00 - Templar's Acre (5 page)

Ivo glanced to his side, at the young man beside him. ‘You’ll have a story to tell your children, anyway,’ he told him.

Baldwin looked at him, and vomited weakly.

The view was one to fill a man’s heart with wonder. Baldwin gaped: truly, this must be the Holy Land. God had preserved him to see this, to fight and protect it. He would
be saved, he thought. His murder would be forgiven here.

Behind him he had left his guilt in a green, but drab England. There was little colour but grey stone, mud-daubed and whitewashed houses, and grass under a gloomy grey sky.

As they approached, the vast sweep of a natural bay opened before him, and it was on the northernmost edge that the city of Acre stood. Vast, more glorious than Exeter or Limassol or any of the
great French cities he had passed by and through, it took his breath away. This city gleamed as though it was clothed in perpetual sunlight: a city of gold. Terracotta made a splash of colour, and
there were patches of red, blue and green that rippled in the heat: awnings to provide shade.

Stone towers ringed a fortress at the tip, overshadowing the rest of the city, and from beneath it, the wall of the harbour stretched out into the bay, where there stood another tower upon a
rocky prominence. There were houses everywhere, and what looked like a monastery, with a castle behind. A double line of walls ringed it, reaching all the way to the sea, the inner wall higher than
the outer so that archers could fire over the heads of men at the outer wall into enemies on the plain. More massive towers rose up along its length, while outside the walls there was a number of
tents and small houses, with farmland beyond.

A city of gold, with verdant land to feed it, Baldwin thought. Yes, this was how Heaven must look. It was no wonder that men wanted to take it from Christians. Nor that Christians would fight to
the last to protect it.

‘That’s the Temple up there at the tip,’ Ivo said with a smile, seeing the direction of his eyes. ‘Templars always pick the best locations. This is their headquarters,
now Jerusalem is lost.’

‘That’s why I’m here, to help win it back,’ Baldwin said with a hint of pride.

‘Yes?’ Ivo said, and his smile was not unkind as he looked down at Baldwin. He sounded condescending, however, and Baldwin tried not to scowl as he replied.

‘I will fight for the Church to win back Jerusalem,’ he said. ‘My father was a knight.’

‘You’ve much to learn, Master.’

Baldwin gave him a sharp look. He did not like to be patronised, but before he could speak, Ivo continued.

‘This is the last bastion of Outremer, the “Land Over the Sea”. Twenty years ago we could have taken Jerusalem, but now? We’ve lost the castles, we have lost Lattakieh,
Tripoli, everything.’

‘Those who come with pure hearts will win for God,’ Baldwin asserted. ‘He will not allow His land to be taken by the heathen.’

‘So, of all the thousands who have come here, you think you’re the first to have a pure heart?’ Ivo snapped. ‘Are you truly that arrogant, boy?’

‘No, of course, I . . .’ Baldwin faltered.

‘How’s your head?’ Ivo asked after a moment, regretting his sudden outburst. There was no need to offend the lad. He had come in good faith to fight for the Holy Land. As had
Ivo himself, all those years before.

‘Better, I think,’ Baldwin said, his hand at his temple. ‘Why did they attack us?’

‘Your flag. The Genoese hate Venice. It’s always war when they meet on the seas.’

‘But both are Christian.’

‘Aye. That doesn’t mean they like each other. They’re enemies, and fight when they meet. They’re so keen on trade with the Muslims that they’ll draw swords against
anyone rather than upset their actual enemies. That’s how the Muslims have taken so much land from us.’

‘It makes no sense.’

‘You think I don’t realise that?’

Baldwin searched his face, but Ivo gave him no further explanation. So Baldwin gazed instead at the city. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Acre is the jewel of Outremer,’ Ivo agreed.

‘You are English?’

‘Yes.’

Ivo was not forthcoming, and Baldwin turned from him. Looking at the vast port, he felt his soul shrink. The attack on the ship had terrified him, and the blow to his head had jarred his entire
body, making him for the first time fully aware of the dangers of battle. He desperately wanted a friend. Home seemed so far away. He had so much to atone for: Sibilla and her man. The man Baldwin
had killed. That was why he had fled. He had been right to do so, he was sure. Here he could serve God, and hopefully forget his shame. But he still dreamed of Sibilla. Her eyes, her lips, her
warmth and softness.

He ought not.

Baldwin felt sure that if he told this stern fighter about his reasons for coming here, he would alienate himself. He was here to join the crusaders and win absolution, and yet seeing Acre for
the first time, he realised its immensity. He dreaded being set ashore alone.

‘Is there a place where crusaders go?’ he asked.

‘Bars and brothels, usually,’ Ivo said shortly.

Baldwin felt his hackles rise. ‘I am not used to such places.’

‘You’ll get used to them.’

Perhaps Ivo was not the man from whom he should seek aid, Baldwin thought. He was clearly brutish and ill-mannered.

‘Master, I am sorry if I’ve offended you,’ Ivo said. ‘It’s my own bile. I am told I have a melancholy nature. Perhaps they are right. Look, if you’re sure you
want to join them, you’d best go to the cathedral.’ He pointed towards the monastery. ‘It is there, in front of the Temple. You’ll find all the help you need.’

‘I thank you.’

‘Aye. And godspeed. But don’t expect too much honour and glory here. All you’re likely to find is a coffin – if you’re lucky.’

Baldwin felt terribly small as he walked the narrow streets, his pack over his shoulder. He must find the cathedral, and learn where he might acquire another sword. He needed
money, too. Ivo was a kindly soul, and had given Baldwin a small leather purse and a few of the local coins so that he might buy food and drink, but it wouldn’t last forever. First, he must
get to this cathedral. It was called St Anna, apparently named for the mother of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

At the harbourside there were trestles with fresh fish laid out on their boards, and soon he was walking past tables filled with foods he didn’t recognise: spices, nuts and berries, then
cloths of a richness and colour he had never imagined.

The place was rammed with people. In the narrow streets, it was alarming to be jostled and pushed about by so many – but over his growing irritation, Baldwin was aware of a savage joy. He
was near to where Jesus Himself was born. That was a wonderful thought.

Baldwin suddenly found his way blocked by a man in a cream-coloured cloak, wearing a white linen coif. Clearing his throat impatiently, Baldwin frowned at the delay. The man turned with an
enquiring expression.

‘My apologies, my friend,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Was I hampering your advance?’

Baldwin took in the red couped cross at his breast and bowed apologetically. The man had a greying beard that reached down to his chest, and that, along with the red cross, the white robes, and
the sword, marked him out as a Templar.

‘No, sir knight,
I
should apologise. I had no idea you were a Templar.’

‘Me?’ The man’s eyes crinkled with amusement. ‘No, I’m no Templar. Though I try to do my part. You are new to the city?’

‘I have just arrived. I am here to join with the crusade.’

‘Then you are doubly welcome. My name is Sir Jacques d’Ivry.’

Baldwin introduced himself, studying the man with interest. Templars were the only Order who tended to grow beards, he knew, while also shaving their heads. It was a sign of their rejection of
secular life. This man had hair, he could see – but perhaps here in the Holy Land men would emulate priests and only shave their tonsure? Still, this knight had a gentle, kindly look in his
blue eyes, like the vicar at Exeter’s sanctuary who had blessed him and sent him on this journey.

‘It is an easy mistake. I am a Knight of the Order of Saint Lazarus.’

Baldwin felt a shiver at his spine on hearing that: a Leper Knight.

He had always borne a horror of that foul disease. It was a sign of God’s rejection, many said, and the victim must be uniquely foul to deserve such a mark.

Sir Jacques did not notice his revulsion. ‘I joined the Order from an ambition to serve, and what better Order in which to protect the needy and defenceless? But many of my Order join us
from the Templars, which is why our symbol is so similar to theirs. When a Templar learns he has leprosy, he will come to our house, and his service continues.’

He broke off. A man was proffering fruit from a bowl, and he took an orange with gratitude, bowing to the man and thanking him in a language strange to Baldwin’s ears.

‘What was that you spoke?’

‘Arabic, my friend,’ the knight said. He had a small eating knife in his hand and he cut the orange twice about the middle, so that the flesh came away like four petals of a flower.
He left the skin attached to the orange, and studied it with a satisfied smile, replacing his knife in a sheath hidden under his tunic. ‘So, you are new here?’

‘I was told to find the cathedral.’

‘It is up that road, then turn left and keep going. You are rather out of your way.’

‘I am grateful.’

‘It is my pleasure to be of service, my friend. I hope we shall meet again.’ He pressed the orange upon Baldwin, ignoring his protestations that he could not accept it, until Baldwin
took it with as good a grace as he could manage.

‘Go with God, my friend. May He guide and guard you.’ Sir Jacques looked over Baldwin at the market behind. ‘May He guard us all,’ he added quietly.

Baldwin strolled in the direction Sir Jacques had indicated, eating the orange with delight. It was a rare treat for him at home, and oranges were never this sweet and juicy.
As he walked, he wondered whether he was following the same paths his father had taken when he had come here.

He had often heard the story from his father’s lips. Twenty years ago, he had joined the young Prince Edward and sailed here. Prince Edward had hoped to stimulate a renewed fight to win
back territories overrun by the Saracens, and could have succeeded, had he brought more men with him. But with the tiny force at his command, it was impossible.

Since his departure, as Ivo had said, the Saracens had rolled back the Christians from their borders. The Hospitallers had been forced from their great fortresses at Marqab and Krak des
Chevaliers, and the Teutonic Knights had lost their castle at Montfort. Now the only protection for the cities of Outremer was the ring of castles owned by the Knights Templar. This was why so many
Christians from all over the world were coming here, to Acre, just like Baldwin, in order to help the people protect their city, because the dread ruler of Egypt was threatening to overrun this
last enclave.

Baldwin walked past yellow stone houses. The people here wore flowing black or white robes, with strange headgear, and their dark faces had intense brown eyes that watched him without speaking,
as though he was a foreigner and had no right to be here. Never before had he felt so alien, and to be here unarmed was doubly alarming.

In the alleys were buttresses with arches beneath them for men to walk along, and irregular buildings that projected into alleys, all constructed of this golden stone. To have the money and
labour to set about creating a city of stone was astonishing. He knew of some buildings – castles, cathedrals, abbeys – which depended upon such materials, but not an entire city. Here
even peasants must live safe behind stone.

He kept on, marvelling, until he reached a dead end, and there he stood, gazing back the way he had come. Down there, between the buildings of the twisted lane, he could see the sun glinting off
the sea, and he was compelled to stand admiringly, filled with serenity, it looked so lovely. On his way back down the hill, he stopped, wondering which road might take him to the cathedral. His
sense of direction, usually acute, was failing him. Surely the cathedral must be to his right, if the sea was before him?

Hearing a door slam, he saw a woman appear in the lane, and he called to her. She ignored him, so he hurried after her. When he was a matter of yards from her, she threw him an anxious look. She
was tall – and slim, he thought, under flowing emerald robes – but beyond that he could see little of her. Her face was veiled, her hair hidden in a hood, but her eyes were visible.
Beautiful, they were: green, and outlined in kohl.

‘Mistress, I wondered if you could help me?’ he began.

To his astonishment, she picked up her skirts and pelted away. Ach! There was no point in chasing her. She was fleet of foot, and he was not, after his injury. His head was pounding with pain
and the heat. In any case, with the luck that had dogged him since leaving Italy, she would be unlikely to speak his language.

He stared about him dejectedly. These alleys all looked the same. After a moment’s reflection, he decided that his initial thought must have been correct. The cathedral must lie to the
west. He set off down the hill.

At a crossroads he turned right, hoping that the higher ground that appeared to lie this way signalled the location of the cathedral. The alley narrowed, and then he saw that up ahead it
broadened into a wider thoroughfare. Yes, it definitely had the appearance of a less intimidating, less foreign area, and he was relieved as he walked on, until he entered a square and gazed about
him.

At the northern edge there was a huddle of men about a table, drinking and laughing, and he gave a sigh of relief, for none looked like Saracens. Most were sailors. He walked towards them with
hope bursting in his breast that he could soon be out of here and safely at the cathedral, but then his steps faltered.

The leader of the Genoese ship was among them, staring at him with hostility as he drew a long knife.