00 - Templar's Acre (33 page)

‘She is well enough,’ he mumbled.

Sir Jacques cast an eye over him. ‘She has been a slave for many years, my friend. Do not be downcast if she takes time to realise she is free. Rather, look on it as your duty to win her
over. If you give her the comfort and affection she craves, you will succeed.’

‘She is devoted to her faith. She won’t consider marriage,’ Baldwin said.

Sir Jacques looked at him sadly. ‘You would marry her?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have known many Muslims, my friend. Some were good, some were bad, just like we Christians. But few were so dishonourable as to change their faith to ours.’

‘Dishon—! But to change from a false religion to accept the True Faith, that would be an act of . . .’

‘Bad faith. You remember, I told you of the Templars at Safed?’

‘The castle where they accepted death?’

‘Yes. They refused to cast aside their religion just because Baibars threatened them with death. Why should you expect an honourable Muslim to do otherwise? Do you think Lucia would be any
less strong in her faith?’

‘I can have no hope she might change?’

‘You must pray to God, to ask that He too speaks with her. Ask the Blessed Virgin to enter her, and show her the path of truth and honesty. With time, perhaps, you will win her over to
Christ by demonstrations of humility and integrity. All I say is, you cannot expect her to give up her past life, and the faith that supported her through her slavery, in a day or even a
month.’

‘I suppose so,’ Baldwin agreed without enthusiasm.

‘But for now, what we need to do is bring this man to a bed. Here is your house, I think?’

Baldwin knocked and called for Pietro, and soon they had Edgar lying on a couch in a chamber at the rear of the house. ‘Pietro, can you wash him and clean his clothes?’ Baldwin said
with his nose wrinkled. ‘He smells like he’s been living in a sty for weeks.’

In the Genoese quarter Buscarel was worried about the possible siege. His wife Cecilia kept to the house as much as possible, fretful about their fate.

It was the same matter that exercised the Council.

In every city where Genoa had a trading presence, an admiral would congregate a small council of traders of standing to discuss how best to achieve greater prominence for Genoa’s
interests. Today they met over a meal seated about a table in Admiral Zaccaria’s house.

‘Gentlemen!’ Admiral Zaccaria said, when the Council members were all present. He was a short man with a body like old oak, brown and hard, and as he lifted his glass to them in a
silent toast, the gold on his fingers and about his neck glinted. ‘We are living in difficult times. We all know the situation: war approaches. What should we do?’

‘There is only one course open to us,’ Grimaldi said. At three and thirty, he was nearer Buscarel’s age than the Admiral’s, although his belly was larger, and he had
taken to the customs of the East more than any of the other Genoese of the quarter. ‘If the city is attacked, we have no place here. We should emulate the Venetians and take to our
ships.’

‘No, I do not agree.’ Buscarel stood and leaned on the table, meeting the eyes of each in turn. ‘If we depart, we leave the city to others, and we cannot share in any
triumph.’

‘Triumph?’ Grimaldi laughed, but with incredulity plastered on his face. He cast a hand about the others present. ‘How many of us anticipate a triumph if there is outright war
with al-Ashraf?’

‘He has no navy,’ Buscarel said immediately. ‘If our ships bring supplies, the Muslims must fail. The worst enemy of any army is stagnation and disease. If they remain outside
our walls in a protracted siege, they will grow indolent, and then disease must strike, just as all previous armies have learned. They will go, and once they have gone, Acre will be stronger than
ever before. Just think of the glory in our status then.’

Buscarel had known Grimaldi would be the hardest man to persuade. He was all for an easy life, while Buscarel was happy to take risks if it meant greater profits.

‘Acre would be the jewel of the East –
our
East!’ he went on. ‘For Venice is known for her cowardice in the face of the Muslims. Look at their actions in Tripoli
two years ago. They took all they could, and fled. It was the sight of their ships leaving the harbour that persuaded Qalawun he could storm the city. They will do the same here – they have
no belly for a fight. When they leave, we shall be here to bring supplies and maintain the city. And then we shall reap the rewards, too.’

‘Rewards? Our likely rewards will be death by a Muslim sword,’ Grimaldi scoffed. ‘No, I say that when the army comes – and it will, my friends, it will – then we
should be prepared to depart. There is no profit in being slaughtered.’

‘There is no profit in running away, either,’ Buscarel said. He curled his lip, staring full at the Admiral. If Zaccaria was with him, all the others would follow, with or without
Grimaldi. And Zaccaria would not want to take the coward’s way out. ‘We are Genoese. We know that to get rich, we need to take risks. Would our children feel pride in their fathers and
their city, were they to learn that we had fled?’

‘This is not a question of pride, Buscarel. This is simple business,’ Grimaldi said. ‘We are here to make money, nothing else. If the Muslims destroy the city, our reason for
being here has gone.’

‘What do
you
say?’ Buscarel asked of the other men at the table.

Zaccaria sucked at his teeth, then took a long draught of wine. ‘This is a matter of money. If we stay, do we make more money, or less? I suspect we would make less.’

‘But think of the future. If there is no Acre, what will we lose in the traffic of pilgrims and crusaders across the Mediterranean? The losses would be enormous.’ Buscarel was
startled that Zaccaria could go against him in this. Surely the Admiral could see that the world would view a flight of Genoese ships as a matter of betrayal. ‘We would be looked upon as
traitors to the Christian faith, were we to run before heathens. If our action cost us Acre, how would others view us?’

‘How would they view us if we remained to be slaughtered, like the poor city-folk of Tripoli?’ Grimaldi said heavily. ‘For me, there is no choice. To remain would be folly. I
say we conclude as much business as possible, and when the time comes, as it must, we return home.’

‘This
is
my home!’ Buscarel declared.

His vehemence surprised even himself. Others looked on this city as a trading post, he knew – just one of a number of little colonies strung about the seas for the benefit of Genoa. But to
him it was much more. He had founded his family here, perhaps even begun a dynasty to rival the Luchettos and Zaccarias. But the Council were taking away his dreams.

‘Can you not see that your home is to be brought down over your head?’ Grimaldi demanded. ‘Don’t be a fool!’

‘I would rather die here than run and live as a coward,’ Buscarel said. He looked at the faces about the table. They were all decided. Not one looked up and met his gaze.

‘So be it,’ he said.

Pietro hurried by with an anxious expression on his face, and Lucia was intrigued, despite her inner desperation. He had been carrying a basket, and his face looked as though
he wished he were not.

She had been working on her clothing, trying to mend a long rent in the skirts with needle and thread, but no matter what she tried, the material was so worn and frayed, the thread slipped
through the fabric. She needed a new tunic, if she was to appear in public without embarrassment.

Again, Pietro scurried past like a rabbit with the hound behind, and she was tempted to laugh aloud at his earnest, fretful demeanour. ‘What is it?’ she called, but he was gone.

With a sigh, she set the needle by the ball of thread, and went to see what was troubling him so. Pietro had been a surly old man since the moment he had set eyes on her, but she wasn’t
afraid of him. Sullen looks couldn’t scare her, when she was used to whips. She saw him slip into a chamber that had been used for storage. This intrigued her, and she followed without trying
to conceal her interest.

The chamber was set into the southern wall of the house, parallel with the old city wall, and was sparsely furnished. There was a palliasse on the floor now, and as she craned her neck round the
doorframe, she saw a naked man lying on it while Pietro washed him with water. A pot of scented oil stood nearby, the odour fighting valiantly, if unsuccessfully, against the stench of vomit.

She recognised Edgar from the day of the riot. ‘What is
he
doing here?’ she asked.

‘Eh? Oh, it’s you. Master Baldwin brought him here,’ Pietro said. ‘You remember him?’

‘Yes – but what has happened to him?’

Pietro told her the little that he had gathered from Baldwin and Sir Jacques, and she crouched at Edgar’s side. ‘He has a fever,’ she said, resting a hand on his forehead.

‘Aye. I could have told you that,’ Pietro said, as though infuriated with her for stating the obvious while he was doing all he could to help the man.

‘You have enough to do. Let me see to him,’ she said.

‘I can do it,’ he protested, but without his usual stubbornness. He reached to the bucket, dipping the cloth in the water.

She placed her hand on his. ‘I have nothing else to do,’ she said quietly. She made no move, but sat back on her haunches, staring at him, her hand still on his.
‘Please.’

He glanced up and caught the full impact of her sad eyes. ‘Oh, very well,’ he declared. He passed her the damp scrap of linen with which he had been mopping Edgar’s brow, and
levered himself upright with an effort. ‘Call me if you need anything. Poor devil has been badly knocked about. Someone’s tried to break his head, I think.’

She nodded, reaching forward and wetting the material again, wringing it out and placing it gently on Edgar’s forehead. He moaned quietly as she did so, and she felt her heart move to
think that the man who had helped to save her that day might be in danger of his life.

‘You are safe here,’ she promised in a whisper. ‘Be strong.’

It was a week since Philip Mainboeuf had set off with Brother Bartholomew and a Hospitaller, along with their servants and a clerk.

Baldwin hoped their mission would succeed, but the more he thought about it, the less sanguine he became. Fortunately, he had enough to occupy him with the twenty men of his command. It was a
daunting prospect when he was first thrust in the midst of them. Ivo had gone with him on the first day, either to see to it that Baldwin was safe as he was introduced, or to give himself a laugh;
Baldwin was not sure which.

There was a heavy-set, bullish man with a shock of black hair, who went by the name of Hob Atte Mull, and two skinnier, shorter men, with fairer features and paler hair, who were brothers called
Thomas and Anselm. A very short, suspicious-looking fellow called Nicholas Hunfrey was the last of the competent fellows. The rest looked confused about every aspect of their duties. They had been
gathered together from dribs and drabs of pilgrims and shipmen about the city, and few appeared even to have held a sword before.

‘They look like outlaws,’ Ivo grunted on seeing them, and Baldwin concurred.

‘I only hope that they are a little more reliable.’

‘Well, Master Vintenary, that’s up to you to ensure, isn’t it?’ Ivo said with an evil grin.

Hob Atte Mull stood, hawked and spat, studying Baldwin closely and without apparent satisfaction. ‘So, Vintenary, what battles have you fought in? Have you always been in the thick of it
with the foot soldiers, or cowering away on a horse?’

‘I’ve been in battles at sea and on land,’ Baldwin said haughtily.

‘Oh aye. Which? Did they merit a name?’

Ignoring him, Baldwin addressed them all.

‘Have you seen to your weapons yet?’ he asked.

He saw the men glance at each other. There was no joy in their looks. The one called Nicholas Hunfrey pulled a grimace and shook his head, saying nothing, but staring down at the ground. The
others began to make a show of chatting amongst themselves.

It was infuriating. A leader needed to lead and show that he was in charge, but just now he could think of nothing else to do, short of demanding that the men pick up their weapons to show him
they were clean.

Ivo snorted and walked to his side, looking at each man in turn. ‘I think you’ll need to ask Sir Otto whether any of them has fought before. Not one of them has any skill with a
sword, I’d reckon.’

Hob glanced at him with amusement in his sneering face.

‘They won’t practise, anyway,’ Ivo went on calmly. ‘They don’t want to show themselves up in front of you.’ He pulled his own sword free. ‘Very well. I
haven’t had a test of swordsmanship in days. Are you ready?’

Baldwin nodded, drawing his own sword, wondering why Ivo had lied. It was scarcely a day since his last trial with their Saracen teacher.

Ivo drew his sword up into the two-handed guard so favoured by recent visitors to Acre, while Baldwin held his own sword in the outside guard, his right fist gripping the hilt at waist height,
the point crossing before his body, tip raised slightly.

There was a flash as Ivo’s sword descended. Baldwin blocked his blade and twisted his own blade, but couldn’t snatch Ivo’s away. Ivo’s came back again, and Baldwin
knocked it down and away, before launching his own swift assault. Ivo managed to slip away, giving ground, and Baldwin moved forward to harry him, the two swords flashing in the sunlight.

It was curious. Baldwin was pressing moderately hard, and while Ivo would normally defend himself vigorously and then lash out with some startling surprise attacks, today he didn’t.
Perhaps he was tired, Baldwin thought. He kept his eyes fixed on Ivo’s, waiting to see if his master would try to alarm him soon, but there was nothing obvious at first. Not until he saw
Ivo’s eyes quickly narrow. Then Baldwin was sure he was about to launch a new approach.

Ivo moved his feet, and then, as Baldwin stabbed at empty space, he was whirling, spinning, ready to sweep his sword round at Baldwin’s head. But Baldwin knew that move already. It was the
first Jacques had shown him, and he blocked it swiftly, returning his own blade to Ivo’s, and with a competent flick of his wrist, sent Ivo’s away to safety, while Baldwin’s
rested on Ivo’s breast.