Templar's Acre

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Riding out of the massive St Anthony’s Gate, Baldwin felt his troubles fall away.

It was two weeks since his beating at the hands of the Genoese, and most of his wounds were healing. As he bent to duck under a low building, his saddle creaking, he could feel the bruises complain, but that was all. Outside in the open air, past the shanty town that had sprung up about Acre’s walls, he felt refreshed, and it was with joy in his heart that he trotted at Roger Flor’s side.

There were six others with them, all sailors from Roger’s Falcon.

‘We’ll head east, and see what we find,’ Roger said easily. He looked over at Baldwin, wondering. The Englishman sometimes was so sure of himself, like today, whereas on other occasions he could seem deliberately juvenile. ‘You never know what you might see, and it’s good to ensure that there are no spies about.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Baldwin said mildly. For his part, he was keen only to exercise. It was prodigiously hot, but he missed riding. Back at home he would ride every day, no matter what the weather, and he could feel his muscles growing flabby. ‘Will we have time for a gallop?’

‘Perhaps later,’ Roger said with a chuckle, relieved that the lad appeared to understand. There were some men who would be less keen on the idea of a raid against local houses. Maybe Baldwin was a man after his own heart. He might be young, but there was fire in his belly. ‘You are a keen horseman?’

‘Very. But at home the weather is not so hot. My land is cool.’

‘So is mine,’ Roger said. ‘At least here, when you ride, there is a purpose to it, eh?’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin laughed.

Roger suddenly lashed his horse into a canter, and the others spurred their beasts to keep up. This, he thought, would be a good day for a chevauchée. He looked over at Bernat and grinned.

Baldwin was filled with the joy of comradeship. There was also a heady sense of freedom to be leaving the city. He was a man born to the country, and in Acre he was always aware of being hemmed in. The seas to south and west, the walls to north and east, left him with the impression of being imprisoned. This ride was a liberation.

They rode on for several miles. To save the horses from overheating, they soon slowed to a trot, and the dust again caused Baldwin to cover his face. Before long, they were riding between two hills, and it was here that Roger slowed to a walk, rising to stand in his stirrups, and peering ahead with a frown.

Baldwin could see nothing at first that could have caused the man to pause, but then he made out a dust cloud some distance away. Not enormous, certainly not caused by an army, but of a moderate size. Perhaps there was a slow-moving caravan.

‘Come on!’ Roger said. His blood was stirred at the sight of beasts in the sand. They must be carrying something for there to be so many — and whatever it was, it would be worth good besants in Acre. He gleefully anticipated a clash of arms.

At first, Baldwin could make out little. The travellers were far distant, and the heat haze in these parts made any accurate assessment of people or horses utterly impossible.

And then, as they came closer, he saw long-legged creatures. He had seen strange sights before when the land was hot, as though the air itself would reflect the landscape like rippling water. Occasionally a horse would look as though its legs had doubled in length, as he had noticed on that first ride with Roger.

‘Ready?’ Roger shouted suddenly. Then, with a yell, he swept out his sword, waved it over his head, and spurred his horse into a gallop.

As the others screamed battle cries and pursued him, Baldwin’s beast laid his ears back and stretched his neck to join the race. Baldwin had not yet unsheathed his sword, but found himself crouching low over his mount’s neck, galloping for the sheer thrill of the wind in his hair, the snap and crackle of his cloak in the wind, the protests of leather and harness. The wind bore tiny grains of sand that stung his eyes and face like flying needles.

The clattering of hooves on the roadway’s stones was deafening, but over it he heard the first cry.

A blade whirled towards him, and he ducked, panicking, almost forgetting he bore a weapon. He grabbed at his sword, and had it free even as the Saracen came at him a second time. Baldwin felt a lurching horror in his belly that seemed to rise to his chest, but he forced it aside and concentrated on his opponent. Terror would only slow him.

The Saracen was shorter than Baldwin, his black beard unfrosted, his eyes keen as he sliced again with his curved sword. Baldwin had to lurch back to avoid that horrible blade. He could imagine that if an arm or leg was snared by that, it would slice the limb away like a scythe, and at that hideous thought he lifted his sword into the True Gardant, his fist up and near his brow, the sword’s point dropping away from his hand, pointing down and away from him.

The scythe-sword came back at him, the wicked outer curve aiming for his chest, and he dropped the point of his sword to defend himself. The man lifted his hand, and the point of the scimitar flicked upwards, almost eviscerating Baldwin as the point came towards his groin. He chopped down with his sword, knocking it down and away, and instantly lifted his point again, trying to cut the man’s thigh or groin, but both targets evaded him, and the two whirled about, their swords flashing in the sun as their horses moved this way and that.

There was a brief cry of pain, and Baldwin and his opponent were distracted enough to glance about them.

Baldwin felt his jaw drop. Three men lay on the ground, their bellies opened, their throats slashed. Hacked limbs littered the sand, while blood stained it black. And the man fighting him gave a sob and lunged.

The attack caught Baldwin by surprise. The blade caught his right flank, and he felt it as a sharp pain, much like the lash of a whip. He didn’t realise that he was cut, but thought he had taken a slap from the flat of the blade.

While the man’s attention was on his injury, a snarl on his face, Baldwin slammed the guard of his sword into his cheek. He felt the metal crush bone, and the man tumbled from his horse, stunned. He tried to rise, but before he could do so, one of Roger’s men turned and kicked him on the jaw, then stabbed him through the throat with a long-bladed dagger.

Baldwin panted, lightheaded after the action, and was aware of a sudden relief. He had fought, and had not embarrassed himself. He had kept calm, and traded blows with the enemy. It was a source of pride — and then he felt a shiver run up his spine and a black reaction set in as he took in the bodies lying all about. None of the sailors was injured, so far as he could tell, but all the Saracens were dead. Their horses were docile enough, apart from one which had taken flight, and even now Roger was almost at it. He was soon trotting back, leading the horse by the reins.

‘Who were these?’ Baldwin said.

‘They’re Saracens who assumed the right to use a Christian road,’ Roger said with a grin. ‘And as a result, we’ve made good money. These horses can be sold, the arms and armour too. And then, their goods can be taken to market at Acre.’

‘What goods did they carry?’

‘I don’t know,’ Roger said.

Baldwin felt a sudden cold certainty: Ivo was right. These men preyed upon Saracens. They had launched their ferocious attack purely to rob an innocent party of travellers.

And he had participated. He too was guilty.