Templar's Acre

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

News had already spread about the arrival of the messengers, and tongues were wagging with speculation about their mission. Roger took Baldwin to a little tavern which had a wide seating space outside, with vines growing over a wooden frame for shade. The two took their seats at benches near a small rickety table.

Baldwin was in the company of a good friend, and his day had been more than a distraction — it had been an education. He felt he was coming to understand the way of this country. After the first two cups of wine, he was certain Roger could teach him more about the Holy Land than Ivo or Jacques. After the third, he was convinced that he was more at home here in Acre than he had ever been in Devon.

‘You get on well with Ivo?’ Roger asked as he called for another pint of wine.

‘He has been kind to me. I was lost when I arrived,’ Baldwin said.

‘But do you like him?’

‘He is a good man.’

‘Aye, but depressing, eh? Not the sort of fellow to enjoy a game with dice?’

‘He doesn’t approve of gambling,’ Baldwin said with a snigger.

‘What about women?’

‘He doesn’t have any about the house.’

Roger belched and shook his head. ‘He ought to become a Templar. The knights aren’t even allowed to kiss their mothers or sisters, in case they get unclean thoughts.’

‘What of you?’

Roger pulled a face and his Italian accent grew more pronounced. ‘Can you imagine me taking a vow of chastity? I don’t think so. No, I am fond of feminine companionship. But I am a shipman: I have not taken the three oaths of poverty, chastity and obedience. They are the vows taken by monks. The knights, they are all monks, you see? Not me. I have agreed to become a lay-brother for a period of five years, and after that, in two years, I will be free again.’

‘Why did you do that?’

Roger shrugged. ‘When I was eight, I joined a ship. I’m a sailor, but I had no ship. I learned my craft well, and the Templars wanted shipmen. With them I was able to gain access to ships, and be my own master. Perhaps some day I will be rich enough to buy my own ship. I could bring grain to Acre to sell at market, and take away sugar-cane to sell in Lombardy or Tuscany. I’ll make my fortune.’

‘Tell me, what do you know about Ivo? He is so stern, like a disapproving father.’

Roger stared into his drink. ‘He was a strong fighter, I heard. He came here when your King was a Prince — that must be twenty years ago. But when your King returned home, Ivo remained here. He married, had children, and I suppose he was happy.’

‘What happened to his wife?’

‘Did he not say? She was in Tripoli when the assault came last year. She and their son were there.’

‘He was away buying horses?’

‘Aye, and when he came back it was too late. The siege had begun and all he could do was wait for news. There was nothing he could have done even if he’d been there, of course. One more sword wouldn’t have aided them. But that reflection would not help a man who saw his family slain.’

‘How could the people of Tripoli have been so easily taken?’

‘They did not think they were in danger. Just like Lattakieh before them, three years ago. Qalawun is a wily old devil. He gives peace treaties, but carefully hoards exclusions. Lattakieh was a principality, so Qalawun declared that it was not a part of the treaty with Tripoli. When Lattakieh was assailed by a great earthquake, and her walls tumbled to the ground, Qalawun took advantage: he rode straight in and the city capitulated. Last year, there was a dispute about who should inherit Tripoli when the Lord Bohemond VII died. Some sent to Qalawun to help them prevent the Genoese from taking the city, and he considered that absolved him from his oath and the treaty.’

‘Yes, but the city must have realised it was in danger. Were there no outriders to keep watch for an invasion? Even if there were not, surely some people from villages far away would have seen the army’s approach?’

‘He sent his army to Syria, but the people of Tripoli didn’t understand their danger,’ Roger said. He leaned forward on his elbows and explained.

The Templars knew the true target of Qalawun’s army, he said. For years the Grand Master had made good use of Templar gold, bribing officials in the Sultan’s court, and he alone had advance warning. He sent messengers to warn Tripoli an attack was imminent, but his urgent exhortations went unheeded. They thought he had his own mercantile interests at heart rather than the defence of their city and sneered at his prophetic alarms.

At last, seeing little more could be done, Guillaume de Beaujeu sent his Marshal and many knights to help, but they were too few, too late. The city fell, and all were enslaved or slain in the wholesale slaughter that followed. Only a few lived to tell of the devastation.

‘That is why Ivo is hurrying from Grenada to Lombardy and Tuscany seeking horses,’ Roger concluded. ‘The Order lost three hundred or more in Tripoli, and it is not so easy to replace trained warhorses.’ Roger looked at Baldwin, and with a wolfish grin nodded towards three women in the corner of the room. ‘Hey, we have need of celebration, yes? We should ask those pretty things to join us.’

Baldwin was nothing loath. It was a long time since he had grappled with a woman, and the middle of these three was a goodly height, just as he liked.

Beckoning to them, Roger leaned back on his seat against the wall, appraising them as the women crossed the floor, giggling to themselves.

To Baldwin, they were almost painfully exotic. Their skin was moderately darker than the olive complexion of the Venetian ladies he had seen while taking ship, and their eyes gleamed in the dim light in the tavern, while their clothing was as skimpy as decency would permit. Baldwin could hear the blood thundering in his ears at the sight of long hair framing slender necks. He could almost feel their soft flesh, and the thought of their kisses was a sweet agony.

They stood before the two men, and one sidled nearer to Baldwin. She touched his cheek with her cool hand, and he looked up into brilliant green eyes.

It may have been the wine, but the sight of her kohl-rimmed eyes was enough for him to lose all desire. He didn’t want this woman, he wanted Maria of Lydda, the woman in green.