‘Where would I go without you? What should I do? I am happier here.’
‘No, I have to—’
‘Baldwin. If we are to die, let us die together.’
The decision tore at him. He would do anything to make her safe and happy, but God had chosen a different fate for them.
There was a shout, and the clatter of arms from an alley. People were streaming down it, screaming in terror, and when Baldwin looked up, he saw turbanned heads.
He also saw Edgar and Ivo. They were fighting for their lives.
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
Ivo shouted to Pietro to move, and they bolted towards the sea. A group of Muslims had encircled them, but with Edgar on their side, the fellows were soon routed. Edgar went through them like a hot knife through butter, shrieking a battle-cry as he wielded a sword and a dagger.
‘I’ve never seen a man like him,’ Pietro said with awe as Edgar drove off the last of them. He was like a man possessed.
Ivo grunted, and the two hurried after him.
They were almost at the harbour when disaster struck. At the crossroads there came a scream from the alley on their left, and a flurry of arrows shafted past, the nearest almost grazing Ivo’s nose. He jerked his head back, and gave a loud, ‘Phew,’ then realised that Edgar was at the opposite side of the junction from them.
‘Edgar, carry on!’ he said. The sea was visible from here.
‘What of you?’
‘We have to take another route.’
Edgar looked at him, and gave a slow nod. ‘God be with you, my friends.’
‘Aye. Well, godspeed. Be careful!’
They watched as Edgar trotted off.
‘What now, eh?’ Pietro asked.
‘Well, we could try to run through that space. If we are missed by the arrows, we can join him,’ Ivo said.
‘And if not? We’ll be punctured like my lady’s pin-cushion and will bleed our last there on the roadway. So, perhaps we should find another way to the sea.’
‘You know as well as I that there is none.’
‘Aye.’
Pietro looked up at him from beetling brows. ‘So this is it?’
Ivo was about to suggest that they might run to the Temple, when he saw behind them a fresh mass of Muslim troops. They saw him at the same time, and with wild shrieks, swords held high, they began to advance the alley.
‘Ballocks!’ Pietro spat.
He and Ivo exchanged a look. Then, roaring with their fear, the pair bolted. A desultory clattering told them arrows had been fired, but they were neither of them harmed. Ahead was a bend in the lane, and they hurried along it, but then there was a shout, and they slowed.
It was Edgar. He crouched at the next alley’s entrance. ‘I thought you were going the other way?’
‘We were,’ Ivo agreed. ‘Some Muslims dissuaded us.’
‘I see. There’s a bowman up there,’ Edgar said, pointing up the alley. ‘We may be able to rush over, before he can fire. What do you think?’
‘It’s better than waiting and knowing we’ll die here.’
‘That was my thought, too.’
Edgar gave the two a grin, and then launched himself over the gap. He almost made it, but as he reached the wall, there was a solid sound, like a knife cutting into a cabbage, and he gave a cry, turning and falling; an arrow was protruding from his left arm, pinning his arm to his back. Snarling, he took his sword and hacked the shaft away, then drew his arm free from the stump with a grimace of pain.
Peering round the corner, Ivo saw a solitary bowman fumbling with an arrow. Bellowing his rage, Ivo raced up the alley to get at him, closely followed by Pietro. The wide-eyed Muslim drew his bow and launched an arrow that hissed past his ear. Then Ivo was on him, and when his sword hacked into the man’s neck, he fell, wriggling and moaning quietly.
‘Sweet Jesus, how many more are there?’ Ivo panted, and was about to make his way back to Edgar when he almost tripped over Pietro.
The old man had taken the arrow meant for Ivo. It had hit his brow, and he was so close, it had sunk in deeply.
‘Old friend,’ Ivo muttered, and felt the tears spring. ‘I’m sorry it was you, not me.’
There was no answer. Ivo wiped at his tears and patted Pietro’s face, then stood, sighed, and ran off. He made his way back to Edgar, and helped him along the roadway some yards, but they could hear the booted feet of the Muslims pursuing them.
‘We have to fight,’ Edgar hissed through his pain.
‘Can you?’
‘I fight better than I die,’ Edgar snapped.
They stopped there, and as the enemy approached, Edgar lifted his arms with that familiar war cry. The Muslims were nothing loath, and the two soon found themselves beset in an unequal fight. Edgar was tiring, and Ivo could see that the arrow’s shaft was a sore irritation. He was almost ready to accept defeat – when Baldwin appeared.
His silent entrance was a surprise to their enemies. His eyes fixed with a ferocious determination, he wielded his blade with a savagery that drove back the nearer Muslims. A moment later Buscarel arrived, fighting with a cool precision that saw two men killed in the first moments.
But even their fighting skills could not check so many. They were driven back towards the harbour, and Baldwin saw that Edgar was slowing as he went. ‘Ivo, Buscarel, Edgar’s losing too much blood.’
‘No, Master,’ he gasped. ‘I am just a little over-tired, that is all. I need a draught of good English ale.’
And then came a familiar bellow, and the tramp of many boots. It was the English, with Sir Otto himself leading them.
Baldwin and the others retreated while the English troops kept the enemy at bay.
‘Sir,’ Baldwin said. ‘I was never so glad to see a man.’
‘I can imagine it,’ Sir Otto said. As he spoke, one of his men fell back, a horrible tear in his throat. ‘God’s blood, save us,’ he muttered as the fellow collapsed on the ground. ‘Your woman told us of your peril.’
‘I thank you sincerely. I wanted to ask you, would you take her with you?’
‘I should like to, but my men come first. I have to have all of them embarked before I can think of passengers,’ Sir Otto said.
‘I understand.’
Make your way to the ship, then,’ Sir Otto said, and Baldwin put his arm around Edgar and helped him down the alley.
They passed many bodies on their way, mostly women and children. ‘Have the Muslims been here already?’ Baldwin wondered.
‘Look at them. There are no stab wounds or arrows to be seen, are there?’ Ivo grunted. ‘These were killed in the rush to the harbour. They were trampled to death, poor sods.’
‘Sweet Mother of God,’ Baldwin murmured.
He found Lucia at the entrance. She gave a little gasp on seeing them, and flew up the alley to them.
‘I found the ship and wouldn’t go until I’d spoken to the knight,’ she said breathlessly. ‘He was very kind.’
‘He will take us away from here,’ Baldwin said. He had a great feeling of relief at the thought.
Several Venetian galleys had already slipped their moorings and had taken their cargo of English soldiers with them out to the open seas. The harbour was still filled with the wailing, distraught women and children from the city, who pleaded with the shipmasters and others to take them to safety, offering money, lands – one woman even baring her body in her desperation for rescue – but the shipmen could offer nothing.
There were many small craft and rowing boats, and all were being commandeered. As Baldwin watched, he saw the Patriarch being helped down the steps to a little rowing boat. He had blood on his white coat, and looked very feeble. Seeing the people at the harbour, he burst into tears at their distress, Baldwin saw, and beckoned to those nearest. Three women and their children clambered aboard the vessel, and then another, while the men rowing expressed their anxiety. No more were permitted, but as Baldwin watched, they rowed away from the harbour and out toward
s the open sea past the Tower of Flies.
There was a shout from the farther side of the harbour, and over the heads of the waiting people, he saw black and white turbans begin to rush in among the crowds. ‘Sweet Jesus!’ he groaned, and drew his sword again.
Glancing back at the sea, he saw that the rowing boat had gone. The first wave had sunk her. All were lost.
* * *
Abu al-Fida hurried with his men to the harbour, while his comrades hacked their way to the Hospital and the Temple. He thought it likely he could cut off attempts by the citizens to escape. The Sultan would want as many slaves as possible, after all. He had not expected so many people, however. As he and the men pelted down the alleys and lanes into the harbour, he was confronted by a vast crowd. The only warriors he could see were already on the ships that were pulling away from the quay.
‘Take them!’ he shouted, and his men sprang forward like greyhounds after a desert hare. He was glad to see that they were capturing the women and children, and keeping them back, like sheep to be held penned. All the Christian men were ruthlessly cut down. The screams and wails of the women were hideous, but Abu al-Fida’s heart was stone. His Usmar had been as deserving of pity and sympathy, but these people had killed him. It was the fathers of these children, the husbands of these wives, who had stabbed Usmar in the streets back there in the roadway.
Yet he could not help but feel sickened. Blood sprayed as the blades hacked at men and boys and old women.
He turned and saw a small group of Franks at an alleyway – two men fighting furiously, a third with an injury, but also wielding his sword with great skill. His men had passed around them, so they were cut off from the next group: a force of knights. He could see their Commander, a bold, imposing man, who charged with his men into Abu al-Fida’s company. They were rolled back, several cut down, while the knights held a barrier, and behind them, men-at-arms and archers hurried to the ships.
The action was brief. As soon as the last warrior was on the ship, the knights turned and climbed aboard as well, and the ship was pushed off, archers sending flights of arrows at Abu al-Fida’s men to keep them back. The galley’s oars were lifted, a drum began to beat, and the ships started to make their way out of the narrow entrance to the harbour.
He turned his gaze back to the three at the alley. One was familiar. And then he remembered: a young Frank who had expressed sympathy and sorrow at the death of his son.
No matter. He was a Frank.
‘Catch them,’ Abu al-Fida said, pointing to the trio.
Baldwin saw the Emir’s pointing finger, and felt a cold certainty that this was the end of their bid for freedom.
‘Up this alley,’ he shouted, and all pelted up the hill. It was the Venetian quarter, Baldwin remembered. Buscarel glanced at him as they came to a fork, pointing to the left hand. ‘We must get to the Temple,’ he panted. ‘It’s our only hope.’
Edgar was labouring badly with the arrowhead still in his flank and back.
‘How is it?’ Baldwin asked.
‘I do not know,’ Edgar answered honestly. ‘It is sore, but so it ought to be.’
Ivo took a quick look. ‘I think it has lodged in the bone, which is good. If it were to have entered his lung, he would be dead already. But if it’s in the marrow, and poison gets in . . .’
Edgar said with grim humour, ‘I don’t think you need worry about a lingering death, not when . . .’ He didn’t have to finish his words. The first Muslims were closing in, and there was no time to waste.
Buscarel took the next left. A man and woman shouted down from a window, begging to go with them, but Baldwin and the others could not stop. However, the Muslims paused to kill the man, Baldwin saw when he shot a look over his shoulder. He feared that the woman would be raped, but his feelings were blunted today. Too many had already died for him to grieve over one more atrocity.
There was a very slight downhill gradient, which Baldwin found a huge relief, but he knew full well that he was running along the fourth side of a square. Unknown to him, this was the direction from which the arrow had been fired at Edgar. Still, there was no sign of Muslims yet. He hoped that they were already engaged in robbing houses. He didn’t want to think what they might be doing to the occupants.
Their luck held. In a short while, they were close to the Temple. Muslim soldiers were fighting a group of Templars to the north of the square, and while the gates were almost closed, there was daylight visible, and before it another unit of Templar sergeants, weapons at the ready.
‘Quick!’ Baldwin pushed Lucia ahead of him before taking Edgar’s hand and helping him over the last few yards. Ivo remained with him, his sword out, warily observing the alleys behind them as they went.
Arrows, more arrows, and then screams as the Muslims pelted from the alley after them. But already the squad from the gates had seen Baldwin and the others and had come out to cover their retreat.
Once inside the gate, Baldwin fell to his knees and bent his head to the ground, giving thanks to God for his unexpected survival.
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
The aftermath, as Abu al-Fida had expected, was appalling.
His men, drunk with lust and greed, went through all the houses. The Venetians had already emptied their warehouses of all valuables, but there were still servants and children to be taken. Thousands of women and children were captured and led away to the slave pens outside the city. No men were spared: all those found were immediately put to the sword. So were the old women who would have little value as slaves. Besides, they wouldn’t survive the journey back to Cairo’s markets. It was kinder to kill them here.
Men walked the streets laden with the possessions of the people of Acre. Every house they entered was more splendid than the last, and often, when a woman was discovered there, they would make their use of her before bringing her to the pens.
It was the way of war, Abu al-Fida reflected. In this way were women subjugated. As he had this thought, a woman shrieked nearby.
The city was taken. Only the last remaining fortress had held out – that of the Templars.
Abu al-Fida thought it must soon fall.
Baldwin and Ivo saw to Edgar’s wound as best they could.
A Jewish physician who had some experience of such injuries, managed to remove the arrowhead without too much trouble, and then bathed the wound in fragrant water before binding it and advising them to change the bandage each day, if they could.
Edgar looked at it doubtfully after the man had gone. ‘You leave it as it is,’ he said. He had no trust in the man.
For three days little happened. The catapults were brought closer so that they might send their stones into the Temple, but against the massive walls they could do little in a hurry. Baldwin spent as much time as he could with Lucia, but he had to walk the walls with the Templars and all those who were old enough to bear arms. Lucia was kept safe in a chamber with all the women and children who had been rescued by the Templars.
‘How many will have gone to the Hospitallers, do you think?’ she asked Baldwin on the third morning.
He shook his head. ‘We are all there is, my love.’
‘But the Hospital?’
‘It fell. There are some sergeants and knights of the Hospital who succeeded in coming here. They said that their buildings were destroyed and all inside were killed. We are all that is left of Acre.’
‘That can’t be. No, so many cannot be dead.’
There was no answer to that. Baldwin put his arms about her. He wanted her desperately, but not here. Not now.
The women were frantic. Most knew that their husbands were dead. In addition, many of their children had been taken from them or slain, and these mothers had lost their minds to their horror. They squatted and rocked, moaning or wailing. In the first two days, three of them died. One was a suicide who hanged herself, much to the concern of the Templar priest who came to take her body away, but an older priest told him that suicide while temporaril
y insane was not a crime.
‘God may judge her. But after all this, He will be merciful. So should we be,’ he said.
It was on the fifth day that the bombardment ended, and suddenly the Temple was a haven of peace.
Baldwin had been eating in the chamber with the women when the noise ceased, and he hastily bolted the last of his bread and ran for the stairs. It was all too reminiscent of the attacks last week, when the enemy appeared as soon as the stones stopped.
He reached the walls in time to see a white-turbanned messenger on horseback out in the space before the main gates. Sir Pierre de Sevrey stood at the gates. He was younger than the Marshal and the Grand Master had been, and his beard had little silver in it.
‘Stop there!’ he bellowed, and two archers stood with crossbows ready beside him.
‘My master, the Sultan al-Ashraf Khalil, would spare you further bloodshed. He does not wish for death, only the city. If you will surrender this fortress to him, all the inhabitants will be granted the freedom to leave. Your knights may keep their weapons. Your women and children will be honoured and may go with you.’
‘You swear this?’ Sir Pierre demanded.
‘I so swear,’ Abu al-Fida declared, his hand over his heart. ‘What is your answer?’
‘I will return shortly,’ Sir Pierre said, turning from the messenger.
Baldwin saw his gaze going from the Templars on the walls, down to the inner ward of the fortress, where more citizens of Acre stood. A woman could be heard sobbing in the clear evening air.
Sir Pierre looked like a man torn between a keen appreciation of his duty, and the desire to protect his charges: all the women and children.
Ivo sidled up to Baldwin. ‘Well, which way will he jump?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Shit! We can’t hang about like this!’ Ivo spat over the wall, and barged past Baldwin. ‘Sir Pierre?’ he said without preamble.
‘Yes?’
‘You have to trust them. It grieves me to say it, but if you don’t, the Christians here will all die. This isn’t Safed. What reason would the Sultan have for breaking his word? We aren’t numerous enough to be a threat to him.’
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