Templar's Acre

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Edgar of London had not anticipated trouble as he left the castle.

He swaggered, confident that his master was one of the most powerful men in the city. With his pacifist approach, blocking those who sought war, Philip Mainboeuf had elevated himself to the very pinnacle of the social elite in Acre, and as his standing rose so, by association, did Edgar’s.

It had been a good decision to come here, he thought smugly. He had money, the best clothes he had ever owned, and his choice of women in the city — many of whom were grateful for a distraction from fears about their future. Life was good.

His mood was suddenly punctured when he saw the men pushing and jostling all about the Templars and his master; an alarm began to scream in his head.

Edgar darted forward, trying to get to Mainboeuf and pull him from the crush, but even as he did so, there was a sudden shout as the Templars drew their weapons.

Edgar’s sword was already out when he reached his master. The air was full of bellowing, and a woman gave a scream at the sight of blades. Edgar didn’t care — he ducked as a Venetian shipman nearby aimed a cudgel at his head, and as Edgar dropped, he stabbed upwards with his sword. He felt it sink into the man’s breast, and the sailor toppled with a look of intense surprise on his face, which gave Edgar a brief flare of satisfaction before something crashed against his head, and he felt himself tumble onto the rough gravel of the roadway — and could only watch numbly as boots moved all about him. Just ahead of him, he saw the shipman he had stabbed. The man’s mouth was moving, but no words were coming. At least, Edgar heard none. He remained staring, but then, too exhausted to continue, he closed his eyes.

Baldwin arrived as the crowd began to turn nasty, and it was a relief to hear Otto de Grandison bawling orders, barging his way through the men encircling the Templars, three Englishmen with him shoving people aside.

‘Move away! I won’t have the mob attacking unarmed men!’ de Grandison roared, ignoring the fact that the Templars were standing in a group with steel glinting in the sun. None had dared approach them. Nobody had any doubts of their ability to protect themselves.

Baldwin was standing with the remaining Venetian. ‘What was this about?’ he demanded.

Sir Guillaume spoke through clenched teeth. ‘The mob jostled us. Someone made jokes about Templar cowardice and whether we would find anyone who dared travel to Cairo.’

‘I’ll wager you won’t go!’ a man shouted.

Baldwin felt the crowd’s evil mood. One man was dead, and Edgar lay unmoving before him. He didn’t want any more injuries. In an instant, Baldwin grabbed the man who had spoken by the neck of his tunic, his sword resting against the fellow’s throat. He had never seen a man’s eyes open so wide before.

‘Is there anybody else who wants to make a comment?’ he snarled rhetorically. He shook his prisoner. ‘Now, since you are unconvinced about the Grand Master’s willingness to fight, would you offer him a challenge to single combat?’

He was wrong. Eyes could open wider, apparently.

‘Me? I’m no knight!’ the man squeaked.

‘You were brave enough when you had the mob at your back!’

‘He has armour and all!’

‘It was your choice to insult him. If you don’t apologise, I will take you to the castle’s yard now, and you can fight Grand Master de Beaujeu.’

‘I agree! I submit! I apologise!’ the man blurted.

The tension had already dissipated. Instead of angry mutterings, Baldwin heard chuckles at the fellow’s predicament. Someone imitated his high, anxious tones.

Baldwin thrust the man forward, then booted him in the backside, directing him into the crowd.

‘Disperse, the lot of you. Go on — clear off!’

‘Master Baldwin, I am grateful to you,’ Sir Guillaume said as the people moved away, and he and his men felt safe enough to put up their swords. ‘What is happening to the world, when a mob will take it upon themselves to attack Templars?’

Baldwin nodded. But there had been two groups in the crowd. Now the remaining Venetian was rising from the side of his dead comrade, scowling at Mainboeuf. Baldwin jabbed his sword out before he could move towards the merchant. ‘Why did you attack him?’ he demanded, his sword almost touching the man’s throat. The man’s face was familiar, but he couldn’t think how he knew him.

‘He sent the Genoese after my ship! You were there — you were on my ship when his men attacked us and killed half my crew! I had to sail to Venice to make good the damage he caused my ship, and only returned two days ago.’

‘That was not Master Mainboeuf, it was a man called Buscarel,’ Baldwin said. ‘I know him.’

‘Buscarel was the shipmaster, but this piece of shit told Buscarel to attack my ship. You ask him! See how his eyes shift? He knows it’s true!’

‘If he did, that was out to sea,’ Sir Otto said. ‘Whatever happened out there has no force on land. You have broken the law in trying to kill him here. Murder on the streets is not permitted.’ He motioned to the three men-at-arms who were with him, and two moved towards the Venetian, kicking his knife away and grabbing him by the arms.

‘What of justice for me?’ the Venetian declared wildly. ‘That man tried to ruin me, he had many of my crew killed, and now what?’

Sir Otto shrugged and jerked his head. ‘Take him to the gaol and meet me back here,’ he said. ‘So, vintenary, I am impressed with your turn of speed.’

Baldwin was only half-listening as he studied the figure on the ground. ‘I know this man,’ he said.

Philip Mainboeuf peered down too, saying, ‘He is Edgar of London, my Master of Defence. I was expecting to take him with me to Cairo. What will I do now? It is extremely disappointing.’

‘It would have been worse if he had not saved your life,’ Sir Otto pointed out. ‘He is your man. You will need to have him taken to your home to be nursed.’

‘How will I protect myself on the way?’ Mainboeuf snapped grumpily. ‘The man’s a fool, he doesn’t deserve to be nursed.’

Baldwin stared in disbelief. ‘This fellow was injured saving your life!’

‘And by failing to guard himself, the fool’s left me without protection. Ach!’ The merchant looked about him and seeing a scruffy urchin nearby, commanded him to go and fetch two strong men from the house, and a cart or some other means of transporting the body. ‘And be quick if you want payment for your effort,’ he called as the boy scuttled away.

Baldwin watched Mainboeuf walk away. ‘What will happen to the Venetian?’ he asked Sir Otto.

Sir Otto considered. ‘I trust he will pay a fine for breaking the peace, and then be released. That is what I would do. We cannot afford to lose a single man from the city.’

‘So you do not think that Master Mainboeuf will succeed?’

‘With the embassy to the Sultan? In God’s name, no! The embassy is doomed. The preparations are too advanced, from the information which the good Grand Master has gleaned. They will never have an opportunity to fight like this again — not with so many warriors, if the reports are true.’

‘So what do we do now?’

‘Practise with our weapons, Master Baldwin, see to the defences, gather food, and put our trust in God.’

Abu al-Fida rose from his devotions and walked out into the sun. Kerak had been a good staging-post. Now, he was happy to know that his time here was at an end. Orders had been received, and his machine was to go to Acre.

His clerk and servants were outside, all packed and ready, and he took the reins of his horse and mounted. It was a beautiful day, dry and hot, but with the edge of heat taken away by the remaining cool of winter. A time of year he had always enjoyed, before the unendurable heat started again in the late spring.

The small mare was frisky, and he patted her neck as he looked back over the immense wagon train stretching past Kerak and into the distance, and then trotted to the head of the column and waved his arm in the signal to advance.

Behind him he heard commands bellowed along the line. There was a creaking and squeaking of leather harnesses as oxen strained, and the jingle of chains and mail, and the complaining lowing of cattle and whickering of horses as the first wagons began to lumber forward. More cracks of whips, and shrieked urgings from drivers, while the camels and oxen slowly moved off.

Abu al-Fida stopped at the outskirts of the city’s territory and watched on his mare while the train rolled slowly past, raising clouds of sand and dust. He had an emptiness in his soul. His son should have been here to see this — but then if he had, Abu al-Fida knew he would not have left his comfortable life as a merchant, would not have been forced from his home by those murderous Frank crusaders, would not have travelled to Cairo to demand justice from the Sultan, and would not have been sent to build al-Mansour. He would not have been created Emir and placed in charge of a force to bear his weapon to Acre.

His son would have been proud to see his father in this position. Usmar had always been devoted to Islam, and ridding the land of the rapacious Franks had always been close to his heart. It grieved him that Acre sucked in the best merchandise, and that the markets there had always paid the best, but such was the case. That was why Abu al-Fida had lived in Acre. And because of that, his family had died.

An inevitable chain of consequences had brought Abu al-Fida to this place, to this position, and would inevitably lead to the destruction of the city.

The wagon train was slow. Oxen moved more ponderously than horses, but their strength was vital. No other creature could haul such loads. As it was, it would be a laborious undertaking to have the machine transported to Acre. In this wet, early springtime, it would take a month to travel as far as another caravan could go in a week. But that meant nothing. For Abu al-Fida, all that mattered was that he should reach that city and set up his machine. Al-Mansour would be one amongst many, but her immense power would do more damage than all the other hundred mangonels and catapults together.

All he need do was get the machine to Acre. And perhaps then, he could lay the ghost of poor Usmar to rest at last.