the German Order has resigned.’

  Baldwin stared at him. ‘Burchard von Schwanden? Why?’

  ‘He thinks himself incompetent for the task ahead. It will serve to demoralise many of the men here in the city, just as we prepare to defend her.’

  ‘Who will take his place?’

  ‘Conrad von Feuchtwangen.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘No, I’ve never had any dealings with him,’ Ivo said. He stared about him, looking depressed. ‘I have done all I can to maintain the spirits of the
men here, to try to keep them keen and ready for the fight, but the idea that the Grand Master of a religious Order could resign his position will affect everyone.’

  Baldwin was struck by Ivo’s sombre mood. If even he could become downcast, Baldwin felt that there was little hope for anyone.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Next morning, Baldwin was reluctant to tell his team of men the news. He didn’t want to see their faces as they absorbed it.

  They had been sent to work on a new catapult being constructed near the castle. Hob was a gifted mechanic, Baldwin was learning, and his abilities improved with every machine they built. This was the largest he had so far attempted.

  ‘Why so large?’ Baldwin asked as Hob stood eyeing the timbers lying on the ground ready for piecing together.

  ‘It’s said that the enemy have some of the biggest machines ever seen,’ Hob replied. ‘They can move theirs forward or back to change the range. All we can do is make one that will reach them, no matter how far they may be.’

  Baldwin was content with that, but later, when he walked along the walls, thinking of the battle to come, he found himself looking over the plain. He was there, near the Maupas Gate, when he met Sir Otto with another man in German Order tunic, the black cross on his breast.

  ‘Sir Otto,’ Baldwin said, bowing his head.

  ‘This is the new Grand Master of the Germans,’ Sir Otto said. His manner was irritable as he asked, ‘What are you looking for? The enemy has not arrived yet.’

  ‘I was wondering how best to aim the machines, sir,’ Baldwin replied, not understanding Sir Otto’s mood. ‘I thought if we could guess where the Muslims would place their camp, where their men would pitch their tents, we would have a better idea where to point the catapults.’

  ‘You need not worry about them,’ the German said. He stood and peered over the walls. ‘When they arrive, they will place their tents and horse-lines far beyond our reach. Only those devices intended to attack the city will be at a range to be hit.’

  ‘Can we try to estimate where they would place them?’ Baldwin wondered.