00 - Templar's Acre (19 page)

‘But you are not a Muslim enemy, are you?’

‘How would your guards know that? You remember how Prince Edward of England was attacked by a man pretending to be a Christian? Assassins are highly trained. The Old Man of the Mountain
makes sure of that. They can hit a fly with a thrown knife, and they are expert with garotte and poison.’

‘How do you know all this?’

Edgar smiled. He didn’t want to admit that it was tavern gossip. It sounded good.

Mainboeuf studied him closely, considering.

‘Very well’, he said finally. ‘I will take you – for your boldness, if nothing more. And the city does feel more dangerous since the arrival of all these soldiers. I
would be happy to have you at my side, I think.’

Lucia woke in the under-basement – a cold, a stone-walled, stone-flagged chamber with no furniture, only pots and barrels.

The pain was enough to make her weep. When she fell, the bottler had kicked her repeatedly. Even so, that wasn’t the worst. She had never endured the sort of punishment meted out to other
slaves, because of her favoured position, but that was at an end and she had endured the very limits of a slave’s suffering.

Her clothes were a ripped heap over at the wall; she rose to all fours and made her way to them, sobbing with the pain and having to stop, hanging her head, after a yard, tears streaming. She
tried to push her mind past the rawness that flared between her legs. The torment would pass. It must.

A swallow, and then she deliberately lifted a hand and placed it before her, shifted her knee, and another few inches were covered.

She should have stayed with Baldwin. What could have happened that would have been worse? She couldn’t swear to follow his religion, but he might have forgiven her that. But perhaps he was
like all the Franks, and only looked at her for her body. Like the bottler.

Last night he had taken her like a whore from the meanest tavern. He didn’t want information – he knew she hadn’t lied. No, he took her just to satisfy his lust. She had tried
to fight him off, but he only laughed and hit back. She couldn’t resist him. He was too strong.

Sobbing at the memory of his sweating, red face over her, she reached for her clothing and pulled on the shreds. She had no idea what the time was, but surely she should be at prayer? She bent
forward, and the movement caused her back to flare. She had to give up in despair. Instead she crawled to the wall, and sat with her back to it.

If only she were still in Baldwin’s house. He would be kind. He would remember how she had dabbed his face when Buscarel had hit him, and he would take her head in his lap and soothe her,
caressing her hair and washing the pain away. And he would look after her forever.

If she were with him.

If he asked her again, she would not hesitate to agree to do anything he asked, provided he only took her away from this place.

‘What did you think of him?’ Ivo asked Baldwin as they walked towards Montmusart.

‘I can see why men would follow him.’

‘Yes. He inspired trust even all those years ago,’ Ivo said. He paused. They had reached a market, and he peered into the produce. There were fresh olives, and he indicated the pot.
The seller nodded and soon Ivo had agreed on a quantity which were spooned into a small basket. He proffered a coin, and the trader recoiled in horror. ‘No, no! It is not enough!’ and
suggested a price double that which Ivo had in his hand.

‘No,’ Ivo said, and there was a resolute look on his face as he and the seller haggled.

Baldwin studied the goods on offer. There was evidence of the dire situation, with good Damascus knives and swords on sale. Many crusaders would want to buy one to take home as a memento –
provided they
did
get home. If they looked upon the land as a source of profit, like Roger Flor, the country could soon erupt in rage and murder.

It was an appalling idea. Surely God would not allow His land to be overrun by heathens? It would speak much of His feelings towards the Christians here if He would see them slain and thrown
from it. Baldwin shook his head. God couldn’t permit that. Not until the end of the world would He allow the Christians to be thrown from their last toehold on His Holy Land.

There was a man before him, and Baldwin was about to pass around him, when he noticed that the man carried a basket full of clothing: shirt, hosen, tunic – all soiled with dried blood.
Baldwin looked at the man, who met Baldwin’s look unflinchingly. He was a fellow of perhaps forty or more, from the white-shot beard and hair.

‘Your clothes?’ Baldwin asked.

Abu al-Fida curled his lip. ‘No,’ he said, in a surprisingly deep voice, speaking French fluently. ‘My son’s.’

‘I am sorry,’ Baldwin said sincerely. ‘So much foolishness.’

‘It was not foolishness that killed my son,’ the man said heavily. ‘It was Christians. While there is strife, innocents like my boy will die.’

‘Let us pray that the strife ceases,’ Baldwin said. ‘And no more need die.’

‘You think we shall see that in our lifetimes?’ the man sneered.

‘I shall pray for your son, and for you, my friend,’ Baldwin said, feeling ridiculous. The last thing a father would want would be the prayers of those who had killed him.

The man nodded once, pensively. ‘I thank you for your words.’

‘I fear words are inadequate.’

‘You meant them, and for that at least I honour you,’ the man said, and walked on, the basket held carefully in his hands like a holy relic.

Baldwin returned to Ivo. He was still shaking his head as the market trader made a fresh offer, and then made as if to walk away. The seller narrowed his eyes, turned his head slightly, and
muttered a final offer. Ivo hesitated, and the trader peered closely before a broad grin spread over his face. ‘Aha, I have you, you bad bugger!’ he cried, pointing an accusatory
finger, and Ivo smiled, nodded, and passed him two more coins.

There was a shout from the direction the Muslim man had taken, and Baldwin idly glanced after him, only to see the man stumble and fall. Baldwin pushed through the crush to help him.

The Muslim was on his knees, scrabbling for the clothing, which had pitched from his basket, while two Lombards and another man stood laughing.

The third man was Buscarel.

Baldwin did not hesitate but lunged, grabbing him by the belt and his shoulder, heaving him backwards over his knee, as he had learned in wrestling. Buscarel gave a startled cry, and then he was
on the ground, his hand grabbing for his knife. He had the blade half out of the sheath before he realised Baldwin’s sword-point was on his throat.

‘Leave him!’ Baldwin snarled at the Lombards.

Both were young and inexperienced. They eyed Baldwin and his sword with alarm. The Muslim had gathered up his clothing once more, and wearily rose to his feet.

‘Sir,’ Baldwin said, throwing him a glance, ‘I am sorry for these fools. Please, go in peace. I pray Our Lord will watch over you.’

The Muslim gave a sharp nod, and was gone.

‘As for you!’ Baldwin snarled, staring down at the Genoese.

He remembered the ship – the men with whom he had travelled cut to pieces or pierced by arrows; he remembered the beating he had received in Lady Maria’s house, the iron bar in the
brazier. It was tempting to kick him – in the groin, in the belly, in the head – to exact revenge for all he had suffered.

And then he recalled the Muslim who had lost his son. Were he to consider that murder a feud, where would it all end? How many Christians would pay for his son’s death?

This was the same. If Baldwin killed Buscarel, what purpose would it serve? He would have upset the Genoese, and perhaps they would send men to kill him and Ivo. And then Christians might take
up Baldwin’s cause . . . it was endless.

‘Give me my ring and go,’ he said.

Buscarel looked at the faces all around. The two Lombards had fled, and now there were only dark-skinned Muslims staring at Baldwin and him, and none would get involved in a fight between two
Franks.

‘Take it!’ he snarled, pulling it off and hurling it, before rising.

Baldwin saw it hit a man’s turban, and darted to where he heard the metallic clatter as it hit the ground.

Buscarel sprang up, and his hand was on his knife again as Baldwin turned, but Ivo’s voice came as a rough hiss at his ear.

‘You try it, Buscarel, and I’ll open you from prick to throat.’

Buscarel moved away, and soon disappeared in the crowd.

‘He is a danger,’ Baldwin considered.

‘Perhaps. But we have wine and olives. Let’s get home and break some bread.’

‘We’ve only just eaten!’

‘Aye,’ Ivo said with a belch. ‘But there’s nothing can beat good wine, good olives, and fresh bread. When you’ve been a warrior, you’ll learn that.’

Abu al-Fida left the gate and kept walking. There was nothing for him here, not now. The attack in the street had shown him that. One man had helped him, but what was one man
amongst the teeming thousands of the city?

His entire family was dead. His life had ended.

He stared about him as he passed through the tents and shabby houses erected at the outer wall, his feet moving mechanically. Every so often, he peered down, half-surprised that he still carried
the basket. It was such a heavy object, and ungainly. But it held his son’s clothes.

Some said that the Sultan would avenge the murder of Muslims. The Sultan believed in justice and honour. Perhaps he would listen to Abu al-Fida about Usmar, his son.

His son.

The clothes in the basket were rough with dried blood, and he felt the air leave his lungs at the sight of them again. His breast was empty. All love, all hope were eradicated, for what point
was there in either of those things when a man had lost his son? A man lived to raise his son, because that was the greatest duty.

Tottering, he fell to his knees in the sand and dirt of the roadway, the basket tumbling before him. His right palm scraped along a sharp edge of stone, and he stared at the thick, welling
blood. So bright and dark, like his son’s had been. But he could not weep for his boy. There were no tears in him. Not yet.

Rising, he took his son’s clothing and balled it in his fists, gripping it tightly. This city was a place of evil, a city founded on hatred. While the murdering Franks remained, there
could be no peace in Islam. It was an affront to Allah that they remained. They should be slain to show that no matter who attempted to steal the Holy Land, they would suffer the same death. Their
wailing and screams of agony would rise from Hell to give a caution to the living, so that no more would cross the seas to come here and slay the innocent.

In his hands there was a ball of material, and he gazed at it again, and then the horror returned.

His son Usmar was dead.

He had reached the outskirts of Acre now and he stopped, staring north and south. Where should he go? Where
could
he go?

And then a ruthless determination made itself felt. Once, he had been a warrior. He had seen death in all its forms, and he had decided to give up the path of war, but he still had those former
skills. He knew how to make machines that could reduce the walls of Acre to rubble.

He turned and stared at those walls now, his entire being filled with loathing. That was his duty. He must bring the walls down. And there was one place to go to ensure that.

Abu al-Fida set his face to the south-east.

Behind him, he heard a pony whicker, and in a moment a merchant with a cart was rumbling at his side.

‘Salaam aleikum
,’ the man said, peering at him. ‘My friend, are you unwell?’

‘They killed him. The Franks killed my son,’ he burst out, then clamped his mouth shut to prevent more words escaping. He knew he must keep them inside, imprisoned, so that when he
could give witness, he could allow them all to fly free and tell of the guilt of the men who had murdered his son.

So that he could win the justice he needed, the justice his son deserved.

Lucia spent a second uncomfortable night and woke hungry. There was a pot of water, but she had not been given food, and when she rose to her feet, all her muscles ached. Her
flank and back were one enormous bruise.

The bottler came again. He took her by the arm and half-dragged her up the stairs to the house itself, and thence to the garden. Lady Maria sat on a stone bench while one maid washed her feet
and a second used a reed to dab henna onto her hands in intricate patterns.

She looked at Lucia without feeling. ‘You look awful, child.’

‘I have done nothing wrong,’ Lucia said, and rebelliously held her chin up.

‘So you say.’ The woman’s voice was dispassionate. ‘If that is true, so be it. Wipe your eyes. You need not worry about the bottler again. He will remain here.’

‘What do you mean?’ Lucia said dully.

‘I cannot trust you. You will go to one of the farms.’

‘No, please,’ Lucia said. The farms were out in the plains – hot, harsh places, where overseers whipped and raped their charges. ‘Please, let me stay with you,
Mistress.’

‘With me? Looking like that?’ Maria said with a laugh. ‘My friends would think I had lost my mind. No, you must go. And if . . .’ She took her hand away from the maid
with the henna and stood, walking slowly and deliberately to Lucia. ‘If you tell a soul about me, and you hurt my reputation, I will have you flayed alive. Or perhaps I should put your eyes
and tongue out before you go?’

‘Please!’

Maria stared down at her as she fell to her knees, hands up in supplication, but when Lucia looked up, there was only contempt in her face.

‘Go!’

‘The best way, Sir Otto, is to begin at the west side and cross the walls to the other,’ Ivo said.

They were walking to the outer wall, and Baldwin paid scant attention as he peered at his ring, rubbed at it, and rotated it on his finger with his thumb. He had not appreciated how much he had
missed it, in truth.

Sir Otto had been sent to help protect Acre, and, ‘Whether the Sultan has agreed peace or no, I should investigate the defences in case his attitude changes.’