Templar's Acre

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

The fighting began as soon as the muezzins had finished their calls, when the enemy launched themselves at the gatehouse again. Their catapults were aiming beyond them now, and Baldwin was glad of that, except that every time he saw a projectile flying overhead, he worried that it might be hurtling towards Lucia.

He had found a new sword, with a straight, true blade, and while it lacked the balance of his other, it was at least firm enough in the grip to give him confidence that it would not shatter or bend too easily.

Flat breads were brought to all the men at the gate as dawn gleamed on the horizon, and when it was full daylight, they had all been fed and filled with watered wine, and stood at the ramparts, which had been reinforced with baskets full of rock, interspersed with palliasses and individual rocks.

Baldwin and Ivo were in the second rank at the rampart of wickerwork baskets and rocks. This new obstruction might hold the enemy for a little. The Templars and Sir Jacques took the front line, over to the left, armed with spears and lances; the Hospital and some German Order knights held the right. There would be no need for lance-armed knights on horseback today. All weapons were needed here at the front.

Their first warning was a rock that whirred through the air and beat against the wall with an enormous crash. A second stone filled with Greek fire came just after, and hit the walls behind the English Tower. Baldwin saw the foul black smoke, the gout of flame, the twisting, shrieking bodies of men encased in fire who ran and leaped from the walls to end their agonies. More rocks. He saw them strike, from the yellowish clouds that rose from the walls on either side, then more yellow-orange bursts, and one that came much closer, a pot of fire that slammed into the ground behind the barricades. Men immediately ran to it, dousing the fires before the barricades could catch light and be ruined, and while they were there a second struck, showering the men with burning pitch and oil. They ran about, deranged, screaming hoarsely until a sergeant mercifully despatched them.

At that moment, Sir Jacques turned and smiled at Baldwin, and that small act settled the young man’s fears. For he did have fear, and he was not alone. Beside him, a pock-faced man he recognised from the market, muttered a constant stream of invective as they waited, while farther along the line a trio were praying and kissing their rosaries. Over on the right he could see Edgar and Ivo, and next to them a stern-faced Pietro with a bandage about his head.

Then the clash of arms began.

A solid mass of Muslims, running full tilt, swords gleaming and spear-points ready, pelted up the rampart, screaming their hatred and rage. . and the impact of their bodies thundering into the wicker wall was terrifying; their mad determination inhuman. They sprang onto the wall, slashing down at the Christian line. More came on, packed so tightly that on the rampart it was like being faced by a herd of oxen.

Some were instantly impaled on the Templar spears, but were forced on by the crush of men behind, until their moving jaws were almost close enough to bite the defenders. Others hurled themselves on their dying bodies, treading them underfoot to bring down the spears, and then stabbing with their own. A man in front of Baldwin gave a hideous shriek and fell, and Baldwin saw that the spear had entered the eyehole of his helmet. He scrabbled with his gloves for the shaft to pull it free, but another Muslim sprang to him and hacked with his curved blade. A Templar thrust with his sword and that man fell, but another spear slid over the Templar’s coat of plates and under his chin, and he too was slain.

As the sun rose in the sky, so the battle continued, until the wicker baskets were reduced to threads of twigs and their contents were spilled — and yet the onslaught carried on, with the enemy thrusting and stabbing. All day long Baldwin and the others were pushed back, only to force their way forward again, their numbers reducing, more men filling the gaps, and they stumbled on the bodies of the dead and injured, and they fought, while their arms weakened and their necks ached, and the constant belabouring of axes, swords, spears made their heads ring and bruised every limb. They fought at first with anger and defiance, then with savage determination, and finally they fought without hope or thought, but only a mechanical obstinacy.

There was no possibility of surrender, nor retreat; there could be no terms. Their enemy was determined to wipe them out. This city would be laid waste, the population utterly destroyed.

A flight of arrows flocked overhead, then sliced into the men behind. Screams and shrieks came to Baldwin’s ears, but only as a background. It was like the waves to a shipman. They could be heard as a rumble and crash behind, but the shipman was more focused on the wind in canvas and cordage. In like manner, the sounds of men dying was overwhelmed by the roaring of his breath in the enclosed space of Baldwin’s helmet, the deafening clang of weapon against weapon.

A spear caught his left shoulder, high, under his collar-bone. The mail snagged the point, and he felt it puncture his flesh, but he pulled his shoulder back, and jerked it down, and the spear went over him. Another spear raked along his right forearm, under his sleeve, and he felt his skin sliced by the razor-edge, all the way to his elbow. Not deep, but it would sting.

About the middle of the day, with the full heat of the sun bearing down on defender and foe alike, the two forces parted for a space. Baldwin and much of his line was removed and fresher men installed, while they were allowed to sit, ungrip their weapons, drink water. Baldwin pulled off his helmet and tipped a ladle of water over his head. It felt as though his temples must explode into flame like the fire-pots the enemy hurled at the city, he was so hot. He could not drink for a space. His throat was so parched, his lips cracked and sore, and he could barely lift his arm with a ladle of water.

‘My love.’

He looked up to see Lucia. She and other women were going from man to man with food and buckets of water. She knelt before him, and brought the ladle to his lips. ‘My love,’ she repeated. ‘Oh, I wish I could help you! You look so lost.’

‘Don’t worry about me.’ He managed a smile. ‘I am not dead yet.’

‘I wish I had spent more time with you.’

‘Perhaps we will escape. I could take you home and show you to my brother. That would make him jealous.’

‘You tease me.’

‘No. No, I would never do that.’

He stared at her, drinking in her beauty like water. Just now, knowing that he must surely be close to death and would never see her again, she had never looked so painfully lovely. Her wonderful eyes, her regular bones, her clear complexion, all contributed to her perfection. If he could, he would die with her face in his mind, he resolved. The Blessed Virgin Mary Herself could not be so peerless.

There was a shout, then the rattle of arrows clattering on the stones. ‘Quick! Go!’ he said, pulling his helmet back on and rising with an effort. He drew his sword, but when he glanced back, she was still there, dread upon her face.

‘Damn their black souls to Hell,’ he muttered. ‘I shall not die here! Lucia, run — go away. Back to the house. I will see you there!’

She nodded, and was gone.

The first roaring charge knocked the first line back three feet, and Baldwin and the remaining lines must form behind and shove, heaving and sweating, to recover that yard. Baldwin felt a rip in his left shoulder, and glanced down fearfully, thinking he had been stabbed, but it must have been a muscle tearing. There was no injury visible, no weapon nearby.

A loud bellowed command, and the men began to push, more piling in behind, their weight adding to that of the line, and gradually they started to succeed. There was a shout, a sudden command, and Baldwin felt more men, fresher, eager, behind him. Looking back, he found himself staring into the face of Guillaume de Beaujeu.

‘Come! You think to let these sons of the Devil push you around? Like a boy in the stable-yard? Push, my friends, push! Heave for all you are worth! Are you Christians? Then prove it! PUSH!’

Baldwin could feel the line advancing. Step by dogged step, they climbed to the top of the rampart once more and then they were over the top, where the wicker baskets had been trampled, and could stand waiting for the enemy to group again and charge. But now, when Baldwin looked up, the sky was darkening in the west, and he realised with a vague surprise that the enemy was pulling back now that night was drawing in.

Someone gave a shout of triumph, but Baldwin could not join in. All he felt was utter bone-deep weariness. He watched while the others all waved their weapons, some derisively, most with exhausted gratitude, and the women reappeared, bearing fresh containers full of rocks and rubble, while men began to sift through the bodies, seeing if any of the injured could be saved.

Baldwin suddenly saw Ivo and Pietro with bent heads over at the far side of the breach, kneeling beside someone lying on the ground.

He knew it before he saw the face.

Sir Jacques d’Ivry was dead.

Lucia saw him as soon as he walked in through the door. He stood there a moment, his helmet in the crook of his arm, and she went to him. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No. Sir Jacques is dead.’

‘Oh!’ She placed her hand against his heart, face torn. ‘He was always so kind to me.’

‘To all. He loved one woman, and when she was taken from him, he joined his Order in order to serve her as much as God, I think.’

Baldwin closed his eyes and shuddered. The sword at his waist was a painful burden that threatened to pull him to the ground. His left forearm had a deep scratch, but that, the slash to his thigh and barked knuckles were his only wounds. The men in the front ranks had been far less lucky.

‘He fell. I think he carried on for too long, but he wouldn’t have admitted it.’

The door opened and Pietro and Ivo entered, one after the other. As Ivo collapsed onto his bench, he began: ‘Hoi, Pietro, go and. .’ He stopped, and stared at Pietro.

His bottler blinked slowly. The bandage about his head was stained and grimy.

‘Sweet Jesus, you look in a right old state,’ Ivo said wonderingly.

‘Which isn’t surprising, after the last days,’ Pietro said with a trace of his old asperity.

‘True. Come — sit here. I’ll fetch you some wine.’

‘Eh? No, you can’t. It’s my place to serve you.’

Ivo rocked forward to bring himself to his feet again. ‘Ach, this old body is too used to easy cushions as it is. Pietro, I command you as my servant to sit there.’

He walked off and before long had returned with a tray of cups and two of his largest jugs, filled with wine.

‘This is the last of the wine from Beirut,’ Ivo said sadly, pouring. ‘I don’t think I need worry about keeping it.’

‘I am sorry about Sir Jacques,’ Baldwin said hesitantly. He was shrugging off his coat, and Lucia hissed and muttered under her breath at the blood. She washed his wounds and cleaned them with damp towelling, while Baldwin sat, wincing.

‘I knew him a long time,’ Ivo told him. ‘He and I came here with the Prince many years ago. His woman and mine, they were friends, and then she got that damned disease, and went to the convent. He felt the need to serve as she did. He never seemed to regret it.’

‘He was a good man,’ Baldwin said.

‘Aye. One of the best.’ Ivo nodded glumly to himself and then lifted his cup in a silent toast. Sir Jacques had been his oldest friend.

Pietro was almost asleep, head nodding. Ivo looked at him with great sadness. You poor old whoreson, you’re too old for this. Same as I am, he thought.

‘We won’t survive this onslaught for long,’ Baldwin said. ‘They must break through before too long.’

‘They will, I think,’ Ivo said. He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Well, I won’t save my bleeding wine for a bleeding Muslim soldier to guzzle after he’s killed me. Drink up, boy! Drink up, Edgar. Lucia, you need a drink too. We drink to Acre, to my friend Jacques, to my wife Rachel, my son Peter, and all the others who’ve died in this damned land. And once we have been kicked out, I pray that no other Christian army ever comes here again, for God has forsaken it — and us,’ he finished viciously. He dashed away the tears as he took more wine.

Baldwin and Lucia drank their wine with him, but left soon afterwards, going to Baldwin’s room where they made love as though it would be their last time.

And so it was.