00 - Templar's Acre (31 page)

‘Yes,’ she said.

He sat beside her. She was painfully beautiful, he thought, as she averted her gaze. She wore a simple shift of linen, and while she had tried to bind her hair decorously behind her head, the
lack of hood or veil made her anxious, made her feel wanton and shameful.

‘You are troubled,’ he said quietly.

‘What should I do? I am a runaway slave! If she catches me . . .’

‘You are safe here,’ he said reassuringly.

‘My Lady Maria may not see the affair in so clear a light.’

‘It doesn’t matter. You’re free, and here, and that is all I care about.’

She closed her eyes, but the tears forced their way past. She would like to believe him, but she could still see the Kurd leaning over her. She was not meant for happiness. ‘You
don’t understand. She is powerful – here, and elsewhere in the land. If she decides to have me killed, I will die. If she decides to see you dead, you will die.’

‘I am not so easy to kill.’

‘Please! You saved my life. But now, if I remain, your life will be endangered.’

‘Let it be. I shall defend us both,’ Baldwin said. ‘This house is guarded, and Ivo and I are both trained in the use of weapons. Even if someone wanted to attack us, they would
think twice because we are friends to the Templars.’

She nodded, miserable.

He was persuaded to promote his offer of marriage. ‘If you wished to be safe and demonstrate that you cannot be a slave, you could—’

‘No. I will not renounce my faith. I am a Muslim. I believe in Islam. I cannot change my beliefs for a temporary convenience.’

He wanted to persuade her, to show her that the only True Faith was his own – that of following Christ – but he didn’t know how.

‘I would marry you if I could,’ he said at last.

‘I know. And I am grateful.’

He smiled and moved to kiss her. Her horrified expression startled him. ‘Why? What is it?’

‘Do not do that, I beg!’ she said, but her voice was full of suppressed rage rather than offended pride. She could not escape the picture in her mind of the Kurd, the feel of his
hands on her, the rasping, sour breath.

Baldwin was hurt. Her reaction convinced him that she did not love him as he loved her, and he stood at once and walked away. She was the same as Sibilla, he thought bitterly. He had thrown away
everything for her in England – home, prospects, everything – and come here to fight in the Holy Land, and now God mocked him by causing him to fall in love with another woman who did
not want him.

God did not mean him to be happy with a woman. Instead, he would remain here and fight for the Holy Land as he had originally planned, and if he lived, he would find a small, quiet space far
from all women, and forget about them.

He kicked at a rock and sent it flying. He would never love again.

Grand Master de Beaujeu took off his habit and donned his mail and tunic. He would not walk through the streets without protection and weapons. His squires bustled about,
pulling on his mail hosen, his thick felted undershirt, then the coat of mail. He had a tight-fitting, padded cap under his coif, and over all went his Templar mantle. In preference to the usual
pot helmet, he chose a cap with nose-protection.

When he was dressed and armed, he walked from his chamber and met Geoffrey de Vendac and four knights in the yard.

‘So, Grand Master, we try again,’ the Marshal said.

‘If we can’t get the decision we need, I will leave the city and the Commune within to their fate,’ Guillaume de Beaujeu growled. ‘I will not tolerate the jeers of
ignorant commoners again.’

‘If it is your wish, Grand Master.’

‘In God’s name, I would rather surrender myself than see a single drop of blood fall from these miserable citizens, no matter how ungrateful they are!’

He strode through the Temple’s gate and up St Anne’s Street to the castle. People in the roadway paused to watch as the Templars marched past, but at least this time there were no
catcalls, as there had been before. Such insults were hard to endure for men born to pride. But many citizens thought them greedy, lazy men who sheltered in their Temple without a care for the rest
of the city. Some said that if the Templars could, they would flee the city before the army of al-Ashraf Khalil arrived. Anyone who thought sensibly about it would remember that the Templars had a
tunnel connecting their fortress to the docks. They had no need to conceal their movements: they could go whenever they wanted.

But Templars existed to defend pilgrims to Jerusalem and the Holy Land. They would not lightly throw away their God-given duty.

Guillaume de Beaujeu did not look to left or to right when he reached the castle, but continued on inside, his men behind him like the outline of an arrowhead.

The Commune was gathered, and as he took his position, he glanced at Mainboeuf. The man rejected the notion of Acre’s peril. Was it because he was a fool and could not see the danger?
Perhaps so. He was a merchant, after all, a man who would commit usury to advance himself. The Templar held such beings in contempt.

‘I have come again to demand that the city prepares for siege,’ he began.

The jeers erupted almost instantly. One voice cut through the rest and Sir Guillaume heard the words clearly over the hubbub.

‘He’s still determined to see us waste our time and money. He demanded that we send Christians to die in Cairo – then that we should pay for our lives. What happened?
Nothing!’

‘The son of Qalawun has gathered the greatest army ever seen in Outremer. It is reckoned to be two hundred and fifty thousand strong,’ Guillaume said without responding to the noise.
‘He has been building siege machines for months and has more than a hundred of them, all different sizes, to attack our walls. He has more miners than we have men inside our city. We should
send away all those who cannot fight. We have ships – let our weaker citizens be withdrawn to safety, leaving only the strong and healthy.’

‘Sir Guillaume,’ Otto de Grandison said with his accented French, ‘I am sure that you argue from conviction, but many will wonder why your warnings have not come to pass. You
spoke of these threats last year.’

‘As you know, Sir Otto, no army would have marched through the winter. It would be a guarantee of failure to attempt it. The army has been camped outside Cairo while the machines were
prepared. Soon they will march. This is our last chance! We have weeks, no more, in which to prepare.’

‘The city is as prepared as we need,’ Philip Mainboeuf stated. He lifted his hands to the heavens as if in despair. ‘We have the most powerful defences of any city in the whole
of Outremer.’

‘The strongest fortress will fail if miners dig beneath walls and towers,’ Sir Guillaume said.

‘If you
are correct and he comes here.’

‘He has stated so,’ Sir Guillaume snarled. His temper was fraying at repeating the same arguments. It was demeaning for a man used to issuing commands.

‘We know that there was an attempt on his life,’ Philip Mainboeuf went on. ‘Of course he said the things that those in his court wished to hear. It’s hardly surprising!
If the Devil makes work for idle hands, He is even more adept with idle generals! I say again, as I said at the last meeting, the Muslims are good men of business. In the name of God, surely we
should capitalise on our strengths? We all want trade, Christians and Muslims alike. So let’s discuss trade.’

‘The army will march to us soon,’ Sir Guillaume said. He felt an overwhelming despair. His powers of persuasion were inadequate, and he knew he was failing. ‘At least evacuate
the women and those too old to fight.’

‘What, lose the solace of our wives and children?’ Mainboeuf said. ‘And, worse, leave them unprotected in a dangerous land? I would never do that to my family. However, I do
have a suggestion to make. Constable? May I speak of another option?’

Constable Amalric nodded.

‘I believe we are in no danger. The Grand Master thinks we are. I propose that we send another embassy to Cairo. Hopefully it will calm the Grand Master’s fears if we can gain
assurances of al-Khalil’s good intentions.’

‘Whom would you send?’ Constable Amalric asked.

‘A Templar, an Hospitaller, a layman who is competent in Arabic, and a clerk or two.’

‘Can you speak Arabic?’ Sir Guillaume asked.

‘Yes, and I would be happy to volunteer.’

And so it was decided. Sir Guillaume nodded. ‘I will supply a knight, if my friend from the Hospital will do the same.’

Later, as he left the meeting, Sir Guillaume felt a grim satisfaction. If Mainboeuf was proved wrong, at least he would not have to argue with him any more.

Baldwin left the meeting believing that the Templar was right. His own journey to Cairo had convinced him that the army of Sultan al-Ashraf was a very real threat, and he
viewed the prospect of a siege with less enthusiasm than once he had. The city was strong, true, but there was an inexorable quality to that army. If all those men reached the walls of Acre, they
must succeed in taking the city.

He was useless here. What was the point of a man like him, who was not a squire, let alone a knight, when battle threatened? He was just another useless mouth who would deplete the stocks of
food and drink when the city could scarce afford it. Better that he should leave.

It was not only the city, of course. It was the atmosphere at Ivo’s house. Lucia was quiet and submissive, and Baldwin felt like grasping her and shaking her. He didn’t understand,
and she would not tell him what was wrong. Their religions were a bar to their marriage, but there was more to her reluctance than that. There was fear in her eyes whenever he approached her. She
shivered like a cowering hound. The only creature to whom she displayed affection was Uther. It was painful to see the woman he adored every day, knowing he inspired only loathing.

‘Master Baldwin, I would be grateful for a word,’ Sir Otto called as people moved out of the ward.

‘Of course,’ Baldwin said, pushing thoughts of Lucia from his mind.

‘You have been here longer than my men. I know that you are sergeant to Ivo, but one of my vintenaries has fallen prey to an unfortunate malady, and has died. I would appreciate your
aid.’

‘How so?’

‘I would ask you to take his place.’

Baldwin felt his face break into a smile. ‘Me, Sir Otto? I would be honoured!’

‘Then it is decided. You will fight alongside Ivo, I trust, on the wall?’ Sir Otto looked around. ‘What is that noise?’

There was a sudden clamour from the gate, and when Baldwin glanced towards it, he saw the flash of swords, and heard a scream, but then he was running, with Sir Otto following closely. All he
could see was a tightly-packed group of Templars with their swords held ready over their heads.

Edgar of London had not anticipated trouble as he left the castle.

He swaggered, confident that his master was one of the most powerful men in the city. With his pacifist approach, blocking those who sought war, Philip Mainboeuf had elevated himself to the very
pinnacle of the social elite in Acre, and as his standing rose so, by association, did Edgar’s.

It had been a good decision to come here, he thought smugly. He had money, the best clothes he had ever owned, and his choice of women in the city – many of whom were grateful for a
distraction from fears about their future. Life was good.

His mood was suddenly punctured when he saw the men pushing and jostling all about the Templars and his master; an alarm began to scream in his head.

Edgar darted forward, trying to get to Mainboeuf and pull him from the crush, but even as he did so, there was a sudden shout as the Templars drew their weapons.

Edgar’s sword was already out when he reached his master. The air was full of bellowing, and a woman gave a scream at the sight of blades. Edgar didn’t care – he ducked as a
Venetian shipman nearby aimed a cudgel at his head, and as Edgar dropped, he stabbed upwards with his sword. He felt it sink into the man’s breast, and the sailor toppled with a look of
intense surprise on his face, which gave Edgar a brief flare of satisfaction before something crashed against his head, and he felt himself tumble onto the rough gravel of the roadway – and
could only watch numbly as boots moved all about him. Just ahead of him, he saw the shipman he had stabbed. The man’s mouth was moving, but no words were coming. At least, Edgar heard none.
He remained staring, but then, too exhausted to continue, he closed his eyes.

Baldwin arrived as the crowd began to turn nasty, and it was a relief to hear Otto de Grandison bawling orders, barging his way through the men encircling the Templars, three
Englishmen with him shoving people aside.

‘Move away! I won’t have the mob attacking unarmed men!’ de Grandison roared, ignoring the fact that the Templars were standing in a group with steel glinting in the sun. None
had dared approach them. Nobody had any doubts of their ability to protect themselves.

Baldwin was standing with the remaining Venetian. ‘What was this about?’ he demanded.

Sir Guillaume spoke through clenched teeth. ‘The mob jostled us. Someone made jokes about Templar cowardice and whether we would find anyone who dared travel to Cairo.’

‘I’ll wager you won’t go!’ a man shouted.

Baldwin felt the crowd’s evil mood. One man was dead, and Edgar lay unmoving before him. He didn’t want any more injuries. In an instant, Baldwin grabbed the man who had spoken by
the neck of his tunic, his sword resting against the fellow’s throat. He had never seen a man’s eyes open so wide before.

‘Is there anybody else who wants to make a comment?’ he snarled rhetorically. He shook his prisoner. ‘Now, since you are unconvinced about the Grand Master’s willingness
to fight, would you offer him a challenge to single combat?’

He was wrong. Eyes
could
open wider, apparently.

‘Me? I’m no knight!’ the man squeaked.

‘You were brave enough when you had the mob at your back!’

‘He has armour and all!’