00 - Templar's Acre (40 page)

Baldwin moved aside to leave more space to the archers, and as he did so, he saw parties of men running at the walls, protected by a wagon-frame covered with wet hides. They stopped some
distance from the walls, and more men hurried up with mantelets. These were thrust forward, and soon the men behind were neatly concealed.

‘What are they doing?’ Baldwin demanded.

The older English warrior was with him again. ‘Miners,’ he said. ‘That’s a
chat
– a cat. They’ll drive a shaft forwards from there to tunnel under
our wall and the towers. Just like yesterday, but this time, more effective. It’s how they took Krak des Chevaliers.’

‘They are experienced at sieges,’ Baldwin noted.

‘Oh, yes. You could say that.’

On the third day, Baldwin was called away from the walls with his men.

Sir Otto de Grandison was in the Tower of St Nicholas, where the catapult worked constantly. When Baldwin and Hob reached the top of the tower, they saw a rock fall with a crunch into the middle
of the shields protecting the entrance to the mine shaft, and Baldwin felt a surge of delight to see the devastation wreaked upon the miners and their bowmen. Two of the wheeled shields had been
crushed entirely, and parts of them, and the men who had sheltered behind, were strewn about the sand. Not far from that lay the shards of wood from the first demolished cat. It had taken a direct
hit from a lump of masonry hurled by the same catapult, and now the timbers of the walls stood up like the ribs of a massive beast.

‘A good shot! Good shot!’ Sir Otto was roaring, slamming his fist on the parapet before him. He ducked as an arrow whistled past his ear, and turned to Baldwin with a savage grin.
‘There’s a few more there who won’t see their wives again!’

‘Sir? You wanted me?’ Baldwin said.

‘You built that catapult in the Montmusart area, didn’t you?’

‘Two of them, my Lord.’

‘I need another one.’

‘Sir. You give us the wood, and we can build it.’

‘This is a special one,’ he chuckled. Pointing over the line of the walls, he said, ‘You see that catapult they have up there? The huge one?’

Baldwin peered around the machine that took up so much of the tower’s roof. Past the timbers, he could see the great bulk of the catapult in the distance, outlined against the sea.
‘Yes.’

‘I need that destroyed.’

‘I don’t think any machine we built would be able to hit it,’ Baldwin said doubtfully. ‘The largest we have is behind the Gate of Maupas, and that one falls short by some
distance.’

Hob agreed. ‘We have to have them built far back enough from our walls so that our missiles clear the inner wall. The enemy can throw everything they want at us, and it doesn’t
matter whether it hits the inner or outer walls, or flies over and lands inside – it’s all the same to them. It’s different for us.’

‘I can get a catapult much closer,’ Sir Otto said, ‘to half that distance – so a small catapult will do. Can you build me one?’

Baldwin looked at Hob and shrugged. ‘Give us the materials, we’ll build it,’ he said.

‘The timbers are at the harbour. There is a man down there who will take you to the shipman – he will help you. With fortune, our idea will work.

‘We need something, God knows,’ he added sombrely.

Baldwin and Hob gathered the vintaine and left the walls. In the open roadway behind the gates, they found a young boy of perhaps nine. He was short and fair, and had an eager
expression on his round face. Once he might have been the son of a wealthy man, but now he was grubby and dishevelled, like all the others in the city. This lad’s hosen were torn, the fabric
of his chemise frayed.

‘Follow me, sirs,’ he piped up.

‘Do I know you?’ Baldwin asked as they hurried after him.

A whistle and howl made them all duck as a rock soughed through the air overhead. It touched the roof of a house and an explosion of debris flew into the air, white like a cloud of swansdown,
while the rock ploughed on into a building beyond. There was a crumpling of masonry, and a wall collapsed in an explosion of sound.

The boy stood, glancing about attentively. He reminded Baldwin of a small hunting dog, shaking itself after a brief immersion in an unexpected pool, and looking for his quarry once more.

‘I am the son of Peter of Gibelet. But he has died,’ the boy said. ‘I am called James.’

‘I am sorry your father is dead,’ Baldwin said. ‘I knew him. He was a good man.’

‘He was old,’ James said. A tear formed in his eye, but he snatched at it, ashamed to weep for his father when he should be fighting.

‘It is good to mourn.’

‘I won’t. I want to kill the men who killed him,’ James stated firmly, and carried on.

At the harbour, Baldwin stopped at the sight of the ships docking. There was a constant stream of galleys and smaller vessels, all of them bringing food and arms to the beleaguered inhabitants
of the city. A few women and children were taken on board as he watched, the richer folk, or more anxious, paying for their passage to Cyprus. Many had already been taken away under the evacuation
plans implemented by the Templars.

And then he saw the man waiting for them. It was Buscarel with a small party of men standing by a cog moored near the
Falcon.

‘Master Baldwin,’ he said. ‘I am glad it’s you.’

‘I saw you that night – when the tavern was hit,’ Baldwin said.

‘I know,’ Buscarel said. ‘It was a hideous attack.’

‘Sir Otto de Grandison sent me. I am here to build a catapult.’

‘And I am here to give you your platform,’ Buscarel said.

Hob and Baldwin exchanged a glance. Baldwin said, ‘What do you mean, “platform”?’

‘This,’ Buscarel said, pointing at the ship, ‘is where it will be positioned.’

Baldwin shared a look of bewilderment with Hob. ‘On a ship?’ he managed at last.

‘Christ’s ballocks!’ Hob muttered, staring at the cog with disbelief.

‘Aye. That way we can get close and attack the big bastard catapult they have opposite the Templars.’

Baldwin eyed him and then the ship once again. ‘Can we make it fit?’

The ship was fitted with a castle fore and aft, and it was on the forecastle that Baldwin was told they must erect the machine.

Buscarel busied himself with his shipmen shifting ballast into the ship while Baldwin and Hob bellowed at the men on the top. First Baldwin had thought to reject Buscarel’s suggestions out
of hand, but when he considered other methods of achieving the same result, it was clear that Buscarel was better advised than he. The catapult could not be sited in the middle of the vessel, for
the arm would snag on mast and rigging, and he was assured that if it were set at the back of the ship, she would not be manoeuvrable. So instead he decided to carry on as Buscarel had
proposed.

By the end of that day, they had a firm platform on which to set the machine. Working through the night by the light of torches and oil lamps, they had the structure built and ready on the
quayside, and by the end of the second day, the catapult was completed and in place. There was a moment of panic when rocks were brought aboard in Buscarel’s absence, and a pile was built up
on the port side of the ship. She was not yet ready for them, and began to heel over dramatically, until there came a warning bellow from Roger Flor, who was standing in his own ship a short
distance away, laughing at their antics, and the vintaine ran about the boat at his command, rolling the rocks from one place to another and lashing them down securely.

On the morning of the third day, the ship was ready, and Baldwin and Hob stood on the harbour-front as she was pushed from the quayside and began to make her way out to sea, towed by an
enthusiastic crew on a small galley.

‘How do you think she’ll do?’ Baldwin asked.

Hob looked up at him and drew the corners of his mouth down. Nodding in the direction of al-Mansour, he grunted, ‘If they manage to lob a rock at that bugger over there, I’ll be
surprised, let alone hit it. Whoever heard of a catapult on a ship?’

Baldwin nodded. They made their way back to the walls and climbed the steps again.

After their third attempt at storming the walls, the Muslims were resorting to hurling every conceivable missile they could at the walls and the towers, concentrating on the
point of the wall where the barbican protruded. Many rocks were landing in the city, but Baldwin reckoned these were simple overshots. The main targets were the defences, he thought, as a cloud of
flame burst from the outer wall in front of him. Black, reeking smoke roiled up from the bright yellow and orange flames, and he winced at the blast of heat as it rolled past him.

‘They must have brought every rock from here to Cairo,’ he muttered.

‘Aye, they brought enough,’ Hob agreed.

On the towers above them on either side, the smaller catapults were working hard, flinging masonry. Pieces of shattered Muslim missiles gave them plenty of ammunition, along with the rubble from
damaged buildings. The thunder of collapsing buildings could be heard every hour. But now a cheer went up from the besieged. The little cog had braved the rough seas, rocking and bucking, but when
the men on the walls saw her catapult send the first rock inland, they roared like spectators at a cockfight. Even from here they could see the sudden shock in the Muslim ranks. The first missile
missed al-Mansour, but flew straight into the flank of the men before the machine, and rolled over and over amongst them, crushing and killing several. A second flew harmlessly beyond the army,
hitting only a wagon and shivering it to splinters, but the third and sixth seemed to reach close to the machine.

In a desperate bid to remove this threat, the Muslims brought up a large mangonel and set it near the catapult, firing heavy steel bolts at the ship. The missiles missed, however, the arrows
stabbing harmlessly into the sea. It was a fluke, but a sudden shot from the ship punched into the sand near the mangonel, and one arm was snapped off, rendering the machine useless. But still the
great beam-arm of al-Mansour kept rising and throwing rocks at the city, and no matter what the men of Acre attempted, nothing could reach that dread device.

‘We have to get it,’ Baldwin said, resting his chin on his forearm as another rock flew past al-Mansour. He recalled his thoughts about killing the Sultan in his tent that first day.
‘We should attack it.’

Sir Otto was passing him as he spoke. ‘You aren’t the only man to have that thought,’ he said.

Baldwin nodded, turning back to the sea, and was in time to see the ship breast a wave. ‘He’s very close to shore,’ he said.

Sir Otto stopped and there was a moment’s silence as the men on the walls stared out to sea. ‘He has to be, to hurt them. He must be as close as possible. It is fortunate Buscarel is
a good shipman.’

The ship returned, and as it crept in towards the harbour, Buscarel relinquished his steering oar, along with command of the ship, with relief. His armpit, where he had gripped
the oar for so long that day, had been rubbed raw by the timber. Blisters had raised and burst, and now blood soaked his chemise. His eyes were salted and tired from all the spray.

‘Make her fast,’ he shouted, and the sergeant at the forecastle nodded and had two men set about the cables fore and aft, while Buscarel rubbed his eyes.

They had at least done some damage while sailing up and down the coast, but their catapult was not strong enough to reach into the main camp of the Muslims. They were forced to run up and down
as near to the rocky shoreline as possible, hurling their missiles as quickly as possible.

Leaving the ship, he saw Baldwin walking down to meet him, his scruffy dog behind him. There were two men along with him, but Baldwin stopped them at the ramp to the harbour, and walked on
alone.

‘Master Shipman,’ Baldwin called. ‘You did well today.’

‘Aye, well, we must all do what we may,’ Buscarel said, his eye falling to the ring on Baldwin’s finger.

Baldwin clenched his teeth and closed his fist. He stared at Buscarel challengingly.

‘No. Once I wanted that ring,’ Buscarel said, ‘but not now. I would be happy if I could only have my woman and children sent to Cyprus.’

‘Really?’ Baldwin found the assertion hard to believe.

‘I am Genoese. I wanted to fight Venice for control of the seas. When I saw a ship that was owned by Venice, it was natural that I should try to take her. If our roles had been reversed,
the Venetians would have taken mine and slain me. It is only on land that Venice and Genoa live in peace.’

‘But you are here, although your countrymen have fled.’

‘I was proud to be Genoese – but now? Now, I think I am a man of Acre. I have made this city my own. I would not leave her to be invaded and destroyed. She is the city where my sons
were born, and where my woman and I have our home. To flee and hide would be shameful. So, I will stay, and perhaps I will die, but I will do all I can for her while I live.’

Baldwin looked at him with surprise. ‘You would renounce your own homeland?’

‘I would give up everything to keep this city safe,’ Buscarel said. He stared at the line of buildings. There were flames lighting the skies to the north and east. ‘Look at
her! Acre burns, and for what? My family is here, but what will happen to them, to us? The city must hold.’

‘If she does, you will become a valued member of the Commune,’ Baldwin said.

‘Me? I doubt it. I am not noble, and I wasn’t born here. No, they’ll express thanks for my efforts and forget me. It’s the way of things.’

Baldwin nodded. They both knew that when there was no longer a need to defend the city, the merchants and barons would take control again, and those who had risked their lives would be
discarded. ‘Your fame will not fade so easily,’ Baldwin said. ‘The man who could lob his missiles into the Muslim camp will be remembered for many years to come.’

‘Perhaps. But then someone will mention that I was a pirate, and all my efforts before that will be overrun. But no matter. I am happy with my place. So long as there is wine to drink, and
my woman is safe.’