Templar's Acre

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

It was eleven days later that Guillaume de Beaujeu marched into the broad space before the castle with the Marshal and five knights at his back. His white tunic was spotless, and gleamed in the sunlight as he pulled off his helmet, loosening the thongs that bound his mail hood. He pushed it back, and stood, left hand on his sword, the right gripping his helmet as he surveyed the men ranged about.

It had fallen to him, perhaps, to be the last Templar Grand Master to address the Commune of Acre. That was a sobering thought.

He had no misapprehensions as to the severity of their situation. All the Christians of this city, forty thousand souls or more, were dependent upon his ability to convince these men of the danger they faced. The reports of the envoy he had sent to Cairo had been uncompromising, as had the impression of the young man, Baldwin. He was a strong-willed fellow. Knew the value of a clear report.

Their news was appalling, but it only supported Guillaume’s own convictions. There was no man so stupid as one who could not read the signs when they lay all about him — and yet there were men here in this room who were fooling themselves into believing black was white.

Constable Amalric appeared, and Guillaume took a deep breath. ‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘I have news from Cairo.’

‘Please share it with the Commune,’ the Constable instructed him.

‘At our last meeting, I warned you that the threat posed by Qalawun was real,’ Guillaume stated, addressing them all. ‘He has already constructed the largest siege artillery ever seen, and his army is enormous. There is talk of over one hundred thousand men. It is not a force designed to wage war. It is an army brought together to eradicate the last Christian outpost in the Holy Land.’

Philip Mainboeuf had been sitting on a stool but now he stood and held his hands aloft. ‘My friends! Men of the Commune of Acre! How many more times must we listen to the same old song? My ears are tired with hearing the same allegations at each meeting. Where is this army? Is it here? Is it marching to us now? No! Are their siege engines before our walls? No! Do we have news of Qalawun leaving his capital city? No! Yet every few weeks the Templars seek to petrify us with vague threats and rumours. In God’s name, how much longer must we put up with this nonsense?’

De Beaujeu could see that the majority sided with the merchant. Very well. He waited for the tumult to die down, but now he did not speak in the mild, gently persuasive manner he was accustomed to use before the Commune, he used the tone he employed when speaking to subordinates. A cold, resolute voice that brooked no argument.

‘My Lords, Squires, Gentles, listen to me carefully. An army is assembled against us. It will leave very shortly. There are siege engines enough to destroy our city and forever dispel any hopes of winning back Jerusalem. We risk not only our own lives, but the souls of all Christians if we fail here: for if we do, God must turn His face from us. We have a holy duty to protect that which we hold.’

‘Against a will o’ the wisp!’ Mainboeuf laughed.

De Beaujeu did not look at him. ‘Not only have I been warned of this, I have been warned too that there is a spy in our city who seeks to convince us that the danger is not severe. I am told that this spy has been given much gold to persuade you, the Commune, that you are safe.’

‘You accuse me of taking Muslim gold?’ Mainboeuf roared.

Before he could cross the floor, three Templars stepped before their Grand Master, and stood, hands on hilts. The Hospitallers were irresolute, while merchants bellowed and shouted, fists waving in the air.

Constable Amalric stood and boomed in a voice that reflected his anger, ‘Be still! Grand Master de Beaujeu, I hope you have evidence to support this allegation?’

‘The evidence of my eyes and ears in this assembly is all I need, Constable,’ the Grand Master said. ‘There is one man who is determined to undermine the defence of the city at every opportunity. He is there.’

Philip Mainboeuf snarled in response, ‘Look at him! A Templar, secure in his arrogance and pride! He tells us to prepare for war, and why? So his Venetian friends can make money bringing crusaders here — and we know what that achieved, don’t we? The very danger he warns us of was caused by the last influx of Lombards. How many more does he think we need bring to our city to guarantee its utter collapse?’

The Grand Master motioned to the Marshal, who snapped an order, and the three Templars moved aside. Guillaume de Beaujeu stopped before the irate merchant.

‘I do not spend money foolishly in the hope of gaining information. I spend carefully and wisely to ensure that I have the best intelligence I can acquire. If you are uninformed, your opponent is not. He will make sure that he knows as much as it is possible to learn about you. About your forces, your defences, your food stocks, your water — everything. And that is exactly what I try to learn about Qalawun. I pay a lot for the best results. And I have sent people to Qalawun directly to gain information about his forces.’

‘And you say that we have a spy?’ the Constable said.

‘We have. Someone who is greedy and debased enough to sell his city for gold.’

‘What should we do?’

‘Master Mainboeuf should be held so he may not earn more from Qalawun,’ Guillaume said. He stared at Philip Mainboeuf for a long moment, before turning and facing the Commune once more. ‘I have sent an embassy to Qalawun. He agrees to peace and the renewal of the treaty for as many Venetian Sequins as there are men and women living here in Acre.’

If the noise before had been loud, now it was a roaring torrent of sound that threatened to deafen even the strongest. Guillaume de Beaujeu held up his hands. ‘Listen! Listen to me!’

‘You say this deofol will bring an army to engulf us, and then you tell us to pay him? What stupidity is this!’ Mainboeuf bellowed.

‘We can hold him off for a little — if we pay,’ de Beaujeu explained, but no one wanted to hear.

‘You tell us to pay our enemy? First you state that he is on his way to kill us all, and then you tell us to bribe him! This is Templar logic, is it? I tell you, you wouldn’t last long in my world!’ Mainboeuf jeered. ‘If you were to run a business in this way, you would soon have no trade and no money!’

‘This is cowardice!’ someone else shouted. ‘The Templars want to surrender. If Qalawun is coming, then surely it’s better to hold on to our money to pay to protect ourselves!’

‘There’s a traitor here all right, and it isn’t a merchant!’ another roared from the back of the room. ‘The Temple wants to give our money to heathens? This is an insult to our intelligence!’

Guillaume de Beaujeu felt his rage rise to encompass his whole soul. He drew himself up to his full height and stormed from the court, his men behind him, and out in the road, he turned towards the Temple, shoving his helmet onto his head as he went.

The fools! Their brains were in their arses! They had no more hope of protecting themselves against Qalawun than a sparrow against a hawk.

But already, as he marched past the Genoese quarter, past the cathedral, and down St Anne’s Lane to the great gate of the Temple, he was thinking strategically. He must write to the Holy Father in Avignon, apprising him of their dire situation, and asking for men and money to defend the last Crusader city, and then there should be plans laid for emptying the city of all but essential people.

Reaching his chamber, he pulled off his helmet and set it aside. Then he began to remove his tunic. His squire was already at his side, and helped with the coat of plates, the mail, the thick padded habergeon, and all the while Guillaume de Beaujeu was thinking, assessing, analysing, considering.

‘Leave me!’ he said when his armour was off, and he could shrug himself into his white habit.

The squire left the chamber with a graceful bow, and the Grand Master was alone. He walked to his chair and sat, staring into the middle distance, meditating — until it came to him.

No matter what he plotted and schemed, there was little he could do against the army Qalawun had gathered. Without God’s help, the city must fall.

And suddenly Guillaume de Beaujeu was aware of a heat at his eyes, and mistiness in his vision.