00 - Templar's Acre (23 page)

Thinking of Lady Maria and Lucia, Baldwin felt a curious emptiness in his throat. He had experienced shame and despair when he realised that Sibilla did not love him, and that was what had
impelled him to kill her lover, leave his country, and travel all this way: embarrassment at having been made a fool. But he hadn’t expected to find a woman here like Lucia, who could erase
his misery with a smile.

And now she was taken from him.

‘You are thoughtful?’ It was the Marshal. He had slowed, and now rode at Baldwin’s side.

‘Where do we ride?’ Baldwin asked, instead of answering.

‘We ride south and east for a day, and then we shall ride north. We are looking for signs of warlike preparations.’

‘In the desert?’

Sir Geoffrey grinned – which totally transformed his features. Up to that moment, Baldwin had only ever seen him look introspective and austere. With a smile on his face, he was more like
a kindly old uncle. ‘No! But I have spent long enough in the Temple worrying over ledgers, and you have spent too long slaving in the heat. I thought a few days away from the city would be
good for all of us.’

Baldwin smiled. He doubted that the ride was for his benefit, but as he studied the Templars around him, he thought they already looked less worn down.

They were a mixed group, consisting of five knights in white, each with a squire in a black tunic with the red cross, riding a spare destrier or charger, and each with a sergeant, who was
responsible for the sumpter packhorse. Baldwin had heard how these men would fight in the same manner as squires at home. As the knights crashed into the enemy, their squires would be behind them
in a second wave, bringing the destrier as a remount, and fighting while the knights reformed, ready to charge again. The Turcopolier would rally the sergeants and the lightly armoured turcopoles,
and they would ride in support, or charge together as a fresh rank and shatter any resistance.

‘You are impressed?’ the Marshal asked.

‘With the troop? Your Templars are an awesome sight. I only hope I might see them fight.’

‘I think that is all too likely. What do you think of the defences?’

‘At Acre? Strong,’ Baldwin said. ‘I have never seen so magnificent a city.’

‘Let us hope that we may keep it.’

‘With so many knights, and such a committed population, I don’t see how we can fail.’

‘I am glad of your faith, my friend,’ Sir Geoffrey said. ‘God will permit us to hold it, or force us to relinquish it, at His will.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘God alone can bring success.’

‘But men can occasionally guarantee failure,’ the Marshal added wryly.

They rode across the dusty plains south of the city, following roads that had lain there for centuries, whipped by the wind until they were hidden under drifting sand. Each
year experienced travellers exposed them with their great caravans, creating ruts in a seemingly endless expanse of sand.

At the end of the first day, the Templars busied themselves. The Marshal selected a location near a pool of water and the men waited for the command to dismount, and only then did they begin to
unload their equipment. Sir Geoffrey’s pavilion was placed at the centre, and while Baldwin struggled to remove his saddle, squires and knights silently made the camp. Tents were pitched,
fires lit, and men saw to the horses. Baldwin was impressed to see that the men who groomed the horses and saw to their needs tended to be the knights themselves.

‘The Marshal asks that you join him, Master Baldwin.’ The air was already cooling as the sun sank below the horizon, and Baldwin followed the young squire through the maze of
guy-ropes and huddled figures to the Marshal’s tent, where he was given a goblet of wine and waved to a seat.

For all the deference shown to the Marshal by both knights and squires, Baldwin was struck by the fact that the man’s equipment was precisely the same as that of the other knights. Even
his food was taken from the same cookpots. There was no favouritism.

‘You look surprised, Master Baldwin,’ Sir Geoffrey said when Baldwin glanced about him.

‘I am unused to the ways of your Order,’ he said. ‘I had expected more display of wealth.’

‘We take the threefold oaths, of chastity, poverty and obedience, as Saint Benedict demanded,’ the Marshal said mildly. ‘You see, our purpose is to serve God in the best manner
possible for a knight, as both warrior and monk. So, we are careful to be frugal, while also maintaining our strength. But we take our oaths seriously, naturally.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Why do men join the Order?’

‘I can answer that easily. For the same reason we interest you.’

‘Me?’ Baldwin said and gave an uneasy chuckle. ‘I don’t think I would be good Templar material.’

The Marshal peered at him over the rim of his goblet. ‘That itself makes you better qualified than most,’ he observed, and Baldwin suddenly realised he was being sounded out to join
the Order. He began to feel very nervous.

‘You were born to a knight?’ the Marshal pressed on.

‘Yes.’ Baldwin cleared his threat. ‘But that does not mean—’

‘And to that knight’s wife? You were not born out of wedlock?’

‘Well, yes – I mean, no. They were married, I mean.’

‘And you were trained as a knight?’

‘I was taught how to handle weapons of all sorts, yes.’

‘With whom?’

‘Sir Hugh de Courtenay at Tiverton. I went to him from an early age.’

‘But because your elder brother survived, he took the manor and the title?’

‘Yes.’

‘That is why so many of us joined the Brotherhood of the Temple. Like you, Master Baldwin, we were second brothers. Others, of course, were knights who inherited, and donated their worldly
wealth to the Order, but most were like you. Religious, men of commitment to God. And we
all
joined the Order because we sought to serve Him as best we may. Just as a monk would serve in a
scriptorium because of his skill in writing beautiful script, so I joined the Order because my skills lay in fighting and killing heathens. But I am no better than any of my brother monks in the
Order. I am one of them. So my food comes from the communal pot, and my allocation of meat and wine is the same as that for any other Brother Templar.’

‘It is a harsh responsibility, surely?’ Baldwin said.

‘It
is
a responsibility,’ Sir Geoffrey agreed. He sipped wine and gazed through the tent-flap. Tonight his eyes held an inner calmness which Baldwin had only ever seen
before in the faces of priests. ‘If you consider your duty to God, it is also an honour. To be accorded the responsibility to protect His pilgrims and His lands,
is
a marvellous
privilege, after all.’

‘Was it a difficult choice?’

‘To come to the Order? No more than it would be for you. One reaches an age when secular pursuits no longer hold their former fascination. When one has chosen to eschew those natural
pleasures, and instead select a life of duty, it can, in fact, come as a great relief. We were all brought up in the worship of God, so to make our oaths involved only a minor alteration in our
lives. It is not as if we were forced to take up the sword and the cross.’

‘No,’ Baldwin said. ‘Any Christian should be proud to join the Order.’

‘Most are,’ the Marshal said.

Baldwin heard the tone of enquiry in his voice and replied honestly: ‘I am not yet ready to shun the world.’

‘It is not really a matter of shunning the world. We do not hide from the world, we embrace it – but forego transitory pleasures that mean little. To spend a life in contemplation
and prayer, firm in the knowledge that what you do each and every day will help God and the poor souls here on earth –
that
is glorious, my friend.’

‘I hope to marry some day.’

‘I am glad for you. You are a strong, good-hearted man.’

‘You know that from two brief conversations?’

The Marshal smiled. ‘I have spoken of you with Ivo, and respect his judgement.’

‘What has he said of me?’ Baldwin asked, torn between amusement that Ivo had little better to speak of than him, and annoyance that he should be discussed behind his back.

‘That you are a fine young man, but have much to learn.’

‘That is true.’

The Marshal leaned forward. ‘Why are you here, my friend? Ivo tells me that you came here to escape something. Is it a matter for which you need feel shame?’

Baldwin looked out over the camp. The tent-flaps caught and rattled in the wind, and he could feel Sir Geoffrey’s eyes on him.

‘I killed a man over a woman I wished to marry. And when I heard of the disaster that overcame Tripoli, it seemed the most natural thing to come here and serve. But I had no idea of the
situation.’

‘Our position is perilous,’ Sir Geoffrey said, so quietly that Baldwin was not at first sure he had heard him aright. ‘It would take but a single blow from the Muslim army to
destroy our city. And without Acre, there is nothing. No Kingdom, no Patriarch, no hope. It would mean the end of our Crusading endeavour.’

Baldwin smiled. ‘Marshal, I know little, but I do know that Acre is a strong city. I have never seen any to match its defences. With God on our side, we would prevail against any foe. And
the Sultan has given us peace, has he not. We are safe for ten years, as he swore.’

‘I believed that once, but we have suffered much and lost much in the last years,’ the Marshal said. He sighed. ‘So you think that Sir Otto and the Orders are wasting our
efforts in strengthening the city? You think
you
waste your time?’

‘I believe strengthening the defences will not harm us,’ Baldwin shrugged. ‘But the timbers will be ancient by the time they see a siege, I think.’

‘I hope you are right.’ The Marshal stared out over the encampment. ‘I was there in Tripoli, Baldwin. I went to help protect her, and I failed, along with my companions. We
were as much use as a single dog against a pack of wolves. We could sound the alarm, but the numbers were overwhelming.’

‘It must have been terrible.’

‘You can have no idea. Until you have seen friends crushed to a smear of blood and bone, or seen men smothered in oil and pitch, burning like candles and screaming – you never heard
such screams! I hear them in my dreams . . .’

He glanced at Baldwin, and brightened, not without an effort. ‘But while there are fit, honourable young men like you to serve with us, we can protect our lands and peoples.’

‘I shall do everything I can to help.’

‘Consider joining us, then,’ the Marshal said briskly. His eyes were fixed keenly upon Baldwin once more. ‘We lost many of our men in Tripoli. Your quality is already noted.
You would be welcomed into the Order.’

‘I am no knight.’

‘We have need of all men-at-arms. Watch us, while we are on our little journey. See if you enjoy the camaraderie of our Order, and if you find you could work with us, then join us. You
need not sign for your life’s course, if you do not wish to, but if you would consent to taking on a black mantle for a time – during the defence of Acre, for example – you would
be serving God.’

Baldwin nodded, aware of the honour being paid him. Not many were invited to enter the ranks of the Templars. Shortly thereafter, he bade the Marshal goodnight and walked from the pavilion to
his sleeping space. Lying under the sheet the draper had provided, he stared up at the stars. The Marshal’s offer was very tempting. He did believe most strongly that the Templars were a
good, dutiful and principled force, but he did not believe this was the best way for him to serve God.

Would he do so, were it not for Lucia? he asked himself. Perhaps he should forget her. Let her pass from his mind and aim at a more honourable ambition than merely marrying a woman and raising a
family. As he closed his eyes, he saw her face again.
No.
While she lived, he would join neither the Templars nor any other Order. He would marry her, and make her the focus of his
life’s efforts.

* * *

Lucia halted and straightened slowly in the field as the overseer shouted at them to stop. She took up the mattock, and followed the shuffling line of exhausted men and women
back towards the farm buildings a half-mile away.

Her mind was empty. To allow thoughts to intrude was to permit pain to return. Her hands were blistered, the base of her right thumb bleeding, and there were sore patches on both palms. If she
were to look at them, she would notice the black, broken and ruined nails, too. Once she had enjoyed the attentions of the best manicurist in Acre. No longer.

They were at the outer gates. These were locked at night, but why, she did not know. If a slave were to attempt to escape, they would have many miles of dry, waterless lands to cross. There was
no escape. Only death.

Many sobbed themselves to sleep. Lucia listened with the detachment of a slaughterman listening to fasting cattle. They meant nothing to her, they were only companions in this torment. She
squatted on the floor beside her bowl of pottage and flat bread, eating with a slow precision to stretch out the experience. If she closed her mind, she could imagine the rich tang of lemon and
orange, the subtle savoury tone of olive, the sweet odour of lamb roasting on charcoal. She could almost imagine herself back in the garden in Acre.

In those days, she had delighted in life. The softness of silk under her fingers, the cool, swept paving slabs of the yellow stones underfoot, the constant scent of jasmine and spices.

It was enough to make her weep. They were gone, all a mirage. Her life in Acre was ended, and so too was her hope. She would remain here until death claimed her.

Although his decision had been made, Baldwin watched the Templars with interest that second day, awed by their organisation and efficiency.

They rose and ate together in contemplative silence while one brother read from the Gospels. The camp, he learned, was always set out in the same manner, with the Marshal’s pavilion at the
centre, with a portable altar set up in a tent alongside, where the Brothers all met for their services.