Templar's Acre

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

His first view of the lands about the city surprised Baldwin. When he had climbed onto the walls near the Lazar Gate in his first week, he had looked out over square, mud-built homes with low roofs on which were tables and cushions laid below stretched awnings for shade. Many slept on their roofs at night when the hot, humid air sucked a man’s energy.

Today he saw a different land. Riding from the Patriarch’s Tower, they rode through the little homes built close to the wall, and thence out to fields bright with orchards and vegetable gardens, and the ever-present olive groves. The land was ablaze with colour, with flowers and fruits: pomegranates, roses, sweet-lemon and grenadine all grew in profusion, he had heard. Before them, heat-haze made the horizon wobble and dip confusingly.

‘It hardly looks like it needs protection,’ Baldwin commented.

Theirs was a party of fifteen. A knight in a white tunic led them, but he was an old-school Templar who arrogantly ignored the others. The rest were all like Roger, brown-clad sergeants, with lighter arms. This was only a reconnaissance, not a force in strength.

They followed the coast, past beached ships and on until they reached a road that led away from the sea.

Baldwin was already sweating profusely. He wore a new shirt, but even with the fine muslin, the heat was intolerable, and the fine dust thrown up by the hooves before him made breathing difficult. He had copied the men about him, pulling a scarf over his face and trying to breathe through that, but it was uncomfortable and he felt as if he was lurching along the road to Hell.

They had ridden up a slight rise, and all about here was scrubby vegetation, with an occasional olive grove. They stopped at a village, where the Templar demanded water and bread, and Baldwin was glad to climb down from his saddle. He soon drained the goatskin he had brought with him, and went to the well to refill it.

When he returned, Roger motioned to him, and he sat at Roger’s side to share flatbread and olives.

‘So, do you like the countryside?’ Roger asked.

Baldwin looked around at the dry walls of the village buildings, the pale soil and sparse plants. ‘I think it could do with a little Devon rain,’ he said.

There was a shout from the edge of the village, where a man had been set to watch the road, and Roger sprang to his feet. The knight was already at his side, and staring out towards the distant hills.

‘What is it?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Looks like people on horseback,’ Roger said, and there was a suppressed excitement in his tone that Baldwin could feel in his own breast.

In the distance, travellers had been betrayed by the cloud of yellowish dust that enveloped them. Now, in the midst of the dust, Baldwin saw figures. Horses or camels, he couldn’t make out from here, but he felt they were likely camels because their legs were so long. Surely these were Saracens, he thought, and the idea brought a tingle to his blood: he would see his enemy at last.

The knight snapped a command at Roger, who hurried to his horse, calling Baldwin as he went. Baldwin mounted, still chewing his bread, and the two trotted from the village and down a slight incline to the roadway. Side-by-side to avoid dust, they loped along.

‘Saracens often ride into our territories,’ Roger said. ‘Usually they are just travellers, but occasionally we get the odd outrider who is here to study our defences. When we find them, we send them on their way.’

Baldwin nodded. He stared at the men riding towards him, but was already prepared for disappointment. Nothing in the Holy Land was as he had expected.

‘What now?’

‘We shall talk to them,’ Roger said, glancing at Baldwin. ‘This isn’t a riding out.’

‘Yes, I understand. I just wasn’t expecting to come all this way and not fight. I want to be useful.’

‘Maybe later,’ Roger said. ‘You’re game, Baldwin. You’ll be a good friend in a fight, I think.’

Baldwin brooded. ‘Scouts for the enemy are to be left to ride home — no matter what information they carry?’ He was a knight’s son, and pride dictated that enemies should be engaged and vanquished, not sent on their way.

‘Oh, there will be time for profit later,’ Roger laughed. ‘Yes, later we can see what such men have, if we’re lucky. I think I’m glad I found you.’

Baldwin wasn’t sure what Roger meant, but it was clearly intended in a friendly light, and he was prepared to take any compliment.

As the party drew nearer, Baldwin saw that the heat haze had deceived him. The three newcomers were all on horseback. The horses’ legs had seemed longer because of the mirage.

Holding up his hand, Roger walked his horse to them.

Baldwin heard him give the Muslim greeting and studied them as they chatted. The man in the front was a tall, thin fellow with a grey beard that covered half his breast. Behind him were two younger men, both also bearded. The one nearest Roger had narrow, suspicious eyes, and Baldwin thought he looked the sort who would be glad to kill a Christian.

Their mounts were all well-caparisoned, sturdy ponies, designed for stolid journeying rather than for racing, and looked as if they had covered many miles already. As spies’ beasts would, Baldwin thought to himself. Deep in his belly, he felt misgivings grow.

Three was an odd number to be wandering, he thought. And it was peculiar that there were two young men with one older man. He would have expected all to be similarly young. But perhaps this leader was an experienced spy, with knowledge of the area hereabouts, and had been sent with two young guards to assess the land, to find the best routes for an army to take to invest Acre.

There was no news of an army from Egypt, but Baldwin had heard that the army which had overrun Tripoli had appeared from nowhere. . yet it had brought machines of war and tens of thousands of men. Perhaps, in the weeks before that battle, there had been men such as these, who had ridden about the land before the city had realised an army was on the move. Parties like the one of which he himself was a part, could have been surrounded and cut to pieces so that they were unable to return to the city to warn of the approaching disaster.

He threw a look over his shoulder. The Templar stood watching. Baldwin returned his gaze to the three, feeling a heightened alarm. If they were to draw their swords and set about Roger, it would be difficult for Baldwin to protect him. Still, he remained where he was, his hand resting on his saddle’s crupper near his sword hilt. If need be, he could draw steel quickly.

Over the shoulder of the old man, a patch of dust caught his eye — a rider, making short work of the roads.

Baldwin’s distrust increased. If there was one rider, there could be more. He shouted to Roger, pointing, and set his hand on his sword. In a moment, the two younger men had drawn theirs, too. Roger snapped something at Baldwin, shaking his head, but Baldwin couldn’t make out his words as he hefted his sword to charge the group about Roger. His feet were out, preparing to spur his mount on, when he realised that all three and Roger had turned to face the gathering dust-cloud.

There was more than one man approaching, he saw. There were two, and both were cantering with a lazy motion that could eat up the miles with ease.

Roger bowed to the older man, hand on breast, and remained on his horse, staring at the approaching pair as the other three rode on towards Acre and the sea.

‘This doesn’t look too good,’ Roger said.

He could not have been more wrong.

Their ride back was a hurried affair.

When Roger was given the news by the two messengers, his roar of laughter could have been heard in Acre, Baldwin reckoned. Roger had turned and spurred his horse towards the village at full gallop, Baldwin struggling to persuade his own mount to turn and join him.

By the time he reached the village’s wall, all the other Templars were already packing and mounting. Roger bared his teeth as Baldwin appeared. Great news, isn’t it?’ he said heartily.

Baldwin eyed him helplessly. ‘What is?’

‘The leader of our enemies, man! He’s promised peace!’

Baldwin heard no more. The command was given, and in a moment the horses were off at a swift, loping trot, the two messengers riding in their wake.

‘Who do you mean?’ Baldwin said when they were under way.

‘Sultan Qalawun,’ Roger said, looking at him with exasperation. He had thought Baldwin would have picked up a little Arabic by now. ‘The murdering fiend who overran Tripoli, and wanted to take Acre too. It seems he’s sworn peace for ten years, ten months and ten days!’

‘You would take the word of a heathen?’ Baldwin asked. ‘What of his court? Wouldn’t they force him to attack?’

‘They’d soon be put in their place. Qualawun is a warlord to be feared. If he wants peace, we’re safe. His barons and nobles wouldn’t dare argue. They bicker and fight amongst themselves more than we Christians do, but not with Qalawun. He doesn’t brook any dispute. No, this is good news. With luck we can turn to the old ways soon.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Roger shot him a sharp look. He liked this tall English fellow, but he was as yet untried. Still, he seemed game enough. ‘There are many traders come here from Egypt,’ he explained. ‘We stop a few, ask them to pay our tolls, and that helps us all.’

‘Tolls?’ Baldwin had not heard of any tolls on the roads here. He had thought that the roads, such as they were, were built by slaves.

‘That’s what I call ’em,’ Roger winked. ‘The travellers have to pay if they want to continue on their way. And if they refuse, we take their money anyway. It only needs the rumour of a couple of dead men for others to fall into line.’

Baldwin was shocked. It sounded no better than banditry — but Roger was so open about it that such behaviour must be approved. If it was the custom of the country, he was in no position to question it. He was a newcomer, after all. The idea left him uneasy, but he did not want to embarrass himself or lose his new friend.

‘I will call you to join me, next time I go,’ Roger said, taking Baldwin’s silence for tacit agreement, and the rest of the way, he chattered inconsequentially.

Even as they entered the gate to Acre, Baldwin was still uncomfortable. Admittedly these people were Saracen, and therefore not to be accorded the same privileges as Christians, but still, the idea of holding them and demanding ransom made him feel like a felon.

They continued on to the Temple, the two messengers attracting the notice of the crowds as they passed, and many men and women pointed and muttered amongst themselves. At the gate of the Temple, a groom came and took their horses, and the two found themselves alone.

‘Master Baldwin, I think this calls for a well-deserved pint of wine each!’ Roger said.