Templar's Acre

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

It was a tense ride for Baldwin. He was glad to be out, but still more glad that there were so many men about him. There were two other Leper Knights with Sir Jacques, as well as their squires and sergeants. The remainder of the thirty were Templars.

Their way took them over the plains, and thence between some low, yellow hills.

‘All this land once was ours,’ Sir Jacques said, looking about him. He was wearing his full armour, and the nose-guard looked incongruous, being slightly bent at the bottom. It pressed upon Sir Jacques’ nose, pushing it in and to the right. Baldwin was tempted to ask why he didn’t have it bent back. ‘The Kingdom stretched all the way from Antioch in the north, down to Gaza,’ he went on. ‘The Templars and other Orders built strong defences along the border to protect Jerusalem and the other cities, but over time we have lost all.’

‘How?’

‘You mean, how did men’s folly permit such a disaster? Or how could God have allowed heathens to take His land?’ Jacques asked lightly.

‘Both, surely.’

‘I think not. God gives us the strength to do His will, but that does not mean He commands us in all we do. He likes to test us with new trials, and this is just one more.’

‘But how can it be a trial when we know He cannot allow us to lose?’ Baldwin said.

Jacques looked at him. ‘And you are certain of that? Perhaps the trial is to see whether we have the resolution to see this through. But if we fail, perhaps it will be for another brotherhood of Christians to return to wrest the land from the heathen, and thereby bring about His divine wishes.’

‘He cannot allow heathens to take it, surely?’

‘Why not? If we are not strong enough, someone must have it.’

‘If God were to allow the Kingdom of Jerusalem to fail, surely that must mean the end of the world.’

Jacques smiled at the solemn young man. ‘And would that be so terrible? He has already given Jerusalem to the Muslims. What would it mean to give up Acre as well? Not so very much in comparison. I do not think He has been very impressed with His people in recent years. If He were, would He truly have allowed the slaughter at Tripoli?’

Baldwin closed his mouth and stared ahead. Speaking was painful, for every word meant swallowing sand kicked up by the horses ahead. Still, the thought that God might permit His lands to be invaded was ridiculous; He must help Christians throw back the godless.

‘Look there! I think that is the Lady’s farm.’

Baldwin followed Sir Jacques’ pointing finger, and saw some drab buildings in the distance. ‘There?’

‘It is a small farm for her slaves, I think,’ Jacques said.

Lucia was bent at her work when she heard the approaching thunder of hooves. Dimly, she could make out the white tunics, grubby with sand and dust, of the Templars. They were a large force, and dressed for battle. The knights wore mail, with helmets on their heads and swords at their sides. The overseer cracked his whip, and the slaves bent to their work once more. Lucia watched as two knights rode forward at an easy canter, reining in at his side, and began to speak. And then she saw him. The strange Frank called Baldwin.

It almost made her drop her spade. She tottered and, as the overseer shouted at her, she ducked below his lash. Too late, for the leather end caught her across the shoulders, and she cried out with the pain. A second blow struck her torso, and the end whipped about and caught the side of her breast.

The pain was unimaginable. She wept as she struggled to return to her work, feeling the slickness of fresh blood running down her spine.

Baldwin saw the overseer lift his hand, and felt his face grow black with rage. He spurred his mount onwards, thrusting himself and his horse between the slave-driver and Lucia.

The overseer glanced up at Baldwin with a frown of incomprehension. This was one of his slaves, and he was right to maintain control. It was his duty and his job. He edged around Baldwin’s horse.

‘Keep back, churl!’ Baldwin snarled. He looked down at Lucia and his heart was almost broken to see her. She was nearly unrecognisable. The lady in green he had fallen in love with was now a broken woman in soiled, torn linen.

‘My Lady,’ he said, ‘I offered you my hand once. I offer it again.’

The overseer darted around, to stand before Lucia, smiling wolfishly, daring her to speak.

Baldwin forced his horse on, and it barged into the slave-driver. ‘You try to hurt her again,’ Baldwin said, ‘and I’ll kill you!’

She stood, leaning on the haft of her spade wearily. ‘Sir, I cannot. As I told you, I am Muslim. I cannot betray my faith.’

Even as she spoke, the overseer darted round Baldwin’s horse and the whip cracked.

Baldwin didn’t hesitate. His sword flashed, and he thrust it into the man’s throat. There was a sudden gout of blood, and the man fell back, both hands clutching at his neck as if trying to stem the flow.

‘No!’ Lucia cried as he collapsed on the ground.

‘I will allow no man to hurt you again,’ Baldwin said. He was looking about him at the other slave-masters. One had already cast aside his whip and was fleeing, back to the farm. Another stood gaping, but made no threatening gestures.

‘Lady Maria will hear of this! She will have me killed!’ Lucia wailed.

‘I offered you my hand,’ Baldwin repeated steadfastly. ‘Come, Lucia, ride with me. It’s many leagues to Acre, and I do not think you can walk it.’

Ivo sat in his garden as the sun sank, sipping wine and thinking about the Marshal’s words. Sir Geoffrey had been deeply moved. Perhaps he felt guilt for escaping when he had. Just as Ivo felt the guilt of being absent when his wife and son needed him most.

He drank. Wine dulled the pain.

The knock at the door made him start. Pietro was in his little chamber near the gate, and he rose, complaining loudly as usual, and went to the door. And then, to Ivo’s surprise, Baldwin walked in, carrying a young woman in his arms.

‘I am sorry if this causes trouble,’ he said, standing in the doorway. ‘But I couldn’t leave her to suffer. Not like this.’

Ivo nodded, and stood aside to let the young man pass. But somehow, as he watched Baldwin walk through his little garden, the image was strangely familiar. And then he understood: in his dreams he had seen himself, just like Baldwin, carrying his wife and child, bearing them to safety from the flames of Tripoli.

At least Baldwin had been able to save his woman, he thought, and his eyes fogged with tears.