00 - Templar's Acre (30 page)

‘However, you can help the Temple and the city with other work.’

‘How? Tell me how I can assist you?’

To Ivo’s consternation, the Marshal let his face fall into his hands and could not speak for some moments. Ivo stood, unsure what to do or say. He shuffled, looked about the room. Sir
Geoffrey had always been so strong and purposeful. To see him reduced to this was deeply disconcerting.

‘Master Ivo, I am sorry,’ the Marshal said. He took his hands away and stiffened his back. ‘My apologies. I must soon go to the chapel, so I shall be brief. I know your wife
and child were in Tripoli.’

‘I tried to return to them,’ Ivo said steadfastly.

‘I know. I was there, as you are aware. I was persuaded to leave on a ship before the end, and my comrades remained to do all they could. It was little enough. All died. Master Ivo, I saw
that city in all her glory, and I saw the devastation of the Mameluk attacks. The rocks thundering into walls. Men and women crushed – babies, too. I have never seen such appalling sights.
Those who survived the fury of the missiles were slaughtered by the Muslims running through the streets. Master Ivo, I would not have that happen again.’

‘I see.’

‘I wish you to plan for all those who are not committed to fighting for the city, to be taken away. The Genoese and Venetians should be able to evacuate the women and children to Cyprus.
They will be safe there. And with them gone, my friend, we shall all be able to fight more bravely, knowing that whatever we do, we do not risk the lives of the poor and weak. We fight for God and
God’s land.’

Ivo nodded. He was still thinking of Tripoli.

Buscarel could see the Temple towers from his door.

While he despised the Templars, being more comfortable with the Hospitallers as a Genoese, he appreciated the sight of their great building with its immense towers. He had always held a fierce
love for this city. It was where he had installed his woman, and two sons too. His love for Acre was as strong as his hatred for Venice and her allies, but today, walking through his door, he felt
only relief to be back at his home.

The door gave onto a short passageway that led to the square enclosed garden within. It was not enormous, but was fitting for a merchant seaman of his importance and wealth. He was lately
returned from a short journey seeking fruits, and hoped to surprise his woman.

She stood, flustered and surprised as he entered. ‘I thought I should visit my wife,’ he said affectionately.

‘You will need food! Wine! Please, let me . . .’

‘Cecilia, sit, wait with me.’

She made as though to go to the kitchen, but his calm beckoning persuaded her, and she walked to him, her face downcast. ‘Was it a successful voyage?’

‘Master Mainboeuf will be content. Where are my sons?’

She smiled. Cecilia had the olive complexion of a southern woman, and although she was almost thirty years old, her looks had not faded. When she smiled, her eyes danced with joy.

‘They are with their nurse at the house of the merchant of Pera.’

‘Manuel? Good. It would be pleasant to have some time alone with my wife,’ he said.

He walked with her to their bedchamber, and they kissed, then made love. When they were done, he remained naked on the bed, drinking wine as he gazed out of his window towards the sea and the
great port, over the roofs of the Venetian houses and palaces.

Venice! he thought. The thieves of the Adriatic! Their piracy was notorious throughout the Mediterranean, especially with their alliance with the Templars. Look at Acre! The city could be the
jewel of the East, if the Genoese had their way; unfortunately, the Genoese quarter had no access to the sea, without passing through the Venetian quarter. The harbour was all theirs, and they had
their lands and privileges guaranteed by the Templars. No one could fight both.

He was no hypocrite. It was true that Genoa had profited from her investment in Tripoli. If that city had survived, Genoa’s wealth would have been guaranteed, for the merchants there were
keen to deal with Genoa, almost to the exclusion of all others. That was why Tripoli had fallen. All knew it. Someone had travelled to Qalawun to demand that he intercede on behalf of those poor
men from other cities who could not trade in the way they had in their past. Because Genoa was become the monopolistic trader with Tripoli.

Yes, all knew what had happened. Venice had sent an embassy to Qalawun in Cairo, and he had responded with overwhelming force. Poor Tripoli. Poor Genoa.

‘What is it, my love?’ Cecilia said, walking back into the room. She bore a tray with more wine and a flat bread.

‘I was thinking of those murderous bastards!’

She was still for a moment. When he allowed his anger to show, it always scared her, and her fear was a spur to his anger. There was no need for her to be scared of him, unless she actively
sought to enrage him. He would not hurt her, and the alarm in her face was demeaning to both.

He swallowed his annoyance, and tried to force a less bitter expression into his eyes. ‘Come. I am not angry with you. I was thinking of them – that was what enraged me.’

‘I am fortunate to have such a good husband,’ she asserted, and sat on the couch beside him.

‘They have cost us much,’ he said.

She nodded, pouring him wine.

It was because of Venice that Genoa was fighting for survival. The Venetians possessed the bulk of all trade from the East because they controlled the sole remaining city. In future, everyone
must go to Venice for silks, for spices and sugar, for all the luxuries that cost men in Saxony or Paris so much. All the items which allowed a shipman to make good on his investments would be
denied to Genoa.

His people must defend their trade. Except no one was willing to do so. They sat in their houses and drank wine and dreamed of the days before the loss of Tripoli, or proposed stupid plots to
retake their city, or to remove the Venetians from Acre.

‘You are troubled?’ Cecilia asked.

‘It is nothing for you to worry about,’ he said reassuringly. He closed his eyes so that she would not see the anxiety in his face.

Acre was the last stronghold on the coast. While she lived, Genoa would be impoverished. But Acre was his home. And while he hated the thought of serving the interests of Venice, he would defend
this city to the last.

It was a tense ride for Baldwin. He was glad to be out, but still more glad that there were so many men about him. There were two other Leper Knights with Sir Jacques, as well
as their squires and sergeants. The remainder of the thirty were Templars.

Their way took them over the plains, and thence between some low, yellow hills.

‘All this land once was ours,’ Sir Jacques said, looking about him. He was wearing his full armour, and the nose-guard looked incongruous, being slightly bent at the bottom. It
pressed upon Sir Jacques’ nose, pushing it in and to the right. Baldwin was tempted to ask why he didn’t have it bent back. ‘The Kingdom stretched all the way from Antioch in the
north, down to Gaza,’ he went on. ‘The Templars and other Orders built strong defences along the border to protect Jerusalem and the other cities, but over time we have lost
all.’

‘How?’

‘You mean, how did men’s folly permit such a disaster? Or how could God have allowed heathens to take His land?’ Jacques asked lightly.

‘Both, surely.’

‘I think not. God gives us the strength to do His will, but that does not mean He commands us in all we do. He likes to test us with new trials, and this is just one more.’

‘But how can it be a trial when we know He cannot allow us to lose?’ Baldwin said.

Jacques looked at him. ‘And you are certain of that? Perhaps the trial is to see whether we have the resolution to see this through. But if we fail, perhaps it will be for another
brotherhood of Christians to return to wrest the land from the heathen, and thereby bring about His divine wishes.’

‘He cannot allow heathens to take it, surely?’

‘Why not? If we are not strong enough, someone must have it.’

‘If God were to allow the Kingdom of Jerusalem to fail, surely that must mean the end of the world.’

Jacques smiled at the solemn young man. ‘And would that be so terrible? He has already given Jerusalem to the Muslims. What would it mean to give up Acre as well? Not so very much in
comparison. I do not think He has been very impressed with His people in recent years. If He were, would He truly have allowed the slaughter at Tripoli?’

Baldwin closed his mouth and stared ahead. Speaking was painful, for every word meant swallowing sand kicked up by the horses ahead. Still, the thought that God might permit His lands to be
invaded was ridiculous; He must help Christians throw back the godless.

‘Look there! I think that is the Lady’s farm.’

Baldwin followed Sir Jacques’ pointing finger, and saw some drab buildings in the distance. ‘There?’

‘It is a small farm for her slaves, I think,’ Jacques said.

Lucia was bent at her work when she heard the approaching thunder of hooves. Dimly, she could make out the white tunics, grubby with sand and dust, of the Templars. They were a
large force, and dressed for battle. The knights wore mail, with helmets on their heads and swords at their sides. The overseer cracked his whip, and the slaves bent to their work once more. Lucia
watched as two knights rode forward at an easy canter, reining in at his side, and began to speak. And then she saw him. The strange Frank called Baldwin.

It almost made her drop her spade. She tottered and, as the overseer shouted at her, she ducked below his lash. Too late, for the leather end caught her across the shoulders, and she cried out
with the pain. A second blow struck her torso, and the end whipped about and caught the side of her breast.

The pain was unimaginable. She wept as she struggled to return to her work, feeling the slickness of fresh blood running down her spine.

Baldwin saw the overseer lift his hand, and felt his face grow black with rage. He spurred his mount onwards, thrusting himself and his horse between the slave-driver and Lucia.

The overseer glanced up at Baldwin with a frown of incomprehension. This was one of his slaves, and he was right to maintain control. It was his duty and his job. He edged around Baldwin’s
horse.

‘Keep back, churl!’ Baldwin snarled. He looked down at Lucia and his heart was almost broken to see her. She was nearly unrecognisable. The lady in green he had fallen in love with
was now a broken woman in soiled, torn linen.

‘My Lady,’ he said, ‘I offered you my hand once. I offer it again.’

The overseer darted around, to stand before Lucia, smiling wolfishly, daring her to speak.

Baldwin forced his horse on, and it barged into the slave-driver. ‘You try to hurt her again,’ Baldwin said, ‘and I’ll kill you!’

She stood, leaning on the haft of her spade wearily. ‘Sir, I cannot. As I told you, I am Muslim. I cannot betray my faith.’

Even as she spoke, the overseer darted round Baldwin’s horse and the whip cracked.

Baldwin didn’t hesitate. His sword flashed, and he thrust it into the man’s throat. There was a sudden gout of blood, and the man fell back, both hands clutching at his neck as if
trying to stem the flow.

‘No!’ Lucia cried as he collapsed on the ground.

‘I will allow no man to hurt you again,’ Baldwin said. He was looking about him at the other slave-masters. One had already cast aside his whip and was fleeing, back to the farm.
Another stood gaping, but made no threatening gestures.

‘Lady Maria will hear of this! She will have me killed!’ Lucia wailed.

‘I offered you my hand,’ Baldwin repeated steadfastly. ‘Come, Lucia, ride with me. It’s many leagues to Acre, and I do not think you can walk it.’

Ivo sat in his garden as the sun sank, sipping wine and thinking about the Marshal’s words. Sir Geoffrey had been deeply moved. Perhaps he felt guilt for escaping when he
had. Just as Ivo felt the guilt of being absent when his wife and son needed him most.

He drank. Wine dulled the pain.

The knock at the door made him start. Pietro was in his little chamber near the gate, and he rose, complaining loudly as usual, and went to the door. And then, to Ivo’s surprise, Baldwin
walked in, carrying a young woman in his arms.

‘I am sorry if this causes trouble,’ he said, standing in the doorway. ‘But I couldn’t leave her to suffer. Not like this.’

Ivo nodded, and stood aside to let the young man pass. But somehow, as he watched Baldwin walk through his little garden, the image was strangely familiar. And then he understood: in his dreams
he had seen himself, just like Baldwin, carrying his wife and child, bearing them to safety from the flames of Tripoli.

At least Baldwin had been able to save his woman, he thought, and his eyes fogged with tears.

Baldwin woke late that morning, and arched his back as he stretched. In the past months he had slept on the roof, but with the recent rains he had taken Ivo’s advice and
now slept in this comfortable chamber.

He would never have thought to live in such luxury. Soft linens made his bed, and even though others said it was chill at night, for him, used to the miserable damp and cold of a Devon winter,
it was balmy and delightful.

Rising, he pulled a tunic over his nakedness, and made his way to the chamber where Ivo had installed Lucia. Her room was empty, and for a moment his heart fell, as though finding her again had
been nothing more than a dream. Surely she had not left in the night to return to Lady Maria? But then he saw that her bed had been slept in, and there were blood spots on the sheet where her scabs
had wept overnight.

The memory of the overseer taking his whip to her made Baldwin grit his teeth. Hearing a sound, he walked through into the garden and his rage disappeared at the sight of her sitting on a bench
near the front door.

‘I like these moments,’ he said.

‘I am sorry?’ she asked, starting to her feet.

He waved her back down. ‘Before the full heat of the sun. I like this time, when the breeze is cool, and the air is still gentle. It is the best time of the day.’