00 - Templar's Acre (3 page)

The reflection was enough to make him grab for the sheer and pull himself upright. A hand reached to drag him back down, but he shrugged it away. It was old Isaac, the pilgrim who had shared his
meals from the day they first took ship. Well, Isaac could crawl and hide, but Baldwin would prefer a quick death from an arrow than a coward’s end.

The other ships were close now. Even as he rose, he saw a grapnel fly through the air, and threw himself to the side to avoid its hideous barbs. It caught at the ship’s wale, and he saw
the sailor who had thrown it pulling hard, two of his companions grabbing the rope and helping draw the ships together. The first saw Baldwin, and he smiled – a fierce curl of his lips that
sent ice into Baldwin’s spine.

He tugged at the metal hooks to release the grapnel and throw it into the sea, but the weight of the men hauling at the rope meant he could make no impression on it. He stared at it, despair
flooding him. And then he cursed. He wouldn’t submit without a fight! Drawing his sword, he hacked at the rope. One, two, then a third blow – and there was a crack like snapping timber,
and the rope parted, the loosed end lashing back. Baldwin saw it whip at the pirate’s arm, and lay the man’s flesh open to the bone. He screamed and fell, and Baldwin felt a savage joy.
He bared his teeth and waved his sword over his head, taunting them, until a pair of arrows passed close by.

But now the pilgrims and crusaders were with him, and they were loosing their own arrows even as the two ships came closer, and Baldwin roared defiance as he saw a sailor topple, struck by a
lucky shot. It was only then, as he stared at the sailors on board that ship, that he realised that they did not look like the Muslims he had expected.

These pirates weren’t their enemy. With a sickening lurch, he realised that they were fellow Christians.

The flag of Genoa flew at their masts.

The man beside Baldwin fired a crossbow, swore to see it miss his target, and bent to span it again. He shoved his foot into the stirrup, catching the string on his belt’s hooks, and
straightened his legs until the bowstring was held on the nut. He hastily dropped a quarrel into the groove, aimed, and fired, muttering to himself as he missed again, and lowered it once more to
go through the reloading sequence.

The pirates were very close to the larboard side of their ship, and he could see their grim faces: dark, bristle-bearded, savage men, with blades glittering in their fists. The men on his ship
began to yell insults, screaming their contempt for the sea-raiders. Baldwin joined in, bellowing abuse with words he barely understood.

The man beside him had reloaded. At this range he couldn’t help but hit a pirate, Baldwin thought – when the bowman coughed and lurched, his head striking the wale with a sickening
thud. Baldwin instinctively assumed that it must have been a roll in the ship’s gait that had made him lose his footing, but then he saw the fletchings of the quarrel protruding from the
man’s neck, and turned with shock to see that the second ship was even closer, on the starboard side. Her crew were already leaping up onto the wale-piece, and some few had landed on the deck
and were hacking about them at the terrified pilgrims.

That was when saw the man with the crossbow, his eyes fixed upon Baldwin as he lifted his weapon to aim.

His bowels seemed to melt within him. All was slow as though, coming close to death, the very fabric of nature and movement of time had been slowed by God. It was punishment for his crime. God
was giving him time to appreciate his destruction, as if He had chosen to demonstrate just how feeble were his own puny efforts. God was watching as this ship, full of His servants, was overrun,
and Baldwin could do nothing to save himself, nor would God save him. His body was grown listless, his limbs leaden. There was no escape from a crossbow’s bolt.

All was futile.

He had travelled all this way in order to reach Acre, to participate in the defence of the last enclave of Christianity in the Holy Land. It was Baldwin’s task to help destroy the ungodly
hordes of pagans and help drive them back whence they came. And in return, he hoped to win peace from memories of Sibilla, and the body of her lover. In those seconds, staring at the
crossbow’s quarrel, he remembered this. He remembered the oath taken at Exeter Cathedral, the journey to the coast at Exmouth, then the voyage to English Bordeaux, followed by an overland
trip to the Mediterranean coast, where he had caught this ship. All those miles, all those leagues, only to see it end here.

The crossbow was aiming at his heart. He knew it, and in those last moments, Baldwin offered a prayer for his soul. ‘Dear Father, accept this soul, undeserving as it may be, and allow me
to join You in Heaven. I beg . . .’

He saw the point of the quarrel gleaming with a cold, blue wickedness, and then a man shoved him, bending to grab the crossbow from his fallen companion’s hands, and in that moment a
roaring sound came to Baldwin’s ears. And just for a moment, he thought he was dead. For a moment.

Then the crossbow moved imperceptibly, and the man at his side gave a yelp of agony as the bolt plunged into his back, through his belly, and slammed into the timbers before him. He snarled,
turning past Baldwin, and loosed his own crossbow at the ship behind him. The face of the bowman at the ship’s rail suddenly gushed blood and fell back, and the man beside Baldwin sank to the
deck, coughing and swearing.

And still Baldwin stood, incapable of moving, his sword useless in his hand as he stared at where the bowman had been.

He did feel, truly, as if he had already died.

Or that his soul had – and had been renewed. He felt as though all that had gone before had been taken away by that bowshot, as if it had taken his sins and foolishness with it.

Master Ivo de Pynho, lately man-at-arms to the Prince Edward of England, caught hold of the wale-piece of the
Falcon
as the ship wallowed in the heavy swell, nearly
thrown from his feet. It was pleasant to feel the air on his face again, a cooler air, free of sand and the intrigues of Acre, or the humid odours of Cyprus. The city there stank like a midden in
the heat.

He closed his eyes, revelling in the sensation.

Others weren’t so comfortable. Already there were three men, one a sailor, lying and groaning down near the mast, all whey-faced as they spewed weakly. Men new to the joys of travel, he
thought to himself. It was twenty years since he had first clambered aboard a ship and made his way over the seas to Outremer, the Crusader colonies, with his prince.

He had never returned home. Afterwards, the shame was too great. He had made a new life in the Holy Land. For a while – for a little while.

‘Ivo, shift your arse, man! I can’t see while you’re standing there!’

The coarse French was the natural language of those who lived in Outremer. Ivo didn’t glance towards the speaker, but waited until there was a gentle falling away sensation and the vessel
began to slide down the next wave, and then walked down the sloping deck to the main mast, where he caught hold of a rope and clung on. ‘That better?’

‘We’ll make a sailor of you yet, Ivo,’ the shipmaster sneered. His father had been a German, his mother came from Brindisi. While he laughed at Ivo’s Devon burr, his own
speech contained an interesting combination of accents.

‘You’ll be in Hell long before I become a sailor,’ Ivo growled with feeling.

‘Me? I’ll be in Heaven, man, singing and drinking! God won’t punish
me
!’

‘God hates all mariners, Roger,’ Ivo said. ‘Why else would He make the pox-ridden sons of whores so ugly?’

‘Why, so that miserable runts like you, who live on land all their lives, can have a moderate chance with the women, Ivo – because otherwise, it would only be sailors who populated
the world with offspring. As it is, all men who live near to port know that their women lie with sailors if they want some fun. And it is hardly surprising, man, because—’

‘Yes, yes, Master. You should concentrate on the ship and the weather,’ Ivo said.

‘Aye,’ Roger grunted. His dark eyes were watchful as he surveyed the seas before them, gripping the steering oar beneath his armpit. His sight was not very good, and he must peer
hard to see all the way to the horizon. Not that the horizon was visible most of the time, Ivo thought with disgust.

Their voyage had been comfortable until today. For all his faults, and Ivo personally thought they were many, Roger Flor was a good shipmaster who understood the ways of the water about here.
They had set off from Cyprus in bright, clear weather with the sea as flat as a slate, and it was only in the last day that the weather had grown more tempestuous, with the sort of winds that made
Ivo glad to be up on deck with a clear view. Even
his
belly would rebel, were he down below with the horses. Their whinnying could be heard now, over the thrumming of ropes and, the
creaking of timbers being tested to their limit.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, watching the shipmaster.

Roger Flor was leaning forward. A tall, bearded man, almost gaunt in appearance, he had the near-black hair and deep brown eyes of a Castilian. For all that he was born a Christian a
quarter-century ago, he would pass as a Saracen, were it not for the brown tunic with the red cross on the breast, and the short hair under his stained coif that marked him out as a Templar.

He called to his henchman now, a heavy-set sailor with a ragged scar on his face from nose to ear. ‘Bernat, look there. What do you see?’

Following his gaze, Ivo could make out a mast on the horizon. It disappeared as their ship dropped sickeningly into the valley between two waves, and then he saw that there was not one mast
alone, but two – no, three. A flag was fluttering from the top of one, and he peered in vain to see what it might be.

‘You’d best make sure the horses are safe,’ Roger said to Ivo, and his voice had lost all banter. It was calm and commanding as he shot a look up at the rigging, checked the
sails, and turned back to the three ships. The
Falcon
lurched sideways and a fresh outbreak of equine panic came from below. ‘I don’t want to see the brutes lost because they
haven’t been tied down properly. That’d reflect as badly on me as you. Off you go.’

Ivo nodded and made his way carefully to the ladder as the ship began to tip over the crest of another great wave. When he looked at the horizon again, he could see nothing but a wall of water.
It looked as though they were already pointing down to the bottom of the sea and would never rise back.

The way to the hold was a narrow ladder set against the deck, and lashed more or less securely to the hatch.

Ivo had descended this three times a day to check on his charges, a pair of strong destriers, seven rounseys and a few sumpters, along with a number of ponies, all needed by the Templars at Acre
to replace their losses at Tripoli. Today, with the sea moving like a sheet of silk flapping in a gale, the passage was treacherous. Sinking down through the hatch, he felt lighter on his feet, as
though there was an invisible hand plucking at him, tugging him from the rungs to fling him to the deck, but he clung on until the ship’s motion changed once more . . . regained his weight
and made it to the decking. He had to stand there a moment, still clutching at the ladder while he caught his breath, breathing in the odours of horse sweat, urine and shit.

Down here it was a scene from Hell. The destriers in particular were wild, lumbering and stumbling as the ship moved, kicking at the boards behind them, and Ivo could easily understand why. Down
here, all noise was emphasised and enhanced. Every wave slapping against the hull made a noise like a kettledrum, as if a giant was beating the sides of the vessel. Amidst the groaning of the
timbers, the constant howl of the ropes added to the hideous din for the terrified animals.

He saw a groom sitting miserably, his head over a pool of vomit, and kicked him up. ‘Go and see to the horses, unless you want me to tell the Grand Master you’ve been derelict, you
bitch-son! If any more die, you’ll be responsible.’

The man weakly muttered a curse, but rose and wandered sluggishly amongst his charges, while Ivo went to his palfrey and tried to calm him. Black as coal, he was, with a white star to the right
of his brow, a strong, powerful brute. But as he patted the beast’s neck and rubbed its nose, he heard bellowing up on deck. It sounded urgent, and he heard the sonorous pounding of the drum
calling the sailors to. His horse whickered and jerked his head, eyes wild, but Ivo could not wait. He darted for the ladder, and was soon back on deck, relieved to be out of that noisome hole.

‘Well?’ Roger demanded.

‘They’ll live. Only two have died this passage.’

‘Good.’

‘Why the drum?’

‘Why?’ Roger asked, leaning heavily on the steering oar as he bared his teeth in a smile of wicked pleasure. ‘Look up there, Ivo: Genoese, mother-swyving pirates.’

Peering ahead, Ivo gauged the distance between their vessel and the ships bound together in their battle. Shrieks and cries came to him over the water, even above the din of the massive waves.
He saw three ships: two were galleys, but of different classes. The third looked to Ivo’s eye to be a Venetian merchant vessel, designed for transporting high-value goods, while the galleys
looked to be Genoese, as Roger Flor had said. No surprise there: the Genoese and Pisans both detested Venice.

‘What will you do?’

Roger gave him a grin. ‘What should a Templar ship do? I will go to the aid of our allies, Master Ivo. It is my duty!’

Ivo nodded, and clung to a rope as Roger bellowed his commands. There was a general movement of men, some clambering up the ratlines to the sails at Roger’s urging, while others fetched
grappling irons and boathooks, setting the tools about with careful precision. Each knew his place: these were Templar shipmen. They would fight united, as would their brothers on land.

‘The Grand Master will be disappointed if his horses are harmed,’ Ivo said meditatively.