Templar's Acre

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Edgar slept badly.

When he woke, he remembered waking in the middle of the night and being sick, and as he recalled it so he smelled the vomit all about him.

He rose blearily, and almost fell trying to cross his floor. It was like being drunk. He grabbed for the wall, standing and panting, and his legs felt like jelly. A fresh wave of nausea washed over and through him, and he closed his eyes, feeling that strange spinning sensation again.

There was a chair near the window, where his sword and belt had been set to rest, and he lurched across the room to it, clumsily knocking his sword to the floor.

The door was flung open, and a house servant entered, wrinkling his nose at the smell.

‘Water!’ Edgar managed. ‘Poison. .’

‘You’re not poisoned, just hit on the head. You’re lucky. The master would’ve left you there to die in the street. As it was, we had to bring you here. You’ll have fun cleaning this little lot up,’ he added, staring at the vomit-soaked sheets.

Edgar closed his mouth, his head loose on his shoulders. ‘What?’

A vague recollection came to him of the street outside the castle. There were two men, and one tried to club him. . the Templars. . then he recalled the man slumping with Edgar’s sword in his belly, his eyes dulling — and then someone else had hammered Edgar. He desperately wanted to sleep, but something told him it would not be safe. ‘Fetch me water,’ he said imperiously. ‘Now.’

‘Don’t order me about, you English turd. Fetch it yourself. As soon as you’re well, you’re leaving. Master said he didn’t want to see you again, so you’re to go. Now you be nice to me, or you’ll be out all the sooner. And that means after you’ve cleaned up after yourself.’

‘Fetch me water,’ Edgar repeated, and at last the servant nodded and left him.

Edgar studied the chamber and saw he had been sick all over the sheets and himself. He was disgusted: he had never spewed that much, even when he was deeply sunk in ale or wine. In fact, he reckoned he was fortunate not to have drowned in his own vomit. He rubbed at his breast. The acid was still in his mouth, but no less painful was the pounding at his head.

The servant returned carrying a plain earthenware beaker which he set on the floor near Edgar, who took it up and drank cautiously. In London he had seen an apprentice after a fight, who had drunk too swiftly, and then brought it up as speedily. Edgar had no wish to be sick again. Every muscle on his torso felt strained; merely breathing was painful.

‘You say I must go?’ he asked hoarsely.

‘Master said so.’

‘Where is he? I must speak with him.’

‘He’s not here. He left for Cairo. Have you forgotten already?’ the man sneered.

Edgar made a show of setting the beaker on the floor, then his head lolled.

The servant eyed him warily, but after a few moments, with Edgar’s breath snoring, he reached towards the purse on the sick man’s belt.

Edgar’s hand whipped out, fast as a snake’s, and he pulled the servant towards him. ‘Try that again, and you’ll lose your hand,’ he whispered.

Baldwin had not slept well after the attempt upon the Templars. The sight of men drawing swords in the street had been disturbing, when all in Acre should have been pulling together. Perhaps the mob was right. Maybe Mainboeuf would negotiate a fresh peace treaty. It would be interesting to see the response from Cairo.

The city of Acre had been on tenterhooks since Baldwin’s arrival last year, and to think that the situation was as dangerous as ever was disquieting. The populace was a seething cauldron of fear and alarm; if there were no firm response from Cairo, men could no longer continue to pretend that there was nothing to fear. In many ways, it would be better to have a resolute declaration of war and the intention to destroy Acre, as the Grand Master believed, than to have another period of unreliable peace.

Mainboeuf would be well on his way to Cairo now. Baldwin hoped he would hurry back.

At that moment, he saw a white tunic and recognised Jacques d’Ivry.

‘I hope God holds you in His blessing,’ Jacques said, a kindly smile softening his face.

‘Sir Jacques, I am glad to see you,’ Baldwin said. ‘I was thinking of the embassy to Cairo, and any distraction would be of great service.’

‘Yes, I understand how you must feel,’ Jacques said. He looked towards the south, as though his eyes could pierce the walls of the houses and city, and see beyond them, all the way to the great city so far away. ‘But there are many things still to be done in the city.’

Baldwin groaned aloud. ‘What more? I’ve moved rocks and rubble; I have learned the mason’s arts; I have constructed two catapults and helped repair two more. My arms ache, my back is almost broken, and now I have to take on more duties?’

‘You will find as you grow older, that it is good to be occupied,’ Jacques chuckled. ‘There is nothing better, in fact. That is why Templars and members of my Order are commanded to work. When a man is idle, his mind and hands may turn to less productive efforts. So if ever we are bored, with nothing to do, we are instructed to carve tent-pegs.’

‘You think I should resort to that?’ Baldwin asked indignantly.

‘I think you perhaps could find more suitable occupation,’ Sir Jacques grinned.

They had crossed beneath the inner wall from Montmusart into the old city, and now the two turned towards the castle. Ahead they saw a lurching man.

‘I know him,’ Baldwin said. ‘He is guard to Master Mainboeuf. Master Edgar?’ he called. ‘I hope I see you well?’

It was obvious that Edgar was far from well. His face was pale, and he moved with a slower gait than before.

‘Master Edgar?’ Sir Jacques prompted.

Edgar looked as though he did not recognise either of them. He stared at Baldwin with a confused frown, head set to one side. And then he began to sway.

‘Let us take him with us,’ Jacques said, and the two put their arms beneath his armpits and helped him towards the Mainboeuf house. ‘We shall see him home. He should remain there until he is well.’

‘He was hit on the head yesterday,’ Baldwin said.

‘So I should imagine. It has left him disordered. He should rest.’

‘Why aren’t you at home, man? You shouldn’t be out and about,’ Baldwin said.

‘Thrown out,’ Edgar mumbled.

They had reached the Mainboeuf house, and Sir Jacques rapped sharply on the door. There was a grumbled comment from the doorkeeper’s lodge, and then a face appeared at a grating. ‘Yes?’

Baldwin listened to the conversation while he held Edgar against the wall to stop him falling. It was clear that the doorman would not allow the injured man back inside. ‘It’s what the master told us when he left.’

‘What shall we do with him?’ Sir Jacques wondered as the door to the grating slammed shut once more.

‘Help me take him to Ivo’s house,’ Baldwin said. ‘At least there I can have him looked after by Lucia.’

‘How is Lucia?’

Baldwin was reluctant to answer, but it was hard to ignore the Leper Knight. Rudeness to him was unthinkable.

‘She is well enough,’ he mumbled.

Sir Jacques cast an eye over him. ‘She has been a slave for many years, my friend. Do not be downcast if she takes time to realise she is free. Rather, look on it as your duty to win her over. If you give her the comfort and affection she craves, you will succeed.’

‘She is devoted to her faith. She won’t consider marriage,’ Baldwin said.

Sir Jacques looked at him sadly. ‘You would marry her?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have known many Muslims, my friend. Some were good, some were bad, just like we Christians. But few were so dishonourable as to change their faith to ours.’

‘Dishon-! But to change from a false religion to accept the True Faith, that would be an act of. .’

‘Bad faith. You remember, I told you of the Templars at Safed?’

‘The castle where they accepted death?’

‘Yes. They refused to cast aside their religion just because Baibars threatened them with death. Why should you expect an honourable Muslim to do otherwise? Do you think Lucia would be any less strong in her faith?’

‘I can have no hope she might change?’

‘You must pray to God, to ask that He too speaks with her. Ask the Blessed Virgin to enter her, and show her the path of truth and honesty. With time, perhaps, you will win her over to Christ by demonstrations of humility and integrity. All I say is, you cannot expect her to give up her past life, and the faith that supported her through her slavery, in a day or even a month.’

‘I suppose so,’ Baldwin agreed without enthusiasm.

‘But for now, what we need to do is bring this man to a bed. Here is your house, I think?’

Baldwin knocked and called for Pietro, and soon they had Edgar lying on a couch in a chamber at the rear of the house. ‘Pietro, can you wash him and clean his clothes?’ Baldwin said with his nose wrinkled. ‘He smells like he’s been living in a sty for weeks.’