00 - Templar's Acre (18 page)

Lucia must go. She knew too much of Maria’s business with Qalawun. How much had she told Baldwin?

The stupid girl!

Ivo saw Roger Flor in the market the next day.

The citizens were doing the best they could to make the city wholesome once more after the riots. Bloodstained paving stones were scrubbed clean, the smashed remains of pots swept away, broken
doors were taken down and replaced, and all over the city there was a feeling that disaster had been narrowly averted.

Roger Flor was standing at a stall with Bernat.

‘Good day, Master Flor,’ Ivo said. He kept on the left side of Roger Flor, away both from his knife hand and his companion.

‘Master Horseman. How are you this fine day?’

‘Well enough. But I think I warned you some while ago to keep away from my friend Baldwin, did I not?’

‘What one man may threaten, another may decide to ignore,’ Roger Flor said airily.

‘When a man threatens to take proof to your Grand Master that you are involved in robbing Muslim caravans, I think you will listen.’

Roger Flor took an olive and tasted it experimentally. ‘No, too old and sour. I wouldn’t buy one such as that,’ he said, and then turned to Ivo. ‘Old man, you should be
careful who listens to you. Some might think you were being threatening, and paunch you to see whether the cause of your bile was in your belly. Don’t threaten me.’

‘If you involve him in another raid, if he becomes ill, or if he is beaten and slain here in the city, I will hold you responsible, Roger, and I will have you dragged, if need be, to the
Grand Master, where you will answer.’

‘Me? I don’t know what he has told you, but you’ll find he was my companion on a ride. Am I accused of something more?’

‘He admitted how he gained that wound. Otherwise he’d have kept your secret. And now your raids will cease, or . . .’

Bernat said quietly, ‘Or what?’

Ivo grabbed Roger’s forearm and swung him around and over his leg, hurling him to the ground. Then he was at Bernat, and although the seaman had already pulled his knife free, he held it
low, and too close to his belly. Ivo kept moving forward, his right hand on Bernat’s knife hand, pushing with all his strength, his body’s momentum turning the blade to point at
Bernat’s stomach. Then, just as Bernat’s eyes widened with shock as the blade point scratched his belly, Ivo let go, and slammed the heel of his hand up under Bernat’s chin. It
struck with a sound like wet sand hitting two stones; a sudden click as Bernat’s teeth met, and the man fell.

Turning, Ivo snatched his own dagger out. Roger Flor was still smiling, but his eyes were filled with grim hatred.

‘Keep away from Baldwin, I said,’ Ivo told him. ‘I won’t see you pollute him. If you try to, I will make you wish you had never been born.’

It was Ivo who told him of the arrival of the English.

Their appearance was a shock to Baldwin. Somehow he had not expected to find so many of his countrymen in the city which he had come to think of as his adopted home.

‘Best come with me before the deofols attack a Christian because he’s wearing black,’ Ivo muttered.

They made their way to the harbour and found it in a state of turmoil. Sailors, many with their arms folded in disapproval, watched as English men-at-arms moved about the place. But this was not
the arrival of bitter, impoverished peasants with neither leaders nor discipline; this was a small, efficient army. Sergeants marched along the port, bellowing at the lines of men three abreast.
All were dressed in tunics with a small cross on the breast to show that they were bound for the Holy Land, but the effect was spoiled by the fact that all were befouled from their long journey.
Still, their weapons looked clean and well-cared for, and as an order was given, the polearms all rose, gleaming.

Baldwin eyed them jealously. If he could, he would have become a knight. Even to be a squire would have been an improvement. To be a warrior serving a lord meant to have certainty in life. His
brother Reynald now enjoyed that. But Baldwin, although he had trained for his knighthood, leaving home at the age of seven so he could live with Sir Hugh de Courtenay and his men, had not yet
gained the honour of his spurs. He was still a mere rural man-at-arms, with neither lands nor money to advance him. If he had not quarrelled with Reynald, and killed Sibilla’s lover, perhaps
he would be a squire by now. Then knighthood would have been achievable.

The men had gathered up their packs, and there was a pause while a horse was brought forward, and a tall, heavy-set man clad in gleaming mail with a distinct coat-of-arms, was helped into the
saddle.

Ivo was staring at the man. ‘Your eyes are better than mine. What are those arms?’

Baldwin peered. The knight was still a hundred yards distant. Fortunately, a banner was unfurled as a horn blared and the men began to march towards the city.

‘It has alternate blue and yellow vertical stripes, but there’s a red line angled down it. There are gold marks on the red band, too.’

‘Dear God in Heaven,’ Ivo muttered. ‘A paly of six, silver and argent, with a bend gules and charged with three eagles in gold . . .’

‘What?’

‘That man. I think it’s Otto de Grandison.’

‘Who?’

Ivo shot him a look. ‘Your King’s most loyal servant these last thirty years. He was here with Prince Edward.’

‘He looks well for such an old man,’ was Baldwin’s only comment as the men approached.

Ivo glared at him. ‘He’s not that old.’

‘No, I mean, I . . .’

Ignoring his flustered apology, Ivo stood watching the men approach. As the knight came nearer, he called out: ‘Sir Otto! God bring you fortune.’

The knight stopped. He had blue eyes in a square face with lines etched heavily into his leathery cheeks, and seeing Ivo, he frowned suddenly, his gaze wandering all over Ivo, absorbing his
dress and features, before a smile appeared.

‘Ivo de Pynho? God’s teeth, it’s good to see you!’

‘In God’s name, I’m glad to have met you,’ Sir Otto said. ‘It is good to be briefed before a conference. Is the King here?’

‘Not yet. I saw him recently in Cyprus, gathering more men. As you can see, we have strong enough walls, but without the men to protect them, we have nothing.’

‘Who controls the city?’

‘Amalric, brother to King Henry II, is Castellan. The Commune of the city also wields power: the merchants and barons have their say for the benefit of all.’

‘A gathering of merchants and stall-holders?’ Sir Otto said disdainfully. He took up a small unleavened loaf and broke it into four. Chewing, he eyed Ivo questioningly.

‘Years ago, there was a dispute about who should run the city, when the people rejected the man foisted upon them. Since then, they have decided their own issues. It works.’

Aye, perhaps,’ Sir Otto said, unconvinced.

He was not so tall as Baldwin had thought. His height was not far off Baldwin’s, but he had a way of holding himself that made him seem bigger. His hair was shorn in the way of English
knights – a military pudding-basin cut. While Ivo had assured him that the knight was fifty-five, Baldwin found it hard to believe. There was a vivacity and power to him that seemed out of
place for someone so old and his face, while lined, was not ancient. Even his fair hair had no sign of silver.

They were in quarters near the castle. Otto’s hall was a good size, with a pair of good chairs at the lord’s table. Trestles were set out with benches for the first mess of soldiers,
and now, as Otto sat and washed his hands, drying them on a pristine towel, his servants busied themselves preparing food. Otto and his guests had silver plates and fresh white bread, while the men
below had bread trenchers with their meats, and Baldwin watched them jealously in the light lancing in from high above. Dust motes danced in swirls of incense. No one looked at him. They were too
busy with their food.

‘What do you say, Baldwin?’ Ivo asked with asperity.

‘S-sorry, Master Ivo?’ he stammered.

‘Woolgathering, lad?’

‘I asked you: what is the quality of the city’s men?’ Otto said. ‘Ivo tells me there’s been rioting. What was the cause?’ He was leaning forward, his jaws
moving rhythmically, as though Baldwin was the only man in the room. It was intensely flattering.

‘I think it was the indiscipline, Sir Otto. Lombards and others arrived, most of them peasants.’

‘It is the way of the peasant,’ Sir Otto agreed. ‘No one who has seen the London mob could doubt that. They are like a mountain stream: calm, until roused, and then they become
a torrent that can wash away boulders.’

‘They must not be permitted to run wild,’ Baldwin said. ‘There are hotheads among them, and if they get into the open country, they could attack villages or caravans. That
could force Qalawun into retaliating.’

Otto glanced at Ivo. ‘You agree?’

‘Certainly. We must not provoke the Sultan.’

‘How many men can he muster? I remember vast numbers when I was last here. Now he has encircled the city, I understand.’

‘There are some outposts. The Templars have Castle Pilgrim and Tortosa, we have Beirut, Haifa, Tyre, all small cities with defences that are not so strong as ours. Also, Acre can be
replenished from the sea. She is strong, so long as we have the men to defend her walls.’

‘Would Qalawun attack, do you think?’

‘If he were provoked, as Baldwin says, his response would be overwhelming. I said Acre is strong, but we could not hold her against his full might.’

‘Then we must ensure no further insults are given,’ Sir Otto said. He waved to a servant, who brought cooked meats and a bowl of salad leaves. ‘I am grateful for your advice.
Is there anything else I should know about before I see the Constable?’

Ivo pulled a face. ‘There is one thing I would say: trust the words of Sir Guillaume de Beaujeu. He is a crafty man, with the resources of the Temple behind him.’

‘What, you mean I should borrow from him? I have no love of moneylenders,’ Otto said impatiently.

‘Money is not his currency: de Beaujeu deals in information. He bribes the most important men in the Sultan’s court – their avariciousness is legendary. His knowledge
occasionally offends those who depend on God, especially the Patriarch. Not that I blaspheme, but many would say that God helps first those who seek to help themselves.’

‘In what way?’ Sir Otto asked.

‘An example: the Templars warned of Tripoli’s plight long before it was recognised.’

‘Yes – so?’

‘Others thought the Templars were cowardly, and said so to Sir Guillaume’s face. Now all can see the truth. What I wish to say is, if Sir Guillaume asserts that the Saracens will do
this or that – trust him. He is well-advised.’

Edgar had not found it difficult to locate Philip Mainboeuf’s house. A young maid in a tavern near the cathedral found him irresistible; he found her a useful source of
information.

Making a mental note to return to her later, Edgar approached the Mainboeuf house, which was close to the main square. A vast-looking building, the golden stone of the area had been carved
wonderfully to make pillars and decorative chevrons all over the front. Large windows gaped open to let cool air inside. At the door three men lounged in the heat, and Edgar eyed them critically.
They did not look competent guards, he thought. All had leather jerkins, but while one wore a mail shirt, that was all the armour they possessed. They looked like the dregs of a lord’s host:
underpaid, scruffy and ill-disciplined.

‘Friends, is this the house of Philip Mainboeuf? I would like to see him.’

‘Does he know you?’ The mail-clad sentry was not rude. He looked at Edgar’s new tunic and boots with open respect. Edgar was a man with money, the sort who would usually be
permitted to speak to his master.

‘Perhaps we should ask him,’ Edgar said.

He was soon inside a long, rather narrow hall. Drapery hung from poles overhead like banners, moving gently with the breeze. Two clerks were seated at tables, writing urgently, while more clerks
and a Saracen steward hurried about, bringing scrolls and records.

There were pictures on the walls. Paintings of Christian scenes, and some few of warfare. As Edgar walked, he studied them with interest. One showed the sack of a city, before which he
stopped.

‘You like that? It was painted so we should not forget.’

Philip Mainboeuf was a man of perhaps thirty. He had a narrow chin and lively, amused eyes, as if he found all about him immensely delightful.

‘What was it?’ Edgar asked.

‘The end of the Siege of Acre, almost a hundred years ago. It depicts the taking of the town by King Richard, and the slaughter of the innocents in the city. It was always noticeable that
when Richard Lionheart took a town, the inhabitants were invariably slain, whilst when Saladin captured cities he invariably showed mercy.’

Edgar nodded politely.

‘You wished to see me?’ Philip Mainboeuf said, looking him up and down. ‘My man said you were a merchant, but I confess I do not know you.’

‘I am Edgar of London, and I have the honour to be a known master of defence,’ Edgar lied blithely. If he wasn’t now, he soon would be, he thought.

‘And what would I want with a master of defence?’

Edgar merely smiled in reply.

‘Did you see how many men I have on my gate already?’

‘Yes – three. You have another two in the yard behind your door, you will say.
I
will say, they none of them would match me.’

‘So, my bold friend. You wish to see to my interests?’

‘And you will pay me.’

‘How can I tell you would be worth my money?’

‘Look at my clothes. How many of your guards have been so well rewarded for their service, to you or to friends you know?’

Edgar was pleased to see that Philip Mainboeuf smiled at that. ‘You are very certain of your abilities, sir.’

‘I have reason to be. I am the best servant you could have.’

‘But I am safe already. I have many men to guard me.’

‘How many are in here with you now? If I were an assassin, you would be dead.’