00 - Templar's Acre

by Michael Jecks

  Sir Pierre nodded. He drew his sword and stared at the cross for a moment, and then leaned forward and gently kissed it. ‘I didn’t want it to come to this,’ he said, ‘but you are right. Our priority must be the women and children.’

  He sheathed his sword.

  ‘We accept.’

  Baldwin remained on the walls for a little longer. Ivo strode away, his face pale and downcast, and Baldwin was sure that he was thinking of his wife, slain in another city just because the men in charge wouldn’t negotiate a peace. Then, when Tripoli fell, all the people inside were slaughtered.

  Not that here was much better, he told himself. Out there, beyond the main square, he could see the bodies. Those who had been found in the houses had been beheaded or had their throats cut, and been thrown into the streets. There would be food for the rats for months to come. He turned from the wall and descended the stairs, his heart heavy within him. God had allowed Muslims to take His last city, and that was incomprehensible. He sought to punish everyone, but why? This was no Sodom or Gomorrah. Or was it because the end of the world was approaching? Someone the other day had forecast famine, war and disease before the final days. Well, perhaps. Baldwin would put his faith in God and hope and pray that He had another plan for His people.

  At the ward, he strode to where Lucia stayed with other women in a great dining hall. The refugees were filling all the larger chambers, while the two hundred remaining Templars tended to keep to their dorter and the chapel. They were very keen to avoid the women. It was quite touching, Baldwin thought, that even now, in the midst of the disaster that had befallen them, the Templars were determined to stick to their Rule and neither kiss nor even touch a woman. To avoid all temptation, they segregated themselves. Only men like Ivo and Baldwin who had survived the catastrophe in the secular city remained near the women.

  Buscarel was in the chamber with the women as he entered, talking to Edgar. The latter’s injuries had healed remarkably well.

  ‘Well?’ Edgar said.

  ‘We surrender,’ Baldwin told them.

  Already outside he could hear the gates being opened. There was a flurry of shouts, and Baldwin went to Lucia. ‘We will be allowed to leave. There are ships not far away, and we will go to them and sail away.’

  ‘What will happen to me?’ she asked.

  ‘You will come with me, of course. We will be married.’

  She nodded, but she was thinking of the men outside. They were her people. She had been captured and held as a slave by these foreigners. If she went to England with Baldwin, what would become of her there? It was a strange land, so she had heard, and they worshipped the Christian god, not Allah. It was a terrifying thought, to be cut off from her own kind forever. Perhaps be forced to renounce her faith and take up a new one. That was impossible.

  Ivo walked in, his face drawn and anxious.

  ‘You have saved us, Ivo,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Can there be any doubt?’ Edgar wanted to know.

  Buscarel walked to the door and stared into the ward beyond while Ivo spoke.

  ‘I think I have hastened the end. There is a chance that we will be safe now.’

  Baldwin laughed. ‘Come, Ivo! They said we can all go free.’

  ‘As they did at Safed,’ Ivo said.

  As Abu al-Fida rode his horse in at the head of the men of Hama, a feeling of great success warmed his heart.

  The Temple was a building he had never expected to enter. The symbol of all the arrogance and savagery of the Franks, no Muslim would be permitted to ride under these doors. There was the enormous chapel, round like all the Templars’, instead of cross-shaped like the Christians’ usual churches. He would take a look at that in a short while. First, he would discuss terms with the Marshal. His banner, he ordered to be taken to the top of the gatehouse, and soon it flew there, a proud declaration of the change of ownership of this great fortress.

  A man was at his stirrup. ‘I wish to speak with your Marshal or Master,’ Abu al-Fida told him.

  ‘There is none. I am called Sir Pierre. I am the most senior knight here, by virtue of my period of service to the Order,’ the man said stiffly.

  Abu al-Fida nodded, and dropped from his horse. ‘We must discuss how to remove you and all the people from this place.’

  They walked together along the inner ward, but they had not gone far when the first screams could be heard.

  Baldwin was prepared for the arrival of the Muslims, but the Muslims were not ready for the sight of the Christian women.

  Later, he would swear that the invaders stopped with honest shock when they saw all the women. A number of them, perhaps twenty or five-and-twenty, simply stood in the doorway and gawped. Perhaps it was because the women here possessed few of the usual garments. More of their flesh was visible than would normally have been the case. And the Muslim men, unused to seeing more than glimpses of eyes above veils, or the hint of the line of a thigh or breast, were astounded. To them, perhaps, it was like walking into a brothel.

  Four entered, their eyes round and disbelieving. One began to giggle, in a high tone, while another licked his lips and crossed the floor. A widow stood defiantly, and he reached out with his hand and grasped her breast.

  There was a gasp of horror from the other women, and she slapped his face, but that only enraged him, and he tore at the neck of her tunic.

  Another man had darted forward to a blonde woman, and was gripping her, trying to kiss her face, while she screamed; the third was still giggling as he ran at a woman with a young son, but he left the mother alone.

  It was then that Ivo gave a bellow of rage and drew his sword. He attacked the man with the boy, and with one blow he was dead. Edgar kicked a man down, stabbed him, and went to the next. Buscarel slid his sword into the kidneys of the nearest, and Baldwin had his sword ready as a fellow reached for Lucia. He died quickly.

  There were many more Muslims, all now screaming their rage and running in, but the Templars who until now had remained away from the women, had heard the hubbub. Thirty or more appeared at the door, and seeing the fight, joined in with gusto until all the Muslims were dead.

  Baldwin ran from the chamber, and led the way to the gates, roaring, ‘They are attacking the women!’

  Abu al-Fida had left his horse with a group of his men at the gates when he heard the shouting. Sir Pierre left him, running to the source of the noise, and Abu al-Fida was alone for a moment. It was then that Baldwin appeared, sword in hand.

  When Abu al-Fida saw the blood on his blade, he shouted, ‘Treachery! Treachery!’ and drew his own sword, parrying Baldwin’s weapon and lunging. His blade caught Baldwin’s cheek and opened it from below his eye to his jaw. Baldwin was surprised, and jerked back, and in that time the Emir’s sword came to his throat.

  The two stood silent for a moment, Abu al-Fida recalling that day when he left the city, and a man who showed him sympathy. ‘You remember me?’ he asked.

  ‘After the riots. You were in the market,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘You saved me that day. Today I repay the debt,’ Abu al-Fida said. He took his blade away, turned and ran for his horse.

  ‘All retreat!’ he shouted when mounted again, and rode to the gates. Templars had killed all his men, and the gates were being closed. It was only by slamming his knee against one closing gate that he managed to escape. Otherwise, he too would have died there. Outside, he heard the bars being slotted into place while he sat on his prancing mount.

  Sir Pierre appeared at the top of the gate. ‘So, is this how you honour our people? By raping our women?’

  ‘A hothead, perhaps. This is your reason for bad faith? A couple of women complained and you tear up the peace?’

  ‘There is no peace, Muslim. We fight to the death,’ Sir Pierre said. ‘Your men behaved atrociously.’

  ‘Then you will die!’

  ‘We will all die,’ Sir Pierre said. A moment later, Abu al-Fida’s banner was torn d
own and hurled into the dirt at his feet. The Templar banner returned. ‘Now, go,’ Sir Pierre told him. ‘If you remain, I will order an archer to fell you.’

  CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

  That night, under cover of darkness, a galley braved the sea. A small rowing boat was despatched from it, and it landed at a small quay that gave access to the Temple.

  Baldwin and Ivo were there, Baldwin nursing his scarred cheek, when the shipman came and discussed evacuation with Sir Pierre.

  ‘How many can you take?’ Sir Pierre demanded.

  ‘Thirty, perhaps. No more.’

  Sir Pierre nodded. ‘There are some essentials that must be saved,’ he said. ‘We have the Treasury, records, and other important papers. Then I would send Tibaud de Gaudin, our Treasurer, so that these documents can be protected and understood. However, after him we should save as many women and children as we may.’

  The selection of the fortunate few was made by lots. The mothers all drew straws, and twenty-two women and children were chosen. They joined the chests and boxes and the glum-looking Treasurer in the boat, and soon were bucketing through the waves towards the Venetian galley that stood a mile or so out to sea.

  ‘Will there be another ship?’ Baldwin asked Ivo.

  ‘The Falcon should come back, since she is a Templar ship,’ Ivo answered, but then he sighed heavily. ‘But Roger Flor is no fool. He’ll be enjoying himself in the fleshpots of Cyprus rather than coming here for us.’

  Baldwin watched the ship. So far away, and yet such a good size. ‘Lucia, I am sorry. You should have been on that ship.’

  Lucia rested her head on his shoulder. She did not tell him that she had drawn a short straw. She had plucked it from the fist of the Templar sergeant who came around all the women in the chamber, and as she took it, she had seen the woman with the boy next to her. Petrified with fear after the way he had been assaulted by the Muslim, he had clung on to her skirts. In his face there had been utter terror. He knew that if the Muslims came in again, he would suffer rape, and then death. He was only a young lad, not a man. Perhaps ten years old, no more.

  She had looked at his mother. Tears ran slowly down the woman’s cheeks as she opened her hand and looked at the long straw. Lucia reached down, and replaced it with her own.

  ‘Sir Pierre! Sir Pierre! I would speak with you!’

  The braying of the trumpets had announced Abu al-Fida’s presence, and now he sat upon a mare while he waited for a response.

  It was some little while before a series of heads wearing Templar helmets appeared at the battlements. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Yesterday, hotheads broke the truce. The Sultan offers you his full apology. He is prepared to offer the same terms as yesterday. Free passage for you and those inside the Temple. Your knights and men can keep your weapons, your women and children can leave. You will all board a ship to go to Cyprus.’

  ‘How can we trust the Sultan’s word?’

  ‘The Sultan wishes for no further disturbance. How many more must die? There is no purpose in such an outcome. Better for all that you accept terms and that you all vacate the fortress alive, that our men enter the fortress without fighting. Many thousands are already dead. Do we need to have any more die?’

  Sir Pierre looked about him. ‘Well?’

  Baldwin shook his head. ‘It is sensible, is it not? They wish to save their own people. It’s easier for them to have us walk from here and sail away, than that they should have to break into yet another strong wall. Assaulting the Temple would cost them dear. They know that.’

  ‘If we walk out of here, they won’t let us live,’ Ivo said flatly.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Sir Pierre asked.

  ‘They are offended that we killed their men yesterday. In their minds, that is us breaking faith. They don’t understand how we could surrender, and then seek to protect our women. They don’t think like us. They know it was provocation, and if Christians broke into a Muslim harem, they would be outraged, but for their men to assault ours, that they will consider different. They will seek to capture us all, by guile if they can.’

  ‘I cannot tell whether you are right or wrong,’ Sir Pierre said. He stared over the parapet at the massed troops all about. ‘But I know this: if we don’t agree, we will all die here. There are miners beneath us now. They will be digging out a chamber and burning the supports to force the walls and the Temple to collapse. All the women and children will die if that happens.’

  ‘All roads lead to death,’ Buscarel said. He was behind Baldwin, honing his sword with a lump of stone. ‘Some are swifter than others. That is all.’

  ‘I think my own path is clear,’ Sir Pierre said. He had been standing with his head bowed. Now he kissed the cross of his sword, then leaned over the battlement to shout at Abu al-Fida. ‘I am coming down. I will discuss terms with your Sultan.’

  Baldwin and Ivo stood watching as he descended the stairs at a swift but unhurried pace. He pointed to three Templars in the ward, and all formed behind him.

  ‘Open the gates!’ he bellowed, and the four men marched out.

  ‘Baldwin?’ Ivo said. ‘It has been good to be with you for the last year.’

  ‘Perhaps we shall be together longer,’ Baldwin smiled. As he did so, there was a shout from outside.

  Before the Templars could draw steel, all had been grabbed. Now all were thrust to their knees, and as the garrison watched in horror, each was beheaded.

  Ivo looked at Baldwin. ‘It won’t be long now, my friend.’

  There was a ship in the bay, and a rowing boat was approaching swiftly as the last assault was launched.

  Baldwin and Ivo remained on the walls, hurling stones at the men clambering up the ladders. There were no enemy turrets as yet, for to bring them through the narrow, winding streets would have been difficult even before the siege. Now that each street and lane had piles of rubble from fallen buildings, it would be a mammoth task. Instead Sultan al-Ashraf depended upon ladders and his overwhelming force.

  Thousands were scaling the walls. A massive timber battering ram crashed repeatedly into the gate below. Templars and women ran about the ward, fetching anything that could be used to strengthen the gates and save them from collapse. Baldwin saw Lucia running from the kitchens with a couple of other women, a large beam in their arms. Lucia almost collapsed with the weight, but then they were off again.

  Baldwin had enough on his hands already. He beat off a man clambering to the top of a ladder, and thrust it back, but with the weight of men on it, all he succeeded in achieving was to make it move away and then clatter back against the wall. He tried to grab it again, but a man hacked at his hands. His leather gauntlets were no protection against an axe. Instead he stabbed at the fellow’s face through the rungs, and felt his blade strike.

  A bellow, and when he turned, three Muslims were pelting towards him from another ladder. Baldwin threw himself to the side, shouting, and the archer behind slammed an arrow into the leading man’s belly. Baldwin was up for the second, stabbing him in the throat, swinging around with his blade still embedded, and thrusting his sword’s cross into the face of the next. The guard’s arm broke the man’s nose. Baldwin pulled his sword free and stabbed him too. All about him was death. The Muslims were reaching over the walls at all sides. Baldwin hurried down the steps before he was engulfed by the latest waves. In the ward itself, he saw Lucia about to run back to the gates, a pair of planks of wood in her hands. He waved at her. ‘No! Go back and lock yourself in with the women! Quickly!’

  She stopped, staring at him, and then realised the danger she was in as she saw the black-turbanned men dropping down the walls behind him. He saw her turn and flee, and then he was facing the enemy again. On his left he saw Buscarel standing similarly, and then Edgar, and four sergeants from the Templars. Seven men to guard a narrow front. Now the Muslims were gathering. There was a shout, and they formed into a line of men, shields ready, swords held high, and began to move slowly for
ward. The Templar nearer Baldwin gave an order, and the sergeants stepped to the guard.

  A bellow, and suddenly the Muslims were on them. A sweeping flash and Baldwin was aware only of the swords before him. He must give way, and his feet moved of their own volition, shuffling back, then darting forward when there was an opportunity. A man fell, and then Baldwin felt a stinging cut on his thigh. Luckily a slash, not a stab. He moved again, hacking at an arm, but someone else’s blade was under him, and he cut his forearm, and that hurt, but he dare not look down at it.

  A rumbling sound came to his ears, and he was sure that the ground was moving, but he kept on fighting. It must be the assault making the flags beneath his feet tremble and shudder. Or God was giving them an earthquake.

  ‘Give me space, boy!’ Ivo snarled as he came up from behind and took on three men to Baldwin’s right. Edgar was on his left, swinging his blade with gusto, a small smile on his face. He only ever seemed to wake fully when he was fighting, Baldwin thought to himself.

  For a space it seemed as though the attackers were losing their momentum. There was an increasing number of men lying, sobbing and wailing, and fewer wanted to launch themselves at the diminished line of Christians.

  Then there was a concerted rush. Baldwin caught a glimpse of a Templar falling, and at once he knew they would not hold this place. ‘Back! Retreat to the main buildings!’ he bellowed.

  Edgar nodded, and turned, but as he did so, two arrows hit him. One was high, and passed through the soft flesh beneath his collarbone. It carried on, right through him, and on. The second was lower, and slammed into his thigh. He fell at once, grimacing, and for once his smile was wiped away.

  Baldwin bent to help him up, and now the two hobbled together while Buscarel and Ivo and the Templars gave them cover. He would never know how he did it, but he managed at last to throw Edgar in through the door, and then turned to bellow to the others to join him. They ran. The first inside was Buscarel, holding up his forearm, where a long raking cut had sliced through to the bone at his elbow. Ivo was next, miraculously unhurt, and then the Templars arrived en masse. They stood in the doorway, and then sprang back and closed the doors, swinging down the hinged bar and bolting it securely.