Templar's Acre

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It seemed to Edgar Bakere that all the peoples of the world congregated here in one babel of sound.

The sight of Saracen warriors had shaken him, but the more he walked about the city, the more he grew to notice others. It was astonishing to see so many Saracens tolerated. Merchants, traders — they seemed to be everywhere. Almost more than there were Christians, and yet this was supposed to be a Christian city, with Christian beliefs. How Christians could trade with their enemies, and worse, allow them to live in the same city, Edgar did not understand.

Nor did the other crusaders.

He was on his way back to his inn in search of a little food when he saw the first of the fights. A woman, veiled and swathed in black material so voluminously that only her eyes could be seen, was walking with two men to guard her. For a moment Edgar reflected that Saracen women were harder to admire than Christian ones, and for that he was sorry. Edgar had always liked the company of women, and on the journey here he had enjoyed mild erotic fantasies about exotic Saracen girls. . only to learn that they would have to remain pure speculation.

It was not the woman who held his attention, however: it was the jeering, taunting men behind her.

Edgar could see that she was terrified. Her eyes were wildly shooting from one side to another, and her men were as fearful. They didn’t know what to do to escape the baying mob. For that’s what it was: a mob of unruly Lombard mercenaries who had no idea how to occupy themselves. They had no discipline, and what order there had been was degraded by drink. Edgar could understand their language moderately well after spending days in their company, and now he listened with a careful ear to their insults and taunts.

‘Why’s she covered up?’

‘Come on, girl, give us a kiss!’

‘What’s the problem, eh? Don’t you like real men?’

One man, bolder, or more foolish than the others, pushed his way to the front. One of the guards shot a look at his companion, and then the two tried to block the man’s path, but he truculently set his hand to his knife and stared them down, before shoving past them.

The mob enveloped her guards like a wave washing over pebbles.

Edgar frowned. He could leave matters, return to his hayloft and forget this woman and her guards, and yet the behaviour of the man and the rest of the mob showed that the woman would probably be raped, perhaps killed. The death of other men did not bother Edgar unduly — he was unconcerned that the two guards would almost certainly die — but he disliked the idea of the woman being ravished or slain. It offended his sense of chivalry.

As she retreated, Edgar smilingly went to her and stood between her and the man.

‘Out of the way, boy,’ the man threatened, his hand still on his knife. His French was rough and, for Edgar, hard to understand.

‘Your pardon? What was that?’

‘Out of my way, fool!’

‘You are troubling this lady. I would see her left to go on her way.’

‘She’s only a Moor.’

‘That doesn’t give you the right to pester and annoy her. There are taverns throughout the city where even you can find a woman. You don’t need this.’

‘What’s she to you?’

Edgar shrugged. ‘Nothing. But I dislike seeing a woman harried.’

‘You’re still in my way.’

Edgar nodded happily. ‘I am, yes.’

The Lombard muttered a curse and drew his knife, holding it wide of his body as he crouched. On his breath was the unmistakable reek of cheap wine.

In the London streets in which Edgar had grown, a man soon learned to defend himself against drunk apprentices or clerks. His strength was good, his technical skills honed by the Master of Defence. He eyed the man now, his eyes moving from the Lombard’s face to the knife, gauging when the man would make his attack.

There! The point jabbed forward, then withdrew and slashed towards Edgar’s belly, but both were feints. They hardly reached close enough to tear his tunic. Edgar didn’t move.

‘When in a fight, get inside your opponent’s reach,’ his Master had always instructed, ‘but if he has a knife, you must be fast and sure. Or you will be cut.’

Today, Edgar tested his theory.

The knife stabbed forward, the Lombard’s arm straight. Edgar darted towards him. His left arm went over the Lombard’s right, clamping the man’s knife-hand under his armpit, while he wrapped his left arm about the Lombard’s gripping his clothing at the shoulder. The Lombard was locked in his grasp, and Edgar punched twice, with stiffened right fingers, quickly, at the man’s throat. The man choked and retched, and Edgar span him around, ramming his face into the wall, then, as the man wailed, his nose flooded with blood, Edgar slammed his open hand into the man’s elbow, wrenching it sideways.

He screamed and dropped the dagger, clutching his ruined elbow. Edgar turned him around, placed his boot on the man’s backside and pushed, hard.

As the Lombard fell amongst his companions, Edgar picked up his dagger. It was a good blade, strong and well made. He tucked it away into his belt and eyed the crowd. ‘Anybody else want to try their luck?’ he challenged mildly.

As he spoke, the two Saracen guards pushed through the crowd and went to his side, one setting his hand on his sword, but Edgar hoped he wouldn’t draw it. If someone pulled out a weapon now, the mob could become nasty. They had the ugly temper of London apprentices on riot, he thought, and he could all too easily imagine them ripping stones from the roadway to hurl at him and the two beside him. That wouldn’t be good.

‘You a Moor-lover, boy?’ someone shouted, and another jeered, ‘You want a whore, they’re cheaper in the tavern. She’ll cost you dear!’

Edgar said nothing, but waited unmoving, alert. Some hotheads were all for attacking him, but already many had begun to drift away in search of wine, or easier prey.

Before long, he was alone with the three, and he wondered as he looked into the woman’s splendid dark eyes, what she looked like. He could not even tell how old she was.

She gave him a long study, from his head to his boots, before murmuring to one of the guards.

‘My Lady wishes to express her gratitude. She says you saved her when her own guards were incompetent,’ the man said stiffly.

‘Tell your Lady I was pleased to be of help,’ Edgar said. He tapped his belt. ‘I have been rewarded for my efforts with this dagger.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Me? Edgar — of London,’ he said with pride.

‘Where do you live?’

Edgar chuckled. ‘At an inn. They have a spacious chamber for me, where they store the fodder.’

‘My Lady would like to present you with this,’ the guard said, taking coins from a purse.

Edgar stared at them, and then smiled, bobbing his head as he took them.

‘I am grateful to you,’ he said, and as he returned to his inn, he was pleased. Now, he thought, he would buy new clothing to replace these reeking garments. He was on his way to becoming a man of position.

Two days later, more ships arrived with soldiers from Lombardy nd Tuscany, and almost immediately the riots started.