Templar's Acre

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

It was a week since Philip Mainboeuf had set off with Brother Bartholomew and a Hospitaller, along with their servants and a clerk.

Baldwin hoped their mission would succeed, but the more he thought about it, the less sanguine he became. Fortunately, he had enough to occupy him with the twenty men of his command. It was a daunting prospect when he was first thrust in the midst of them. Ivo had gone with him on the first day, either to see to it that Baldwin was safe as he was introduced, or to give himself a laugh; Baldwin was not sure which.

There was a heavy-set, bullish man with a shock of black hair, who went by the name of Hob Atte Mull, and two skinnier, shorter men, with fairer features and paler hair, who were brothers called Thomas and Anselm. A very short, suspicious-looking fellow called Nicholas Hunfrey was the last of the competent fellows. The rest looked confused about every aspect of their duties. They had been gathered together from dribs and drabs of pilgrims and shipmen about the city, and few appeared even to have held a sword before.

‘They look like outlaws,’ Ivo grunted on seeing them, and Baldwin concurred.

‘I only hope that they are a little more reliable.’

‘Well, Master Vintenary, that’s up to you to ensure, isn’t it?’ Ivo said with an evil grin.

Hob Atte Mull stood, hawked and spat, studying Baldwin closely and without apparent satisfaction. ‘So, Vintenary, what battles have you fought in? Have you always been in the thick of it with the foot soldiers, or cowering away on a horse?’

‘I’ve been in battles at sea and on land,’ Baldwin said haughtily.

‘Oh aye. Which? Did they merit a name?’

Ignoring him, Baldwin addressed them all.

‘Have you seen to your weapons yet?’ he asked.

He saw the men glance at each other. There was no joy in their looks. The one called Nicholas Hunfrey pulled a grimace and shook his head, saying nothing, but staring down at the ground. The others began to make a show of chatting amongst themselves.

It was infuriating. A leader needed to lead and show that he was in charge, but just now he could think of nothing else to do, short of demanding that the men pick up their weapons to show him they were clean.

Ivo snorted and walked to his side, looking at each man in turn. ‘I think you’ll need to ask Sir Otto whether any of them has fought before. Not one of them has any skill with a sword, I’d reckon.’

Hob glanced at him with amusement in his sneering face.

‘They won’t practise, anyway,’ Ivo went on calmly. ‘They don’t want to show themselves up in front of you.’ He pulled his own sword free. ‘Very well. I haven’t had a test of swordsmanship in days. Are you ready?’

Baldwin nodded, drawing his own sword, wondering why Ivo had lied. It was scarcely a day since his last trial with their Saracen teacher.

Ivo drew his sword up into the two-handed guard so favoured by recent visitors to Acre, while Baldwin held his own sword in the outside guard, his right fist gripping the hilt at waist height, the point crossing before his body, tip raised slightly.

There was a flash as Ivo’s sword descended. Baldwin blocked his blade and twisted his own blade, but couldn’t snatch Ivo’s away. Ivo’s came back again, and Baldwin knocked it down and away, before launching his own swift assault. Ivo managed to slip away, giving ground, and Baldwin moved forward to harry him, the two swords flashing in the sunlight.

It was curious. Baldwin was pressing moderately hard, and while Ivo would normally defend himself vigorously and then lash out with some startling surprise attacks, today he didn’t. Perhaps he was tired, Baldwin thought. He kept his eyes fixed on Ivo’s, waiting to see if his master would try to alarm him soon, but there was nothing obvious at first. Not until he saw Ivo’s eyes quickly narrow. Then Baldwin was sure he was about to launch a new approach.

Ivo moved his feet, and then, as Baldwin stabbed at empty space, he was whirling, spinning, ready to sweep his sword round at Baldwin’s head. But Baldwin knew that move already. It was the first Jacques had shown him, and he blocked it swiftly, returning his own blade to Ivo’s, and with a competent flick of his wrist, sent Ivo’s away to safety, while Baldwin’s rested on Ivo’s breast.

‘I missed my mark,’ Ivo groused. ‘That was too easy for you.’

Baldwin smiled. But he saw that the vintaine were eyeing him with an increased respect. It was only later, when Ivo walked away and Baldwin caught a glimpse of his grin, swiftly concealed, that he understood.

‘You crafty old sodomite!’

Baldwin left his men after a day’s hard training, and made his way homewards along the alley that led to the postern near the castle. It was a useful short cut, although it was a narrow, twisting way. Still, Baldwin was confident that his own ferocity was adequate to deter thieves and cutpurses. The day had gone well. The men were beginning to work as a team, rather than a disparate bunch of felons, and Baldwin was just congratulating himself on the way that they were learning their trade, when an arm slipped about his neck and a dagger touched the skin under his ear.

‘I have no money,’ he said.

‘I know that.’

Baldwin felt his face harden at the voice. ‘You want my ring again?’

‘No.’

Suddenly the knife was away from his throat, and he was pushed away. He turned.

‘Remember, Master. I could have killed you.’

‘Well? Why didn’t you?’

Buscarel was silent a while. In truth he found it hard to answer. ‘We need all the men we have. I am Genoese, but this is my city. My family lives here. I wouldn’t see the city weakened.’

‘So?’

‘Lady Maria told me to kill you. I could have done so just then. But I won’t kill you, nor take your ring.’

‘Good.’

‘Why did she want you dead?’

‘I have her maid. I suppose she is angry.’

‘No. I think it is more than that. Her lands are all she has. If the Sultan takes all this,’ Buscarel said, waving a hand, ‘she will lose everything. So she seeks to remain a friend of the Sultan.’

‘How so?’

‘It’s said the Templars have a spy in the Sultan’s court. Wouldn’t he have the same?’

Baldwin gave a dry chuckle. ‘That, I think, was Philip Mainboeuf. He was the spy.’

‘Really? Then he is safe.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. And those words would come back to him later.