00 - Templar's Acre (16 page)

It made her realise that there was nowhere safe in the city. Not for her.

To be safe, she must return to Lady Maria as soon as possible.

Roger Flor and Bernat had instructions to go to the port and check on the Temple’s ships. There was concern that the mob could have damaged them.

Nothing loath, Roger took the Templars’ tunnel to the harbour. There, the curved arch of the tunnel’s roof radiated calm with its coolness. It was difficult, down here, to imagine
that only yards above, men and women could have been fighting and killing each other.

As they reached the farther end of the tunnel, and Roger walked past the guards at the door into the daylight, the day’s heat was growing more bearable. Earlier, when the mobs first
rioted, the heat had been intolerable.

He had with him three Templar sergeants and Bernat. In their brown tunics, they looked less like Templars and more like the peasants who had rioted, he reckoned. There was something about the
pure white tunics that sent fear into the bowels of enemies. It was a thought: white and steel – they both petrified. Stand against them, and a Muslim would know he would soon die, because
the Templars were known to be the most fanatical fighters in all Christendom.

The ships all looked secure. He ran up the gangplanks to the first three, making sure of their moorings, seeing that nothing had been stolen from below, and then he went to his own ship, the
Falcon,
in which he had previously concealed a number of items. He had caused a step to be built beside the steering oar to give him a better view of the way ahead. It was a perfect
hiding-place. A wooden peg concealed a trapdoor. Taking a quick, lookaround he surreptitiously opened it and he drew out the chest hidden within.

He had enjoyed his time in the Temple. It was harsh and restrictive, but no more so than life in a manor would have been. At least no one knew the seas of the Mediterranean better than him. With
his position as shipmaster came freedom. Which was why he was able to ride outside the city. But soon his period of service would be ended, and when that happened, he needed to have money saved so
he might start out again. Perhaps buy his own ship and take up a new life as a merchant – if he could cope with the boredom. Fighting was in his blood, and he would find it difficult to give
up.

He restored his chest to its hiding-place. A Templar was not permitted to possess anything during his period of service. Even a secular knight serving the Order for a fixed term could not own
the horses he brought with him. They must be sold to the Order, and when he left the Temple, he would have to repay the Temple half that sum as a gift. But Roger had no intention of giving up any
of his hard-earned money.

He couldn’t be a knight even if he wanted to. Only sons of knights could become knights within the Order; even then only legitimate sons. Bastards from Brindisi were not permitted the
white tunic. He didn’t care. The thought of the three vows was not appealing. Instead he would buy a ship and become rich in his own right, trading from port to port, bringing valuable
rarities to Genoa and Brindisi, taking pilgrims and crusaders to the Holy Land. That would be a good life, he thought.

Provided Sultan Qalawun left Acre alone.

He put men-at-arms to guard the ships in case of more mob violence, then set off to walk through the city.

‘Have you thought any more about that man?’ Bernat asked as they walked.

‘If Baldwin says nothing, we are safe, and if he does speak, he implicates himself. So he will be silent.’

‘In his eyes there was disgust. He may decide to cleanse his soul.’

‘More fool him! He’ll soon become accustomed to death here.’

Acre had been taken from the Muslims by Richard the Lionheart, and the wholesale slaughter of the people at that time had shocked even Christian chroniclers. The blood of men was set into the
very mortar of the buildings here: Outremer was held by force of arms, by strength. The strong vanquished; the weak perished. That was the way of Outremer. Roger knew it. Baldwin would learn to
appreciate it too.

‘He may accuse us,’ Bernat went on.

‘If he does, he will be removed.’ Roger didn’t want complications. ‘I told you before, I will speak to him.’

‘When?’

Roger looked at him. Ivo was away at the moment, so now was a good time.

‘Today.’

Baldwin banged on the door and was relieved to see the peephole slide open to reveal Pietro’s suspicious eye.

‘Eh? Who’s that?’ the old man demanded.

‘Open the door,’ Baldwin snarled, and as he pushed Lucia and Edgar inside, he added, ‘and fetch us wine.’ He led the way to the garden, where the air was a little cooler,
and indicated a bench on which Lucia could sit.

As Edgar took a quick, appreciative look around him, Baldwin asked, ‘Have you been in Acre long?’

‘A matter of days.’

‘Yet you wear flamboyant, local clothing – expensive muslin and silk. And your sword is of the best Damascus steel.’

Edgar said, ‘I came here to make my fortune. I had tired of baking bread in London.’

‘You were born there?’ Baldwin asked, taking a goblet of wine from Pietro.

‘No. I come from a small village in Surrey called Clopeham. My father sent me to be apprenticed. He thought if I learned my trade in London I would be more valuable, but he forgot one
thing: I had no desire to be a baker.’

‘So you left your master and took a ship?’

‘Yes. I studied with a Master of Defence, and he told me of the Fall of Tripoli, and how there should be a new Crusade to protect the Holy Land. A priest gave me money for my journey, so
here I am. And I like it,’ he added, staring at the masonry, the roses, the silken cushions on the benches. ‘This is how a man can live in Acre, and how I want to. It’s better
than a stinking street near the Bishop of Winchester’s stews.’

‘I wish you fortune,’ Baldwin said. ‘But the man who lives here has been settled in the East for many years. It’s taken him time to earn this.’

‘I will work faster,’ Edgar said with a patronising air, thinking of the gold he had been paid by the woman in the street. ‘All I need is a patron, and I should find one
quickly enough.’

‘What makes you think that?’

Edgar gave a quiet laugh. ‘After today? This city is seething with suspicion, fear and hatred. All the rich will want more guards.’

‘You think they’ll trust a newcomer?’

‘They will trust me rather than a dough-faced Lombard peasant with the swordsman’s skills of a seven-year-old.’

‘So I saw. You are competent.’

‘My Master of Defence taught me well.’

‘You learned well,’ Baldwin said and Edgar nodded. He was gifted with the ability to be still.

‘So . . . how will you find a patron?’

A small cloud passed over Edgar’s face. ‘I’m determined. I will succeed.’

Lucia said quietly, ‘You should speak with Philip Mainboeuf. He is rich, and has need of guards.’

Baldwin looked at her. She sat quietly, hands in her lap, face fixed in despair. ‘Maid, are you well?’

‘Lady Maria will want to know what has happened to me,’ she said miserably.

‘We will soon have you home, when it is safe.’

‘She will be angry because I failed to stay with her. That makes me deserve punishment, in her eyes. I am a slave, you see. She owns me.’

‘A slave? There are none here in Acre.’

‘I was captured when I was young, and her family bought me. I have been with her ever since.’

‘What of your family?’

‘They were with me when I was taken. I think my mother was sold off. My father would have been killed. It is the way.’

‘It is a hard way,’ Edgar said. ‘Still, if you can stay away from her, you will be free, won’t you?’

‘No,’ she said with surprise. ‘I am hers.’

‘But no Christian can be held slave,’ Baldwin said.

‘I am not Christian. I am Muslim.’

Baldwin’s mouth fell open. ‘I . . . I had no idea.’

‘She took me many years ago. If I do not hurry, she will have me flogged. Then set me to work in the kitchen, or send me to the farms to work.’

‘Well, she locked the door against you, so it is not your responsibility, it is hers, that you are not with her now. For now, Lady, I think you had best remain here with me. I will see to
your needs. I can help return you to your mistress too.’ He thought, but didn’t add,
If you really want me to.

Because looking at her again now, he thought he had never seen such a beautiful young woman.

Baldwin was not sad to see Edgar leave. There was something unsettling about him, an aura of scarcely restrained violence.

‘You are cold, maid?’ he asked, seeing Lucia shiver.

‘No, I am warm,’ she said, but there was fear in her eyes.

‘You need not worry. The rioters will soon be calmed and the city will be as safe as before,’ he said. She did not appear soothed by his words. ‘Why are you troubled? Is it the
way your mistress treats you? Is she cruel?’

‘No, no. She is a good mistress.’

‘Please, maid, if there is anything I can do to help you, command me! I would protect you.’

‘What could you do to protect me?’

‘Keep you here, safe within my house. I can guard you night and day. If you would have me, I could marry you . . .’

The words were out before he knew it, and he stopped, dumbfounded by his own speech.

Lucia was as silent as he, the two a scant yard apart, but it felt as though the length of the desert lay between them. He wanted to reach for her, but feared he would scare her away, like a
terrified mouse. He hesitantly lifted his hands in mute appeal, but she said very quietly, ‘I may not marry without my mistress’s permission. I am a slave.’

‘In a Christian city, if you agree to be baptised, you can marry whom you will,’ Baldwin pointed out. ‘No Christian may hold another Christian as a slave. Renounce your faith
and we can marry. I could speak to the Prelate – he would help, and—’

‘I cannot.’

‘Why?’ Baldwin asked. His heart was pounding, and he felt light-headed as though drunk, her sad beauty was so entrancing.

Before she could respond, there came a knock at the gate and Baldwin cursed as Pietro opened it.

‘Master Baldwin, I hope I find you well,’ Roger Flor said, and then his eye fell on Lucia. ‘Ah, you must be feeling refreshed!’

‘This maid was caught in the riots,’ Baldwin said stiffly.

‘So you brought her here?’ Roger peered closer. ‘The lady with green eyes?’

Baldwin felt a sickening lurch in his belly as he recalled the whore in the tavern. ‘She is Lucia.’

‘Where are you from, wench?’ Roger asked with a smile.

Baldwin stepped in front of her, and his glower made Roger laugh aloud.

‘Well, I may be a Templar shipman, but I know when I’m not wanted! I’ll see you soon, Baldwin, eh?’

Baldwin walked with him to the door, where Roger paused. ‘She is the woman you were after? I thought you wanted Lady Maria.’

‘She is the lady’s maid. I hadn’t realised.’

‘Enjoy yourself. And Baldwin – I know you didn’t enjoy your ride out with us, but keep it under your hood, eh? We don’t want news of the caravan getting out into the
city. That could embarrass me.’

‘I see,’ Baldwin said.

‘Good, good,’ Roger said, and chuckled. ‘I like you.’

He patted Baldwin’s shoulder and walked off, laughing quietly, and Baldwin closed the door. Roger Flor was another like Edgar. Unsettling, and not only because of his propensity for
violence. There was something else in him Baldwin found disconcerting: an appeal.

He felt Lucia’s hand on his arm, and smiled down at her. ‘Yes?’

‘Do you want me to stay here now?’

‘Only if you would have me. I would marry you and have you live with me.’

‘I cannot. I must go back to my mistress. It is my place.’

‘There is nothing I can say that would tempt you to remain with me?’ he asked.

Her eyes flashed with something like anger. ‘Would
you
surrender your faith to become Muslim?’

‘Of course not!’

‘But you ask me to convert?’

‘I shall walk you back,’ he said.

The words almost choked him.

She felt safe with Baldwin walking at her side. There were two men from Ivo’s stables with them, both strong and carrying staffs in case of violence, but they saw no sign
of rioters. While there was still some shouting from towards the harbour, people were walking the streets again, nervously and not in great numbers, but it was a beginning. They saw Templars and
Hospitallers in groups of two or three, often glaring suspiciously at each other, and men in the livery of the King of Jerusalem.

Baldwin was about to knock at Lady Maria’s door, when Lucia put her hand on his breast. She was wearing her veil again, and her eyes stared into his seriously. ‘No further,’
she whispered. ‘Please, stay here.’

He nodded reluctantly, but she was glad to see that he stopped. She would have liked to kiss him, but she dared not. Not in the street where anyone could be watching. Instead she smiled, and
hoped her eyes would speak of her gratitude. His face held pain. There were no words she could use to soothe him.

She walked away without turning back. If she had, she knew she would be lost. So she walked to the door, rapped sharply on the old timbers – and entered.

Baldwin stood there a moment or two longer, gazing down the lane, hoping that the door would open and she would reappear, perhaps run to him, and throw her arms about him. But
no. The door had closed, and she was gone. Unless he bought her, she would remain there forever.

Baldwin came to a decision.

He would have to earn the money to buy her. And perhaps he could persuade her mistress to sell her for a reasonable amount.

It was a sustaining thought as he made his way back up the street, and over towards the wall to Montmusart.

Lucia was grasped by the bottler. He pulled her with him into the room at the rear of the house, overlooking the gardens, where her mistress was sitting with a thin muslin
sheath draped about her against the heat of the afternoon. She was sipping from a goblet of wine.