00 - Templar's Acre (4 page)

‘Today, the Grand Master can kiss my arse,’ Roger responded, leaning heavily on the oar. The ship slowly heeled over, breasting one wave and sliding down the farther side. ‘He
isn’t here. We have allies in the Venetians, and I won’t see them boarded and robbed.’ He grinned. ‘Not when we could take them and keep their booty for
ourselves.’

‘You would rob your own grandmother.’

‘That is a malicious piece of villeiny-saying!’ Roger said with a hurt glance. ‘I wouldn’t dream of robbing her. She had nothing worth taking! But a Genoese trader,
that’s different. It depends what they’re carrying, of course, but there could be a rich cargo on board.’

He was silent a moment, but Ivo could sense his eyes flitting towards him every so often, gauging his reaction to the news.

He had known Roger Flor some years. The shipman had gone to sea at the age of eight, and his skill as a navigator had led to his being made shipmaster after he joined the Templar Order. In those
days Roger had been a callow young man of some nineteen or twenty years, and while his ability with a ship was never in doubt, it was plain that his interests lay more in the opportunities
available in the Holy Land than in his duties as a Templar. And just now, he could see the potential for a good profit. At sea Ivo quite liked Roger Flor – but he didn’t trust him on
land.

They made good way, even with the roiling waters. At each crest, Ivo could see the ships growing closer and closer. The one in the middle appeared to be rolling to and fro violently, while the
two at either side seemed more stable, and he saw that men were loosing arrows from them into the stricken ship.

Ivo knew how the crew would be served there. He had endured such battles himself, and could imagine the scene already: arrows would make the decks lethal. Bodies would be pinned to the planks
beneath them, men panting and struggling for breath, while others tried to hide behind the flimsiest partitions. Screams, groans, sobs, the sounds of panic and horror.

The shame of it: Christians fighting on the open sea, when their last city, Acre, the jewel of Outremer, was desperate for aid. The other states of the crusader kingdom had been taken, and even
now Muslim hordes waited at her borders, slavering with the thought of the easy prize sitting there so defenceless. Christians needed to unite to defend her, but no. Genoa, Venice and Pisa were at
loggerheads as usual. And now a pair of Genoese galleys were trying to capture a Venetian cog. It made his heart weep.

But he was not by nature prepared to submit to misery. He had seen such things too often since he took up his new life in the Holy Land, and now he felt the warrior’s anger again, the slow
burning rage that heated the blood, as he looked at the ship. He had noticed it in the harbour, sailing off while he was seeing to the last of the horses being stowed belowdecks – a small
buss, a two-masted ship of perhaps double the size of a cog from the northern waters.

Roger suddenly bawled commands, and his sailors scurried. One man paused, puked on the deck, and then carried on. The others had forgotten their sickness in anticipation of the fight to
come.

‘Let the flag of the Order be flown!’ Roger bellowed, and the pennant, which had been stowed away two days ago when the wind began to tear at it, was hurriedly attached to the
halyard and hoisted. ‘Let’s see what they make of that, eh?’ Roger asked, his teeth shining.

The swooping, rolling motion seemed to grow in urgency, as though the ship herself was desperate to get to grips with the pirates. Ivo clung with desperation to a rope, his legs bending as the
ship slammed into a great wave, hurling spray over the whole deck. There were men on the yards now, reefing the sail, while others worked with frantic haste, running hither and thither, each man
knowing his position. Roger Flor was a good master, and now he kept an eye on his crew as they hurried from one point to another, depositing weapons, readying themselves and the ship for
battle.

But when they were done, there was a long wait as they approached the three. It felt as though they were crawling, foot by foot, yard by yard, and Ivo was convinced that they must arrive too
late to help. As it was, they must have been seen, and the two ships would be ready to beat them off.

‘Bowmen, to the tops!’ Roger roared, and the sailors with crossbows took their leather pots of quarrels and began to climb, bows slung over their backs. ‘Men! These Genoese
whoresons have tried to take a shipload of crusaders! Crusaders are here to defend our kingdom! They are here to help us! They are our friends and allies, and I mean to make these pirates pay for
harming them! Do you want to let them escape with that black crime unavenged? Should we permit them to go free? I say no!’

There was a bellow of approval from the men nearest, although Ivo was sure that only a half of the crew could have heard his words over the roar of the sea and howling winds. Still, he saw from
their expressions that many of them were anticipating the fight with joy in their hearts.

Typical sailors, Ivo thought to himself. Never happier than when in a brawl.

Roger looked at him. ‘Soon now, Ivo. Are you ready?’

‘I’m almost double your age, lad. I’ve seen enough fights since I came here with my prince,’ Ivo said.

‘Aye. That prince is King now, isn’t he? And
you’re
still here,’ the master added pointedly.

Ivo felt his face stiffen at the reminder of his old shame. ‘How long?’ he muttered.

‘Soon. Very soon.’

Baldwin de Furnshill was crippled with shame.

He was brother to Sir Reynald de Furnshill, son of a knight, a man of honour and trained in the sword, and yet he had been bested by Genoese pirates.

When the men came over the rails, he stood back to give himself room, but before he could do more than slash inexpertly at the nearest attacker, a blow from a cudgel drove him to his knees. All
around, he saw pockets of resistance as pilgrims attempted to hold the Genoese at bay, but it was impossible to stand against them for long. A number of the crusaders and pilgrims allowed
themselves to be driven back towards the hold, while others dropped and submitted, craving mercy of the sailors. All were spared.

Baldwin’s head span, and as the deck rolled, he fell to the side, as helpless as a newborn foal. His legs were incapable of supporting him. But worse than the shocking pain was the shame.
He should have died killing his enemies – that was the way for a knight’s son to fight! He wanted to reach for his sword. It lay near him – but he lacked the strength to lift
it.

Two sailors from his own ship continued to fight, one with a short sword and a knife, the other with a long-handled axe, and side-by-side, they held their opponents at bay. They forced one
sailor to spring back, while another caught a slash from the axe across his belly that made him howl. At last two crossbowmen were brought up and ended their final stand. Their bodies fell, and
were thrown overboard like carrion to feed the fishes. No Christian burial for them.

He felt himself jerked up and shoved back against the hull, and sat, his head lolling, watching as the Genoese walked amongst them, snatching at jewellery and other valuables. Any who carried
purses were relieved of them. Baldwin’s sword was taken, and now he felt a man yank at his purse, and there was a sudden release as the strings were cut and it was gone.

Another grabbed his hand. Baldwin looked up to find himself meeting the stare of a black-bearded man with a round face, burned the colour of oak by the sun. Baldwin tried to jerk his hand away,
but the man laid a knife’s edge against his knuckle and then drew the ring off. It was Baldwin’s last possession given to him by his father, and he should have wept to see it taken, but
he couldn’t. He was without feeling. Numb.

And then the Genoese began to scurry, sensing a new danger.

There was no attempt to conceal their approach. Roger Flor aimed the
Falcon
straight at the three vessels locked together, constantly adjusting the oar under his arm as he saw the way
that the three moved. There was movement on the left-most galley. A man appeared, a thick-set fellow with a black beard that was trimmed neatly. He stood on the sheer, a hand on a stay nearby, and
as the
Falcon
came closer, he turned and beckoned to another. This was a crossbowman, who stood at the rail, listening to instructions from the bearded commander.

Ivo eyed them warily. He knew how accurate Genoese bowmen could be, but while they were under wind, gaining on the three ships, the bowman’s ship was wallowing. He had a rolling, plunging
deck to fire from. Ivo felt moderately safe.

He was right. The crossbow was raised, aimed and fired – but as the three ships breasted one wave, Ivo’s plummeted down another, and the bolt flew safely overhead.

‘If that prickle tries a trick like that again, I’ll have his ballocks,’ Ivo muttered, unnerved.

‘Scared, are we, Master Ivo?’ Roger Flor chuckled ‘Fear a quarrel from a Genoese bow?’

A second quarrel slammed into the wale-piece directly below Roger.

‘You fox-whelp whoreson!’ Roger bellowed, and roared for his own bowmen to return fire. Soon three men in the forecastle joined with seven in the fighting top, trading quarrels with
the other ships. ‘Keeps the men busy,’ he said defensively, seeing Ivo’s eye upon him.

‘Yes, of course,’ Ivo said, and then, ‘Who is it on those ships? Can you see who the master is?’

‘It’s that Genoese bitch-son, Buscarel.’

Just then, another quarrel flew past Ivo’s belly and thumped into the wood behind him. He had a vision in his mind, just for a moment, of what that bolt could have done to him, and then he
was roaring encouragement to the sailors. All were clad in their brown tunics with the red cross, apart from him. He was wearing a red linen tunic that left him cool in the summer at Tripoli, but
here, about to enter a battle, he wished he had some armour: mail, a coat of plates and a helm.

He hoped and prayed he wouldn’t need it.

A clatter, and another bolt fell from chains at the lateen sail overhead. It was enough to inspire his rage. He drew his sword, his head lowered, as another bolt flew past, and then there was a
cheer as the bowman in the Genoese ship was hurled back, a bolt in his skull.

‘A florin to that archer!’ Roger shouted, and then, ‘And another to the man who hits the other pirate!’

There was a loud cheer at that, but now the bolts were flying in earnest, and even Roger ducked as a pair came perilously close. ‘They don’t like me, Master Ivo.’

‘Few men do,’ Ivo said.

‘True enough!’ Roger said with a wide grin. Then: ‘Grappling irons!’

Three men had already moved forward with their hooks, and stood measuring the distance between the ships. There was only a chain between them; a half-chain. The men grew silent with anticipation
as the distance closed. Five yards, two yards, and the men swung their hooks from both ships, all hauling to pull the ships together. While the rest of the sailors weighed the weapons in their
hands, the Templars crouched, ready to attack, the Genoese scowling on their lower decks, all waiting, filled with the desire to kill.

One grapnel landed in the cordage overhead, and the Templar hauled on it with determination, while the others carried on tugging at their ropes. Then the sea moved, and the gap disappeared, the
Falcon
thundering into the side of the nearer ship.

And then the peace was shattered.

‘Board them!’ Roger screeched at the top of his voice.

There was a clash of steel against steel, and Ivo saw three felled by arrows, all together, but the others carried on, weapons aloft, screaming battle cries as they went.

Overhead, the man with his hook in the rigging climbed up the rope hand over hand, a long knife in his belt, and soon was at the yard. A Genoese saw him, and began to make his way up a stay, but
the sail was already falling away, the upper fixing cut through by the knife.

‘To me, men of the Order! For God and the Temple!’ Roger shouted, and fixing the tiller oar with a rope, he snatched up a sword and ran at the side of the ship, leaping over and in
among the Genoese.

Ivo followed, his own sword gripped in his hand, but as soon as he landed on the ship, he was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of their enemies. All about him were Genoese sailors, and he was
forced to hack and slash from side to side, keeping them away, until at last some more sailors from the
Falcon
arrived at his side and began to flail about too, forcing the Genoese back.
There was a man who had a long stabbing weapon, which held them up for some time, but Ivo grabbed the point and yanked at it, thrusting forwards with his sword at the same time. It caught the man
below the chin and slipped in, down into his chest, killing him quickly. A second ran at him with an axe held high, and Ivo turned, whirling with his sword as the man’s blow fell, and
sweeping off both wrists. The man stood staring, shrieking at the wreckage of his forearms, until Ivo reversed his blade and hacked off his head, moving forward all the time.

Suddenly he was at the ship the pirates had boarded, and he sprang down onto the deck. There were bodies all over the place, blood seeping into the boards underfoot making each step treacherous,
and Ivo was cautious as he made his way onward.

A cry, and suddenly missiles were flying all about him. A shot from a sling rattled against metal, then two men nearby fell, but he managed to make his way to the far side of the ship where a
lanky, black-haired youth was sprawled against the timbers, eyes almost as dull as a dead man’s. Ivo threw himself down and glanced back over the deck. There were three men from the
Falcon
lying and moaning, each with an arrow pinning him, but there were more men near him, and all had weapons. The clamour of war still came to him from the other pirate ship, but now as
he looked about, more men were coming to this deck. There was a bellowed order that made him give a grunt of satisfaction. The ropes binding the ships together were cut, and with a shiver, he felt
the vessel shake off her attacker. With a roar of defiance and glee, the sailors of the
Falcon
lifted their arms and shook weapons still smeared with the blood of their enemies.