Templar's Acre

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

By mid-morning, Buscarel was pleased with the way that the catapult was working. They had thrown fifteen of the great lumps of masonry, and although the Muslims had tried to fire their darts in retaliation, it had availed them nothing. With the cog bobbing and dancing near the coast, it was impossible for them to hit her. She wove a frenetic course along the coastline here, where the water was good and deep, and then tacked to return the other way, the men frantically working the great machine all the while.

It was good to be on the water again, he thought as he looked up at the sails and saw how she was falling away. This would be the last shot from this tack, he thought, and called to the sergeant in charge of the catapult to get a move on.

The sergeant roared at his men to withdraw, then pulled the pin. The long arm swept up, the sling caught the lump of broken stone, and with a scraping rasp, the missile was hoiked along its channel and up into the air. The sling released perfectly, and the stone flew straight and true.

His heart seem to stop. From here, Buscarel could see the stone moving swiftly away from him, up into the air, and then seem to hang, like a hawk stooping, only to plummet. And all the time, the rock was moving perfectly in line with the hideous bulk of al-Mansour.

‘Sweet Jesus!’ he prayed. ‘Let it hit!’

There was a gout of sand, a spray of bodies, and al-Mansour was gone!

Buscarel bellowed with joy, his fist in the air, but even as he punched at the sky, he saw it was an illusion. The rock had hit men between him and that horrible device, but had missed it. Al-Mansour still functioned. As he watched, he saw the arm rise lazily, and fling a rock at the city wall.

Swearing to himself, Buscarel was hit with a dejection so intense, he could have thrown the oar from his sore armpit and gone to find his skin of wine. This was a fool’s errand. How they could hope to hit a machine like that at such a distance, especially from a moving platform like a ship. It was stupid at best, insane at worst. A waste of time and precious materials.

‘We go about!’ he roared at the men, but the noise of the creaking and whining timbers of the cog took his voice away.

Suddenly, a wave hit the hull and the vessel began a long, slow roll. No great problem — a cog like this round-bellied old sow was capable of weathering much worse seas than this. But then, when he looked at the deck, he realised his error, and the new danger.

‘Lash the ammunition securely!’ he roared again, and this time one of men heard him. Seeing his frantic wave, the ship-man glanced about him, and Buscarel could see the dawning horror on his face as the rocks began to move.

‘All of you! To the rocks! Tie them down!’ Buscarel shouted in despair.

The rocks which he had so carefully piled on his deck had been fired from the one side as he beat up the coast and sailing back, from the other. But now, the weight of rock was unbalanced. There was too much on the port side of the ship, and as the wave caught her, the rocks on the starboard deck began to move. The slow sea made her roll sluggishly, and he could see the strain on the lashings over the rocks as the ship edged further and further over, until he was hanging onto the oar in a desperate panic.

Up on the castle, the sergeant was hanging on to a rope, cursing and berating his men while they tried to rope down the rocks, but it was too late. With a sharp report, the first lashing snapped, and a snake of tense cordage flew back. Buscarel heard the scream as it whipped past a shipman, cutting through his body, and flinging him aside. Then the rumble of the shifting load could be felt through the deck. Buscarel gritted his teeth in horror as the entire load moved, and the cracking of the parting ropes sounded like the reports of thunder. The moving rock seemed quiet in comparison, a hollow grating as tons shifted with a terrible inevitability to port. And with every inch they moved, the ship’s ability to return to true was reduced, until suddenly she was too far over, and the rocks began to accelerate.

A pair of shipmen stood in the path of the avalanche. One scrambled, agile as a monkey, onto the top of the firmly lashed rocks at the port side, but the second was too slow. As he tried to follow his mate, a rock tumbled over and over, crushing his leg. His wail of agony made his companion stop, and Buscarel saw him gaze back with terror, then continue, leaving his companion behind. The trapped man glanced over his shoulder, and Buscarel saw the madness in his face as the next rocks engulfed him. His shrieks were soon silenced.

Buscarel tried to save the cog, hauling on the rudder to bring her around, thinking perhaps he could turn her port side to the sea, and that way have her forced upright. . but a final wave thundered into her hull, throwing her over with a squeal of tortured wood. As he leaped from the deck, hit the water and sank in, the cool brine stinging his nose and throat, he heard a distant sound and realised it was a cheer of glee from his enemy.

He had failed.

Back at Ivo’s house that evening, Baldwin ate an early supper. It was good to come home. He was so weary, it was hard to keep his eyes open, and the thought of heading straight for his bed was very appealing. At least in Ivo’s house there was peace. It was far enough away from the walls to be safe from most of the catapults, although it was impossible to shut out the noise of stones hitting the walls and other buildings. A constant rumble and thud came even here: the threnody of war.

Ivo was at the gate with Pietro. ‘How are you?’ he asked, looking at the young man with sympathy.

‘Tired,’ Baldwin said.

When he saw Lucia, sitting on the bench in the garden, he was struck by a sudden embarrassment. He had no idea whether she had welcomed his advances on the night of the burning chapel. What if the poor girl had been too scared to refuse him, with the fear of a slave for her master? Perhaps she had thought he would rape her if she tried to refuse his advances? That was a horrible thought.

Edgar was at the table. ‘I was over with the men at the English Tower today,’ he said. ‘The attacks on the Barbican and the Tower of King Henry are having an impact. It worries me, the way that the walls are shaking.’

‘They must hold,’ Ivo growled. ‘If that point falls, the enemy will have immediate access to the city.’

‘Perhaps. But even a baker can see when stones begin to shift in the masonry. A man beside me today was killed by a shard of rock. A missile struck the wall, and a great jagged piece of the parapet snapped off and flew through the air. It cut off both his legs.’ Edgar wore a pensive frown.

‘There were many on the outer wall today who died,’ Ivo said. He sounded weary, and rubbed a hand over his eyes as he spoke. ‘Too many.’

Pietro brought some skewered meats from the charcoal brazier. ‘God’s blood, many inside the city died as well,’ he said harshly. ‘We need God’s protection, or the city will fall.’

‘There are plenty of knights here,’ Baldwin said. ‘You shouldn’t fear.’

‘Eh? There are not enough men-at-arms. We need archers and axemen to defeat this foe,’ Pietro said. He didn’t meet Baldwin’s look, but stared aggressively at the floor. ‘I must go to the walls as well. I can do no good here, but I can wield a bow and arrows.’

‘Who will guard the house from looting?’ Ivo demanded.

‘If the Muslims get in, there will be no house to protect,’ Pietro said flatly.

Baldwin shot a look at Lucia. She had been listening, but her eyes were downcast. Feeling his guilt return, he too averted his eyes.

After they had finished their meal, Edgar and Pietro declared their interest in leaving the house for a while and seeing the damage outside. They left soon afterwards.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Ivo demanded, peering at Baldwin.

‘Nothing. But I have been asked to ride out tonight.’

‘Ride out?’ Ivo echoed. ‘What — outside the city?’

‘I am to ride with the Templars and try to destroy that damned catapult,’ Baldwin told him.

‘It would have been better, had that blasted fool on the cog hit the thing,’ Ivo muttered.

Baldwin shrugged. ‘Sir Otto is determined to remove it,’ he said.

‘When do you go?’

‘Sir Jacques will come for me.’

‘Good,’ Ivo said, and drained his wine. ‘At least he can keep an eye on you, eh?’

As Baldwin rose and left them, Ivo saw Lucia looking after him.

‘You should go to him, maid. He may die tonight,’ Ivo said, then looked up as a loud rumble came to them: another building struck and collapsing. ‘We all may.’

Edgar was already up. ‘I will see if I can help,’ he said.

Ivo nodded. ‘You go. I’ll wait here. I need to rest.’

Lucia watched while Ivo poured himself another cup of wine.

‘I know you, Lucia. And I know that boy quite well. He’s a good man. He needs your comfort.’

‘He did not look at me.’

‘Did he need to? He isn’t used to the sight of men dying. He’s not a knight. Treat him with kindness.’

‘I do,’ she said quietly.

There was another rumble nearby, and then a yelping from outside the gate. Lucia felt a quick alarm. ‘That’s Uther,’ she said, and hurried to the door.

The dog must have followed Pietro and Edgar when they opened the door, and a pair of street urchins had seen him. As Lucia opened the door, she saw them throw pebbles. Uther was whimpering at the edge of the road, while the boys laughed.

‘Stop!’ Lucia shouted, running out into the road, but the boys only jeered and threw the last of their stones. They bolted when they saw Baldwin appear in the doorway.

Lucia ran to the dog, and when she looked up, she saw the twisted anguish in Baldwin’s face. He reached down tenderly and gathered up the dog, who whined again.

‘You poor fellow, Uther,’ Baldwin said, and there was a catch in his throat.

He turned and carried the dog back through the door. Lucia followed in his wake, pulling the door closed behind her. Baldwin laid the dog down on an old scrap of cloth he found, and studied him.

Uther had been badly beaten. His fur was matted with blood, an ear had been slashed, and now he lay panting like a hart held at bay. Baldwin touched his head with his hand, and the dog opened an eye and stared up at him for a moment. His tail beat twice on the ground, and then he closed his eyes again and lay, his breathing fast and unnatural.

‘Be strong, little fellow,’ Baldwin murmured.

Lucia saw the tears in his eyes and heard the thickening in his voice. She stroked Baldwin’s arm. ‘I will look after him.’

‘Thank you,’ Baldwin said, and would have said more, but there was a loud knock at the door. He ran to fetch his sword, took his leave of Ivo, and stood beside her.

‘Be strong, Uther,’ he said again.

‘Be careful,’ Lucia said. ‘Please, my lord.’

He glanced at her with surprise, and then bent to her and kissed her softly. ‘I will. Take care of him for me, Lucia, please.’ And then he was gone.

Lucia knelt beside the dog and rubbed her hand over his hot pelt. ‘You have to live,’ she told him. ‘He needs you more than me. If you die, that will be an ill omen for him. Don’t leave him!’