Templar's Acre

CHAPTER SIX

The moment of stillness was all too fleeting. Baldwin turned, but behind him he heard a bellow from the Genoese, and two more shipmen set off in pursuit.

There was one alley, which Baldwin might reach. He bolted for it, his boots slapping on the paved square, panting already with the exertion. The heat was not oppressive, but the humidity was, and he felt the sweat bursting out all over his back, under his arms, across his chest. He would give anything for a long draught of water from the stream at Furnshill. Just the memory of that chill, refreshing liquid was a torment. He slipped at a corner, and pelted up a second passage, narrower than the first. With no idea where he was heading, he simply kept running, his feet beating a regular tattoo.

In the shade of the alleys, he ran at full tilt, surging past traders, women, urchins and hawkers of all types. One man he butted into lost all his goods from a wicker basket, and hurled abuse after Baldwin as he raced off again, his wound pounding with each step, his head feeling that it must burst.

There was a roaring in his ears, and the hot air scalded his throat. He was using muscles that had grown moribund during his long sea-passage and did not know if he could keep running. Pain reached along the top of his thighs, and when he turned a corner and glanced back, he saw that the men were catching up. Gritting his teeth, he pounded onwards.

After another thirty yards he found himself in broad daylight in a wider thoroughfare. Ahead he saw a mass of people and was deafened by their cacophony: shouting voices, rattles and squeaks, the thunder of cartwheels and hooves. A glance behind showed his pursuers within a matter of yards, and he continued at a breakneck speed, hoping to lose them. Each breath was painful, not helped by the dust and sand in the air. Twenty yards, fifteen, and he had to leap over a boy who scrabbled in the dirt and yelped as he passed, and then he was in the street. He joined the throng, making his way past carts and donkeys, until he was in the midst of the people, and there suddenly caught sight of the magnificent church of St Anna’s.

With a quick glance behind him that showed his pursuers were out of sight, he hurried on towards the cathedral.

A man stood in front of him. It was the Genoese.

He gripped his long knife, grinning, and called to his friends. Baldwin unthinkingly put his hand to his scabbard, only to remember that his sword had been taken along with his purse and his ring.

The knife moved from side to side like a serpent, and Baldwin could only stare in horrified fascination. He dared not look behind for the other men.

There was a shout as a stall-holder saw the flash of the blade, and men called to each other in some foreign tongue. The Genoese snarled something, and Baldwin had just steeled himself to try to wrest the knife from his hands, when he heard a gentle cough.

‘Master Baldwin, I see you have some difficulty. May I help?’

Baldwin threw an agonised glance over his shoulder to see the white-clad knight again. Jacques d’Ivry’s eyes held a menacing gleam. His thin features were set as he moved to Baldwin’s side, his hands resting on his sword-belt, head jutting as he studied the Genoese.

‘This man attacked our ship,’ Baldwin panted. ‘He killed many of the pilgrims.’

‘I see,’ Jacques said, without taking his eyes from the Genoese. ‘Master, I think you should put away your blade before you cut yourself.’

The Genoese hesitated, but when he saw the Leper Knight’s hand move to his sword-hilt, he rammed his blade back into its sheath, turned on his heel and strode away, muttering curses.

‘Master Baldwin, would you object to my walking with you?’

Baldwin shook his head, unable to speak coherently for a moment. The confrontation had left him shaken, so soon after the battle at sea.

‘Please, tell me how you know that gentleman,’ the Leper Knight continued.

Baldwin told Sir Jacques about his journey and the attack at sea that had been driven off by the Falcon. ‘There was a man there who lent me money — an Englishman called Ivo.’

‘Ivo? Ah, I see. He would have been aboard the Falcon with Roger Flor. A Templar crew. That explains how you were saved from two Genoese ships,’ Jacques mused. He smiled down at Baldwin, and then pointed. ‘Now, master, I think you are safe enough. That rather magnificent church at the other side of the square is your destination. If you ask inside, I am sure that you will be helped. Now, once more godspeed, my friend.’

Ivo de Pynho walked to the west door of the cathedral and stepped inside the cool interior. When the Patriarch of Jerusalem had been thrown from his city by Saladin, he commanded that the Church of Santa Anna should be torn down and rebuilt as a proof that the Patriarchate would not easily be dislodged from the Holy Land.

Now Santa Anna was a memorial in stone of the oath sworn by so many knights, that they would retake Jerusalem in the name of Christ.

Ivo’s head had been aching since leaving the Temple, and now he sagged with relief, dipping his fingers in the stoup by the door and crossing himself as he faced the altar. Here, in the cool nave, he could remember his wife Rachel, and little Peter, for a while. But not with an easy heart, since he had not been there when they needed him most.

The light poured through the coloured windows before him, and splashed over the floor like red, green and blue paints. It sparkled soothingly from candlesticks and the gilded icons. He walked past merchants haggling, past men gambling on the floor, a couple arguing viciously about the husband’s wandering eye, to a pillar where he leaned, his eyes fixed on the statue of the Madonna. Her beautiful face was calming, but his loss was a tearing pain that would not leave him, and even She was powerless to help him. Not even Christ and all His angels could ease it.

He stared, almost expecting a miracle to strike him. Perhaps Rachel would appear, or Peter. No. If he was still in Jerusalem, maybe he might see a vision of them, but not here. Ivo sighed to himself and turned to leave the cathedral — but even as his eyes fell on the gamblers, he recognised Roger Flor, and beside him a familiar face.

Baldwin was playing at dice, and as Ivo watched, a broad grin broke out over the young fellow’s face.

‘Look at that! Look at that!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve won again!’

Ivo walked around the gamers, noting who the other men were. Two were clearly sailors; a third he recognised as Bernat, Roger Flor’s henchman.

‘Come, Master Baldwin, you must give us a chance to win back our losses,’ Roger was saying, and Ivo saw the look he gave his companions.

Ivo knew it was hard to adhere to the Templar rules laid down by St Bernard. There were strict orders that Templars must avoid gambling. Chess and backgammon were barred, and only merrils occasionally permitted; when a game of chance was allowed, it was only for relaxation. Discs of candle-wax were used, never money, for Templars had taken the vows of poverty, as well as chastity and obedience, the same as any other monk.

Ivo sidled round and glanced at the piles of coins. Roger Flor had a small heap in front of him, and now he eagerly placed more in the middle, while Baldwin happily equalled his wager. Two sailors followed suit, and Baldwin picked up the dice and began to rattle them in his fist. When he flung them down, there was a stunned silence for a moment, and then Baldwin grinned and took the pile and scraped it to meet his other coins.

‘This game looks like fun,’ Ivo declared loudly, hands on his hips.

‘Master Ivo,’ Baldwin said, looking up at him. ‘I’ve been really lucky. You wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve won almost every game!’

‘True, I find it very hard to believe,’ Ivo said, staring at Roger.

‘Something wrong, Ivo? Or do you want to join our party?’ the shipmaster asked.

Ivo looked at Baldwin again. A strange feeling washed through him: a vague memory, perhaps, of the man he had been when he first arrived here by ship.

Baldwin was beaming up at him, and Ivo was suddenly reminded of his son’s face. That same innocent glee, fixed in the moment, without any concern for the future — it was there in the young man’s eyes. Ivo felt a shiver run down his spine as he recalled his thoughts moments before. Could this be a sign from the Blessed Virgin? On a whim, he made a decision. He would protect this fellow while he was in Acre.

‘No. This has been a good game, but it’s time for my young friend to come with me. Pick up your winnings, Master Baldwin.’

‘Oh,’ Baldwin said, crestfallen. ‘I was just. .’

‘He doesn’t want to go yet, Ivo,’ Roger said. ‘Leave him for three more games and we’ll look after him.’

‘No. He will come with me now,’ Ivo said, stepping in front of Baldwin, who toyed with a coin but made no effort to collect the others.

‘I would like to stay here a while longer,’ Baldwin said. The afternoon had been enjoyable since meeting Roger Flor again. Already the memory of the pursuit through the lanes had dwindled — and gambling was a natural pastime for a knight or knight’s son. ‘Where do you mean to take me?’

‘Yes, Ivo. What do you want with him?’ Roger asked, climbing to his feet.

Ivo looked down at Baldwin. He owed the boy nothing. Baldwin was a traveller who had come here, possibly in search of money like so many of the mercenaries who arrived each year from Lombardy or Gascony. Yet there was something about him that cried out to Ivo’s heart. That faint resemblance to Peter.

It was more than that alone. Looking at Baldwin, he could see a pale reflection of himself when he had landed here twenty years ago. The difference was, when he landed, Ivo had been with an army. He had not been deposited here alone, prey to the dangers that the Holy Land contained.

‘Pick up your winnings, Baldwin,’ he said quietly, and then, to Roger, ‘You’ve had your fun. He’s leaving.’

‘Really?’ Roger said with a slanting grin. ‘Well, we mustn’t get in your way, must we? Maybe we’ll play again, Master. Soon, eh?’

Baldwin nodded, tying his purse’s strings as he went. Ivo followed him, conscious with every step that Roger’s eyes were on his back. It felt as though the man was aiming along a crossbow’s bolt, ready to release it with a soft depression of the trigger.