00 - Templar's Acre (50 page)

‘Did you not know? While we rested, the women have been filling in the holes in the walls. Is it not a joy to see them join in our efforts?’

Baldwin nodded, a lump in his throat, as he watched the lines of women. They walked with wicker baskets on their backs, or cradling stones, and went with quiet dignity to the wall, where they
set their stones down, rebuilding the walls, filling in the rampart where the gatehouse had stood. Already there was a row three deep and two high along much of the rampart. Others were setting
their stones between the baskets.

Then he saw her.

‘Lucia!’

Lucia set the basket down and stood straight as she made her way down the rampart, her back muscles complaining. She heard him, but didn’t turn immediately. Not until he
was at her side.

‘Lucia, please, stop.’

‘I must get on,’ she said.

‘Are you all right? Where’s Pietro? Isn’t he here?’

‘No, we are working on our own. We do what must be done for the city,’ she said.

‘I wish I could take you away from this place. I want to be with you,’ he said miserably.

She put her hand on his cheek. ‘Baldwin, I am happy here. I am free. You have shown me affection, and there is nothing more I could have asked for.’

‘I wanted more.’

‘I know, but I am a slave. I have learned never to want. Slaves don’t receive what they want, only what others see fit to give,’ she said, a trace of hardness in her voice.

There was a call from the walls. Baldwin put his own hand over hers, and she saw that there were tears in his eyes.

‘Lucia, I love you,’ he whispered.

‘I know,’ she said, gently removing her hand.

He watched as she walked away along the street with the other women, past the barricades and into the city. It felt as though his heart was going with her.

Lucia overheard two women talking about the rent in the wall nearer the castle as she passed on the way to collect another basket.

‘It needs something to fill it, but we won’t be able to use large enough stones. We need something else.’

‘I know where there are hurdles and timbers,’ she said.

‘Where?’

‘My Lady Maria lives not far from here. She has many fixings, if her house is undamaged.’

‘Take us there.’

Lucia was soon walking down the familiar paths and lanes. There, that was where Philip Mainboeuf had lived. She supposed he must be dead now. The poor man didn’t deserve such an ending.
This was the place where she had seen those first bodies on the day of the riots; this, the fork where she had taken the wrong turn in her fluster. And this, this was the door she knew so well.

She knocked tentatively on the timbers, but the older woman with her rapped sharply. It was a long time before the little grille slid open and the bottler stared out. ‘You!’

‘Open the door,’ Lucia said calmly.

‘I’ll do better than that!’ The door was drawn wide, and the bottler reached out for her wrist. ‘An escaped slave? You deserve another good whipping, you devil. You
nearly killed my Lady’s favourite stud at her farm, didn’t you? As it is, he’s no good except for rutting and heavy pulling now. He’s like Samson, destroyed by you, his very
own Delilah.’

‘Let go of me,’ she said clearly.

‘I’ll take you to your favourite room, shall I, you bitch!’

She stood her ground, and when he pulled, she took out her little knife and stuck it very deliberately in his hand. He gave a sharp cry and let go, and she held it out, showing it to him.
‘See this? A good Damascus blade, Bottler. And I will use it. I am no slave now. I am working to save this city.’

Leading the way, she took the women through to the garden and out to the fencing beyond. There, they pulled and tugged at the hurdles and took them away, while the bottler watched, eyes narrow
with hatred, clasping his injured hand. Lucia walked past him without looking.

‘Lucia! I would speak with you.’

‘Lady Maria.’

Her lady was still much the same as ever. She had drawn on a great shawl of green silk over a simple shift, and stood at the door to her bedchamber eyeing Lucia.

‘What do you want, Lady?’

‘You are a cocksure little sparrow, to come in here after all you’ve done!’

‘What have I done?’

‘You betrayed your mistress. Even now you whore your body with your Frank lover, against all the laws of his faith and yours. And you tried to kill my Kurd.’

‘He
raped
me!’

Lady Maria’s contempt was poisonous. ‘He couldn’t. He was commanded to sire a puppy on you.’

‘You are
evil
!’

‘Me? I saved your life. You should have been executed for blinding my Kurd, but I allowed you to live.’

‘Why?’ Lucia asked. She feared the answer.

‘So that your lover would suffer. How much more satisfying to know that he craved you. If you were dead, he would find another slut; with you alive, but kept from his reach, he would
remain in torment.’

‘You failed!’

‘We will see. When the city is back to normal, I will have you denounced by the Commune, and then you’ll be taken away – and this time no one will rescue you!’

Lucia looked at her, and then, with a feeling of release she had never before experienced, she laughed. Not a shy, anxious laugh in the presence of her mistress, but the steady, strong laugh of
a woman with nothing to fear.

‘You laugh at me?’ Lady Maria shrieked, and clubbed her fist to strike. Lucia said nothing, but her eyes held enough threat. Lady Maria let her hand fall.

‘You really think the city will ever return to normal, my Lady? This city is finished, and you too. If you stay here, you will die, but if you leave you leave with my curse. I swear you
will take nothing with you. All you possess will be lost!’

Lady Maria fell back, whey-faced, as if bitten by a viper, and Lucia left then, without satisfaction, but glad. There was an ending in that confrontation, and she felt as though her old life was
eradicated once and for all as she made her way with the other women, back to the walls.

‘Buscarel!’ Lady Maria shouted.

‘Yes?’

‘You were here, but you did nothing to help!’

Buscarel looked at the bottler, who still clutched his stabbed hand. ‘You want me to wage war on the women who work to save the city?’

She was furious. ‘I told you I wanted you here to guard me and my property, and at the first opportunity you failed!’

‘If you don’t want me here, I can leave.’

‘You are here to protect my things,’ she said. He looked at her – damn him! – as though she was nothing more than a poor widow. She was a woman of authority in this
city!

‘Lady, I will protect you from attack, if you want. But I won’t hurt those who are doing all they can to protect the city.’

‘Then go! Go and die on the walls with the other fools! Don’t you realise I’m offering you the chance to survive? With me, you could live.’

‘We’ll all die. Maybe some few will make it to ships, but most will die.’ His expression changed. ‘Why would you think yourself safe?’

‘I have friends in the Sultan’s camp, Buscarel!’

‘Do you really believe that? What, do you expect that when a hundred thousand men arrive in these streets, they’ll make an exception because you tell them you know their
general?’

‘Stop that!’ she screamed. ‘You think you can laugh at me? I hold the power of life and death, and—’

‘Woman, you don’t understand anything, do you? You have no friends in the Sultan’s camp. When his men come here, they will break down your door and steal everything they can
carry. You, they will rape and kill. Then they’ll set fire to this place. Your “friends” in the Sultan’s camp will never even know you were here.’

There was a weary conviction in his voice, but she refused to believe him. No! He didn’t know the Sultan. She had spent so much time making alliances with the men of Qalawun’s court.
After her faithful service, his son would want to reward her. He would ensure she lived.

As Buscarel turned and walked from the room, she opened her mouth to call him back – but then closed it. Perhaps he was right. It would not hurt her to ensure that there was an escape, if
need be. She could gather her choicest jewels, her money. A woman like her would be bound to find space on a ship.

She nodded to herself, and then gave a shudder.

It was not pleasant to reflect that all her advice and assistance might have led to the destruction of Acre without even the advantage of protecting her own position and lands. In fact, it made
her want to weep.

The fighting began as soon as the muezzins had finished their calls, when the enemy launched themselves at the gatehouse again. Their catapults were aiming beyond them now, and
Baldwin was glad of that, except that every time he saw a projectile flying overhead, he worried that it might be hurtling towards Lucia.

He had found a new sword, with a straight, true blade, and while it lacked the balance of his other, it was at least firm enough in the grip to give him confidence that it would not shatter or
bend too easily.

Flat breads were brought to all the men at the gate as dawn gleamed on the horizon, and when it was full daylight, they had all been fed and filled with watered wine, and stood at the ramparts,
which had been reinforced with baskets full of rock, interspersed with palliasses and individual rocks.

Baldwin and Ivo were in the second rank at the rampart of wickerwork baskets and rocks. This new obstruction might hold the enemy for a little. The Templars and Sir Jacques took the front line,
over to the left, armed with spears and lances; the Hospital and some German Order knights held the right. There would be no need for lance-armed knights on horseback today. All weapons were needed
here at the front.

Their first warning was a rock that whirred through the air and beat against the wall with an enormous crash. A second stone filled with Greek fire came just after, and hit the walls behind the
English Tower. Baldwin saw the foul black smoke, the gout of flame, the twisting, shrieking bodies of men encased in fire who ran and leaped from the walls to end their agonies. More rocks. He saw
them strike, from the yellowish clouds that rose from the walls on either side, then more yellow-orange bursts, and one that came much closer, a pot of fire that slammed into the ground behind the
barricades. Men immediately ran to it, dousing the fires before the barricades could catch light and be ruined, and while they were there a second struck, showering the men with burning pitch and
oil. They ran about, deranged, screaming hoarsely until a sergeant mercifully despatched them.

At that moment, Sir Jacques turned and smiled at Baldwin, and that small act settled the young man’s fears. For he did have fear, and he was not alone. Beside him, a pock-faced man he
recognised from the market, muttered a constant stream of invective as they waited, while farther along the line a trio were praying and kissing their rosaries. Over on the right he could see Edgar
and Ivo, and next to them a stern-faced Pietro with a bandage about his head.

Then the clash of arms began.

A solid mass of Muslims, running full tilt, swords gleaming and spear-points ready, pelted up the rampart, screaming their hatred and rage . . . and the impact of their bodies thundering into
the wicker wall was terrifying; their mad determination inhuman. They sprang onto the wall, slashing down at the Christian line. More came on, packed so tightly that on the rampart it was like
being faced by a herd of oxen.

Some were instantly impaled on the Templar spears, but were forced on by the crush of men behind, until their moving jaws were almost close enough to bite the defenders. Others hurled themselves
on their dying bodies, treading them underfoot to bring down the spears, and then stabbing with their own. A man in front of Baldwin gave a hideous shriek and fell, and Baldwin saw that the spear
had entered the eyehole of his helmet. He scrabbled with his gloves for the shaft to pull it free, but another Muslim sprang to him and hacked with his curved blade. A Templar thrust with his sword
and that man fell, but another spear slid over the Templar’s coat of plates and under his chin, and he too was slain.

As the sun rose in the sky, so the battle continued, until the wicker baskets were reduced to threads of twigs and their contents were spilled – and yet the onslaught carried on, with the
enemy thrusting and stabbing. All day long Baldwin and the others were pushed back, only to force their way forward again, their numbers reducing, more men filling the gaps, and they stumbled on
the bodies of the dead and injured, and they fought, while their arms weakened and their necks ached, and the constant belabouring of axes, swords, spears made their heads ring and bruised every
limb. They fought at first with anger and defiance, then with savage determination, and finally they fought without hope or thought, but only a mechanical obstinacy.

There was no possibility of surrender, nor retreat; there could be no terms. Their enemy was determined to wipe them out. This city would be laid waste, the population utterly destroyed.

A flight of arrows flocked overhead, then sliced into the men behind. Screams and shrieks came to Baldwin’s ears, but only as a background. It was like the waves to a shipman. They could
be heard as a rumble and crash behind, but the shipman was more focused on the wind in canvas and cordage. In like manner, the sounds of men dying was overwhelmed by the roaring of his breath in
the enclosed space of Baldwin’s helmet, the deafening clang of weapon against weapon.

A spear caught his left shoulder, high, under his collar-bone. The mail snagged the point, and he felt it puncture his flesh, but he pulled his shoulder back, and jerked it down, and the spear
went over him. Another spear raked along his right forearm, under his sleeve, and he felt his skin sliced by the razor-edge, all the way to his elbow. Not deep, but it would sting.

About the middle of the day, with the full heat of the sun bearing down on defender and foe alike, the two forces parted for a space. Baldwin and much of his line was removed and fresher men
installed, while they were allowed to sit, ungrip their weapons, drink water. Baldwin pulled off his helmet and tipped a ladle of water over his head. It felt as though his temples must explode
into flame like the fire-pots the enemy hurled at the city, he was so hot. He could not drink for a space. His throat was so parched, his lips cracked and sore, and he could barely lift his arm
with a ladle of water.