Templar's Acre

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Ivo and Jacques were returning homewards when they saw Roger Flor walking along the street. He was waving his arms to make a way for himself among the crowds that thronged the square and streets.

‘You will find the roads blocked all the way to the gatehouse,’ Ivo warned him.

‘They won’t hold up a Templar,’ Roger said. ‘You have heard the news?’

‘Yes. It’s remarkable. I had assumed that Qalawun would overrun us,’ Ivo said. He could feel Jacques’ eyes on him as he spoke, but he refused to meet the Leper Knight’s gaze. It wasn’t his fault he distrusted Roger Flor. There was something excessively mercenary about the man.

Roger curled his lip into a smile. ‘It is the wrong time to remove the last port where his traders sell their produce, I suppose.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Oh by the way, your boy enjoyed his ride with me.’

‘Baldwin went riding with you?’ Ivo asked sharply.

‘Do not concern yourself. He didn’t have to draw a sword, although he thought he might when we met the messengers. It was we who escorted them back.’

Ivo glared at him. ‘Do not think to teach him your ways, Roger. I will not have you hire men from my house to help you rob and kill.’

‘Perhaps you should tell him that? He was a willing enough student on the ride, and back here too with wine and women,’ Roger said, smiling lazily, but with his hand near the knife on his belt.

‘If you pollute him, I will kill you myself!’

‘Ivo, you are too old to be making threats to a man like me. Go and find him if you are so concerned about his morals.’

Jacques stepped between them and said pleasantly, ‘Where is he now?’

‘Last time I saw him, he was heading up the street,’ Roger shrugged.

Ivo left without further speech, Jacques hurrying at his side. Roger Flor was a low felon who would murder for a clipped penny. He was not worth talking to. But if Baldwin had walked up this street here, he would be safe; it did not lead to Buscarel’s area.

Still, Ivo could not help but glance down into the alleys that led to the Genoese quarter as he strode up the street, a feeling of apprehension niggling at him all the way.

This time, Baldwin was not out in the open. The air was cool on his flesh. He woke to the sensation of a damp cloth being pressed against his brow, and he revelled in the gentle touch of muslin. It was delicious. He moved his fingers, but it was difficult. The bonds tying his wrists and feet were so tight, they might as well have been cut from his own skin.

‘We must hear all he knows,’ Buscarel was saying.

‘In good time. Whatever he has overheard, a single evening will not change matters. If you had not so belaboured him, my dear friend, he would have answered much sooner. I shall report your hotheadedness to your Admiral, if you wish?’

There was steel in that gentle voice. Baldwin relished the note of concern in Buscarel’s as he apologised.

‘It is unlikely he knows too much,’ the gentle voice continued. ‘If, as you say, he was with the party returning with the messengers, that does not mean he overheard secret communications, does it?’

Baldwin opened his eyes as the cloth was removed, and found himself looking into the face of a different woman.

She was clad in a similar dress to that of Lucia, and her eyes too were green, but that was where the similarity ended. Lady Maria had higher cheekbones, and while her eyes were green, they were closer set in narrow features. Her lips were less full, and there was a slight twist to the upper lip that gave her a sardonic appearance, as if she saw something amusing that all else had missed. Her emerald clothing was lighter, and more beautifully tailored, and the aura of wealth that surrounded her was emphasised by the gold she wore at wrists and throat.

She wiped at Baldwin’s forehead again and threw her cloth away.

Following its trajectory, Baldwin saw that Lucia was in the room. She caught the cloth adroitly, and stood with it in her hands, eyeing her mistress and Buscarel warily.

Baldwin smiled at her. He was lying full length on a carved stone bench, and the door was some distance away. It would be hard to flee this chamber even if his feet were untied. Buscarel had two men with him, and they looked robust, reliable types. It was not a happy reflection. Behind Buscarel was a brazier, smoking lazily, and Baldwin wondered if this chamber was far below ground, to require the heat.

‘So, Master Baldwin. You are here in Acre for your soul, are you not?’ Lady Maria asked. ‘I wonder what crime you have committed that needs such a desperate penance. Perhaps you will tell us later. But for now, we need to know what it was that the messengers came to tell the Templars.’

Baldwin turned his head to peer at Buscarel. The man stood sullenly in a corner, and Baldwin silently swore to himself that he would avenge his beating.

‘Qalawun has agreed a peace treaty,’ he said wearily. ‘He has confirmed it for over ten years. There is no secret.’

Lady Maria looked up at Buscarel. ‘You see? Easy. All I needed to do was ask him. Now, Master pilgrim, what would you say about Genoa? I am sure that there was news of our city, too.’

‘Why?’ Baldwin asked. He tried to sit up, but it hurt so he lay down again. His back felt as though it had been pounded with leaden mauls, and his arms were painful where his hands were tied. ‘That was all I heard.’

‘But you must know that there was a dispute between Genoa and Venice. What was said of that?’

Buscarel approached, fists bunching. ‘Speak when my Lady asks! What did they say?’

‘Lady, could you silence your terrier?’ Baldwin said. Before Buscarel could hit him, he continued, ‘They said nothing in front of me. Why would they? They were messengers for Guillaume de Beaujeu, and if they had secrets for him, they kept them for him.’

‘What do you think of that, Buscarel?’ Lady Maria said.

‘He’s lying! Look at him! He is a dog from the north. You cannot trust a word from such as he. Let me have him with my sailors for a day. We’ll brand him and get all we need.’

‘Perhaps that would be best,’ Maria said. She put her thumb and forefinger on Baldwin’s chin, one at either side, and moved his head this way and that, smiling. ‘It would be a pity to spoil his looks, but if there is no alternative, such must be done. So, burn his face to make him unrecognisable, and cut out his tongue when he has finished talking, so he may never speak of things again. Then we could use him. Or sell him to the Moorish slave dealers.’

‘Lady!’ Baldwin protested. He hoped she was joking, but a look into her compassionless eyes told him that pleading was pointless. She looked on him as she would have looked at a cat, or a rat. Or a slave, he thought with mounting trepidation.

‘I will do your bidding,’ Buscarel said. ‘Genoa must be protected.’

Baldwin was transfixed with horror, his mind filled with images of coals searing his flesh. He did not see how he could free himself, but perhaps if he was carried to a ship, he might get away. Surely that was what they meant when they spoke of torturing him with Buscarel’s sailors.

But the smell of burning coals was already in Baldwin’s nostrils, and he realised there would be no journey to the sea. He was to be tortured here in this foul chamber. He struggled against his bonds, but nothing helped. In desperation, he threw himself from the bench to the floor. The stone flags struck his brow and knees with a shocking jolt, and he thought he would fall senseless, but then hands grabbed his shoulders and he was hauled to the brazier where the grinning Buscarel stood with a poker.

‘It’s all perfectly straightforward,’ the captain told him. ‘I have need of information, so I’ll burn and hurt you as I may, and then leave you to Lady Maria’s tender mercies. Now, while I heat this iron, think carefully about the question I asked you.’