00 - Templar's Acre (41 page)

‘Aye,’ Baldwin. His face hardened. ‘Did you know what Lady Maria did to her maid?’

‘Which?’

‘Lucia. She is with me now. Lady Maria had her beaten, and then delivered her to a slave farm. I found her there and brought her back.’

‘I wish you luck. For me, all I know is I am weary to the bones. I need to rest before I set sail again.’

‘You’ll continue tomorrow?’

‘Yes. If I can provide a harrying fire against them, at least I will feel I am achieving something.’

‘Tell me – when you assaulted our ship and took my ring, what would you have done with us?’

‘Sold you as slaves. Lady Maria had contacts with dealers in Cairo, and I would have made a lot of money from you and some of the other pilgrims.’

‘What of Mainboeuf?’

‘He was her willing assistant. A wily merchant, with contacts all over. That was why Lady Maria used him, I think. She wanted to maintain good relations with the Muslims.’

‘Why?’

‘Because her lands are hard to defend. Lydda is a valuable town, and if the Muslims wanted, they could take it and all within it. Lady Maria did all she could to protect it and
herself.’

‘Would she have sold Acre?’

‘No. She is a Christian.’

‘So are many who would sell their city and friends for a purse filled with gold,’ Baldwin said.

‘Here?’

‘It is rumoured that in Safed the Templars were betrayed by a single man who became Muslim,’ Baldwin said. ‘I did think that Mainboeuf could have done that. But then, why would
he have been taken and thrown into gaol? It cannot have been him.’

‘Surely no one would have betrayed us?’ Buscarel said, but in his mind’s eye he saw Lady Maria’s green eyes, and he wondered.

‘Good luck on the seas tomorrow. And God be with you.’ Baldwin hesitated. Then, ‘I will pray for you.’

Buscarel stared at him, and then patted Baldwin’s dog. ‘I never thought to make a friend of you.’

‘I think we have both seen much that has changed us in the last days,’ Baldwin said.

That night, Baldwin did not return to the house. He was desperate to go to Lucia, and to hold her, to lie with her, as though in her bed he would be safe from the rocks flying
through the air, but even as he made to return from the harbour, he heard the cries of men pleading for help.

‘What’s that?’

Hob jerked a thumb. ‘Look at the fires.’

Swearing under his breath, Baldwin hurried up the roads to the city centre, Uther at his heels. The scene that met his eyes was one of horror. Fires had broken out through the whole of the
eastern section near the Patriarch’s Tower: there were eight great conflagrations near the church itself. Gathering himself, he bellowed for Hob to join him.

Hob was soon with him, and began to issue commands. In moments a boy had been sent to find Anselm and Thomas and the rest of the vintaine, while Hob and Baldwin sent another to find buckets.
There seemed to be none about the area – all had been taken to the walls, where the fires had been burning already. Baldwin spotted the young James of Gibelet again and told him to run to the
Templars and beg for any spare men they had, and all the buckets they could provide.

The Patriarch, a rather short, plump man with a white robe and cap, was standing before his cathedral, praying with his eyes squeezed tight shut. Two of his clerks were behind him, in the same
attitude of prayer. Baldwin spoke to one, asking him to join them in helping put out the flames.

‘Leave us, man! We are praying to save the cathedral,’ he snapped.

‘God might consider helping you more if
you
helped put out the fires around your church!’ Baldwin snarled back.

‘Sir, we have buckets,’ Hob announced, and Baldwin was relieved to see a small force of Templars hurrying up.

One of them was Roger Flor, who gazed about him quizzically. ‘Not looking good, is it?’

‘It’ll be better when you’ve helped put out the worst of it,’ Baldwin said.

‘Aye,’ Roger said. Bernat was with him and the two strode over to join their companions in their brown tunics. Soon a chain of men was organised, and buckets were being manhandled up
to the nearest fires, and while Baldwin felt the flesh on his face scorching in the heat, at least he saw that the advance of the flames was being halted.

Uther was running about and yelping with excitement, or perhaps fear, and Baldwin saw a man aim a kick at him. He didn’t like to see a dog harmed, but for now he left the fellow alone.
Uther retired, with a slinking hurt pride, which may have saved his life.

Moments after he had gone, there was a loud rumble, and Baldwin had to lunge away, taking Hob with him, as a wall collapsed, the stones glowing dully from their heat. Some fell into a pool of
water, and instantly a cloud of steam rose. Then suddenly there was an explosion, and bits and pieces of stone shot all about. A man gave a thin scream, and clapped his hand to his face when a
shard of red-hot stone lodged in his cheek. Others had to hold him down as he threshed about, and cut the stone out with a knife. Baldwin saw the next buildings begin to smoulder, and to his relief
Hob gave orders for the men to hurry with the water again.

And so the work continued all through the night. At times Baldwin thought that they were getting the better of their enemy, and at last the flames were beginning to die down, but even as he had
the thought, another wave of clay pots filled with Greek fire hurtled over the walls towards them.

One smashed on the ground before Baldwin, and he felt the liquid hit his tunic, but by some miracle, the contents did not ignite. Three or four others landed in the road or on buildings, and
Baldwin and Hob were hard put to have the men stop the fires from taking hold again. It was not easy. The flames seemed impervious to water, and while the men threw bucket after bucket at them,
still the flames continued to burn. Then, while the men were running about trying to douse one fire, a further pot crashed to earth near the cathedral, and instantly one of the two clerks was
immersed in a column of flame. His figure could be seen encased within the fire, still bent and praying, and then slowly tumbled to the ground.

Baldwin swore under his breath. He grasped the Patriarch and his remaining clerk, pulling them from their contemplations, and shoving them away. ‘If you won’t help, you can at least
get out of our way,’ he shouted.

The Patriarch nodded, staring at his dead clerk. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said with a pained voice.

‘Who does?’ Baldwin snarled.

* * *

Baldwin and Hob worked until the sun lit the horizon. In the orange glow of so many fires, it was hard to appreciate that this new light was not merely a hellish reflection, but
soon Baldwin realised he could see Hob’s face.

Every crease was black, filled with soot from a hundred houses, from the remnants of clothing and wood. His eyes gleamed, the whites reddened with soreness, and his lashes were darker, like a
woman’s lined with kohl. But most of all it was the weariness that Baldwin saw, and knew that he was every bit as exhausted.

They had fought the fires all night, but even now, the sun brought no respite. The thunder and crash of the missiles shattering and scattering their flames far and wide was just as prevalent as
it had been in the middle of the night.

‘Hob, go and get some rest. I’ll see you on the wall,’ Baldwin said.

‘Aye,’ Hob said, and called hoarsely to the rest of their men. Soon they were shuffling away, and Baldwin called to Uther, who was cowering under a cart.

‘Come, little fellow,’ Baldwin said. He took a moment to crouch and stroke his dog.

The road here had lost many houses. Remains of their masonry stood up like blackened teeth against the glowing sky.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ Baldwin murmured, remembering his first glimpse of the city from the ship. Back then, it had been a city of gold, he had thought. Now it was possessed by a demonic
glow. Gradually he became aware of a strange stillness. There were still one or two crashes as rocks hit the city, but many of the machines seemed to have fallen silent.

He stood, carrying Uther, made his way to the walls and climbed the stairs. At this point, a large section of hoarding had been crushed and burned away, and there was little timber to replace
it. It did at least mean Baldwin could see much of the plain.

All about him there was still the rumble of missiles. Before him on the plain, tens of thousands of warriors stood with their banners fluttering in the light morning’s breeze. And then,
the last of the catapults fell silent. There came a loud cheering from the field, and as Baldwin watched, he saw the appearance of a warrior on a horse.

‘The Sultan,’ a man next to him said.

He was followed by at least three hundred men on horseback, all wearing armour that gleamed in the early light. As Baldwin watched, the Sultan lifted his arm, and then let it fall, and in an
instant, all the catapults fired together.

In the corner of the nearer tower, men were huddled down in the lee of the walls, watching a cock-fight. It astonished Baldwin that men would want to see more death, but at least the cocks meant
there would be food later. A sentry, peering over the wall, ducked back and hissed at the men to expect a missile, before throwing down his own coin to bet on the winner.

The Muslims had adjusted their range, and now the machines were aiming solely at the walls, the majority beneath the Tower of King Henry. A vast weight of clay pots filled with Greek fire were
aimed at that narrow section. Clouds of flame gushed, billowing black clouds smothered the area, and the noise was appalling. Over it all, Baldwin heard the iron clanging of the huge bolts fired by
mangonels, their hideous heads burying themselves in the rock. He detested them.

‘What now?’ he said.

The man at his side was the same blue-eyed Englishman with the heavy falchion. ‘Now? They’ll concentrate all their efforts on the walls, and leave the damage inside the city to the
two bigger ones over there.’

Baldwin looked to where he pointed, and saw al-Mansour rising over the field like a hideous gallows. He could almost imagine a man being hanged from that vast sling. It made the gorge rise in
his throat. But then he saw something else from the corner of his eye. There, out at sea, was Buscarel’s cog, and even as he watched, the cog’s catapult swung up, and another rock was
sent tumbling through the air.

‘They will not hit it, you know,’ Jacques said.

Baldwin turned with surprise. ‘My friend, what are you doing here? You should be at the Lazar Tower.’

‘I was aware of my post, yes,’ Jacques said with a very slight tone of impatience. ‘I have been sent to speak with Sir Otto. Sir Guillaume thinks that the ship will not
succeed.’

‘Why? Buscarel is doing a good job, flinging his rocks. It’s only a matter of time before he has destroyed that damned machine.’

‘Damned it may be, my friend, but do not be confused. We will die before it, at this rate. There is need for us to take the initiative.’

One of Sir Otto’s men saw Sir Jacques, and hurried to take him over to the English Commander. Baldwin waited, watching them discussing something, both close to each other, glancing through
gaps in the hoardings. Then there was a nod of agreement between the two, and they clasped their forearms in a display of trust.

‘Wait for me tonight, Baldwin, at Ivo’s house. You will come with us,’ Sir Jacques said, with that quiet smile on his face.

‘Where do we go?’

‘We ride to that damned machine, my friend. We shall go there and burn it and send it to Hell, where it belongs!’

By mid-morning, Buscarel was pleased with the way that the catapult was working. They had thrown fifteen of the great lumps of masonry, and although the Muslims had tried to
fire their darts in retaliation, it had availed them nothing. With the cog bobbing and dancing near the coast, it was impossible for them to hit her. She wove a frenetic course along the coastline
here, where the water was good and deep, and then tacked to return the other way, the men frantically working the great machine all the while.

It was good to be on the water again, he thought as he looked up at the sails and saw how she was falling away. This would be the last shot from this tack, he thought, and called to the sergeant
in charge of the catapult to get a move on.

The sergeant roared at his men to withdraw, then pulled the pin. The long arm swept up, the sling caught the lump of broken stone, and with a scraping rasp, the missile was hoiked along its
channel and up into the air. The sling released perfectly, and the stone flew straight and true.

His heart seem to stop. From here, Buscarel could see the stone moving swiftly away from him, up into the air, and then seem to hang, like a hawk stooping, only to plummet. And all the time, the
rock was moving perfectly in line with the hideous bulk of al-Mansour.

‘Sweet Jesus!’ he prayed. ‘Let it hit!’

There was a gout of sand, a spray of bodies, and al-Mansour was gone!

Buscarel bellowed with joy, his fist in the air, but even as he punched at the sky, he saw it was an illusion. The rock had hit men between him and that horrible device, but had missed it.
Al-Mansour still functioned. As he watched, he saw the arm rise lazily, and fling a rock at the city wall.

Swearing to himself, Buscarel was hit with a dejection so intense, he could have thrown the oar from his sore armpit and gone to find his skin of wine. This was a fool’s errand. How they
could hope to hit a machine like that at such a distance, especially from a moving platform like a ship. It was stupid at best, insane at worst. A waste of time and precious materials.

‘We go about!’ he roared at the men, but the noise of the creaking and whining timbers of the cog took his voice away.

Suddenly, a wave hit the hull and the vessel began a long, slow roll. No great problem – a cog like this round-bellied old sow was capable of weathering much worse seas than this. But
then, when he looked at the deck, he realised his error, and the new danger.