00 - Templar's Acre (9 page)

‘Oh. You have seen battle before?’

‘Yes, on the ship,’ Baldwin admitted grudgingly. Youthful pride made it hard to admit to his failure.

‘That is good. A man learns more from defeat than from victory,’ the knight smiled gently. ‘It is the way he copes with hardship that defines him.’

‘I don’t need to worry about my sword skills,’ Baldwin said smugly.

‘Oh? Good. Would you show me, then?’

Baldwin looked at him. The knight was wearing his little coif again, as he had in the street when they had first met, but meeting Sir Jacques’s gaze, he saw that as well as the gentle
kindness in his eyes, there was also a measure of shrewdness. Still, he was a very old man . . . He saw the knight’s eyes crinkle at the edges, as though he was reading Baldwin’s
mind.

‘Yes, of course I will show you,’ he said.

Both drew, holding their swords aloft. Sir Jacques held his single-handed, almost lazily. His relaxed stance made Baldwin think he was unprepared, and he stabbed from a high guard. His sword met
empty air, as the Leper Knight span about and tapped Baldwin on the shoulder with his blade, continuing his whirl away, until he was at Baldwin’s side.

Baldwin frowned. ‘I was always taught not to move my feet,’ he protested.

‘Ah, I am sorry, my friend. I have learned much from my enemies here in Outremer. They tend to fight with lighter mail, and move with great speed. It is useful, I have found, to emulate
them. Please?’ With his sword held in an apparently negligent grip, he beckoned Baldwin with his left hand.

It was infuriating. Baldwin took the high guard, and slashed a blow to the left, followed by a feint to the heart and a raking movement from the right, but each time, the older knight was simply
not there. Once Baldwin almost caught a trailing length of tunic, but that was the nearest he came to marking his man.

‘How do you do this?’ Baldwin demanded. ‘Whatever I try, you have moved before I strike.’

‘I have practised my manoeuvres every day for five and twenty years,’ the Leper said.

‘But doesn’t your disease slow you?’

‘Oh! You were being kind to me, allowing for my disability?’ Jacques said with a beaming smile. ‘I had not realised.’

‘No, I mean . . .’ Baldwin was confused. He had thought Sir Jacques must be leprous to be a member of his Order, but the man moved with the rapidity of a striking snake. It was clear
he was no cripple.

‘I do not have leprosy, my friend. I serve my Order from compassion for others, and to repay a debt.’

‘Why did you join the Lepers, if you don’t have the disease?’

‘I wanted to offer my life in service. If it pleases God, and I hope my efforts do, then I can die knowing my life has not been wasted. And helping a young Crusader must also give comfort
to God. Or so, at least, I pray.’

Baldwin was feeling the strain. His arm was tired, and the air from the sea humid; his armpits were sweaty, his back running with moisture. He wiped his face.

‘Come, Master Baldwin. Another bout?’

Again that infuriating beckon. Baldwin took his time, placing his feet carefully, thinking. Each time the Leper Knight had whirled, he had moved to the right, coming back behind Baldwin’s
sword hand. This time, he resolved, he would meet his opponent as he went.

His sword rose into the True Gardant, his fist above his line of sight, the swordpoint dropping down before him, aiming at the knight’s belly, and then he moved. He stabbed downwards, then
span, bringing the sword round to hack at the knight’s thigh – but the knight wasn’t there.

A sword tapped his head.

‘Sorry, I thought you might try that.’

Baldwin was furious. He gritted his teeth, grasping his sword tightly, almost thinking to attack in earnest, but then he saw the smile on the knight’s face grow pensive.

‘My friend, I hope I have not offended you? However, if you are to survive here, you will need to practise with a Saracen I know. He can teach you much. It is not that your skills are at
fault, but here men use curved blades, and a drawing cut. If you wield a sword in battle against men in armour, it is less a cutting device than a hammer. You wield a hand-and-a-half sword like a
long-handled maul, because cutting through mail is not easy. Sometimes you may use it as a spear, which can work, but not always. However, in the city here you will find few wear mail. Good
swordsmanship is more important. Especially against the Genoese.’

Pietro walked into the garden bearing a tray of cool drinks, and behind him was Ivo.

‘I asked Sir Jacques to test you,’ Ivo said. ‘If you become embroiled in a fight with Buscarel, you will need more speed and guile than the skills you learned in
England.’

‘So you think me incompetent with a sword?’ Baldwin snapped.

‘No. You are good. Just not good enough,’ Ivo said.

Sir Jacques chuckled. ‘We all had to learn when we came here.’

‘If I fought the Genoese, I would die in moments,’ Baldwin said sulkily, shoving his sword away. He felt a wave of self-pity. ‘I didn’t land a single blow on
you.’

‘If you met with a man as old and feeble as me, perhaps yes,’ Jacques chuckled.

‘I came here to fight, and at that I am a failure. In my first battle at sea, I was beaten; in the streets you had to save me. I cannot fight anyone. I am pathetic.’

‘You have much skill, my friend,’ Sir Jacques said kindly. ‘But you need to learn how to watch your opponent and anticipate his moves.’

‘What, am I to spend my time learning and not fighting?’

Ivo nodded. ‘There are no great battles to fight yet. Some time soon, perhaps, we’ll have need of more swords. The Sultan Qalawun wants all Christians thrown from this
land.’

‘You see, he hates us,’ Sir Jacques continued, ‘and so he should, for we wish nothing less than the denial of all his ambitions: we seek the recovery of Jerusalem for
God’s chosen people, for the Christians. There will come a day when your arm’s strength may lead to the protection of the people of this city. Until then, you must prepare yourself, as
the Knights of Saint Lazarus do, and as the Knights of the Temple do: by practising with sword and lance and knife and mace – until you can wield all weapons to their best effect, to the
glory of God.’

He stood and rested his hand on Baldwin’s shoulder. ‘Come! You fought well today. With practice, you will fight still better, and be a great joy to all Christians.’

It was a few days later that Baldwin met the Templar shipmaster Roger Flor again.

For the last few days, Ivo had been taken up with business. More horses were needed for the Order, and Ivo was the Templars’ chief trader in horseflesh. He was known, Baldwin learned, all
over the Mediterranean for his fairness, but also for his determination to win a good deal for his clients.

Well, that attitude was fine in business, but Baldwin thought it made him too easy-going. Ivo was happier to negotiate than protect his own interests, but Baldwin was the son of a knight. He had
a duty to avenge any slur, and the Genoese had gravely insulted him. Baldwin would have his day.

But not with Ivo’s help.

Baldwin took to walking about the city in the early morning before the heat began to hammer at the senses. He liked it best just after daybreak, when he would walk to the cathedral to listen
over the hubbub of merchants haggling and children playing to the solemn prayers. The scent of incense lifted his spirits, and in there it was hard to believe the dire warnings from Guillaume de
Beaujeu of an army being raised by the Egyptians to overwhelm the city. God would protect His own. He would not see His last city destroyed, giving His Holy Land to the heathen.

Walking from the cathedral one morning, Baldwin stood in the sunshine and snuffed the air. There was a fresh breeze from the sea, and he could imagine the waves chopping at the hulls of the
ships in the harbour, the hum of the great cables as the wind plucked at them.

‘Master, I am glad to see you once more,’ said a familiar voice, breaking into his reverie. ‘I hope Ivo the killjoy has not completely destroyed your pleasure in
gaming?’

‘Master Roger – I am glad to see you,’ Baldwin said, grinning. It was easy to smile at such a welcoming face, especially since Roger Flor was only a little older than himself.
Baldwin felt a ready affinity for him which he could not feel for Ivo. After all, stern Ivo was old enough to be his father.

‘What, no Ivo today?’

Baldwin grinned as Roger made a show of peering high and low in all directions. ‘No, he is at the Temple. He prefers to spend his time counting coins there.’

‘Ah, an honourable occupation, I doubt me not. Being a Templar, I’m assured there is no nobler way for a man to spend his time,’ Roger stated, nodding sagely.

‘I would prefer to be busy with my sword,’ Baldwin said. ‘I came here to fight the enemies of all Christians.’

‘You should be a Templar, then. We exist to serve the pilgrims,’ Roger said.

Baldwin laughed at that. ‘What,
serve?
With the riches owned by your Order? You’d do better to give money to people so they can afford to travel here!’

Roger looked at him, and there was an unwonted seriousness in his voice. ‘Don’t make that mistake, Master. There are many who deride the Templars, but we need that money. It is
essential. If pilgrims are attacked here, they need help here, and were it not for the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, they would be entirely at the mercy of the Saracens.
But come! We will not fall out over such affairs.’

‘No, indeed,’ Baldwin said, ‘but I should like to know, if the reason for the Templar Knights’ existence is to protect others, how can they do it from inside a great
fortress like that?’

Roger followed his pointing finger and gazed at the tower of the Temple. ‘We don’t,’ he said simply. ‘Our service lies in bringing people here by ship, like you, and then
protecting them all about here.’

‘In the city?’

Roger looked at him. He still wore his customary little smile, but there was a hardness in his eyes Baldwin hadn’t seen before. ‘If you want to see what we can do, come with me
today. I’m riding with a reconnaissance out to the south, into the bay. You may join us, if you wish.’

Their journey had been a great success, and the trader Abu al-Fida was glad as he paid off the leader of the caravan and took his leave.

Abu al-Fida smiled at his son. ‘You did well this time, Usmar.’

‘I had a marvellous teacher, Father.’

‘This is true,’ Abu al-Fida said contentedly.

He and his son had hired a pony, and now, with the proceeds of their sales in Damietta laden on the beast’s back, they began to walk along the narrow streets to their home. Many Muslims
lived here, in the Christian city of Acre, but few had a past like Abu al-Fida’s. He had once been a warrior, but for him the days of lust and slaughter were closed away behind a sealed door
in his mind. Once in a while he had awoken his darling Aisha with his screams in the night, but she would comfort him through his nightmares, and over time, his dreams had lost their virulence. It
was many years now since Antioch’s fall, when he had clambered up over the rubble with his sword drawn, to deal death to the inhabitants. It was to escape his past that he had come here to
Acre, to forget machines of war, to become a simple merchant. A man of peace.

He shuddered. It was peculiar that he should have begun to have such dreams again.

They were passing the castle now, and soon would be at Montmusart, where they would go along the alley to their little house. There, his wife and daughters would be waiting. It was a good place
to live, a good city. Acre was rich, and had made Abu al-Fida comfortable. He had a good reputation.

Passing under the gate of the inner wall that separated Montmusart from the old city, he entered the lane that would take him to their house.

‘Usmar – you should buy a gift for your mother,’ he said with a frown.

‘I shall buy her flowers, Father.’

‘Very good. I will meet you at home.’ Abu al-Fida watched as his son hurried away. He smiled to himself. His boy, already twenty, was becoming a masterful negotiator in his own
right.

He continued, anticipating his welcome, turning over in his mind different ideas for new ventures, and how he might make best use of his son’s skills, until he reached the house, and there
he stopped.

He must have come to the wrong street, he thought at first. This wasn’t his home.

For where his house had stood only a shell remained, a twisted mess of charred and broken timber and rubble.

‘What has happened? Where is my wife?’ he called, but no one came. Only Usmar, who reached him gripping a brightly coloured rose in a clay pot.

‘Father?’ he said. ‘What has happened?’

Abu al-Fida did not answer. He fell to his knees, his hands scrabbling in the ashes and stone as if searching for his family.

His first view of the lands about the city surprised Baldwin. When he had climbed onto the walls near the Lazar Gate in his first week, he had looked out over square, mud-built
homes with low roofs on which were tables and cushions laid below stretched awnings for shade. Many slept on their roofs at night when the hot, humid air sucked a man’s energy.

Today he saw a different land. Riding from the Patriarch’s Tower, they rode through the little homes built close to the wall, and thence out to fields bright with orchards and vegetable
gardens, and the ever-present olive groves. The land was ablaze with colour, with flowers and fruits: pomegranates, roses, sweet-lemon and grenadine all grew in profusion, he had heard. Before
them, heat-haze made the horizon wobble and dip confusingly.

‘It hardly looks like it needs protection,’ Baldwin commented.

Theirs was a party of fifteen. A knight in a white tunic led them, but he was an old-school Templar who arrogantly ignored the others. The rest were all like Roger, brown-clad sergeants, with
lighter arms. This was only a reconnaissance, not a force in strength.

They followed the coast, past beached ships and on until they reached a road that led away from the sea.