Templar's Acre

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Had Baldwin but known it, as he stood near the tower built by King Henry II, far below him, a small party was setting out from the gate.

It consisted of two men, and one woman, dressed in old grey linen. The men were on horseback, but she followed them on foot, a cord bound about her wrists attached to a stirrup. Sometimes it was felt necessary to have slaves bound more securely, but if Lucia tried to escape, she would be at the mercy of the sun and the parched lands.

She had no thought of escape. There was nothing in her mind apart from the pain in her back and between her legs.

All hope was gone. Only misery and despair filled her heart.

Try as he might, Baldwin could not shake off the little cur, who had adopted him after that first gift of bread. Surrendering to fate, he named the mutt Uther, and now Uther followed Baldwin everywhere. The little fellow was so dependent, Baldwin felt he couldn’t discard him.

Many sections of wall required repairs before the hoardings could be constructed. The wooden platforms would jut out from the battlements, with trapdoors for rocks or oil to be dropped on enemies beneath. Their weight would put a great strain on the old walls.

In the city itself, already there were a thousand knights and mounted men-at-arms, along with perhaps fifteen hundred infantrymen, and there was a need to find space for them. Arguments and brawls were commonplace. The Templars and Hospitallers had taken to wandering about the city to try to keep the fighting to a minimum, but every so often fists would fly.

In the square outside the castle, Baldwin saw the result of yet another fight. Two men were caught up in a gambling dispute, and one drew his knife. As Baldwin passed, they were holding the guilty man before the castle’s two-legged tree: two timbers planted firmly in the ground with a beam across their tops. A rope was thrown over the top-piece, the noose set about his throat, and as Baldwin paused, the man was hauled up, kicking and thrashing, as the rope squeezed the life from him.

At home, a felon would have his suffering eased by his family. They would jump on his body to break his neck, or at least speed his throttling. Here, the Lombard had no family. He could dangle for ten minutes or more before he died. A horrible death.

There were more crusaders at the far side of the square, he saw. For some, this was a grim event, and they stood about with faces drawn as they witnessed their comrade’s death. But for others, it was merely a spectacle.

The man’s legs jerked violently as he fought for life, and Baldwin could imagine the burning agony as his lungs struggled against that rope — and then, as if that were his final peroration to life, his struggling all but ceased. An occasional jerk of his legs, a brief fluttering of the feet, a tremble, and his life was fled.

Baldwin stayed staring, rooted to the ground, struck with a premonition.

Acre would be like that man, were Qalawun to come and attack. Alone, watched by many, and with no hope of aid.

The thought made him shiver.