Templar's Acre

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Baldwin lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, his mind full of thoughts of Lucia.

It was the scenes all over the city tonight that had provoked this. Happy, cheerful faces had loomed in the flickering torchlight, people dancing, singing, kissing, laughing — the whole of Acre making merry. Baldwin alone was miserable.

The pleasure-seekers should realise that although their enemy was dead, his army was still in Cairo, he thought. Yet how could they realise, for they had not seen that vast army.

Uther jumped onto his lap, making Baldwin start violently. He growled, ‘Clumsy brute,’ as the dog lay down, his chin on Baldwin’s belly, staring up at him. ‘You wouldn’t be as foolish, would you?’ Baldwin muttered, scratching him behind the ears.

He was being irrational. It was jealousy: he wanted Lucia back. Here in the city it seemed everyone had a partner, and he wanted his. The idea that she was somewhere far away, toiling under the harsh sun, made him shudder. Her delicate skin was not made for such torment. ‘His woman’ — it was ironic that he thought of her in that light. She was hardly known to him. He had met her and spoken to her briefly, and she had spurned his advances. As she had said, she was not of the same faith, and unless she were to change, she could not marry him. It was unthinkable that he might change from the True Faith, after all. So it was impossible for them to marry, and he suspected she would not tolerate being a concubine.

Yet the man Omar had said that his father, a Muslim, had married a Christian wife. Perhaps there were ways around the strictures of their religions without compromising?

This was ludicrous, anyway. He had no idea where she was, where she was living, or how. He would have to search all the farms and manors owned by Lady Maria, if he were to find her.

A shriek of delight came to his ears from the roadway outside, followed by a burst of giggling. Baldwin gritted his teeth.

How many different manors did Lady Maria own? Not that many. He had heard that she possessed lands near Lydda. Perhaps he should visit them and search until he found Lucia. Better that, than lose her forever. What sort of a suitor would he be, were he to desert her to a life of slavery?

He would take Otto de Grandison’s advice and find her. At least now, with the threat of war receding, he could search.

Under Abu al-Fida’s careful direction, the great engine was taken apart.

Moving a massive machine like al-Mansour was a major undertaking. All parts had been marked by the carpenters under Abu al-Fida’s piercing gaze, so it could be brought together with speed and rebuilt. The base was constructed from timbers pegged together; there was the support structure for the counterweight and arm, and ironwork for hinges and counterweights. There were many parts which could fail individually and cause the whole machine to break down. Even the simple loop which hooked over the arm, to slide free as the arm rose to release the stone, was prone to wear. If that happened, the engine was no more use than firewood.

But Abu al-Fida would not have it cease its bombardment because of a failure of planning. There were spares for all components: multiple slings, coils of rope, vats of grease for the bearings and to keep the slings supple. In a series of chests were kept spare pegs, two for each hole, and all the paraphernalia of the machine was stowed in a logical sequence so a man could place his hands on the relevant item at a moment’s notice. In all, al-Mansour and the items necessary for its continued running, were stored in more than a hundred wagons, which formed a column half a league long.

And all for nothing. Because the Sultan was dead.

Abu al-Fida walked from the wagon park, and up to the castle, struggling to control his emotions.

This castle had been built by Christians, and the fiend Raynald de Châtillon had won it when he married his wife. The hero of Islam, Salah ad-Din, had captured it, and in recent years Baibars had enhanced it.

It was as dark in history as Acre. Both were steeped in the blood of innocents. All because of the Franks. They took a place and perverted it, with their intolerable greed and brutality. Acre, like Tripoli, should be torn down.

Over the entrance to his new tower in the north-west corner, Baibars had masons carve two lions facing each other. Abu al-Fida paused and looked up at them now, wondering, as he had so often, what drove men like Baibars and Qalawun. He did not know. But while their ambitions matched his own, he was content to do all he might to support them. He wanted to see the last Christians thrown from these lands, to see that befouled city, Acre, pulled apart so that the blood of the innocents could be avenged.

Qalawun had sworn — but now, now what would happen? The Sultan’s son, al-Ashraf Khalil, had taken power, but he was a weak man, from what Abu al-Fida had heard, and had been mistrusted by many, including his dead father.

Abu al-Fida climbed the stairs and stood on the tower’s roof, staring out over the hills to the north, his fists clenched. Why was his beloved Usmar taken from him, when men like al-Ashraf Khalil survived?

Poor Usmar. Poor Aisha. All his family gone in a matter of days.

Abu al-Fida struggled to hold back a sob. He could not believe that he had come so far, achieved so much, only to see this great war machine lie disassembled and idle. It was built for a purpose. Without that, Abu al-Fida’s life was meaningless. His sole reason for existence was the destruction of Acre. Without the Sultan, without the army, there could be no release for him. He had lived in Acre, he had lived amongst the Franks as well as in cities which were resolutely Muslim. If possible, he would prefer not to see further slaughter: in the final days of Antioch he had seen enough to last a lifetime. After the appalling aftermath of that siege he had run away to discover a life which did not involve death. He had become a merchant, trading goods between the cities.

His life had been good. Alas, that his wife had died with their daughters in that fire. Alas, that Usmar had died. All dead, and the city was responsible. He could never forgive that. There was no hatred in him now, only a driving passion. He must see that city of devils destroyed. It was unthinkable that it should remain. It was an insult to God.

God wanted him to destroy that city — he was sure of it. To do His will, Abu al-Fida would bring such a shower of horror upon Acre that all would regret Usmar’s passing.

He only prayed that the son of the Sultan would grant him his ambition.