Templar's Acre

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Jacques pounded on the door with his mailed gauntlet again, and this time an elderly Moorish servant opened it, bowing low in terrified respect as the two men barged past him.

‘We want the lad, Baldwin de Furnshill. He was seen brought here, Lady,’ Ivo rasped as he strode into the house. He glared about him. ‘I will search the house if you do not produce him quickly.’

‘You? Search my house?’ Lady Maria said coolly. Two of her guards were close behind her, and now Buscarel and another sailor appeared at a doorway.

Jacques smiled. ‘I am sure that there is no need for us to argue about him. He is only a young fellow. But I would have him freed, madame.’

‘And if not?’

There was a rasp of steel as Sir Jacques drew his sword. ‘I will fight for him. And there will be the embarrassment of all your dead men, and the necessary explanations as to why I was here. You do not need such indignities.’

She nodded. ‘I have no use for him, in any case. He was struck by a footpad in the street and I had him carried in for his own protection. But if you wish to have him, you may take him,’ Lady Maria said with a patrician hauteur. ‘He is through there. Please, be careful with him. Don’t let him vomit on my floor. He has been knocked on the head.’

Ivo hurried through the door she indicated, and found Baldwin lying on the floor, rosewater being applied to his brow by a maid. ‘Baldwin? Are you able to stand?’

Baldwin gave a weak smile. ‘Cut my bonds and I may.’

With the thongs sliced from wrists and ankles, he slowly rose, and with Ivo’s arm to steady him, Baldwin managed a step or two, not without pain, the sweat standing out on his forehead as he made his agonising progress, through the doorway and out to the hall. There he gave a grateful nod to Jacques.

‘I thank you for my life, sir,’ Baldwin said. ‘You have today saved another pilgrim.’

‘My friend, I am taking responsibility for your safety from now,’ Jacques said with a cold fury. ‘If any man attacks you in this way again, they will answer to me and my Order,’ he added, sweeping a look around the assembled men.

‘Do be careful in the streets,’ Lady Maria called to him. She smiled, her curled lip making it look like a sneer. ‘I would not want you injured again.’

‘Now I know who are my enemies and my friends,’ Baldwin said, ‘I shall be careful to avoid the former, and stay close to the latter — until I am ready.’

Ivo helped him through the door and out to the street. ‘What happened?’

‘They wished to torture me to learn about a message concerning Genoa,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I know nothing of it.’

There were two Muslims at the street corner, and Sir Jacques took a coin from Ivo to persuade them to help Baldwin.

Baldwin was reluctant to have their aid. All he had heard of these people said that they were murderous and evil, but so far in his time at Acre, most appeared to be cultured and generous. Perhaps, he thought, it was the way of a subject race living cheek by jowl with their rulers, but somehow he doubted it.

Sir Jacques nodded, speaking quietly. ‘I know what they wanted to learn. Genoese galleys attacked an Egyptian ship and sacked the port of Tineh.’

‘So that’s why Qalawun is leaving us for the nonce,’ Ivo said. ‘He is planning revenge against them.’

‘What, he will build a navy to destroy them? I think not, old friend. No, they will have cause to regret their behaviour, I am sure. He will tax their goods extravagantly and make them weep,’ Sir Jacques said with a quiet grin.

‘How did you know to find me here?’ Baldwin asked. His throat was sore, and he felt an overwhelming desire to close his eyes and sleep.

‘It was a whim,’ Ivo grunted.

In truth it had been, too. It was a mere whim that had taken him to Buscarel’s house with Sir Jacques, and when a servant told him that Buscarel was with Lady Maria, Ivo was filled with disquiet. When they reached Maria’s street, they spoke to one man who described a fellow much like Baldwin, who had been carried into the Lady’s house by two sailors and Buscarel. That had been enough.

Baldwin nodded as Ivo explained, but then he asked, ‘Genoa is to suffer? I don’t understand.’

‘All the mercantile cities have their favourite ports,’ Ivo said. ‘Genoa had Tripoli. That is why they attacked Tineh and a ship: to make their point. They are angry that the Sultan has wiped out their trading capital in Outremer.’

‘But surely it will hurt all the Christian seafaring nations?’ Baldwin asked.

Jacques gave a chuckle. ‘It should, but Venice detests Genoa, and has her own centre of operations here in Acre, so it was more a source of amusement to Venice that Genoa’s city was destroyed. It won’t affect them much, because they will be able to trade direct with the Egyptian merchants, and won’t lose profit to the middle-men in Tripoli.’

Baldwin couldn’t understand. This was all over his aching head. The talk of mercantile ventures was making his mind swim. He closed his eyes. ‘The Lady Maria had contempt for the Templars, too, I felt,’ he murmured.

‘When she sought to question you,’ Ivo said, ‘she was thinking of her friends, the Genoese, no doubt. I think she has a close relationship with them, so her feelings are coloured against the Templars.’

‘She dislikes the men of the Order?’

Sir Jacques tried to explain. ‘It goes deeper than simple dislike, Baldwin. In past disputes, the Templars have tended to ally themselves with the Venetians, while the Hospitallers have been more associated with Genoa. Therein lies the source of many rancorous arguments that have led to the death of Christians.’

‘What of Pisa?’

Ivo glanced at him. ‘All these three states make money from trade, and from transporting pilgrims and crusaders — and all want to make more money than their competitors. So while they exist, the three cities will fight, and since each has allies, their allies will fight for them and with them. And, of course, there are some who will fight only for themselves. Like Roger Flor.’

‘Roger? What of him?’

‘He used to go on illegal raids into Moorish lands, to kill and steal from the merchants he found. He preyed on those less able to defend themselves. He will do so again, before long.’

‘I was with him today,’ Baldwin admitted shamefacedly.

‘I know. You’re old enough to make your own mistakes — but be careful if you make him your companion. It would not take many of Roger’s attacks to upset this fragile peace.’

Ivo sat in his garden drinking strong wine. He had been profoundly shocked by Baldwin’s battered and beaten body. It brought back that horrible nightmare of the destruction of Tripoli. He often dreamed of it. Ivo could see the streets in his mind’s eye as clearly as if he had been there. He could see his street, the flames leaping higher and higher, outlining people who ran from their doors, only to be cut down. He saw his neighbours kneeling on the stones of the road, offering money, jewels — anything for their lives — and then having their throats cut. Then he saw his own wife, Rachel. His son, Peter. Saw the blades stabbing and slashing, the men taking their pleasure with her before killing her too. Poor Rachel.

‘I would have been there, if I could,’ he said quietly to himself, his voice broken with sorrow.

And afterwards, he also knew how it had looked. Bodies lying at the roadside. Men, women and children, cut to pieces and left with their blood draining, houses looted and ruined, churches despoiled, and nothing left alive. He had been to visit once. The bones were everywhere, but the city he had known was destroyed.

He had dreams in which he rescued them, Rachel and Peter. Waking afterwards was to return to a living nightmare in which they were still dead.

‘I hope you didn’t suffer,’ he murmured to himself. It was his abiding prayer, that they had been killed quickly. The siege would have been hard, but at least if they hadn’t been tortured, that would be a comfort.

But how would he ever know?