Templar's Acre

CHAPTER SEVENTY

On the third day, Baldwin was called away from the walls with his men.

Sir Otto de Grandison was in the Tower of St Nicholas, where the catapult worked constantly. When Baldwin and Hob reached the top of the tower, they saw a rock fall with a crunch into the middle of the shields protecting the entrance to the mine shaft, and Baldwin felt a surge of delight to see the devastation wreaked upon the miners and their bowmen. Two of the wheeled shields had been crushed entirely, and parts of them, and the men who had sheltered behind, were strewn about the sand. Not far from that lay the shards of wood from the first demolished cat. It had taken a direct hit from a lump of masonry hurled by the same catapult, and now the timbers of the walls stood up like the ribs of a massive beast.

‘A good shot! Good shot!’ Sir Otto was roaring, slamming his fist on the parapet before him. He ducked as an arrow whistled past his ear, and turned to Baldwin with a savage grin. ‘There’s a few more there who won’t see their wives again!’

‘Sir? You wanted me?’ Baldwin said.

‘You built that catapult in the Montmusart area, didn’t you?’

‘Two of them, my Lord.’

‘I need another one.’

‘Sir. You give us the wood, and we can build it.’

‘This is a special one,’ he chuckled. Pointing over the line of the walls, he said, ‘You see that catapult they have up there? The huge one?’

Baldwin peered around the machine that took up so much of the tower’s roof. Past the timbers, he could see the great bulk of the catapult in the distance, outlined against the sea. ‘Yes.’

‘I need that destroyed.’

‘I don’t think any machine we built would be able to hit it,’ Baldwin said doubtfully. ‘The largest we have is behind the Gate of Maupas, and that one falls short by some distance.’

Hob agreed. ‘We have to have them built far back enough from our walls so that our missiles clear the inner wall. The enemy can throw everything they want at us, and it doesn’t matter whether it hits the inner or outer walls, or flies over and lands inside — it’s all the same to them. It’s different for us.’

‘I can get a catapult much closer,’ Sir Otto said, ‘to half that distance — so a small catapult will do. Can you build me one?’

Baldwin looked at Hob and shrugged. ‘Give us the materials, we’ll build it,’ he said.

‘The timbers are at the harbour. There is a man down there who will take you to the shipman — he will help you. With fortune, our idea will work.

‘We need something, God knows,’ he added sombrely.

Baldwin and Hob gathered the vintaine and left the walls. In the open roadway behind the gates, they found a young boy of perhaps nine. He was short and fair, and had an eager expression on his round face. Once he might have been the son of a wealthy man, but now he was grubby and dishevelled, like all the others in the city. This lad’s hosen were torn, the fabric of his chemise frayed.

‘Follow me, sirs,’ he piped up.

‘Do I know you?’ Baldwin asked as they hurried after him.

A whistle and howl made them all duck as a rock soughed through the air overhead. It touched the roof of a house and an explosion of debris flew into the air, white like a cloud of swansdown, while the rock ploughed on into a building beyond. There was a crumpling of masonry, and a wall collapsed in an explosion of sound.

The boy stood, glancing about attentively. He reminded Baldwin of a small hunting dog, shaking itself after a brief immersion in an unexpected pool, and looking for his quarry once more.

‘I am the son of Peter of Gibelet. But he has died,’ the boy said. ‘I am called James.’

‘I am sorry your father is dead,’ Baldwin said. ‘I knew him. He was a good man.’

‘He was old,’ James said. A tear formed in his eye, but he snatched at it, ashamed to weep for his father when he should be fighting.

‘It is good to mourn.’

‘I won’t. I want to kill the men who killed him,’ James stated firmly, and carried on.

At the harbour, Baldwin stopped at the sight of the ships docking. There was a constant stream of galleys and smaller vessels, all of them bringing food and arms to the beleaguered inhabitants of the city. A few women and children were taken on board as he watched, the richer folk, or more anxious, paying for their passage to Cyprus. Many had already been taken away under the evacuation plans implemented by the Templars.

And then he saw the man waiting for them. It was Buscarel with a small party of men standing by a cog moored near the Falcon.

‘Master Baldwin,’ he said. ‘I am glad it’s you.’

‘I saw you that night — when the tavern was hit,’ Baldwin said.

‘I know,’ Buscarel said. ‘It was a hideous attack.’

‘Sir Otto de Grandison sent me. I am here to build a catapult.’

‘And I am here to give you your platform,’ Buscarel said.

Hob and Baldwin exchanged a glance. Baldwin said, ‘What do you mean, “platform”?’

‘This,’ Buscarel said, pointing at the ship, ‘is where it will be positioned.’

Baldwin shared a look of bewilderment with Hob. ‘On a ship?’ he managed at last.

‘Christ’s ballocks!’ Hob muttered, staring at the cog with disbelief.

‘Aye. That way we can get close and attack the big bastard catapult they have opposite the Templars.’

Baldwin eyed him and then the ship once again. ‘Can we make it fit?’