00 - Templar's Acre (27 page)

It had fallen to him, perhaps, to be the last Templar Grand Master to address the Commune of Acre. That was a sobering thought.

He had no misapprehensions as to the severity of their situation. All the Christians of this city, forty thousand souls or more, were dependent upon his ability to convince these men of the
danger they faced. The reports of the envoy he had sent to Cairo had been uncompromising, as had the impression of the young man, Baldwin. He was a strong-willed fellow. Knew the value of a clear
report.

Their news was appalling, but it only supported Guillaume’s own convictions. There was no man so stupid as one who could not read the signs when they lay all about him – and yet
there were men here in this room who were fooling themselves into believing black was white.

Constable Amalric appeared, and Guillaume took a deep breath. ‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘I have news from Cairo.’

‘Please share it with the Commune,’ the Constable instructed him.

‘At our last meeting, I warned you that the threat posed by Qalawun was real,’ Guillaume stated, addressing them all. ‘He has already constructed the largest siege artillery
ever seen, and his army is enormous. There is talk of over one hundred thousand men. It is not a force designed to wage war. It is an army brought together to eradicate the last Christian outpost
in the Holy Land.’

Philip Mainboeuf had been sitting on a stool but now he stood and held his hands aloft. ‘My friends! Men of the Commune of Acre! How many
more
times must we listen to the same old
song? My ears are tired with hearing the same allegations at each meeting. Where is this army? Is it here? Is it marching to us now? No! Are their siege engines before our walls? No! Do we have
news of Qalawun leaving his capital city? No! Yet every few weeks the Templars seek to petrify us with vague threats and rumours. In God’s name, how much longer must we put up with this
nonsense?’

De Beaujeu could see that the majority sided with the merchant. Very well. He waited for the tumult to die down, but now he did not speak in the mild, gently persuasive manner he was accustomed
to use before the Commune, he used the tone he employed when speaking to subordinates. A cold, resolute voice that brooked no argument.

‘My Lords, Squires, Gentles, listen to me carefully. An army is assembled against us. It will leave very shortly. There are siege engines enough to destroy our city and forever dispel any
hopes of winning back Jerusalem. We risk not only our own lives, but the souls of all Christians if we fail here: for if we do, God must turn His face from us. We have a holy duty to protect that
which we hold.’

‘Against a will o’ the wisp!’ Mainboeuf laughed.

De Beaujeu did not look at him. ‘Not only have I been warned of this, I have been warned too that there is a spy in our city who seeks to convince us that the danger is not severe. I am
told that this spy has been given much gold to persuade you, the Commune, that you are safe.’

‘You accuse me of taking Muslim gold?’ Mainboeuf roared.

Before he could cross the floor, three Templars stepped before their Grand Master, and stood, hands on hilts. The Hospitallers were irresolute, while merchants bellowed and shouted, fists waving
in the air.

Constable Amalric stood and boomed in a voice that reflected his anger, ‘Be still! Grand Master de Beaujeu, I hope you have evidence to support this allegation?’

‘The evidence of my eyes and ears in this assembly is all I need, Constable,’ the Grand Master said. ‘There is one man who is determined to undermine the defence of the city at
every opportunity. He is there.’

Philip Mainboeuf snarled in response, ‘Look at him! A Templar, secure in his arrogance and pride! He tells us to prepare for war, and why? So his Venetian friends can make money bringing
crusaders here – and we know what that achieved, don’t we? The very danger he warns us of was caused by the last influx of Lombards. How many more does he think we need bring to our
city to guarantee its utter collapse?’

The Grand Master motioned to the Marshal, who snapped an order, and the three Templars moved aside. Guillaume de Beaujeu stopped before the irate merchant.

‘I do not spend money foolishly in the hope of gaining information. I spend carefully and wisely to ensure that I have the best intelligence I can acquire. If you are uninformed, your
opponent is not. He will make sure that he knows as much as it is possible to learn about you. About your forces, your defences, your food stocks, your water – everything. And that is exactly
what I try to learn about Qalawun. I pay a lot for the best results. And I have sent people to Qalawun directly to gain information about his forces.’

‘And you say that we have a spy?’ the Constable said.

‘We have. Someone who is greedy and debased enough to sell his city for gold.’

‘What should we do?’

‘Master Mainboeuf should be held so he may not earn more from Qalawun,’ Guillaume said. He stared at Philip Mainboeuf for a long moment, before turning and facing the Commune once
more. ‘I have sent an embassy to Qalawun. He agrees to peace and the renewal of the treaty for as many Venetian Sequins as there are men and women living here in Acre.’

If the noise before had been loud, now it was a roaring torrent of sound that threatened to deafen even the strongest. Guillaume de Beaujeu held up his hands. ‘Listen! Listen to
me!’

‘You say this deofol will bring an army to engulf us, and then you tell us to pay him? What stupidity is this!’ Mainboeuf bellowed.

‘We can hold him off for a little – if we pay,’ de Beaujeu explained, but no one wanted to hear.

‘You tell us to pay our enemy? First you state that he is on his way to kill us all, and then you tell us to bribe him! This is Templar logic, is it? I tell you, you wouldn’t last
long in my world!’ Mainboeuf jeered. ‘If you were to run a business in this way, you would soon have no trade and no money!’

‘This is cowardice!’ someone else shouted. ‘The Templars want to surrender. If Qalawun
is
coming, then surely it’s better to hold on to our money to pay to
protect ourselves!’

‘There’s a traitor here all right, and it isn’t a merchant!’ another roared from the back of the room. ‘The Temple wants to give our money to heathens? This is an
insult to our intelligence!’

Guillaume de Beaujeu felt his rage rise to encompass his whole soul. He drew himself up to his full height and stormed from the court, his men behind him, and out in the road, he turned towards
the Temple, shoving his helmet onto his head as he went.

The fools! Their brains were in their arses! They had no more hope of protecting themselves against Qalawun than a sparrow against a hawk.

But already, as he marched past the Genoese quarter, past the cathedral, and down St Anne’s Lane to the great gate of the Temple, he was thinking strategically. He must write to the Holy
Father in Avignon, apprising him of their dire situation, and asking for men and money to defend the last Crusader city, and then there should be plans laid for emptying the city of all but
essential people.

Reaching his chamber, he pulled off his helmet and set it aside. Then he began to remove his tunic. His squire was already at his side, and helped with the coat of plates, the mail, the thick
padded habergeon, and all the while Guillaume de Beaujeu was thinking, assessing, analysing, considering.

‘Leave me!’ he said when his armour was off, and he could shrug himself into his white habit.

The squire left the chamber with a graceful bow, and the Grand Master was alone. He walked to his chair and sat, staring into the middle distance, meditating – until it came to him.

No matter what he plotted and schemed, there was little he could do against the army Qalawun had gathered. Without God’s help, the city must fall.

And suddenly Guillaume de Beaujeu was aware of a heat at his eyes, and mistiness in his vision.

The next weeks were for Baldwin and Ivo a time of unparallelled effort. There was not a single part of the walls which was not resurveyed, and every week brought more timbers
for the defence of the city. Some were to go to the construction of engines of war, while others were stored. During a siege they would be brought out to shore up buildings, or strengthen
mines.

No matter that some continued to deny that the Sultan would attack; there were enough now who believed Guillaume de Beaujeu’s contention.

Ivo had been made a vintenary, responsible for a group of twenty men recruited from pilgrims, crusaders and city men. His first decision was to install Baldwin as his sergeant. Baldwin had
already decided that if he was to die, it would be with his countrymen, so he was glad to hear they would take a section with the English under Otto de Grandison. Ivo came and watched Baldwin with
a grudging approval as his sergeant took men aside and gave them lessons in fighting with spears or swords.

‘Ye’ll have your work cut out teaching that lot to fight,’ he said that evening.

‘They’ll fight better when there’s an army outside the city walls,’ Baldwin said.

‘Perhaps.’

‘You know it’s true.’

‘They’ll fight, all right, because they’ll have little option when Qalawun appears over that horizon. When men see him, some will fall to wailing and weeping, some will be
beshitten, and a few will stand and defy them. It’s the way of a siege.’

Baldwin remembered those words as he walked along the new hoardings atop the wall. He had taken to traversing his section, from the Lazar Gate all along to the Accused Tower, staring through the
hot air towards the horizon. He came here most mornings now.

Today, he saw a speck in the distance trailing a cloud of dust. Clearly it was a horse, and moving quickly. Baldwin peered through the haze, wondering who it might be. As the rider approached,
he saw it was a Turcopole, who waved and shouted as he rode, and Baldwin stared into the distance, fearing that at any moment the great army would appear. But there was nothing: no sparkle of
weapons, no cavalry, no sand rising from hundreds of thousands of feet.

He was still on the wall, when he heard the first great cheer from the gate, mingled with screams and sobbing.

Hurrying down the steps to the gate, almost tripping over Uther, he saw guards being kissed and hugged by women. The Turcopole had all but fallen from his mount, and stood, red-faced, his back
to a shaded wall, facing the sky, panting, while his horse puffed and blew nearby, head drooping.

‘What is it?’ Baldwin demanded.

A woman took his face in her hands and planted a kiss on either cheek.

‘He’s dead! Qalawun’s dead! We’re all safe! Our city’s safe!’

And Baldwin felt as though his stomach had fallen to his boots with the shock.

When he was called to Lady Maria’s house, Buscarel was intrigued. A maid led the way to the paved garden. ‘My Lady,’ he said with a bow.

‘Master Buscarel, I should be glad of your assistance,’ she said. She lounged on a comfortable couch in the shade. ‘As you know, I am a friend of Genoa.’

‘Yes.’

‘Venice is not, however. Nor are the friends of Venice. One such is this Baldwin de Furnshill, Ivo Pynho’s friend. I would pay you to kill him.’

He rubbed a thumb against his beard. ‘Why?’

‘Ivo wishes to foment war with Cairo. It serves his purpose, and that of Venice. We must stop that. Kill his friend, and he will have other things to consider.’

‘Very well.’

She watched him leave with a feeling of contempt for all men. They were so transparent. This Genoan, Buscarel, he was as dull-witted as the rest. Typical of the breed, he would fight for his
purse, but as soon as he was back in port, any money he had taken would be frittered away on whores and drink. It was the way of sailing men.

Taking a mazer of wine, she sipped contentedly.

That was why it was so easy to pull the wool over their eyes. Over those of the Sultan too, who thought he was gaining so much from her reports, while in truth she was learning more about him
than he did about the city. Over those of men like Mainboeuf, also. Oh, he had a pleasing thigh, and a nice tarse, but she was not bedding him for fun. He was the most prominent merchant here, and
he could tell her about the defences of the city and what matters were discussed in the Commune before anyone else knew.

He was the source of her value to the Sultan. And for that reason, her farms were safe. She would give away the secrets of the Pope at Rome to protect her lands.

The evening was warm and sultry, with wind blowing in from the sea as Baldwin walked back from the cathedral.

All had wanted to participate in the service of thanks which the Patriarch of Jerusalem had held. The bells had been ringing all afternoon, making a cacophony that was at first exhilarating, but
now tedious. Not that Baldwin cared. Like others, he was euphoric. And, to be honest, slightly drunk after all the wine he had quaffed.

Otto de Grandison and Ivo were chatting, walking in front of him. Suddenly a man bolted from a doorway. He almost lurched into the three, burped, apologised, and smiled crookedly, saying,
‘God has saved us! God be praised!’

‘God be praised,’ the tall Swiss agreed, and the drunken man walked away unsteadily up the road.

‘For Qalawun to die so suddenly, it must be a miracle,’ Baldwin said.

‘Or a poison given to him by an enthusiastic politician,’ Ivo said sourly. ‘They have different ways of ensuring their succession. Does anyone know who will be taking his
position as Sultan?’

‘No. I doubt me it matters,’ Grandison said comfortably. ‘Whoever it may be, he will spend his time consolidating his position, not worrying about war.’

‘But a man with a vast army must occupy it,’ Ivo pointed out.

‘This is true,’ Grandison replied. ‘But he will be concentrating on putting down plots about his succession, and the army will be useful for that. All I know is that the worst
threat to the Holy Land is dead. And that means I will be taking my men back to England soon. It will be good to get away from this infernal heat.’