Templar's Acre

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

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.