00 - Templar's Acre (43 page)

There was a squeak of iron complaining, and the first gate was opened. The way between the walls was visible, the barred gates of the outer wall clear before them. An order was issued quietly,
and Baldwin gripped his lance more closely as he saw three guards begin to slide the massive bars across to rest in their slot in the wall itself.

Jacques peered over his shoulder and grinned, and Baldwin returned it, and then the gates opened and they were off.

There was a hush as the men rode into the space before the wall. Baldwin saw them funnel into the darkness of the tower’s gate, and then he too was beneath the vaulted ceiling of the
gate-house, and through, past the portcullis and gates, and his horse’s hooves thudded, muffled by the soft sand as they trotted gently onwards.

Sir Otto was looking carefully from side to side, assessing the total men with his force as he went. Gradually the Templars took up station behind their Marshal, he taking the point of their
formation, while the knights were each followed by their own waves of squires on heavy horses, then their sergeants on lighter mounts.

Baldwin saw Sir Otto’s great destrier rear up, flailing his hooves in eagerness for the fight, and the knight held his lance aloft. All the men were in the plain now, and Baldwin watched
the Marshal moving off, Sir Otto with him, and the standard-bearer of the Templars holding position between the two, the Beaucéant banner flapping as they trotted forward.

No cavalry could hold formation for long at the gallop. It was crucial that the front ranks should hit in one solid mass, punching through their enemies, and to achieve that, the charge must be
launched as late as possible, so that all reached their gallop together moments before they struck the enemy.

Soft, warm air touched his face. An occasional splash of cool sand flung at him, leaving a crusty residue on his lips. A grain in his eye, making him blink and quickly rub at it. A picture of
Lucia’s face. Baldwin found his mind wandering as he rode, random thoughts springing into his mind. Sibilla’s lover. The Cathedral Church at Exeter, the priest, the house being
demolished and the sudden thought that he should come to the Holy Land. All so long ago now.

All this ran through his mind, and then he realised that they were already increasing their speed, and forced his mind to concentrate. They were cantering gently, covering the space between the
walls and the army quickly. And then he heard the command from Sir Otto to charge, and immediately the bellow of rage, such as might issue from a charging bull, and Sir Otto leaned forward
slightly, his lance point dropping, and there was an echoing roar from the Templars. All their weapons were lowered, and Baldwin felt his blood singing in his veins as they pounded onwards, and
there, just ahead, he heard a shriek of terror, and a man sprang up from the ground, only to be trampled by the Templar horses. A mess of flesh and torn clothing. Two sergeants galloped past the
line of knights, one desperately trying to rein in his mount, but their horses were paying no heed. All were thundering forward, to ruin and death. Suddenly Baldwin’s mind was clear
again.

Ahead was the Muslim army. Lights from torches and fires illuminated their path as the three hundred men pounded on. A squeal told of a man impaled on a lance, and Baldwin saw his body sprawled
in the sand a moment later, but then he was concentrating on the path ahead. There was the great arm of the catapult, and he saw that Sir Jacques was heading straight for it. The Templars were
fanning out slightly, giving themselves more space, and now there was a rippling crash as the front ranks slammed into the paltry defence and through it.

Their arrival was a ghastly shock to the Muslims. The Templars poured through and over their sentries like a tide washing away the sand.

It was then that everything went wrong.

A horse gave a screech of terror and reared, falling into a latrine. Others, swerving to avoid it, rode past a tent, too close, and their legs became entangled with guy-ropes. One fell, crushing
his knight, but already their moment was passed. More and more Muslim warriors appeared, wielding vicious axes on long shafts, spears, even a war-hammer or two, and the men were soon engaged on all
sides.

Baldwin hurled his lance at one man and drew his sword, clapping spurs to his brute and riding on to the front of the battle. There was a hedge of bladed weapons glinting wickedly in the
moonlight, and shouts and roars as the horses moved forward, only to be pushed back. A mount reared in agony, a lance jutting from his breast, and fell amongst their enemies, and Baldwin saw the
rider, a sergeant, disappear under a flurry of swords and axes. There was plenty of space between the men, and he urged his horse on, spurring straight at three men who were running towards the
Marshal. One had a spear, and was about to thrust it into the Marshal’s face when Baldwin crashed into him. The man fell under Baldwin’s horse, and he used his sword against the other
two.

The Marshal glanced at him briefly and nodded. It was good to see his act had been acknowledged.

A shout, and he saw another group of Muslims nearer the catapult. They set themselves with lances and spears butted into the ground, small, round shields before them. Baldwin rode towards them
with Sir Otto and two English knights, but they could not break through the bristling points. Baldwin would have ridden past them, but there was no passage, and he swore under his breath. More
Muslims were advancing, warily, from their left, and Sir Otto waved on the rest of the sergeants.

‘Use them!’ he bawled. ‘Hurry!’

Two of the men nodded, and took up the pots they carried at their saddles. They hurled them into the men crouched before them, and a third man, who had ridden to a fire, came up with a lighted
torch, and flung it after the pots. Instantly there was a loud shooshing sound, and a thick, yellow flame rose from the midst of the spear-men. The rest were thrown into confusion, and Sir Otto
rode into the thick of them, plying a mace with a spiked head. Everywhere he went, the Muslims fell, and even when his sergeant was killed, stabbed by a spear under his chin, Sir Otto carried
on.

Baldwin rode to his side, taking the place of his sergeant, and hacked with his sword. Inside his mail coat, Baldwin was sweating profusely. His mouth was dry and he craved a drink. A fresh
flash and wash of heat heralded the detonation of more Greek fire, but when Baldwin snatched a glance, he saw that only their enemies were being burned. The catapult stood high overhead still,
mocking them, and Baldwin suddenly felt rage at the thing. He spurred and whipped his beast, trying to force a path forward, but the press about him was too strong. He felt a blow at his side, and
looked down to see a Muslim with anxious eyes staring at him. Baldwin thrust into his face, and saw the man fall, but even as he did so, he felt a hot lash at his leg. When he glanced down, he saw
he’d been cut. It was bleeding, but not profusely. He slashed with his sword, backhanded, at the man who had stabbed him, and aimed another cut at a man with a bill, but had to duck under the
fearful weapon’s blade, and then a man with a lance tried to paunch him at the same time.

‘Sweet Jesu,’ he muttered. A weapon flew past his face, almost taking his eye out, and he dodged again.

They had lost their momentum. Those with the fire-bombs were held back, and the knights were involved in furious hand-to-hand combats near their standard. Their position was precarious. He heard
a rallying cry, and managed to jerk his mount’s head away from the group trying to encircle him, cantering back to the banner. Behind them all, he saw that Muslims were beginning to rush to
take up positions.

Sir Otto was now wielding a hand-and-a-half sword with the ease of a child with a stick. He brought it down on the head of a man with an axe, and the man’s head was cloven in two. The
knight looked over at Baldwin, who shouted, pointing: ‘We’re trapped!’

‘Not yet!’ Sir Otto bawled, and then bellowed at the men to retreat to the gate.

Sir Jacques appeared at Baldwin’s side. There was a thick smear of blood on his cheek, and his mouth was raw where a weapon had smashed into his teeth.

Baldwin rode at his side as the remaining men, perhaps only two thirds of the number which had left the gate ten minutes before, galloped at the men trying to entrap them. The Muslims were
scattered like grain broadcast over a field, and the Christians continued until they reached the gates. And as soon as they were back inside, the gates were slammed, the bars sent across to block
out the enemy.

The night’s assault was over. Baldwin wearily sat in his saddle and gazed about him at those who had survived the carnage as they rode back into the broad area before the Hospital of St
Lazarus again. There were so few, compared with the glorious force that had gathered here only a matter of a few tens of minutes before. The only emotion he could feel was despair at the thought of
all those good men who had died. He should have seen it coming, after the failure of the Muslim attack on the Templar camp. They too had become tangled in guy-ropes. But he had not thought.

So many had died. And all in vain.

There was an enormous shudder, and Buscarel came to, in time to receive a shower of grit in his eyes. Coughing, he rolled over, blinking and wiping at his eyes.

‘Wait, you fool. You want to shove sand tighter into your eyes?’

‘Where am I?’

‘In the undercroft of the Temple. You’re damned lucky, too.’

He at last managed to open his eyes and gaze about him. The chamber was an old storage room, with squat, solid pillars holding up the massive vaults of the ceiling. Sconces held candles which
burned with sickly yellow flames, and there were some torches further away, set into brackets in the walls. Along the floor, palliasses were set out, and on all of them, men were lying. Some
appeared to be asleep, but for the most part, the men were awake, listening to the thuds of the rocks hitting the ground overhead.

‘Are they hitting the Temple?’

‘What, with their rocks? No, these are all landing a long way away,’ the man said.

Buscarel glanced at him. He was a short, grizzled fellow with the arms of an archer – immensely strong shoulders and biceps. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I managed to get a splinter of rock on my head,’ the man said. ‘It took off my helmet, and I was bleeding so much, they thought I wouldn’t last long. Then someone
noticed I was breathing. You were the same.’

‘You said I was lucky – why? How did I get here? I remember the ship sinking, and the sea washing me away . . .’

‘A fisherman found you and brought you in. He thought you were too far gone but the brothers reckon you’ll be all right.’

Buscarel remembered. The water, lapping over his nose and mouth, the saltiness on his tongue, the desperate thirst, while he clung to the ship’s oar. Every so often he would see the
battlefield and glimpse the rocks flying, the darkening of the sky as arrows were loosed at the walls of Acre. And then there would be a wave under him again, and it would pass on to the shore,
while he was concealed from that world of pain and anguish.

He had thought of letting go. Of sinking, to drown slowly. Men said it was not so painful. But others talked of the monsters beneath the waves, the little fishes that would feast on a
man’s flesh, the crabs that would pick at his eyes, the jelly-like creatures, the slugs, all eating his body . . . and he knew he couldn’t submit. To do that would be to give away his
entire body, and what would he then have on the day God called to the dead to rise again? So he had gripped that piece of timber, and refused to let go, while the shore slipped away, further and
further, and the currents pulled him out to sea.

A man clad in brown robes moved along the palliasses, a bucket in one hand, a ladle in the other. He stopped, providing drink to those who needed it, and Buscarel realised he was parched. He
swallowed, and called. The monk saw him and nodded, but continued his progress. One man did not move. The monk sighed, placed the bucket on the ground, the ladle inside it, and pulled the man from
the palliasse, leaving him on the stone flags, then carried on.

There was a smell about the room, Buscarel noticed now. A fusty odour of old damp stone and mortar, overlaid with a thick, cloying stench. It was the smell of death.

Lucia was in the garden still when Pietro opened the door, and she rose with a start on seeing Sir Jacques helping Baldwin inside, an arm about his shoulders.

Sir Jacques still managed to smile with his ruined mouth as he released his patient and passed him to Pietro. ‘Take care of Master Baldwin,’ he mumbled. ‘He will need that
wound seen to.’

‘What has the fellow done to himself?’ Pietro demanded, standing back and peering down.

He was pushed aside as Lucia reached him. ‘Oh, oh!’ She fell to her knees and pulled at his hosen, staring at his injured leg with her mouth curled in horror. ‘Quick, to his
bed, and then fetch me a cloth and hot water!’

‘Eh? I suppose I don’t have enough to do already?’ Pietro muttered truculently, but did as he was bid, while Lucia turned to Sir Jacques.

‘Nay, child, not me,’ he protested quickly. ‘I am not permitted to be touched by a woman.’

‘You think you will lose yourself in passion for me?’ she said curtly.

He took a step away, a grin twisting his bloodied features. ‘Baldwin has, has he not? Go to him, child. He needs you more than I, and I have men who can see to my face. Go on!
Go!’

She frowned quickly, but then turned and went back to Baldwin.

His leg was a mess. The cut had gone deep. It was fortunate that the bleeding seemed only slow, but he must surely rest it, she thought.

‘It was a dismal failure,’ Baldwin panted. ‘I should have warned them. I saw the Muslims fail in the same way when they attacked us in the desert.’

She placed a hand on his breast, and the gentle rumble of his voice made her hand tingle. ‘I prayed for you, and you returned, so I am happy.’

‘A hundred didn’t. They’ll remain out there. And what will become of us, I don’t know.’