00 - Templar's Acre (32 page)

‘It was your choice to insult him. If you don’t apologise, I will take you to the castle’s yard now, and you can fight Grand Master de Beaujeu.’

‘I agree! I submit! I apologise!’ the man blurted.

The tension had already dissipated. Instead of angry mutterings, Baldwin heard chuckles at the fellow’s predicament. Someone imitated his high, anxious tones.

Baldwin thrust the man forward, then booted him in the backside, directing him into the crowd.

‘Disperse, the lot of you. Go on – clear off!’

‘Master Baldwin, I am grateful to you,’ Sir Guillaume said as the people moved away, and he and his men felt safe enough to put up their swords. ‘What is happening to the
world, when a mob will take it upon themselves to attack Templars?’

Baldwin nodded. But there had been two groups in the crowd. Now the remaining Venetian was rising from the side of his dead comrade, scowling at Mainboeuf. Baldwin jabbed his sword out before he
could move towards the merchant. ‘Why did you attack him?’ he demanded, his sword almost touching the man’s throat. The man’s face was familiar, but he couldn’t think
how he knew him.

‘He sent the Genoese after my ship! You were there – you were on my ship when his men attacked us and killed half my crew! I had to sail to Venice to make good the damage he caused
my ship, and only returned two days ago.’

‘That was not Master Mainboeuf, it was a man called Buscarel,’ Baldwin said. ‘I know him.’

‘Buscarel was the shipmaster, but this piece of shit
told
Buscarel to attack my ship. You ask him! See how his eyes shift? He knows it’s true!’

‘If he did, that was out to sea,’ Sir Otto said. ‘Whatever happened out there has no force on land. You have broken the law in trying to kill him here. Murder on the streets is
not permitted.’ He motioned to the three men-at-arms who were with him, and two moved towards the Venetian, kicking his knife away and grabbing him by the arms.

‘What of justice for me?’ the Venetian declared wildly. ‘That man tried to ruin me, he had many of my crew killed, and now what?’

Sir Otto shrugged and jerked his head. ‘Take him to the gaol and meet me back here,’ he said. ‘So, vintenary, I am impressed with your turn of speed.’

Baldwin was only half-listening as he studied the figure on the ground. ‘I know this man,’ he said.

Philip Mainboeuf peered down too, saying, ‘He is Edgar of London, my Master of Defence. I was expecting to take him with me to Cairo. What will I do now? It is extremely
disappointing.’

‘It would have been worse if he had not saved your life,’ Sir Otto pointed out. ‘He is your man. You will need to have him taken to your home to be nursed.’

‘How will I protect myself on the way?’ Mainboeuf snapped grumpily. ‘The man’s a fool, he doesn’t deserve to be nursed.’

Baldwin stared in disbelief. ‘This fellow was injured saving your life!’

‘And by failing to guard himself, the fool’s left me without protection. Ach!’ The merchant looked about him and seeing a scruffy urchin nearby, commanded him to go and fetch
two strong men from the house, and a cart or some other means of transporting the body. ‘And be quick if you want payment for your effort,’ he called as the boy scuttled away.

Baldwin watched Mainboeuf walk away. ‘What will happen to the Venetian?’ he asked Sir Otto.

Sir Otto considered. ‘I trust he will pay a fine for breaking the peace, and then be released. That is what I would do. We cannot afford to lose a single man from the city.’

‘So you do not think that Master Mainboeuf will succeed?’

‘With the embassy to the Sultan? In God’s name, no! The embassy is doomed. The preparations are too advanced, from the information which the good Grand Master has gleaned. They will
never have an opportunity to fight like this again – not with so many warriors, if the reports are true.’

‘So what do we do now?’

‘Practise with our weapons, Master Baldwin, see to the defences, gather food, and put our trust in God.’

Abu al-Fida rose from his devotions and walked out into the sun. Kerak had been a good staging-post. Now, he was happy to know that his time here was at an end. Orders had been
received, and his machine was to go to Acre.

His clerk and servants were outside, all packed and ready, and he took the reins of his horse and mounted. It was a beautiful day, dry and hot, but with the edge of heat taken away by the
remaining cool of winter. A time of year he had always enjoyed, before the unendurable heat started again in the late spring.

The small mare was frisky, and he patted her neck as he looked back over the immense wagon train stretching past Kerak and into the distance, and then trotted to the head of the column and waved
his arm in the signal to advance.

Behind him he heard commands bellowed along the line. There was a creaking and squeaking of leather harnesses as oxen strained, and the jingle of chains and mail, and the complaining lowing of
cattle and whickering of horses as the first wagons began to lumber forward. More cracks of whips, and shrieked urgings from drivers, while the camels and oxen slowly moved off.

Abu al-Fida stopped at the outskirts of the city’s territory and watched on his mare while the train rolled slowly past, raising clouds of sand and dust. He had an emptiness in his soul.
His son should have been here to see this – but then if he had, Abu al-Fida knew he would not have left his comfortable life as a merchant, would not have been forced from his home by those
murderous Frank crusaders, would not have travelled to Cairo to demand justice from the Sultan, and would not have been sent to build al-Mansour. He would not have been created Emir and placed in
charge of a force to bear his weapon to Acre.

His son would have been proud to see his father in this position. Usmar had always been devoted to Islam, and ridding the land of the rapacious Franks had always been close to his heart. It
grieved him that Acre sucked in the best merchandise, and that the markets there had always paid the best, but such was the case. That was why Abu al-Fida had lived in Acre. And because of that,
his family had died.

An inevitable chain of consequences had brought Abu al-Fida to this place, to this position, and would inevitably lead to the destruction of the city.

The wagon train was slow. Oxen moved more ponderously than horses, but their strength was vital. No other creature could haul such loads. As it was, it would be a laborious undertaking to have
the machine transported to Acre. In this wet, early springtime, it would take a month to travel as far as another caravan could go in a week. But that meant nothing. For Abu al-Fida, all that
mattered was that he should reach that city and set up his machine. Al-Mansour would be one amongst many, but her immense power would do more damage than all the other hundred mangonels and
catapults together.

All he need do was get the machine to Acre. And perhaps then, he could lay the ghost of poor Usmar to rest at last.

Edgar slept badly.

When he woke, he remembered waking in the middle of the night and being sick, and as he recalled it so he smelled the vomit all about him.

He rose blearily, and almost fell trying to cross his floor. It was like being drunk. He grabbed for the wall, standing and panting, and his legs felt like jelly. A fresh wave of nausea washed
over and through him, and he closed his eyes, feeling that strange spinning sensation again.

There was a chair near the window, where his sword and belt had been set to rest, and he lurched across the room to it, clumsily knocking his sword to the floor.

The door was flung open, and a house servant entered, wrinkling his nose at the smell.

‘Water!’ Edgar managed. ‘Poison . . .’

‘You’re not poisoned, just hit on the head. You’re lucky. The master would’ve left you there to die in the street. As it was, we had to bring you here. You’ll have
fun cleaning this little lot up,’ he added, staring at the vomit-soaked sheets.

Edgar closed his mouth, his head loose on his shoulders. ‘What?’

A vague recollection came to him of the street outside the castle. There were two men, and one tried to club him . . . the Templars . . . then he recalled the man slumping with Edgar’s
sword in his belly, his eyes dulling – and then someone else had hammered Edgar. He desperately wanted to sleep, but something told him it would not be safe. ‘Fetch me water,’ he
said imperiously. ‘Now.’

‘Don’t order me about, you English turd. Fetch it yourself. As soon as you’re well, you’re leaving. Master said he didn’t want to see you again, so you’re to
go. Now you be nice to me, or you’ll be out all the sooner. And that means after you’ve cleaned up after yourself.’

‘Fetch me water
,’ Edgar repeated, and at last the servant nodded and left him.

Edgar studied the chamber and saw he had been sick all over the sheets and himself. He was disgusted: he had never spewed that much, even when he was deeply sunk in ale or wine. In fact, he
reckoned he was fortunate not to have drowned in his own vomit. He rubbed at his breast. The acid was still in his mouth, but no less painful was the pounding at his head.

The servant returned carrying a plain earthenware beaker which he set on the floor near Edgar, who took it up and drank cautiously. In London he had seen an apprentice after a fight, who had
drunk too swiftly, and then brought it up as speedily. Edgar had no wish to be sick again. Every muscle on his torso felt strained; merely breathing was painful.

‘You say I must go?’ he asked hoarsely.

‘Master said so.’

‘Where is he? I must speak with him.’

‘He’s not here. He left for Cairo. Have you forgotten already?’ the man sneered.

Edgar made a show of setting the beaker on the floor, then his head lolled.

The servant eyed him warily, but after a few moments, with Edgar’s breath snoring, he reached towards the purse on the sick man’s belt.

Edgar’s hand whipped out, fast as a snake’s, and he pulled the servant towards him. ‘Try that again, and you’ll lose your hand,’ he whispered.

Baldwin had not slept well after the attempt upon the Templars. The sight of men drawing swords in the street had been disturbing, when all in Acre should have been pulling
together. Perhaps the mob was right. Maybe Mainboeuf
would
negotiate a fresh peace treaty. It would be interesting to see the response from Cairo.

The city of Acre had been on tenterhooks since Baldwin’s arrival last year, and to think that the situation was as dangerous as ever was disquieting. The populace was a seething cauldron
of fear and alarm; if there were no firm response from Cairo, men could no longer continue to pretend that there was nothing to fear. In many ways, it would be better to have a resolute declaration
of war and the intention to destroy Acre, as the Grand Master believed, than to have another period of unreliable peace.

Mainboeuf would be well on his way to Cairo now. Baldwin hoped he would hurry back.

At that moment, he saw a white tunic and recognised Jacques d’Ivry.

‘I hope God holds you in His blessing,’ Jacques said, a kindly smile softening his face.

‘Sir Jacques, I am glad to see you,’ Baldwin said. ‘I was thinking of the embassy to Cairo, and any distraction would be of great service.’

‘Yes, I understand how you must feel,’ Jacques said. He looked towards the south, as though his eyes could pierce the walls of the houses and city, and see beyond them, all the way
to the great city so far away. ‘But there are many things still to be done in the city.’

Baldwin groaned aloud. ‘What more? I’ve moved rocks and rubble; I have learned the mason’s arts; I have constructed two catapults and helped repair two more. My arms ache, my
back is almost broken, and now I have to take on
more
duties?’

‘You will find as you grow older, that it is good to be occupied,’ Jacques chuckled. ‘There is nothing better, in fact. That is why Templars and members of my Order are
commanded to work. When a man is idle, his mind and hands may turn to less productive efforts. So if ever we are bored, with nothing to do, we are instructed to carve tent-pegs.’

‘You think I should resort to that?’ Baldwin asked indignantly.

‘I think you perhaps could find more suitable occupation,’ Sir Jacques grinned.

They had crossed beneath the inner wall from Montmusart into the old city, and now the two turned towards the castle. Ahead they saw a lurching man.

‘I know him,’ Baldwin said. ‘He is guard to Master Mainboeuf. Master Edgar?’ he called. ‘I hope I see you well?’

It was obvious that Edgar was far from well. His face was pale, and he moved with a slower gait than before.

‘Master Edgar?’ Sir Jacques prompted.

Edgar looked as though he did not recognise either of them. He stared at Baldwin with a confused frown, head set to one side. And then he began to sway.

‘Let us take him with us,’ Jacques said, and the two put their arms beneath his armpits and helped him towards the Mainboeuf house. ‘We shall see him home. He should remain
there until he is well.’

‘He was hit on the head yesterday,’ Baldwin said.

‘So I should imagine. It has left him disordered. He should rest.’

‘Why aren’t you at home, man? You shouldn’t be out and about,’ Baldwin said.

‘Thrown out,’ Edgar mumbled.

They had reached the Mainboeuf house, and Sir Jacques rapped sharply on the door. There was a grumbled comment from the doorkeeper’s lodge, and then a face appeared at a grating.
‘Yes?’

Baldwin listened to the conversation while he held Edgar against the wall to stop him falling. It was clear that the doorman would not allow the injured man back inside. ‘It’s what
the master told us when he left.’

‘What shall we do with him?’ Sir Jacques wondered as the door to the grating slammed shut once more.

‘Help me take him to Ivo’s house,’ Baldwin said. ‘At least there I can have him looked after by Lucia.’

‘How is Lucia?’

Baldwin was reluctant to answer, but it was hard to ignore the Leper Knight. Rudeness to him was unthinkable.