00 - Templar's Acre (28 page)

‘I do not know what I shall do,’ Baldwin said, only half-realising he spoke aloud. It was a curious thought. For the last months, his mind had been completely focused on the defence
of the city. Without that spur, there was nothing to keep him here – only the memory of Lucia. He passed a couple fornicating against a wall, and thought perhaps he should go to the whores
and dispel his natural passion. But he remembered the unsatisfactory coupling all those months ago when he had first arrived, and pushed the thought from his mind.

‘Well, what do you
want
to do?’ Ivo asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Baldwin said. ‘I cannot return home.’

‘Remain here, then.’

‘What, and join the Templars?’ Baldwin laughed.

‘You could join a worse organisation.’

‘I am not ready to become a monk.’

Grandison looked at him. ‘You could become a merchant in your own right.’

‘I know nothing about trade,’ he protested.

‘Then permit Ivo to teach you,’ Grandison said.

‘I would be glad if you remained,’ Ivo said.

Baldwin felt a welling that blocked his throat. ‘I . . . I am grateful.’

‘Good. That is settled, then,’ Ivo said.

They were passing a large mound of broken lathes and spars burning merrily, while people danced about it, hands linked. Men with bells buckled to their knees were dancing too, and behind them
people were drinking and eating. A man with a huge tabor drummed enthusiastically, piping at the same time, and a hurdy-gurdy was taking up the rhythm. Women sang and laughed, and Baldwin saw
children scuttling about and playing. It was a scene of joy. All were happy.

‘Everybody is celebrating. All the stores saved for the siege are being devoured,’ he said.

‘And the wine, too,’ Ivo said.

‘There will be more than a few children conceived tonight,’ Grandison sighed. ‘My men will leave many a young maid with an expensive present.’

Ivo glanced at Baldwin. ‘Is there any news of her?’

‘No.’

Grandison looked at him. ‘You have lost a woman?’

‘Yes. A maid. But her mistress sent her away.’

‘If it was a servant, you need only consider where your mistress owns houses.’

‘Lady Maria owns many,’ Baldwin said.

‘Then you will need to visit many, won’t you?’ Grandison said. ‘Faint heart never won fair maid, boy.’

Baldwin resented his bluff confidence. It was tempting to snap back at him, but then he found himself considering the Swiss’s words. He was right, after all. And if he were to search, he
might find his Lucia. ‘I will do so,’ he said.

‘We can sleep better tonight, anyway,’ Grandison said.

‘Yes,’ Baldwin agreed.

‘I hope so,’ Ivo nodded.

‘There is surely reason for a little more confidence than a vague “hope”,’ Grandison said. ‘God has saved us.’

‘For the nonce, yes. But I just wonder what will happen to that army.’

‘Ivo, you could make Bacchus miserable!’

‘Not as miserable as a hundred thousand warriors marching against us.’

The people thronging the streets made it hard for Buscarel to follow Baldwin. As soon as he saw the young man in the crowds, he gripped his dagger’s hilt under his cloak
and pushed forward. The drunks would shield him from view, and he could reach Baldwin, stab him, and be away before anyone was any the wiser. It was the perfect place for an assassination.

But there were too many celebrating for him to be able to get close without trampling all in his path in an unseemly manner. It was one thing to push men and women from his path, another to
cause such a disturbance that Baldwin must hear and seek the cause.

He followed, hoping to find the right moment.

In the last weeks he had been moving regularly amongst the men of Genoa. The mood was not good. All feared the loss of business if the Sultan arrived, and the Genoese had enough spies of their
own to know the Templar warnings were valid. Many spoke of leaving.

Buscarel trailed after the young man all the way into Montmusart, and thence to Ivo’s house. He stood in the alleyway near the entrance to the house for some little while, watching and
thinking. Acre was the only place he knew. It was the home he loved. He had his wife here, his son. The thought of fleeing to some other city was depressing.

It was a relief to know that the threat was receding.

Baldwin lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, his mind full of thoughts of Lucia.

It was the scenes all over the city tonight that had provoked this. Happy, cheerful faces had loomed in the flickering torchlight, people dancing, singing, kissing, laughing – the whole of
Acre making merry. Baldwin alone was miserable.

The pleasure-seekers should realise that although their enemy was dead, his army was still in Cairo, he thought. Yet how
could
they realise, for they had not seen that vast army.

Uther jumped onto his lap, making Baldwin start violently. He growled, ‘Clumsy brute,’ as the dog lay down, his chin on Baldwin’s belly, staring up at him. ‘You
wouldn’t be as foolish, would you?’ Baldwin muttered, scratching him behind the ears.

He was being irrational. It was jealousy: he wanted Lucia back. Here in the city it seemed everyone had a partner, and he wanted his. The idea that she was somewhere far away, toiling under the
harsh sun, made him shudder. Her delicate skin was not made for such torment. ‘His woman’ – it was ironic that he thought of her in that light. She was hardly known to him. He had
met her and spoken to her briefly, and she had spurned his advances. As she had said, she was not of the same faith, and unless she were to change, she could not marry him. It was unthinkable that
he might change from the True Faith, after all. So it was impossible for them to marry, and he suspected she would not tolerate being a concubine.

Yet the man Omar had said that his father, a Muslim, had married a Christian wife. Perhaps there were ways around the strictures of their religions without compromising?

This was ludicrous, anyway. He had no idea where she was, where she was living, or how. He would have to search all the farms and manors owned by Lady Maria, if he were to find her.

A shriek of delight came to his ears from the roadway outside, followed by a burst of giggling. Baldwin gritted his teeth.

How many different manors did Lady Maria own? Not that many. He had heard that she possessed lands near Lydda. Perhaps he should visit them and search until he found Lucia. Better that, than
lose her forever. What sort of a suitor would he be, were he to desert her to a life of slavery?

He would take Otto de Grandison’s advice and find her. At least now, with the threat of war receding, he could search.

Under Abu al-Fida’s careful direction, the great engine was taken apart.

Moving a massive machine like al-Mansour was a major undertaking. All parts had been marked by the carpenters under Abu al-Fida’s piercing gaze, so it could be brought together with speed
and rebuilt. The base was constructed from timbers pegged together; there was the support structure for the counterweight and arm, and ironwork for hinges and counterweights. There were many parts
which could fail individually and cause the whole machine to break down. Even the simple loop which hooked over the arm, to slide free as the arm rose to release the stone, was prone to wear. If
that happened, the engine was no more use than firewood.

But Abu al-Fida would not have it cease its bombardment because of a failure of planning. There were spares for all components: multiple slings, coils of rope, vats of grease for the bearings
and to keep the slings supple. In a series of chests were kept spare pegs, two for each hole, and all the paraphernalia of the machine was stowed in a logical sequence so a man could place his
hands on the relevant item at a moment’s notice. In all, al-Mansour and the items necessary for its continued running, were stored in more than a hundred wagons, which formed a column half a
league long.

And all for nothing. Because the Sultan was dead.

Abu al-Fida walked from the wagon park, and up to the castle, struggling to control his emotions.

This castle had been built by Christians, and the fiend Raynald de Châtillon had won it when he married his wife. The hero of Islam, Salah ad-Din, had captured it, and in recent years
Baibars had enhanced it.

It was as dark in history as Acre. Both were steeped in the blood of innocents. All because of the Franks. They took a place and perverted it, with their intolerable greed and brutality. Acre,
like Tripoli, should be torn down.

Over the entrance to his new tower in the north-west corner, Baibars had masons carve two lions facing each other. Abu al-Fida paused and looked up at them now, wondering, as he had so often,
what drove men like Baibars and Qalawun. He did not know. But while their ambitions matched his own, he was content to do all he might to support them. He wanted to see the last Christians thrown
from these lands, to see that befouled city, Acre, pulled apart so that the blood of the innocents could be avenged.

Qalawun had sworn – but now, now what would happen? The Sultan’s son, al-Ashraf Khalil, had taken power, but he was a weak man, from what Abu al-Fida had heard, and had been
mistrusted by many, including his dead father.

Abu al-Fida climbed the stairs and stood on the tower’s roof, staring out over the hills to the north, his fists clenched. Why was his beloved Usmar taken from him, when men like al-Ashraf
Khalil survived?

Poor Usmar. Poor Aisha. All his family gone in a matter of days.

Abu al-Fida struggled to hold back a sob. He could not believe that he had come so far, achieved so much, only to see this great war machine lie disassembled and idle. It was built for a
purpose. Without that, Abu al-Fida’s life was meaningless. His sole reason for existence was the destruction of Acre. Without the Sultan, without the army, there could be no release for him.
He had lived in Acre, he had lived amongst the Franks as well as in cities which were resolutely Muslim. If possible, he would prefer not to see further slaughter: in the final days of Antioch he
had seen enough to last a lifetime. After the appalling aftermath of that siege he had run away to discover a life which did not involve death. He had become a merchant, trading goods between the
cities.

His life had been good. Alas, that his wife had died with their daughters in that fire. Alas, that Usmar had died. All dead, and the city was responsible. He could never forgive that. There was
no hatred in him now, only a driving passion. He must see that city of devils destroyed. It was unthinkable that it should remain. It was an insult to God.

God wanted him to destroy that city – he was sure of it. To do His will, Abu al-Fida would bring such a shower of horror upon Acre that all would regret Usmar’s passing.

He only prayed that the son of the Sultan would grant him his ambition.

Baldwin was glad of an opportunity to join the Templar forces riding south.

‘This is only a reconnaissance. We ride to ensure that there are no elements of the Sultan’s grand army on their way to us,’ the Marshal said as they tightened cinch-straps and
checked their armour. ‘There have been rumours of spies over recent weeks. Our task is to see whether there are Muslim forces spying out the land.’

Roger Flor glanced at Baldwin. Roger was wearing the brown tunic of a Templar sergeant, the red cross a blaze of brightness on his breast. His beard had been trimmed and he grinned as he caught
Baldwin’s eye. They had not spoken since their return from Cairo.

‘Not like our last riding out,’ he murmured. ‘I’m glad you kept that quiet.’

‘It was not my place to denounce you,’ Baldwin said. He had no desire to recall that shameful action – he would be happier to forget it.

‘Godspeed, my friend,’ Baldwin heard, and turned to find Sir Jacques smiling at him.

‘You are joining us?’ he asked.

‘I was glad to ask to accompany the party.’ Sir Jacques peered ahead through the open city gates at the landscape outside. ‘It is time for us all to prepare for war.’

‘You think so too?’

‘I have no doubt. The son will want to keep his army busy, and demonstrate his determination to follow his father. He will want to end what Qalawun began.’ Sir Jacques glanced
shrewdly at Baldwin. ‘I heard from Ivo that you seek a woman?’

‘Yes. She was once the maid to Lady Maria.’

‘Then I wish you joy in your search. There is a manor of Lady Maria’s down to the south and east, which is on our way. Perhaps she will be there.’

Baldwin nodded. He would be glad to find Lucia there. Even if she was, of course, he was unsure what he might achieve. Her mistress had refused to sell her or give her her freedom, and if she
remained intransigent, there would be little Baldwin could do to force her. Still, if nothing else it was good to leave the city for a while, and make a journey in the more mild temperatures of the
winter.

The order to mount was given, and Baldwin and the others rose into their saddles, and were soon trotting under the broad gatehouse of the city and into the open lands beyond. Much had changed
since Otto de Grandison’s arrival. The shanties were gone and their occupants evicted. Where lean-to shacks had rested against the walls, now there was only cleared sand, while above, along
the line of walls, and atop the towers, the new hoardings concealed the sentries on the walls. The place had the appearance of an armed camp, as indeed it was.

Some distance from the city, the first of the farmed lands stood, green and verdant and full of promise. Baldwin hoped that the harvest would be good. He was at heart a rural fellow, and it
grieved him to think that good crops could be wasted by war.

They rode for a day and a half, heading first east and south, and then sweeping back towards the coast again. On their way, Baldwin told Sir Jacques about Lucia, and how he feared for her
because she was a slave.

‘Well, it makes your task easier.’

‘What, that she is a slave?’

‘Of course!’ he smiled. ‘She is a Muslim, you say. Well, that means she must be nearby. She will not be in Muslim-controlled lands, but close to Acre. Otherwise she would have
been released. Muslims would not permit a Muslim to be enslaved any more than a Christian would allow that to happen to a Christian.’