00 - Templar's Acre (25 page)

‘
I
have had messages too,’ Guillaume declared. He took a step forward, commanding the whole assembly. ‘I say this: there have been orders sent to his men in Egypt and
Syria. In Egypt the muster continues unabated, while he has ordered his commander of the Syrian army, Rukn ad-Din Toqsu, to move to Palestine where there is timber, so that they might construct
siege machines. Where are the cities in Africa that he would wish to attack? Is there a single city with a great encircling wall, such as we have here? I know of none. His strategy is concealed
from us deliberately. He has created a misty deception, a fog about his plans, in order to confuse us. When he feels it safe, he will launch his attack, in a great torrent of fire, rock and men,
that will overwhelm even our great city, just as he did with poor Tripoli. This man is insatiable. Qalawun will not rest until all Christians in the Holy Land are slain. He has no interest in
trade. It matters not to him whether the trade is allowed to flow through Christian Acre or through Muslim Damascus. Why should he care that our city can trade with Venice or Genoa? It means
nothing to him.’

‘He needs our trade,’ Mainboeuf said loftily, with a supercilious glance at the people all around. ‘He knows we make him lots of money.’

‘You think that,’ de Beaujeu said flatly. ‘You are wrong. He knows he can make more money by having trade fully controlled by his own people. That means having Muslims at the
coast. Not Christians to make their own profit.’

‘I think that here we can discern the inherent panic of an Order which sees its own destiny written,’ Mainboeuf sneered. ‘The Templars are always honourable. They try to
support friends and allies. Venice has been a good ally to the Temple, has it not?’

‘What of it?’ de Beaujeu demanded.

‘We all know that the Venetians have in the past profited from selling timber to the Egyptians. Their buildings are dependent upon Venetian wood, as is their manufacture of siege engines,
as you so astutely point out. And when we look at the present situation, do we not see only a Templar’s desire to help his allies? We know Qalawun is determined to punish those in Africa who
have offended him by refusing to accept peace with him, and he is to build siege machines. The Templars would prefer to have the machines built at their profit or the profit of their friends, so
they have persuaded the commune to pay their allies for all this timber here: we buy wood and use it prodigiously, constructing hoardings. It is normal, certainly, for them to support their
Venetian friends, but I am surprised that the Templars should have fallen for such a ruse. For I am certain that the good Grand Master is not dishonest. He has been convinced in this tale, I have
no doubt, by his friends in Venice. They put this—’

The rest of his words were drowned by roars of disapproval from Venetians and Templars alike.

A body of sailors and merchants from Venice tried to force their way towards Mainboeuf, while Pisans and Genoese jeered and bit their thumbs at them. The Templar Grand Master stood glowering.
Behind him, his knights were holding themselves back only with great restraint, and Baldwin saw more than one of them shuffling forward as if to prepare to attack.

‘Enough!’ Amalric bellowed at last, standing and holding his hands aloft. ‘This ridiculous noise will cease! Be still! Master Mainboeuf, I hope you have some evidence for the
wild allegations you have made.’

‘ “Wild allegations”? What is wild about them? We know that the Venetians supply timber to Egypt. That is a fact known for decades. They have been censured for such sales by
the Pope. We also know that the Temple and Venice have been allied for many years. This, too, is fact. So what have I invented for this meeting?’

‘I have nothing to say to a fool who suggests I would lie, nor that I would succumb to the blandishments of others to deceive this company,’ Sir Guillaume growled. ‘I state
again: the city is in grave peril. Our enemies gather their full strength to assault us. We shall succumb unless we can hurry the pace of our efforts.’

‘We have already succeeded in making our city as near impregnable as it is possible to conceive,’ Mainboeuf said flatly. ‘There is no need to worry about this latest rumour.
Our enemies are occupied elsewhere.’

Baldwin thought the look Guillaume de Beaujeu threw at Mainboeuf must surely scorch him, but the merchant smiled as though he were careless of any insult he might have given.

Only later did Baldwin begin to wonder about Mainboeuf’s supreme confidence.

Out in the field, Lucia continued with her labours, digging a trench for new irrigation, her pick rising in unison with those of the other slaves. She felt like the soil she
was tilling. Invaded. Violated.

Some nights ago it had begun. A vicious, one-eyed Kurd with the body of a wrestler had been taking his pleasure with another slave woman, thanks to the connivance of a guard, but now he had
selected Lucia.

She fought him, that first night. His fist felt as though it must break her skull when he punched her, and after that she daren’t resist, but lay quiescent while he rutted on her like a
hog. And then, when he was done, he laughed as he left her.
He laughed.
And so it continued, every night. After the long day’s work, she would wait for the sound of his approach,
brace herself for the torture of his rapes.

At first she had tried to turn her mind away from him, to think of other things, while he forced her on all fours and grasped her hips, but it was impossible.

No means of defence occurred to her. Every day she sought a tool, but the rocks were feeble sandstone, and not heavy. Her pick wouldn’t serve, since the tools were taken from them each
evening. For her to attack the Kurd, she would have to do something that would hurt him badly, but which didn’t require a long weapon or steel.

And then she saw the little bush with scraggy branches.

That night, Lucia heard the guard approach, the lumbering steps of the Kurd with him. She had not been touched by the guards. The Kurd was the only man who had taken her. It was strange, to know
that she was to be attacked again while the other women lay on the floor all about, listening. Perhaps some would even be jealous. Any attention was better, maybe, than this life of steady,
crushing work.

They would get his attention in time. The guards needed the women served so that more slaves could be born, just as the farmer needed his cows served by his bulls. Slave-children could fetch
good prices.

The door’s bolts were tugged back, but this time she wasn’t worried. She wanted him in now, to get this over and done with. Lying on her back, she waited. The door opened, and there
was a moment’s hush as the guard and the Kurd peered in, a solitary candle throwing a faint glimmer over the room.

He could be smelled two yards away. She detested that smell. It had been on her, about her, within her, for days now. A repugnant stench, like that of death.

‘Ready for me, little sparrow?’ he asked in his grating voice.

She felt his hands on her breasts, her hips, then down between her thighs, and she parted her legs willingly, which made him chuckle. Reaching out her left hand, she put it about his neck,
pulling him closer to her face. Even in the darkness, she could sense his smile of conquest.

‘Want me now, sparrow? I’ll reward you, then,’ he said breathlessly.

That was when she took her short, sharpened little twig, and stabbed his good eye, shoving it in as far as she could, ramming it with the heel of her hand, feeling his juices running down her
wrist, relishing his sudden high screams and the spasms in his body in that long moment before his fist hit her face and she knew no more.

When the messenger arrived the following morning, Baldwin and Ivo responded immediately.

‘Marshal, how may we help you?’ Ivo asked as they were brought into the large chamber of the Temple. Two men sat at a big table, both hooded, wearing the white habits of the
Order.

‘It was not he who asked for you, it was I,’ Guillaume de Beaujeu answered, standing. Slowly, the Marshal followed suit. Baldwin thought Sir Geoffrey looked as if he had aged a great
deal in the last hours. His face was haggard.

Pulling down the hood of his habit, the Grand Master eyed Baldwin. ‘I have heard good reports of you, Master Baldwin.’

‘I hope I’ve justified them.’

‘You heard the comments of that primping foumart, Mainboeuf. What do you think of his words?’

‘Me?’ Baldwin responded with surprise. ‘Grand Master, I do not think I am in any position to comment.’

‘You are old enough to judge a man. Would you judge him as honourable or not?’

Baldwin opened his mouth to prevaricate, but catching sight of a quick frown on Ivo’s face, he considered the Grand Master’s question. This was not, apparently, a time for false
modesty.

‘I do not know the man. From what I have seen, he is keen to give the benefit of any doubt to the Muslim leader. I find that strange, for he must know that the Mameluks have destroyed the
other Christian cities. He seems convinced that the Muslims will allow this city alone to remain.’

‘Do you have any impression of his honesty?’

‘I would not cast a slur upon him or his integrity. He made arguments that sounded rational. Beyond that, I could not say.’

‘Well, I suspect him,’ Guillaume de Beaujeu said. He bent his head, deep in thought, and paced the room.

Ivo looked from him to the Marshal. ‘What is the matter, Grand Master? You have more news to alarm you?’

‘Other than the news of the greatest army Qalawun has yet mustered against us?’ the Grand Master asked bitterly. ‘Yes, I suspect that there is a traitor amongst us. It greatly
concerns me that we may fail to defend our city, and if that is so, we will fail to save the Kingdom!’

‘Do you think that Mainboeuf
wants
the Kingdom to fall?’ Ivo asked. He could not believe that any Christian could wish for such a terrible thing.

‘I don’t know what to think. It is possible that he has been deceived. But he is no fool. I know Mainboeuf of old.’

‘For my part, I don’t think him a traitor, if that is what you fear,’ Ivo said. ‘Philip Mainboeuf is a fair enough merchant. He is a true Christian, and would not
willingly see Acre fall.’

‘Is there anyone else who can speak for him?’ the Marshal asked. He wiped a hand over his face. ‘We must know whether he has been deceived, or . . .’

‘Or whether you have,’ Ivo finished for him.

‘Yes,’ the Grand Marshal agreed.

‘How can you tell what is passing in a man’s heart?’ Baldwin wondered.

‘One way is to send an embassy to Cairo to speak with the Sultan,’ Guillaume de Beaujeu said heavily. ‘We need to learn whether our news is true or not.’

‘If he says he intends nothing of the sort – what then?’ Baldwin asked.

‘We will be no worse off,’ Sir Geoffrey said. ‘But I doubt he would say so. If he sees we are keen to learn the truth, he will not be slow to try to profit from us. He will
demand money to leave Acre free, I would expect.’

‘I will go to him, if you want,’ Baldwin said.

‘You
?’ There was a smile hovering on the Grand Master’s lips. ‘Tell me, how much of the Muslim tongue can you speak? How would you tell what was in his
mind?’

‘I am not an expert in the language, but I could watch and listen,’ Baldwin said. ‘I can understand men’s faces, and I would be able to tell much from how they look and
speak.’

‘I think not,’ the Grand Master said.

‘Who will go?’ Ivo asked.

‘I have two messengers. I will send a small guard with them.’

‘Templars would be killed as soon as they arrived.’

‘Yes – I intend sending secular members of our Order.’

‘Then let Baldwin join them. He can do little harm, and his extra eyes and ears may just help,’ Ivo said.

The Grand Master glanced at the Marshal. Neither spoke for a moment, and then Sir Geoffrey gave a faint nod. Guillaume de Beaujeu turned back to Baldwin.

‘So be it. You will ride with my men to Cairo, and there you will listen carefully and watch, to see if there is any clue you can pick up that tells us what the Sultan plans. Be careful
and beware! There are many dangers in Muslim cities for men who are friends of the Temple.’

That night, Lucia’s back was still sore from the beating, but she had no broken bones. She had not cried, she had not wept or sobbed. That satisfaction she refused
them.

A week ago, she would have welcomed death. The toil during the day was bad; the fumbling rapes at night worse, but now she could at least hold her head high again. She only regretted not having
pushed the stick further into the Kurd’s good eye until it found his brain. With luck he would develop gangrene and die.

She had expected death. Even as she thrust the stick into the Kurd’s eye, she welcomed the thought. For a slave to harm another was punishable by death. But the
overseer
made it
clear that she would not escape her torment so easily. Her life itself was to be her punishment.

She rolled over, the pain in her back agonising as the weeping scabs pulled where the whips had lashed. The overseer had used every ounce of malice in him. No matter that it was he who had
brought the Kurd to her each night. She was a slave, she had no rights.

Her hand on her belly, she prayed not to bear a child. There was no sign of it – only a deep soreness that seemed to start at her brain and ran through her body to her groin. He had hurt
her so much, than Kurd; more in the mind that between her legs. It made her want to vomit, remembering his hand grabbing her, wrenching her knees wide, smiling down at her.

She had no regrets about blinding him. It had felt good. Never again would she sit back and endure. Even if it meant death, she would gladly accept it as the price of her freedom.

They had arrived by ship at the coast near Damietta, a voyage of some two hundred miles, and Baldwin was fascinated to see the land as the galley deposited him, along with
Roger Flor and three others, at the mouth of a wide river.