00 - Templar's Acre (24 page)

When it was time to strike camp, the Templars waited in silence until the order was given, and then all was taken up and carefully stowed away. At another command, they packed their
paraphernalia onto their horses, and at last, on the final bellow, the men all mounted and prepared to ride.

It was an impressive sight, to see so many men ready and prepared to be commanded before performing the least task. Impressive and at the same time alarming, for Baldwin knew many knights
– ‘ruthless individualists’ described them well – and to see these men submitting to a commander was a big shock.

At evening on the second day, he finished his meal and lay back. The effect of sun and sand on his face had made his flesh feel like old leather, and he was bone-weary. He soon drifted into an
utterly dreamless sleep.

His eyes snapped open at the first shout.

A dark mass was rolling towards the Templar camp. There was a strange thrumming noise, as of drums, in the distance, a bellowed command, and then, before he had thrown off his sheet and blanket
to snatch at his sword, he saw three knights were already at the outer edge of the camp, their great shields firmly planted in the ground, swords at their hips, their lances held low, butted into
the sand. Sergeants joined them, the Marshal among them, while turcopoles took position at their flanks, and squires rushed forward with more lances, gripping them like their masters, the points
low, menacing the breasts of any horses foolish enough to come close.

A shriek, and a whistle, a thwack as an arrow cracked into a shield . . . and as Baldwin scurried towards the line of Templars he saw that the ghostly rolling blackness was a troop of cavalry
cantering straight at them. He had his sword in his hand now, and threw the scabbard away, gripping the hilt with both hands.

This time, although he felt sick, he was aware of less fear than he had experienced on the ship.

There was a cacophony of noise as the first enemy mounts broke in upon the line of shields. Arrows zipped all about, and he felt one skim over the front of his breast, miraculously not breaking
his skin. He had no mail.

There was a screamed command from the right, and he saw a pair of Templars rammed backwards. The foe’s horse, whickering high like a banshee, flailed at them with vicious hooves, blood
spurting from a ragged wound where a lance had pierced his breast, and then Baldwin had to concentrate on his own post. A roar, a shout, and another horse was almost through, and Baldwin sprang
forward, all thoughts of fear or anger passed. Now there was only the urgent need to support the front line, and he grabbed a shield that had fallen, his sword at the ready. The shield was a
ponderous weight that felt as though it must drag him down, but he resolutely thrust the bottom edge into the sand and held his shoulder to it, peering over the rim.

Another horse was charging him. It was tempting, so tempting to drop the shield and run, but if he did that, he would present that spear-thrower with a broad back at which to aim, and he had no
wish to die spitted on a Moorish lance. He grimly held his position as the leaf-shaped point hurtled towards him, and at the last moment ducked well below the shield’s protection.

The concussion as the brute crashed into his shield was tremendous. It felt as though his arm was shattered. There was a roaring in his ears as he felt the great mass of horse and rider roll him
back, and then he was on the ground, beneath the shield, and the horse had gone over him. His face was full of sand. It was in his ears and mouth and nose. He could scarcely open his eyes, but he
must, if he were to avoid the lance. Pushing the shield aside, he scrambled to his feet, and felt the sand trickle down beneath his chemise as he gripped his sword firmly once more.

The horse had passed him, but now turned and the rider spurred to aim at him.

Baldwin had no time to plan. He slipped his arm from the shield and waited. As the lance was almost on him, he hefted the shield up, blocking the weapon before it struck him, and felt the point
pierce the wood. He threw the shield down immediately, and it took the lancepoint with it, its great weight bearing the lance to the ground, and making the shaft shoot upwards. There was a cry of
pain from the Muslim rider, and then Baldwin’s sword span around, and the edge caught the rider behind the knee. A spray of blood hissed over Baldwin’s face, and then he saw another
horse speeding towards him and turned to face it, sword up, before recognising the Templar’s symbol.

The knight glanced at Baldwin, but then his lance was down and he speared the Muslim almost without effort, so it seemed, and as he passed, the Templar flicked his wrist and the Muslim was
thrown to the ground behind him, writhing.

Baldwin whipped round. A second Muslim was riding towards him, and even as Baldwin crouched, staring about him in an urgent search for another shield, the rider’s horse gave a loud whinny,
stretched its neck and fell sprawling, its hindquarters caught in the guy-ropes of a tent. The rider was thrown, and landed on his head with an audible crack. He didn’t move again. Another
man lay sobbing near the wreckage of a tent, his horse’s leg entangled in guy-ropes, and as Baldwin watched, a sergeant despatched the rider.

Baldwin’s first man lay moaning and choking still.

He had a narrow face, and a thin, black beard. From the look of him, he could not have been more than two years older than Baldwin himself. He looked up at Baldwin with agonised incomprehension,
a hand pressed to his belly below his ribcage, and Baldwin could see he was dying. The blood seeped from his wound thickly, and there was a foul odour. His intestines were punctured too.

The man’s eyes were pleading, and Baldwin ended his misery with a quick downward thrust of his sword.

He saw the life leave the body as it slowly slumped, the man’s eyes on Baldwin’s face, until it was nothing more than a sack of bones and muscle. The dark eyes seemed to fade,
somehow, and then go dull, like a dead fish’s.

For some reason, Baldwin muttered a prayer for the man’s soul. It seemed the right thing to do, but as soon as he finished, he wanted to weep. He had never prayed for Sibilla’s man,
he realised.

He knelt, set his sword before him, and rested his brow on the cross as he begged forgiveness for that murder, and prayed for the man’s soul.

And afterwards, for the first time since killing him all those miles away, Baldwin felt as though God had heard his prayers.

Perhaps he was forgiven.

Baldwin and the Templars returned to Acre on the fourth day. After the excitement of that night attack it had been an uneventful reconnaissance. There had been no signs of
Muslim forces, only the occasional caravan slowly lumbering along the ancient roadways.

As they came nearer to the city, Baldwin found the Marshal at his side once more.

‘You acquitted yourself with honour in that fierce little fight,’ Sir Geoffrey told him.

‘I am glad you think so.’

‘There are many who would not have bestirred themselves so swiftly, nor thrown themselves into the fray with such eagerness. Your training is a tribute to your old master.’

‘I only sought to protect myself.’

‘You did better than most,’ the Marshal said. ‘You would be a credit to the Order.’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘I am deeply conscious of the honour you do me, but—’

‘You still have hopes of a wife and marriage.’

‘Yes.’

‘That is good. But you could do much for your fellow Christians if you joined us.’

Baldwin was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I love a woman who said she cannot marry me because she is a slave. And she would not give up her religion to be free.’

‘So you question the primacy of your God?’

‘No. I question everything,’ Baldwin said. ‘I believe in God and Christ – but if another man believes in another God, is that reason to kill him?’

‘No. But we must yet fight for the true God, and try to defend His city, His Kingdom, here on earth. It is our duty.’

‘I see that,’ Baldwin said, ‘but I need time. I want to find her . . .’

‘You fought well,’ the Marshal repeated. ‘You would be welcomed, even if you take a month or a year to decide. Christian fighters always beat Muslims, with God’s
grace.’

‘You say that, but we were fortunate that the riders were hampered when they rode in among the guy-ropes. Many of their horses became tangled.’

‘God was on our side,’ Sir Geoffrey said confidently.

‘Yes,’ Baldwin agreed. But in his heart he was doubtful. That phrase would come to haunt him.

They trotted in under the great gate of the city, and thence along the main thoroughfare towards the castle.

‘You are released now, Master Baldwin,’ the Marshal said as they came to the castle’s gate. ‘Go and tell Ivo about the fight. He will be interested.’

‘Godspeed,’ Baldwin said. He walked his horse back along the lanes, under the old wall and into Montmusart. Ivo, he found in the little yard after he had given the beast to the
groom.

‘You managed to survive your first riding out, I see?’ Ivo grunted.

‘And you tried to have me recruited by the Templars,’ Baldwin said, distracted by the attentions of little Uther, who pranced and leaped with joy on seeing his master return.

‘I did,’ Ivo said. ‘It would do you no harm to have a little of their patience and discipline.’

‘I didn’t need it,’ Baldwin said proudly, ‘when we had a fight.’

‘Fight?’

‘Our camp was attacked by Muslims,’ Baldwin said offhandedly. ‘I don’t think we need fear them so much, Ivo. There was a strong force, and while some broke through the
shields, they were not able to go far. We killed them all.’

‘It was a large force?’ Ivo asked. He was intent, listening with great care. ‘How many men were there?’

‘At least five and twenty, I suppose,’ Baldwin said. ‘Perhaps more, but that was all we saw and killed.’

It was gratifying to see how his news was received. Clearly Ivo was exercised by the news that Baldwin had fought, and in his manner, Baldwin hoped that he portrayed the calm demeanour of an
experienced warrior. It was good to be able to surprise the old man.

‘By Saint Peter’s pain, that’s bad,’ Ivo said.

‘Eh?’ Baldwin was snapped from his smugness.

‘If they’re bringing raiding parties that size, they must be scouting the lands, don’t you see?’

‘We saw no sign of any others.’

‘Perhaps not – but the deserts are wide. If a party that big is raiding, there are more.’

‘What if there are?’

Ivo stared at him. ‘Are you still so dull-witted? We could be facing an army of sixty, eighty, even a hundred thousand, if Qalawun decides to unleash his full might upon us! How would we
survive that?’

‘This city has walls that would grace London.’

‘Krak des Chevaliers had stronger ones, with a mighty fortress on top of a great hill. Qalawun mined beneath and destroyed them. There are no walls strong enough to withstand his reckless
hatred if he sets his mind to destroying them!’

‘He has not declared war on us, has he?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Not yet. But who can say what will arrive tomorrow morning?’

‘You worry too much,’ Baldwin said soothingly. ‘Think how many knights there are here: Templars, Germans and Hospitallers, and how many others from all over the world. Even he
would find this a hard city to take while we have men such as Otto de Grandison.’

‘Hard? Yes. He may have to spend a whole month here,’ Ivo said harshly.

While the first meeting had been held against a chorus of anxious demands, this second was more restrained. Everybody had heard that a party of Muslims had attacked the
Templars. Baldwin saw Guillaume de Beaujeu look about him when the Constable asked him to speak. The Templar’s expression was fierce, especially when it lighted upon Philip Mainboeuf. Baldwin
was glad it didn’t land upon him.

The Grand Master began quietly. ‘I have been accused of cowardice in this chamber. That, and worse: being prepared to endanger Christian lives for profit, as though I care more for money
than their souls. I state here it is
not
my desire to enrich myself or my Order. I have only one ambition, and that is to see Jerusalem return to our faith. Christians must reconquer the
Holy City, and to do that, we must hold tight to Acre!’

There was a murmur of approval at this. A murmur that was only stilled when the Grand Master held up his hand.

‘Qalawun is calling on his vassals in Egypt and Syria. In Palestine his men are building siege engines to attack our walls. A vast host is gathering. We cannot hope to prevail, unless we
plan. We need more men, and should send all useless mouths away. Can we demand of Venice, Pisa and Genoa that they remove all those who cannot fight? Send them to Cyprus, to safety. Returning ships
can bring more men and food.’

‘How many more men? For how long?’ Philip Mainboeuf demanded, and now he stepped forward to address those present, saying patronisingly, ‘Citizens of Acre, we are aware that
the good Templar is devoted to the city. We know that he is an enthusiastic proponent of all forms of warfare against the heathen Muslims, but come! Let us be rational! Qalawun is a sensible man,
no less than any of us here. He would not seek to destroy the key trading city that brings him so much in gold each year. Look at us – panicking over attack, when we are the only city that
should be safe! If we overreact and respond in a warlike manner, then yes, we can guarantee that Qalawun will attack. But I have a note here,’ and he held aloft a scroll, ‘that proves
all concerns to be mistaken. Citizens, noble Grand Master, please, let us not be precipitate. Let us discuss, consider, and behave accordingly.’

‘What does your note suggest?’ Constable Amalric asked.

‘That the armies he raises, and the machines of war he builds are for the east and north of Africa. Our city is safe.’

There was a hubbub at that. Baldwin looked over at the Grand Master, and saw his pinched expression. Perhaps the Grand Master had misjudged the meeting. Or perhaps he had hoped to incite
war?