Templar's Acre

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Hurrying homewards later, Baldwin felt a horror that would not fade. In his mind he still saw the men in the burning oil. It was satisfying to see that the attack had been foiled — but at what cost! He had an instinctive compassion for the men who had been turned into human torches. It was monstrous.

He passed a small chapel in which a guard from the bastion had been celebrating Mass — for the men were forced now to stagger their religious devotions — when Baldwin saw a man he recognised. It was one of the guards from the Tower of King Henry II. He had shared a cup of water with Baldwin earlier in the day, and Baldwin nodded to him as he went by. The man grinned and waved. That was the image that remained in Baldwin’s memory as he turned, because at that moment he saw Buscarel.

The Genoese was standing, hunting through a satchel, oblivious to Baldwin.

Baldwin was debating whether to speak to him or not when it happened.

There was a hissing groan in the air, and Baldwin felt a concussion that started in his feet and slammed upwards, with the heat of a furnace scorching his face and hands. Instinctively he shielded his face with a crooked elbow, ducking his head, but as he did so, a splash of acid seemed to burn his temple and his wrist, and he gave a cry, so he thought, as he felt himself thrown aside like a rag-doll, falling on his shoulder.

A missile filled with Greek fire had struck the chapel, and all the men gathered within were enveloped in flames. Mouths open in silent screams, they lurched from side to side, waving their arms in agony. Two toppled from the flames and crawled over the still-hot stones, and Baldwin saw a man dash from a house with a cloak in his hands, throw it over one of the men, and beat out the flames, while from within the cloak, a high keening could be heard.

Baldwin climbed to his feet filled with shock. The burning men had already fallen, some thrashing in agony, while others, mercifully, were already still. Baldwin reached the other who had run from the flames, and found himself staring at a mask. The man’s eyes were wide, his eyelids burned away. His entire head was red, raw and blackened like a hog’s roasted over a fire, and Baldwin was transfixed. There was nothing he could do to ease the fellow’s pain, nothing he could do to help him. The man would die, and that in extreme pain.

Buscarel barged into Baldwin, stared at the wounded man for an instant, and then cut off his head with a practised sweep of his sword.

The body sank to its knees and slowly toppled to one side while Baldwin remained frozen in place. There was a stench of oil and turpentine, combined with the smell of roasted pork.

Buscarel was already gone when Baldwin could drag himself back to the present. The road was full of men and women gazing about them with horror and incomprehension at the smouldering victims, and the man with the cloak had unwrapped the remains of the fellow he had tried to help, and now knelt beside him, weeping silently.

That was the picture Baldwin retained as he reached the house. The man kneeling there, staring at the blackened features of his friend whose face had been burned away.

Pietro saw his expression as Baldwin walked in, and said nothing, only went and fetched a cup of strong wine.

‘Master, drink this. You need it.’

Baldwin took it, falling back onto the bench, staring at Pietro’s face without recognition. ‘His face,’ he murmured. ‘It was burned away. And I could do nothing.’

‘Drink, Master Baldwin,’ Pietro said gently. ‘It’ll help.’

Baldwin sipped, and the first taste made him want to puke, but he drained it. Pietro replenished his cup, and then walked away.

‘You are distressed.’

Lucia had come to him, her hands clasped decorously before her. She was dressed in a shift of clean white linen. On her head was a coif of similar material, and she had tucked her hair away beneath the cap.

‘You look lovely,’ Baldwin sighed, and gestured about him. ‘Please, take a seat.’

She looked at him for a moment, a long, considering stare, and then went to his side and seated herself on his right, perhaps six inches from him. Close enough that he could almost feel her warmth, far enough for the distance to be a gulf.

‘Pietro said there was something wrong.’

He did not look at her. ‘There was a burning missile. So many men killed. . burned alive.’ He felt the shudder start at the small of his back, and then he spilled wine as it shot through him.

She placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I am sorry.’

‘The man Buscarel, he was there,’ Baldwin said. ‘He made no attempt to harm me, but he tried to rescue a man who was burning. His flesh was afire, all over, and he was screaming, screaming. .’ Baldwin stopped to take in a breath. ‘It was awful. And I could do nothing to help him.’

‘Your arm,’ she said. She drew back his sleeve, and he saw for the first time the red blistering. ‘You were badly burned!’

‘It’s nothing.’ He felt as tired as death.

Lucia called for Pietro, and with his help, she made a salve from some butter and honey, and wrapped it about the wound with a bandage. After Pietro had left them, she poured Baldwin more wine. ‘Rest.’

‘How can I rest?’ he said.

She looked at him, and then helped him to his feet and took him to her chamber. The wounds on her back were healed, but the wounds in her memory remained.

In her chamber, she helped him to take off his mail and clothes. He sat on her palliasse, and she stared at his body. The wound in his flank was healed to a ribbon of scar tissue, but there were other injuries, small cuts from swords during fighting practices with Ivo, scratches on his hands from handling so many rocks and stones, and fresh abrasions from being thrown about today. He was a mass of more or less minor bruises, gashes and abrasions.

‘Wait there,’ she said, and fetched a bowl with water. She found a rose in the garden and took the petals from two flowers, crushing them into the water and mixing them, before finding a clean strip of gauze and carrying them back to her room. In the garden as she passed through it, she saw Ivo sitting on the bench. He stared at her with an unreadable expression. He made no comment as she carried on.

She found Baldwin already asleep. She took the cloth, wrung it out, and wiped his face clean. It didn’t wake him. She gently used the cloth to wipe away the dirt and grime from him, softly murmuring a song she recalled from her childhood, a lullaby her mother had sung to her. Once, his entire body stiffened, and he cried out, but she soothed him, a hand on his brow, the other on his breast, and his hand suddenly reached up and gripped hers, holding it there, close to his heart.

His hand had the grip of desperation. As a slave, she should remain with him if he wanted her — but tonight she was scared. The flying rocks, the sudden eruptions of flame, made her feel as vulnerable as him.

‘I will stay here,’ she whispered. ‘I will stay at your side.’

And she lay beside him on the bed, rested her head on his shoulder, and both slept.

It was dawn when Baldwin woke. He stirred and yawned, stretching. He felt the pain in his wrist where it had been burned, and glanced at it with a sudden memory of a man burning like a torch, his head cut loose in an instant. And then, he realised that there was a warm body lying beside him.

She said nothing, only watched him as he rose from the bed and began to walk to the door.

Then: ‘You are leaving again?’ she said.

It was her tone that stopped him. She sounded abandoned, like a recently orphaned child. He turned to smile at her, but found he could not.

‘We will die here,’ she said. ‘Won’t we?’

His smile faded. ‘I think so.’

She could see his sadness. He was lonely and despairing, she thought. His whole demeanour that of a man who was set to fail in all he had embarked upon. And in that moment, she felt a strange conviction that of the two, she was the stronger. He was no more her slave-master than Sultan al-Ashraf. He was only a man.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Come back here.’