00 - Templar's Acre (14 page)

The Saracen was shorter than Baldwin, his black beard unfrosted, his eyes keen as he sliced again with his curved sword. Baldwin had to lurch back to avoid that horrible blade. He could imagine
that if an arm or leg was snared by that, it would slice the limb away like a scythe, and at that hideous thought he lifted his sword into the True Gardant, his fist up and near his brow, the
sword’s point dropping away from his hand, pointing down and away from him.

The scythe-sword came back at him, the wicked outer curve aiming for his chest, and he dropped the point of his sword to defend himself. The man lifted his hand, and the point of the scimitar
flicked upwards, almost eviscerating Baldwin as the point came towards his groin. He chopped down with his sword, knocking it down and away, and instantly lifted his point again, trying to cut the
man’s thigh or groin, but both targets evaded him, and the two whirled about, their swords flashing in the sun as their horses moved this way and that.

There was a brief cry of pain, and Baldwin and his opponent were distracted enough to glance about them.

Baldwin felt his jaw drop. Three men lay on the ground, their bellies opened, their throats slashed. Hacked limbs littered the sand, while blood stained it black. And the man fighting him gave a
sob and lunged.

The attack caught Baldwin by surprise. The blade caught his right flank, and he felt it as a sharp pain, much like the lash of a whip. He didn’t realise that he was cut, but thought he had
taken a slap from the flat of the blade.

While the man’s attention was on his injury, a snarl on his face, Baldwin slammed the guard of his sword into his cheek. He felt the metal crush bone, and the man tumbled from his horse,
stunned. He tried to rise, but before he could do so, one of Roger’s men turned and kicked him on the jaw, then stabbed him through the throat with a long-bladed dagger.

Baldwin panted, lightheaded after the action, and was aware of a sudden relief. He had fought, and had not embarrassed himself. He had kept calm, and traded blows with the enemy. It was a source
of pride – and then he felt a shiver run up his spine and a black reaction set in as he took in the bodies lying all about. None of the sailors was injured, so far as he could tell, but all
the Saracens were dead. Their horses were docile enough, apart from one which had taken flight, and even now Roger was almost at it. He was soon trotting back, leading the horse by the reins.

‘Who were these?’ Baldwin said.

‘They’re Saracens who assumed the right to use a Christian road,’ Roger said with a grin. ‘And as a result, we’ve made good money. These horses can be sold, the
arms and armour too. And then, their goods can be taken to market at Acre.’

‘What goods did they carry?’

‘I don’t know,’ Roger said.

Baldwin felt a sudden cold certainty: Ivo was right. These men preyed upon Saracens. They had launched their ferocious attack purely to rob an innocent party of travellers.

And he had participated. He too was guilty.

Baldwin was struck with shame as he looked again at the murdered innocents. They had been carrying spices.

‘Look – balm!’ Roger said gleefully as he pulled a pot from a sack, opening the lid and holding it out. ‘Smell that! The Church will pay well for that – they use it
in the censers. This is going to reward us well,’ he gloated as he rifled though the other packs.

‘So we came here to rob?’ Baldwin said.

‘We’re in Acre to take back the Holy Land. What, would you have us leave the Muslims here unhindered? That won’t help our cause, will it? We must harry them as we may. And this
way, we increase the money in the coffers at Acre so we can fund more fighters. That cannot be bad.’

Baldwin’s misgivings were not soothed by this glib response. Not that Roger appeared concerned whether Baldwin cared or not. His man Bernat was close now, eyeing Baldwin impassively.

‘I thought you were as keen to come as I was to invite you,’ Roger said. ‘It’s a shame if you’re not. Still, you will have your share of the booty.’

‘I want none of it,’ Baldwin said, staring at the man who had been his opponent. The fellow’s wounds were already covered with a seething mass of flies.

‘No?’ Roger said. He glanced at the other men. ‘All the more for us, friend Baldwin. This is the manner of our survival in this land. You understand?’

‘Oh yes, I understand,’ Baldwin said miserably. He was sure that the activities of these men were no worse than those of others. While they gathered up their booty, and a pair
dragged the bodies a little away from the road so they might not be discovered too quickly, kicking limbs before them, Baldwin swore at himself for his folly in coming here. He was a knight’s
son. Chivalry was his whole life, and chivalry did not include murdering like common felons. The shame was overwhelming.

Roger stood, and Baldwin saw that the others had noticed their argument. There was a moment’s stillness.

‘Look, lad, I don’t want to see you unhappy,’ Roger said jovially. ‘We’re all friends here.’

‘Ivo is away, but Jacques d’Ivry knows I am with you,’ Baldwin told him, fearing some kind of retribution. ‘If I don’t return, he will want to know why. The blame
will attach to you.’

‘Baldwin, be calm,’ Roger said, still smiling. ‘You’re safe. But if I learn you’ve been talking of our little chevauchée, you will die before me. Somewhere
in a dark alley, you’ll be found, and with a Genoese dagger in your back, I expect.’

‘We understand each other, then,’ Baldwin said.

Roger nodded. It was a shame, but the fellow was not going to be an ally. Nor could Roger kill him with impunity. Better to keep an eye on him, and if necessary silence him later, in Acre, when
it was less likely any blame would attach to him.

Baldwin remounted with the rest of the party. His flank stung, and he looked at it nervously. A raking slash had skimmed his ribs, but it did not hinder his sword arm. Just as well, since one
glance at Roger’s face told him he must look to his own safety on the ride back.

Baldwin rode back alone, using his injury as an excuse for riding slowly at the rear of the column, from where he could keep an eye on the others, but to his considerable relief, nothing
untoward happened. It seemed Roger was content to trust him for now. Yet it was good to see the city once more, and as he rode in under the gate, Baldwin was aware of a sense of relief. He only
wished he could lose his feelings of guilt and shame as easily.

After seeing to their horses, Roger Flor found one of his sailors falling into step beside him. It was Bernat.

He spoke quietly. ‘That fellow today – Baldwin. I don’t know if we can trust him.’

‘How do we know whether any man can be trusted?’ Roger said. ‘The only way is to let him have enough rope to hang himself.’

‘He isn’t safe, I tell you.’

‘He won’t let us down. I trust him.’

‘He may hang us.’

Roger smiled. ‘I said, I trust him. I have spoken to him before, but if you wish, I’ll have another word with him and make him realise he must hold his counsel.’

Bernat nodded and said no more. There was no need. They both knew that the young Baldwin was potentially a threat to them.

It seemed to Edgar Bakere that all the peoples of the world congregated here in one babel of sound.

The sight of Saracen warriors had shaken him, but the more he walked about the city, the more he grew to notice others. It was astonishing to see so many Saracens tolerated. Merchants, traders
– they seemed to be everywhere. Almost more than there were Christians, and yet this was supposed to be a Christian city, with Christian beliefs. How Christians could trade with their
enemies, and worse, allow them to live in the same city, Edgar did not understand.

Nor did the other crusaders.

He was on his way back to his inn in search of a little food when he saw the first of the fights. A woman, veiled and swathed in black material so voluminously that only her eyes could be seen,
was walking with two men to guard her. For a moment Edgar reflected that Saracen women were harder to admire than Christian ones, and for that he was sorry. Edgar had always liked the company of
women, and on the journey here he had enjoyed mild erotic fantasies about exotic Saracen girls . . . only to learn that they would have to remain pure speculation.

It was not the woman who held his attention, however: it was the jeering, taunting men behind her.

Edgar could see that she was terrified. Her eyes were wildly shooting from one side to another, and her men were as fearful. They didn’t know what to do to escape the baying mob. For
that’s what it was: a mob of unruly Lombard mercenaries who had no idea how to occupy themselves. They had no discipline, and what order there had been was degraded by drink. Edgar could
understand their language moderately well after spending days in their company, and now he listened with a careful ear to their insults and taunts.

‘Why’s she covered up?’

‘Come on, girl, give us a kiss!’

‘What’s the problem, eh? Don’t you like real men?’

One man, bolder, or more foolish than the others, pushed his way to the front. One of the guards shot a look at his companion, and then the two tried to block the man’s path, but he
truculently set his hand to his knife and stared them down, before shoving past them.

The mob enveloped her guards like a wave washing over pebbles.

Edgar frowned. He could leave matters, return to his hayloft and forget this woman and her guards, and yet the behaviour of the man and the rest of the mob showed that the woman would probably
be raped, perhaps killed. The death of other men did not bother Edgar unduly – he was unconcerned that the two guards would almost certainly die – but he disliked the idea of the woman
being ravished or slain. It offended his sense of chivalry.

As she retreated, Edgar smilingly went to her and stood between her and the man.

‘Out of the way, boy,’ the man threatened, his hand still on his knife. His French was rough and, for Edgar, hard to understand.

‘Your pardon? What was that?’

‘Out of my way, fool!’

‘You are troubling this lady. I would see her left to go on her way.’

‘She’s only a Moor.’

‘That doesn’t give you the right to pester and annoy her. There are taverns throughout the city where even
you
can find a woman. You don’t need this.’

‘What’s she to you?’

Edgar shrugged. ‘Nothing. But I dislike seeing a woman harried.’

‘You’re still in my way.’

Edgar nodded happily. ‘I am, yes.’

The Lombard muttered a curse and drew his knife, holding it wide of his body as he crouched. On his breath was the unmistakable reek of cheap wine.

In the London streets in which Edgar had grown, a man soon learned to defend himself against drunk apprentices or clerks. His strength was good, his technical skills honed by the Master of
Defence. He eyed the man now, his eyes moving from the Lombard’s face to the knife, gauging when the man would make his attack.

There!
The point jabbed forward, then withdrew and slashed towards Edgar’s belly, but both were feints. They hardly reached close enough to tear his tunic. Edgar didn’t
move.

‘When in a fight, get inside your opponent’s reach,’ his Master had always instructed, ‘but if he has a knife, you must be fast and sure. Or you will be cut.’

Today, Edgar tested his theory.

The knife stabbed forward, the Lombard’s arm straight. Edgar darted towards him. His left arm went over the Lombard’s right, clamping the man’s knife-hand under his armpit,
while he wrapped his left arm about the Lombard’s gripping his clothing at the shoulder. The Lombard was locked in his grasp, and Edgar punched twice, with stiffened right fingers, quickly,
at the man’s throat. The man choked and retched, and Edgar span him around, ramming his face into the wall, then, as the man wailed, his nose flooded with blood, Edgar slammed his open hand
into the man’s elbow, wrenching it sideways.

He screamed and dropped the dagger, clutching his ruined elbow. Edgar turned him around, placed his boot on the man’s backside and pushed, hard.

As the Lombard fell amongst his companions, Edgar picked up his dagger. It was a good blade, strong and well made. He tucked it away into his belt and eyed the crowd. ‘Anybody else want to
try their luck?’ he challenged mildly.

As he spoke, the two Saracen guards pushed through the crowd and went to his side, one setting his hand on his sword, but Edgar hoped he wouldn’t draw it. If someone pulled out a weapon
now, the mob could become nasty. They had the ugly temper of London apprentices on riot, he thought, and he could all too easily imagine them ripping stones from the roadway to hurl at him and the
two beside him. That wouldn’t be good.

‘You a Moor-lover, boy?’ someone shouted, and another jeered, ‘You want a whore, they’re cheaper in the tavern. She’ll cost you dear!’

Edgar said nothing, but waited unmoving, alert. Some hotheads were all for attacking him, but already many had begun to drift away in search of wine, or easier prey.

Before long, he was alone with the three, and he wondered as he looked into the woman’s splendid dark eyes, what she looked like. He could not even tell how old she was.

She gave him a long study, from his head to his boots, before murmuring to one of the guards.

‘My Lady wishes to express her gratitude. She says you saved her when her own guards were incompetent,’ the man said stiffly.

‘Tell your Lady I was pleased to be of help,’ Edgar said. He tapped his belt. ‘I have been rewarded for my efforts with this dagger.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Me? Edgar – of London,’ he said with pride.

‘Where do you live?’

Edgar chuckled. ‘At an inn. They have a spacious chamber for me, where they store the fodder.’

‘My Lady would like to present you with this,’ the guard said, taking coins from a purse.

Edgar stared at them, and then smiled, bobbing his head as he took them.

‘I am grateful to you,’ he said, and as he returned to his inn, he was pleased. Now, he thought, he would buy new clothing to replace these reeking garments. He was on his way to
becoming a man of position.