Templar's Acre

CHAPTER FIFTY

Baldwin was glad of an opportunity to join the Templar forces riding south.

‘This is only a reconnaissance. We ride to ensure that there are no elements of the Sultan’s grand army on their way to us,’ the Marshal said as they tightened cinch-straps and checked their armour. ‘There have been rumours of spies over recent weeks. Our task is to see whether there are Muslim forces spying out the land.’

Roger Flor glanced at Baldwin. Roger was wearing the brown tunic of a Templar sergeant, the red cross a blaze of brightness on his breast. His beard had been trimmed and he grinned as he caught Baldwin’s eye. They had not spoken since their return from Cairo.

‘Not like our last riding out,’ he murmured. ‘I’m glad you kept that quiet.’

‘It was not my place to denounce you,’ Baldwin said. He had no desire to recall that shameful action — he would be happier to forget it.

‘Godspeed, my friend,’ Baldwin heard, and turned to find Sir Jacques smiling at him.

‘You are joining us?’ he asked.

‘I was glad to ask to accompany the party.’ Sir Jacques peered ahead through the open city gates at the landscape outside. ‘It is time for us all to prepare for war.’

‘You think so too?’

‘I have no doubt. The son will want to keep his army busy, and demonstrate his determination to follow his father. He will want to end what Qalawun began.’ Sir Jacques glanced shrewdly at Baldwin. ‘I heard from Ivo that you seek a woman?’

‘Yes. She was once the maid to Lady Maria.’

‘Then I wish you joy in your search. There is a manor of Lady Maria’s down to the south and east, which is on our way. Perhaps she will be there.’

Baldwin nodded. He would be glad to find Lucia there. Even if she was, of course, he was unsure what he might achieve. Her mistress had refused to sell her or give her her freedom, and if she remained intransigent, there would be little Baldwin could do to force her. Still, if nothing else it was good to leave the city for a while, and make a journey in the more mild temperatures of the winter.

The order to mount was given, and Baldwin and the others rose into their saddles, and were soon trotting under the broad gatehouse of the city and into the open lands beyond. Much had changed since Otto de Grandison’s arrival. The shanties were gone and their occupants evicted. Where lean-to shacks had rested against the walls, now there was only cleared sand, while above, along the line of walls, and atop the towers, the new hoardings concealed the sentries on the walls. The place had the appearance of an armed camp, as indeed it was.

Some distance from the city, the first of the farmed lands stood, green and verdant and full of promise. Baldwin hoped that the harvest would be good. He was at heart a rural fellow, and it grieved him to think that good crops could be wasted by war.

They rode for a day and a half, heading first east and south, and then sweeping back towards the coast again. On their way, Baldwin told Sir Jacques about Lucia, and how he feared for her because she was a slave.

‘Well, it makes your task easier.’

‘What, that she is a slave?’

‘Of course!’ he smiled. ‘She is a Muslim, you say. Well, that means she must be nearby. She will not be in Muslim-controlled lands, but close to Acre. Otherwise she would have been released. Muslims would not permit a Muslim to be enslaved any more than a Christian would allow that to happen to a Christian.’

‘I see.’

‘Slavery has created unique problems for us,’ Sir Jacques said musingly. ‘Baibars once settled a peace on the Christians, suggesting a free exchange of all prisoners of their wars — but of course the Templars and Hospitallers could not agree.’

‘No?’

‘For them to maintain their castles and lands, the Orders had need of craftsmen: masons, leather workers, smiths. So after every raid, they would learn the skills of their prisoners, and those who could be used were kept as slaves for life. It was the only way to maintain the Orders. They couldn’t rely on enough workers arriving from Britanny or Guyenne.’

‘I am sorry to hear that. I would never hold any man as a slave.’

‘The Templars paid for it. Have you heard of Safed?’ Sir Jacques asked as they rode eastwards that first morning. ‘It was a Templar castle.’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘It was after the breakdown of the peace, some forty years ago, that Baibars tried to destroy Safed. He attacked it time and again, but could not break the resolve of the occupants. So he took another tack. He made those inside understand that the Turcopoles would be welcomed, if they left. The Templars held them in a rigid discipline, but even beating them could not stop many from climbing over the walls in the dead of night. Without them, there were only two hundred Templars left inside. Not enough to man the walls. And so they were forced to accept terms. The Sultan offered them safe passage from the castle if they would only open the gates. So, reluctantly, the commander finally did so.’

‘And that earns them a place of pride?’ Baldwin questioned.

‘Yes, because as soon as his men took control of the castle, this same Baibars had the Templars gathered together. He made them a new offer. Those who submitted — you know that “Islam” means “submission”? — would live. All those who refused would be executed the following morning. The Sultan left them the night to consider, and next morning, he had the men lined up. The commander ordered his men not to forget their oaths and their faith, and for that the Sultan had him flayed alive before his men. Imagine: all those knights standing and watching while their leader had the skin peeled from his body in front of them. And then they were asked, one by one, whether they would accept the Muslim faith. It is said that as each refused, he was beheaded. And yet not one agreed to the terms. All remained firm in their faith. That is the sort of man a Templar is. Resolute, you see. Guillaume de Beaujeu is one of the mould of Safed. It is in his blood to do all he can to protect the people here, and if necessary, he will die trying.’

‘I hope he will not need to,’ Baldwin said.

A little later, Baldwin found Roger at his side. ‘So, you like his story of death and glory at Safed?’ Roger asked.

‘I would prefer to think they had retained the Turcopoles in the castle and had not lost it and their lives,’ Baldwin told him.

‘Aye,’ Roger said ruminatively, studying the men in front of them. ‘But they’d think they’d won a glorious victory by dying as martyrs.’

‘I think winning is better than a glorious death and losing the battle,’ Baldwin said.

‘Me too,’ Roger said. The sand was rising from the hooves in front, and he snorted, hawking and spitting, then adding, ‘Stiff-backed hairy-arses, the lot of them. But good men to have on your side in a fight.’

Baldwin smiled, confused. ‘But you are one too.’

‘Nay, only for a short time. Soon I’ll be free again, and I’ll buy my own ship and make a fortune bringing pilgrims here — if there is a “here” to bring them to.’