00 - Templar's Acre (42 page)

‘Lash the ammunition securely!’ he roared again, and this time one of men heard him. Seeing his frantic wave, the ship-man glanced about him, and Buscarel could see the dawning
horror on his face as the rocks began to move.

‘All of you! To the rocks! Tie them down!’ Buscarel shouted in despair.

The rocks which he had so carefully piled on his deck had been fired from the one side as he beat up the coast and sailing back, from the other. But now, the weight of rock was unbalanced. There
was too much on the port side of the ship, and as the wave caught her, the rocks on the starboard deck began to move. The slow sea made her roll sluggishly, and he could see the strain on the
lashings over the rocks as the ship edged further and further over, until he was hanging onto the oar in a desperate panic.

Up on the castle, the sergeant was hanging on to a rope, cursing and berating his men while they tried to rope down the rocks, but it was too late. With a sharp report, the first lashing
snapped, and a snake of tense cordage flew back. Buscarel heard the scream as it whipped past a shipman, cutting through his body, and flinging him aside. Then the rumble of the shifting load could
be felt through the deck. Buscarel gritted his teeth in horror as the entire load moved, and the cracking of the parting ropes sounded like the reports of thunder. The moving rock seemed quiet in
comparison, a hollow grating as tons shifted with a terrible inevitability to port. And with every inch they moved, the ship’s ability to return to true was reduced, until suddenly she was
too far over, and the rocks began to accelerate.

A pair of shipmen stood in the path of the avalanche. One scrambled, agile as a monkey, onto the top of the firmly lashed rocks at the port side, but the second was too slow. As he tried to
follow his mate, a rock tumbled over and over, crushing his leg. His wail of agony made his companion stop, and Buscarel saw him gaze back with terror, then continue, leaving his companion behind.
The trapped man glanced over his shoulder, and Buscarel saw the madness in his face as the next rocks engulfed him. His shrieks were soon silenced.

Buscarel tried to save the cog, hauling on the rudder to bring her around, thinking perhaps he could turn her port side to the sea, and that way have her forced upright . . . but a final wave
thundered into her hull, throwing her over with a squeal of tortured wood. As he leaped from the deck, hit the water and sank in, the cool brine stinging his nose and throat, he heard a distant
sound and realised it was a cheer of glee from his enemy.

He had failed.

Back at Ivo’s house that evening, Baldwin ate an early supper. It was good to come home. He was so weary, it was hard to keep his eyes open, and the thought of heading
straight for his bed was very appealing. At least in Ivo’s house there was peace. It was far enough away from the walls to be safe from most of the catapults, although it was impossible to
shut out the noise of stones hitting the walls and other buildings. A constant rumble and thud came even here: the threnody of war.

Ivo was at the gate with Pietro. ‘How are you?’ he asked, looking at the young man with sympathy.

‘Tired,’ Baldwin said.

When he saw Lucia, sitting on the bench in the garden, he was struck by a sudden embarrassment. He had no idea whether she had welcomed his advances on the night of the burning chapel. What if
the poor girl had been too scared to refuse him, with the fear of a slave for her master? Perhaps she had thought he would rape her if she tried to refuse his advances? That was a horrible
thought.

Edgar was at the table. ‘I was over with the men at the English Tower today,’ he said. ‘The attacks on the Barbican and the Tower of King Henry are having an impact. It worries
me, the way that the walls are shaking.’

‘They must hold,’ Ivo growled. ‘If that point falls, the enemy will have immediate access to the city.’

‘Perhaps. But even a baker can see when stones begin to shift in the masonry. A man beside me today was killed by a shard of rock. A missile struck the wall, and a great jagged piece of
the parapet snapped off and flew through the air. It cut off both his legs.’ Edgar wore a pensive frown.

‘There were many on the outer wall today who died,’ Ivo said. He sounded weary, and rubbed a hand over his eyes as he spoke. ‘Too many.’

Pietro brought some skewered meats from the charcoal brazier. ‘God’s blood, many inside the city died as well,’ he said harshly. ‘We need God’s protection, or the
city will fall.’

‘There are plenty of knights here,’ Baldwin said. ‘You shouldn’t fear.’

‘Eh? There are not enough men-at-arms. We need archers and axemen to defeat this foe,’ Pietro said. He didn’t meet Baldwin’s look, but stared aggressively at the floor.
‘I must go to the walls as well. I can do no good here, but I can wield a bow and arrows.’

‘Who will guard the house from looting?’ Ivo demanded.

‘If the Muslims get in, there will be no house to protect,’ Pietro said flatly.

Baldwin shot a look at Lucia. She had been listening, but her eyes were downcast. Feeling his guilt return, he too averted his eyes.

After they had finished their meal, Edgar and Pietro declared their interest in leaving the house for a while and seeing the damage outside. They left soon afterwards.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Ivo demanded, peering at Baldwin.

‘Nothing. But I have been asked to ride out tonight.’

‘Ride out?’ Ivo echoed. ‘What – outside the city?’

‘I am to ride with the Templars and try to destroy that damned catapult,’ Baldwin told him.

‘It would have been better, had that blasted fool on the cog hit the thing,’ Ivo muttered.

Baldwin shrugged. ‘Sir Otto is determined to remove it,’ he said.

‘When do you go?’

‘Sir Jacques will come for me.’

‘Good,’ Ivo said, and drained his wine. ‘At least he can keep an eye on you, eh?’

As Baldwin rose and left them, Ivo saw Lucia looking after him.

‘You should go to him, maid. He may die tonight,’ Ivo said, then looked up as a loud rumble came to them: another building struck and collapsing. ‘We all may.’

Edgar was already up. ‘I will see if I can help,’ he said.

Ivo nodded. ‘You go. I’ll wait here. I need to rest.’

Lucia watched while Ivo poured himself another cup of wine.

‘I know you, Lucia. And I know that boy quite well. He’s a good man. He needs your comfort.’

‘He did not look at me.’

‘Did he need to? He isn’t used to the sight of men dying. He’s not a knight. Treat him with kindness.’

‘I do,’ she said quietly.

There was another rumble nearby, and then a yelping from outside the gate. Lucia felt a quick alarm. ‘That’s Uther,’ she said, and hurried to the door.

The dog must have followed Pietro and Edgar when they opened the door, and a pair of street urchins had seen him. As Lucia opened the door, she saw them throw pebbles. Uther was whimpering at
the edge of the road, while the boys laughed.

‘Stop!’ Lucia shouted, running out into the road, but the boys only jeered and threw the last of their stones. They bolted when they saw Baldwin appear in the doorway.

Lucia ran to the dog, and when she looked up, she saw the twisted anguish in Baldwin’s face. He reached down tenderly and gathered up the dog, who whined again.

‘You poor fellow, Uther,’ Baldwin said, and there was a catch in his throat.

He turned and carried the dog back through the door. Lucia followed in his wake, pulling the door closed behind her. Baldwin laid the dog down on an old scrap of cloth he found, and studied
him.

Uther had been badly beaten. His fur was matted with blood, an ear had been slashed, and now he lay panting like a hart held at bay. Baldwin touched his head with his hand, and the dog opened an
eye and stared up at him for a moment. His tail beat twice on the ground, and then he closed his eyes again and lay, his breathing fast and unnatural.

‘Be strong, little fellow,’ Baldwin murmured.

Lucia saw the tears in his eyes and heard the thickening in his voice. She stroked Baldwin’s arm. ‘I will look after him.’

‘Thank you,’ Baldwin said, and would have said more, but there was a loud knock at the door. He ran to fetch his sword, took his leave of Ivo, and stood beside her.

‘Be strong, Uther,’ he said again.

‘Be careful,’ Lucia said. ‘Please, my lord.’

He glanced at her with surprise, and then bent to her and kissed her softly. ‘I will. Take care of him for me, Lucia, please.’ And then he was gone.

Lucia knelt beside the dog and rubbed her hand over his hot pelt. ‘You have to live,’ she told him. ‘He needs you more than me. If you die, that will be an ill omen for him.
Don’t leave him!’

Baldwin strode through the streets until he reached the Hospital of the Knights of St Lazarus. It was a large space – a fortunate fact, since there was a great force of
men and horses gathering. It was roughly triangular, with the church dedicated to St Lazarus on the left, and the great gateway of the inner wall dead ahead. The tower of St Lazarus, which had been
funded by the Order, was the other side of the gateway, and not visible from here. All the outer towers were built to be overlooked by those of the inner walls, so that defenders would always have
the advantage.

The Templars stood patiently by their horses. They were the largest force here, and Sir Guillaume de Beaujeu was mounted on a massive black destrier who pranced and stepped with barely
controlled excitement. This was no sweet-natured horse, but a trained man-killer that would kick, bite and stamp on any man in his path.

‘Quick, Baldwin – you can ride with a lance, can you not?’ Sir Jacques demanded.

‘Yes, of course I can!’

‘Good, then wait,’ he said, and beckoned a sergeant from his Order. The man carried a mail shirt that was several inches too big for Baldwin, but Sir Jacques insisted that Baldwin
wear it over his padded jack. There was a pair of whalebone-reinforced gauntlets, too, and a helmet of steel, but Baldwin found this last to be too large for his head and loose, so the sergeant had
to run to fetch a thicker padded coif for him to wear beneath it.

‘You will ride with the men behind the second rank, the squires and sergeants, Baldwin,’ Sir Jacques said as Baldwin drew the helmet on. It restricted his vision, and he found his
breath disconcertingly loud.

‘I am glad. But of all the men in Sir Otto’s army, why me?’

‘Well, my friend, I thought you could do with the ride. And there could be benefits for a man who has ridden in a holy war. We shall see!’ Jacques said with a quiet smile. ‘But
for now, please do me the favour of not getting yourself injured or killed, eh? Ivo would never forgive me. Keep your head low, aim for the heart, and keep your seat.’

‘Yes.’

‘You know how cavalry strikes. The heavy knights in the first wave will try to hit as one wall, knocking all opposition aside. The second wall will be the sergeants on the remounts for the
knights, and finally the third wave is yours. These successive shocks are what should drive the force through the defence.’

Baldwin nodded.

‘You will ride behind my sergeant here. Do you keep with him and mark his position, so that when we all pass through the Muslim positions, we shall be together and capable of supporting
each other. If you lose us, look for the Lazarus banner, and if you cannot see that, go to the Templar banner.’

There came a hissed command, at which the Templars mounted their horses.

‘God be with us!’ Sir Jacques said with a grin and trotted to his position.

At their head, Baldwin saw the Marshal, Geoffrey de Vendac, and beside him the tall figure of Sir Otto de Grandison, who looked about him carefully, eyeing the men all around, before lifting his
heavy war-helm up and onto his head. A man passed him his lance, and Sir Otto raised it to the Templar Marshal in salute. The Templars set off, eleven knights all told, with another four English
and three Leper Knights. And behind them, another three hundred men, mounted like Baldwin on heavy horses and armed with lances and a variety of other weapons.

And before them, Baldwin told himself, were two hundred thousand or more. He shrugged the thought away. His position was behind Sir Jacques. That was all he need worry about.

Glancing around, he was surprised to see a number of men bearing clay bottles with stoppers; they dangled from their saddles by thongs. They must be some form of weapon, but Baldwin was unsure
what. His wrist was sore where it was burned, and he rubbed it against his chin, filled with expectation.

The movement of the horse beneath him was so familiar, it felt as if it was only hours since his last ride. This was what he had trained for since his seventh birthday: battle on horseback. He
had practised for it so many times, and yet this was different. This time, it was for real. But the light and the strange atmosphere made everything feel like a dream. He leaned back against the
cantle, then to either side, making sure the cinch strap was tight, and shrugged his mail over his back. It caught some hairs at the base of his neck and yanked them out. The lance he had been
given felt solid enough. There was no looseness or rattling when he shook it. He felt for his sword, making sure it was firmly held. His mount blew, lifting his head and nodding, before shaking his
head. All the brutes were the same – they were eager, like racehorses at the start.

He had a little knot of tension high in his belly – not fear, but anticipation. Baldwin was keen to be out and galloping, as was his horse. He patted the fellow’s neck – a
good, hard slap to remind him that he had a rider and that his will today was subservient to Baldwin’s.

The Lazar sergeant beside him stared ahead, not looking to either side. At first Baldwin thought him afraid, but it was not that, it was merely a stare of concentration. Like the others he must
keep his eye on his own knight, so that the line would remain solid as they came to blows. Looking up, Baldwin saw that the moon was almost full. Its light would illuminate the field and make their
ride all the easier. But with luck, their attempt would be a surprise to the Muslims. If it were, their mission might just succeed.