00 - Templar's Acre (11 page)

At last, seeing little more could be done, Guillaume de Beaujeu sent his Marshal and many knights to help, but they were too few, too late. The city fell, and all were enslaved or slain in the
wholesale slaughter that followed. Only a few lived to tell of the devastation.

‘That is why Ivo is hurrying from Grenada to Lombardy and Tuscany seeking horses,’ Roger concluded. ‘The Order lost three hundred or more in Tripoli, and it is not so easy to
replace trained warhorses.’ Roger looked at Baldwin, and with a wolfish grin nodded towards three women in the corner of the room. ‘Hey, we have need of celebration, yes? We should ask
those pretty things to join us.’

Baldwin was nothing loath. It was a long time since he had grappled with a woman, and the middle of these three was a goodly height, just as he liked.

Beckoning to them, Roger leaned back on his seat against the wall, appraising them as the women crossed the floor, giggling to themselves.

To Baldwin, they were almost painfully exotic. Their skin was moderately darker than the olive complexion of the Venetian ladies he had seen while taking ship, and their eyes gleamed in the dim
light in the tavern, while their clothing was as skimpy as decency would permit. Baldwin could hear the blood thundering in his ears at the sight of long hair framing slender necks. He could almost
feel their soft flesh, and the thought of their kisses was a sweet agony.

They stood before the two men, and one sidled nearer to Baldwin. She touched his cheek with her cool hand, and he looked up into brilliant green eyes.

It may have been the wine, but the sight of her kohl-rimmed eyes was enough for him to lose all desire. He didn’t want this woman, he wanted Maria of Lydda, the woman in green.

Abu al-Fida learned what had happened from their neighbours.

A fire in the middle watches of the night, and screams from within, but none might enter to save his family. Two men tried, so he was told, and one, a brawny Galician who had the house next
door, showed him arms still raw and hairless where he had got burned in his attempt to rescue them.

‘I couldn’t do it, old friend,’ he said.

‘What caused it?’ Abu al-Fida asked him brokenly.

‘Who can tell? A falling lamp? A candle? It only takes a little to set a curtain alight, and when that happens, the whole house will catch fire. We did all we could, my friend.’

All we could.
If they had only realised that there was a fire sooner, if they had gone to his poor Aisha and his girls, perhaps they would still be alive now.

But such dreams of what might have been served no purpose. His old life was ended, and he must take stock. He must find a new place to live, think about how to renew his fortunes. Grief was a
luxury he could ill afford.

At least he still had Usmar.

Baldwin returned to the yard where Roger was still laughing, one of the other women on his lap. He smacked her smartly on the backside and sent her away with a coin. ‘So,
you enjoyed your filly? She looked keen.’

Baldwin flushed. ‘She was very kind.’

He could not explain that he had not enjoyed the encounter. The girl had been eager enough, but there was something still about the woman with the green eyes that haunted him. The air of mystery
that encompassed her only added to her allure, and this little wench was only a cheap imitation of her.

‘They were good little tickle-tails, I thought?’ Roger said, picking up on Baldwin’s reserve.

Baldwin nodded. ‘It’s not them, it’s another woman.’

‘Oh, you have an object for your affections? Who is this woman?’

‘She is a lady I have seen, a woman in emerald silk.’

‘Maria of Lydda?’ Roger whistled, and surveyed Baldwin with concern. ‘My friend, if you seek to lose your head, there are less painful ways to do it. She can bring you nothing
but misery.’

Baldwin gave a weak grin. ‘What would you have me do?’

‘Forget her and make good use of these ladies?’ Roger suggested, turning to point at the women, but they were already gone in search of more lucrative companions. ‘Ach! We
shall have to hope to meet them another day, eh?’

Baldwin nodded as Roger chuckled to himself. He rose, threw down some coins for their wine, and the two walked from the tavern and out into the light. There, Roger wished Baldwin godspeed and
returned along the street towards the Temple.

It had been too exciting a day for Baldwin to think of going home. Instead, he made his way along the street in the opposite direction. He had a vague thought of going to see the castle, but as
he reached the Monastery of San Sabas, realised he had taken too southerly a course. He decided to cut through the Venetian quarter – it would be faster. He continued on, and tried to ignore
the enticing odours of fish grilling on a charcoal fire as he passed. After the wine with Roger, his head felt woolly, and he was tempted to go and ask for water from one of the houses near, but
the men and women were unwelcoming.

As he was coming from behind the Arsenal, he caught sight of the German Tower ahead of him. Hearing a noise, he turned and saw a woman clad all in emerald. She was standing in a sun-filled
alley, and the yellowish rock made her glow with a green fire.

Baldwin could not resist her. This time, she made no move to run from him as he approached. There was something otherworldly about her, as though she would disappear in a moment if he once
looked away from her. She attracted his gaze with a magnetism that was impossible to break.

He entered the alleyway and strode towards her, and as he came closer, he saw her smile at him. It was a smile to make his heart melt.

And then the first blow caught him over the ear, and he fell at once into the abyss that opened in front of him.

Ivo returned from the Temple to find that Baldwin had left, and for his part he was relieved. The younger man had been grumpy ever since the day they had encountered Buscarel
in the street.

During the hottest hours of the day, Ivo routinely took his rest, but today there came a babble from the streets that intruded into his peace, and soon he rose to see what was the matter.
Outside was a stream of people hurrying past. He followed, feeling the tension grow in his breast, until he reached the Temple. There the throng was so thick, he could not hope to push through.

‘What is it?’ he asked the man beside him.

‘Messengers from Egypt.’

Ivo looked up at the tower, and the gilded lions seemed to blaze with sudden brilliance. ‘An army?’ he wondered with quick dread.

‘Army? No! That old bastard Qalawun has agreed peace!’

For an instant it felt as though a leaden cloak had been drawn from his shoulders. ‘What? Do you really mean it?’

Ivo could hear music, the wailing of a stringed instrument, the blaring of horns, cymbals and drums, as men and women danced with joy. A woman was shamelessly picking up her skirts and dancing
with a man over at the next street, while all about her, people clapped and cheered. There was a sickening lurch in his belly at the thought that this was what should have happened in Tripoli. How
dare these people survive and celebrate, when his family was dead? It was enough to make a man beat his head in fury.

The city would be making merry all night, but he wanted no part of it. He had never felt so lonely. He wondered for an instant where Baldwin was, but reflected that the boy would be sunk in a
tavern, just as Ivo would have been at his age. Let him drink. There would be time for work later. This was a glorious day – for those who had not already lost everything that mattered,
everything that made life worth living.

‘My friend, you are glad at the news?’

He wiped his eye quickly. ‘Jacques, I wish you a good day. God has saved us.’

‘So it would seem, old friend. You are torn, aren’t you?’

‘You always could see through my moods.’

‘Where is that lad, Baldwin?’

‘Who knows? He has wandered off on his own. He doesn’t need me!’

‘Ivo, don’t be twisted by jealousy. He’s a good man, but young. He will show his quality before long. No doubt he’s out celebrating, along with everyone else.’

‘Yes.’ Ivo was pensive. ‘I wonder if Qalawun is as pleased as these folks.’

‘Peace should gladden any heart,’ Jacques said.

‘Yes . . .’ Ivo agreed, a poisonous thought coming into his head. ‘But Qalawun is determined to exterminate Christianity. We both know that.’

‘What of it?’

‘If he put his enemies off their guard by swearing peace, that would be a good strategem, would it not? He destroyed Tripoli while he was “at peace”. It required only a pretext
for him to break it: a dispute between Genoese and Venetian interests.’

‘True enough.’

‘It was rumoured that Venice sent an embassy to Qalawun to ask that he intervene to prevent Genoa becoming too powerful – not that they anticipated that their request would lead to
the city being torn down stone by stone!’

‘Come, Ivo,’ Jacques said gently. ‘Do not suffer your bile to rule your head. Qalawun is a man of his word. He can be trusted if he swears peace. More so than a Genoese,
anyway,’ he amended with a smile. ‘Only something dreadful would force him to break his oath.’

When Baldwin woke, his head thundered like a destrier at full gallop, and when he tried to roll over, there was a sharp pain at his wrists and ankles: he was securely bound.
Overwhelmed by the need to vomit, he retched, his body convulsing, but there was nothing to bring up but a little bile, and he sagged back, panting.

It was hot here. He was in a small square, with the sun directly overhead. Perhaps it was a garden? There, at the edge of his hearing, was the tinkle and splash of water. Looking about him, he
saw a pool of water, and sitting beside it, his Maria with the emerald dress. Her face was still veiled below the eyes, but that only added to her beauty, he thought.

‘You must not move. Your head will hurt,’ she said. Her French was heavily accented, and he found it captivating. She took a scrap of linen and soaked it in water. Wringing it out,
she brought it over to him and rested it on his head. He tried not to wince at the sudden pain, instead staring up into her eyes.

‘Maria,’ he croaked.

Her eyes widened. ‘Not me. That is my mistress.’

‘Then who are you?’ he demanded.

‘I am Lucia. Maid to my Lady Maria of Lydda.’

He stared. She had the olive complexion of a woman of Granada, but her eyes were the cool green of water in a Dartmoor pool. He felt instinctively that he could rest by her all his life and
never feel his time was wasted.

‘Lucia, you are beautiful.’

She withdrew, alarm in her eyes. ‘Do not say that!’

‘It’s the truth,’ he said. He tried to rise to his feet, forgetting his bonds, and winced as pain lanced through his body. His ankles, his arms, his temples, all rebelled at
any movement. He groaned and closed his eyes, gritting his teeth.

‘I saw you on my first day here,’ he said. ‘Down the alleyway near the Venetian quarter. Do you remember? You were there, in your finery, and I followed you – called to
you, but you ran away.’

She nodded hesitantly. ‘Perhaps.’

‘And then again in the streets at the market, but that time with your men.’

‘That was my Lady, not me.’

He was surprised by that, but now other considerations intruded. ‘Why am I tied? What happened? I remember I saw you, and then I was knocked down.’

‘I am sorry,’ she said, and her voice was tearful. She looked up at a sound, and swiftly retreated.

As she did so, he heard steps, and when he looked, he saw Buscarel the Genoese marching towards him with two henchmen. They went one to either side of him and picked him up by the arms. Buscarel
chuckled at the sight.

‘So, Englishman. You wanted my ring, I think?’ He smiled, holding up his hand so that Baldwin could see the ring on his forefinger, and then he clenched his fist, and before Baldwin
could think to prepare, he slammed it under his ribcage.

The air left his lungs in an explosion of pain, and he collapsed, writhing, trying to breathe.

‘I will keep my ring. And now,’ Buscarel added with a kick at Baldwin’s kidneys, ‘now, I would learn what . . . news the two riders had . . . for the Temple. Is it news
of an attack on Genoa’s interests? You will tell me everything . . . just as soon as I have finished enjoying my . . . self!’

With each pause, he punctuated his speech with a kick until Baldwin felt that his spine must surely break. Then Buscarel’s boot caught his head – and everything went black.

Ivo and Jacques were returning homewards when they saw Roger Flor walking along the street. He was waving his arms to make a way for himself among the crowds that thronged the
square and streets.

‘You will find the roads blocked all the way to the gatehouse,’ Ivo warned him.

‘They won’t hold up a Templar,’ Roger said. ‘You have heard the news?’

‘Yes. It’s remarkable. I had assumed that Qalawun would overrun us,’ Ivo said. He could feel Jacques’ eyes on him as he spoke, but he refused to meet the Leper
Knight’s gaze. It wasn’t his fault he distrusted Roger Flor. There was something excessively mercenary about the man.

Roger curled his lip into a smile. ‘It is the wrong time to remove the last port where his traders sell their produce, I suppose.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Oh by the way, your boy enjoyed his ride with me.’

‘Baldwin went riding with
you
?’ Ivo asked sharply.

‘Do not concern yourself. He didn’t have to draw a sword, although he thought he might when we met the messengers. It was we who escorted them back.’

Ivo glared at him. ‘Do not think to teach him your ways, Roger. I will not have you hire men from my house to help you rob and kill.’

‘Perhaps you should tell him that? He was a willing enough student on the ride, and back here too with wine and women,’ Roger said, smiling lazily, but with his hand near the knife
on his belt.

‘If you pollute him, I will kill you myself!’

‘Ivo, you are too old to be making threats to a man like me. Go and find him if you are so concerned about his morals.’