00 - Templar's Acre (2 page)
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Authors: Michael Jecks
But for me, it was the glorious courage of Guillaume de Beaujeu, of the Masters of the other Orders, and of the English and other pilgrims under great leaders like Sir Otto de Grandison that
tells the story.
This was a battle against overwhelming odds; nevertheless, the Christians sought to fight and defend their city. Acre was the last stronghold in Christ’s Own land, and they were determined
to do everything in their power to protect it. Many died under the onslaught of that terrible machine under Abu al-Fida’s command,
al-Mansour,
the siege-engine of death.
The aftermath was appalling. The whole of Christianity bemoaned the fate of that city, and predictions of famine, war and disease became common. And then, in an equally shocking event for most
of Europe, it was claimed that a Pope had killed his predecessor to gain the throne.
Without these cataclysmic events, it is likely that the French King Philippe would have found it a great deal more difficult to capture the Templars and break them. If they were still in Acre
and the Holy Land, he would not have dared to try to rob them, as he did on Friday, 13 October 1307. With their power base in Palestine, and much of their wealth too, he would have needed a much
stronger case.
For me, Acre was a critical siege. It not only evicted the Christians from their lands, it led to a fundamental rethink of the Christian faith. For, if God was so displeased by His people that
He would take His lands and give them to Mameluks, that spoke volumes about His feelings for His followers.
It was a terrible time. But for a writer, the worst times are always the best!
I had great fun writing this book. I hope you get as much pleasure in reading it. However, I often receive questions about where a specific detail came from, or how I imagined
a scene. Well, usually, I didn’t have to. So much has been written about the end of Acre that it was quite easy to research. Whether I was looking into Philip Mainboeuf’s journey to the
Sultan, or into the organisation of the Templars in battle, there was always a good reference for me.
For those who are keen to read further, I would recommend:
Thomas Asbridge
The Crusades
(Simon & Schuster, 2012)
Alain Demurger
The Last Templar
(Profile Books, 2002)
David Marcombe,
Leper Knights
(Boydell Press, 2003)
John J. Robinson
Dungeon, Fire and Sword
(Michael O’Mara Books, 1991)
Steven Runciman
A History of the Crusades
(Cambridge University Press, 1954)
J. M. Upton-Ward
The Rule of the Templars
(Boydell Press, 1992)
William Urban
The Teutonic Knights
(Greenhill Books, 2003)
This is not intended to be an exhaustive list, but within each of these books are extensive references for the interested researcher to delve deeper.
As usual, any mistakes are my own. Unless they are my editor’s, copy editor’s, proof reader’s . . .
Michael Jecks
North Dartmoor
July 2012
BOOK TWO: CRUSADER, JUNE–JULY 1290
BOOK THREE: WARRIOR, AUGUST 1290–APRIL 1291
BOOK FOUR: BESIEGED, APRIL–MAY 1291
29 May 1291
The creaking of the ship was familiar.
As he began to come to, the sound brought back memories of his first voyage, and for one glorious moment he dreamed he was on his way there again – en route to Acre – a year ago,
before the catastrophe.
Still only semi-conscious, he listened with half an ear to the thunderous crash of waves against the hull, the wind singing in the sheets, the flapping of flags, the moaning of the timbers. And
then he heard the whimpers and weeping all around him, one man sobbing uncontrollably, and he remembered where he was, and his eyes snapped open at the terrible memories that flooded back. He would
never sleep again in case he dreamed of them.
The broken bone in his leg hurt like hell. Each movement of the ship made it shift, and he felt the jagged edges grating. The scar at his cheek pulled, and the burns on his limbs shrieked for
butter or grease, but Baldwin paid them no heed.
In his mind’s eye he saw it all again: the flames, the shattering of buildings and bodies, the dread assaults, the devastation. He saw the corpses lining the roads, he saw his little dog,
Uther, and he saw the men of whom he had grown so fond: Ivo and old Pietro, Jacques, brave Guillaume, Geoffrey of the sad eyes. All those who had endured the last hellish weeks with him – and
then died. And he sobbed unaffectedly as he recalled the disaster that had overwhelmed them all. No tears would come, but he felt the grief must throttle him.
Then he saw
her
again: Lucia, his love; his mistress, with her black hair and olive skin; her calm, trusting eyes . . .
And his heart could no longer contain his desolation.
PILGRIM, MAY 1290
CHAPTER ONE
It was his first experience of battle, and for Baldwin de Furnshill it was made all the more hideous by his sea-sickness.
The screamed alarm came while he was asleep, dozing in the sunshine with the other pilgrims on the deck, and from that first wakening, he had stood gripping the shrouds against the rolling and
plunging of the ship as the two enemy vessels came on relentlessly towards them. It was like watching the hounds chasing a deer, seeing these two closing up ever nearer. As the seas rose before
them, and the pilgrim ship hurtled down one wave’s flank, only to bob up once more, he saw that their pursuers were now only a stone’s throw away.
A whistling thrum – and he flinched. A quarrel flew past, missing his face by mere inches, only to thud into the mast. He turned and stared at it. The vicious barbs had sunk so deep, they
were almost hidden in the wood. He imagined it would have passed clean through his skull, had it flown true. The thought made the hot bile rise to sear his throat, and he crouched, anxious that
another might hit him.
He was not yet seventeen years old; if those galleys caught his ship, he was sure to die before his birthday. Sixteen was too young to die, he thought wildly. He didn’t want to die like a
coward, but he had never fought in a battle, and he stared about him in a panic, thinking there was no escape from a ship. Then another quarrel hissed past – a second narrow escape.
‘Get down, you lurdan!’ a man rasped behind him, and suddenly he was flat on the deck. ‘Want to get yourself killed?’
Wiping at his eyes as they filled, Baldwin shook his head speechlessly. What was he doing here, in the middle of the sea, with pilgrims and crusaders? He must have been a fool to put himself in
this position. But he had to pay for his crime. He prayed that God would pardon him for the murder after his pilgrimage.
If He let Baldwin live.
He shivered uncontrollably as he waited, lying under the protection of the wale.
There must have been three hundred men on board – Christians all, of course, many of them crusaders who had taken up the cross from Antwerp, from Paris or Hainault, a few like himself from
England, some mere pilgrims – but they all waited with the same dread, listening to the whack of slingshots and arrows plunging into the wood. Occasionally there was a soggy sound as a
missile hit a man, followed by a groan, shriek or curse. The Venetian shipmaster shouted commands as he tried to evade their pursuers, and hoarse bellows from the ships overhauling them were
audible over the whine of the wind in the sheets.
All the young man knew was a paralysing terror: not of death or dying, but of failure. His failure.
He shouldn’t be here, curled up like a child on this wildly rocking ship. He was the son of a knight, not some low-born bastard-whelp from the coast. His place was on a horse, winning
renown and glory at the point of his lance. He ought to be riding behind his knight, a squire or sergeant, bringing a horse to aid his lord, fighting with the other men-at-arms. Instead, look at
him! There was no honour in dying here. He had sworn his oath to help defend the Holy Land in hope of his own salvation, and he hadn’t even reached the coast yet. These pirates were attacking
while they were still on their way.
