‘Peace,’ he said shortly, and ushered her from the place. He closed the door and slid a heavy barrel in front of it to block it. There was no other entrance, nor a window. Satisfied, he drew his sword, wrapped his cloak about himself, and sat on the floor facing the door.
He was safe enough. God Himself was watching over him, and those whom He protected needed fear nothing from the maggots who inhabited this miserable world. His sword was dedicated to God’s service.
The dream came to him more often the older he grew, as though his heart were ensuring that his memories could not fade.
Baldwin de Furnshill was eighteen at the time, and the noise of the siege had never left him: the roars and shrieks of men, the thunder of massed kettledrums, the ringing clash of sword against scimitar, the appalling damp sucking sounds of weapons impaling bodies. All was terrifying.
He had sailed there full of hope. His stout English companions would soon put paid to these subhuman creatures with their dark skin and weird war cries. The ship’s master had told them of other glories, how English Crusaders had evicted the infidels before. Richard of England had come this way, he said, and pointed to an island to the north.
‘He took Cyprus, because the king of the island tried to ransom Richard’s fiancée and his sister. King Richard went through the place like a lance through butter, even though he had fewer men. That’s what you’ll do at Acre. Go at them and see them off.’
Setting foot on the harbour, Baldwin knew the ship’s master had been boosting their morale. He must have known that there was no chance of pilgrims defeating the army that encircled Acre. It was too vast.
They had arrived to find the city in flames. There was a thick pall of smoke over all, and as the English party left the ship, they stood awestruck. All about them was mayhem. Men shouting, women screaming, children wailing. A sudden thud made the ground quake, and Baldwin caught the eye of a man-at-arms who sat on a bale of cloth near by, nursing a stump where his arm had been.
‘They have a big bastard mangonel over there. Keep your head down or they’ll take it off.’
If at that moment Baldwin felt less certain that he and his comrades could turn the tide and rescue this city, he was soon to be convinced of the inevitability of their failure. It was later that first day, when he clambered up the walls.
Over the wide plain, shimmering in the heat, men moved like demonic ants. The distance made them seem tiny, but their numbers were appalling. Baldwin gaped at the sight, and the sense of fear that had first gripped him at the port now returned and seemed to clamp itself in his throat, making breathing difficult. He felt the sweat start from every pore and gazed about him with terror.
In all that horror, as the boulders pounded the walls and the defenders toppled all about, if there was one thing that maintained men’s sanity it was the Temple.
The Order’s building was at the south-western-most point of the city. It was a strong fortress, but the knights didn’t cower inside. Although the Temple was some distance from the battle, each day the Templars were in the thick of it. As the Moors attacked, Guillaume de Beaujeu, the Grand Master of the knights, would rush there with his men. They would enter the fray with their terrifying cries, the black and white Beauséant high over their heads, hacking and stabbing until the attempt was repulsed. Then they would hurry to the next fight, their resolution and determination a spur to all the defenders of that hellish place.
Then came a day of disaster.
A massive, crushing explosion, and Baldwin had to duck to avoid splinters of rock thrumming past. He was near the aptly named ‘Accursed Tower’, and the Moors were attacking at every point. Their siege ladders rose, hordes of screeching warriors clambering up the lower rungs before the steps were vertical; arrows pinged off masonry by Baldwin’s ear; slingshot bullets rattled from armour; yet over all the din of war he could hear the shrieks to his right. Glancing around, he realized with horror that the enemy had reached the tower and were barricading the doors against the city, preparing to create a sally-port in the heart of the city’s defences.
Baldwin pressed forward with others, but it was the Templars who stormed on through the massed bodies. Baldwin saw Guillaume de Beaujeu at the front, exhorting his men to greater efforts, and then he raised his arm, sword already bloody and smeared as though with a fine red oil, only to falter and disappear. The fighting grew more vicious, no quarter given on either side, and then Baldwin was struck a ringing blow on his helm which knocked him all but senseless. He was helped to safety by a weeping man.
‘I am all right,’ Baldwin gasped after a few moments. His head still rang, but the worst of the pain was already abating. He thanked his rescuer, but the fellow didn’t seem to hear. He was staring after a group walking away slowly, carrying a body.
‘Did you see it? Did you hear him? There’s no hope for us now.’
‘Who?’ Baldwin demanded.
‘Beaujeu! He said: “I can do no more. I am dead. See, my wound.”’ Suddenly the man sobbed. His beard was scorched away from one side of his face, the flesh raw from sunburn. He stared up and shook a fist skyward. ‘Christ in Heaven, why won’t you help us? We’re defending Your lands!’
‘Baldwin?’
The kick to his foot made him grunt with annoyance, but Baldwin opened one eye and peered upward without enthusiasm. ‘What do you want now? Can a man not enjoy a moment’s peace, Simon?’
His assailant was a tall, lean man in his mid-thirties. Simon Puttock had strong features. His face was sun-and wind-burned, and his hair was beginning to turn to grey at the temples, but for all that he looked like a man many years younger. His dark grey eyes held a mischievous amusement as he looked down on his friend.
For the last seven years this square-faced, rugged man had been bailiff at Lydford Castle, and the daily riding over the moors to negotiate with the miners of the Stannaries in their disputes with each other and with the local population had given him the leanness of a trained whippet. Now, however, he had been granted a new post by his master, Abbot Robert of Tavistock. He had become the abbot’s official as Keeper of the port of Dartmouth, a position that he found much less attractive.
‘The Keeper of the King’s Peace must be exhausted after too many strenuous days. Once upon a time he would have woken with the dawn.’
‘Some of us have to work for our living, Bailiff. I have sat and decided too many fates in the last few days to want to listen to chaff from lowly officials.’
‘Oho! Lowly, am I?’ Simon chuckled, and then reached for the blankets covering Baldwin’s body.
‘You forget yourself, Bailiff!’ Baldwin growled. ‘I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace and this week I am one of His Majesty’s Justices of Gaol Delivery. I have power of life and death, so do not vex me.’
‘I shouldn’t dream of it,’ Simon said innocently, choosing a stool and sitting near by.
Baldwin grunted, eyeing him doubtfully, a tall, broad and thickset man, running a little to fat now. He was over fifty years old, but the years had been kind. He had dark brown hair and eyes, and a beard that neatly followed the line of his jaw. Once, when Simon had first known him, that beard had been black, but now it was pickled and spotted with white. There were sparkles of white on his head, too, and Simon was suddenly aware that his companion was in fact an old man. It was an alarming realization. He had lost too many friends already, and the thought of losing Baldwin too was somehow sickening. He could feel a heaviness in the pit of his stomach at the mere idea.
‘I don’t trust you,’ Baldwin declared, and reluctantly rose from the bed. He shivered a little in the coolness and pulled a linen shirt over his nakedness. ‘This week has been grim. Too many men hanged.’
‘They’ve received their justice.’
‘Aye, true enough, but sometimes a man would prefer to leaven the justice a little,’ Baldwin said absently. In his mind’s eye he could see one man’s face as he confirmed the decision of the other two justices and sent the fellow to th
e gallows. Most peasants exhibited little emotion. For them death was the end to a life of toil, perhaps. Or they were prepared for death, having seen so many friends and relations die during the famine. Misery and suffering were so common that even a sentence of death could seem like a release.
But this man was young. At his wife’s side was their child, a toddler who stood sucking a thumb and watching wide eyed as his father’s case was dispatched. The peasant glanced at them, and Baldwin had seen tears well in the man’s eyes. There was no wailing or howling to accompany the tears, just the sudden trickling that made Baldwin pause and think, and then the wife started to sob, a racking, tearing noise, and her baby began to bawl, and Baldwin’s heart felt as though it must break.
The verdict was just; there was no doubt of that. The fellow had stabbed another man in a tavern. Such things happened all the time, and usually the community would stand together and suggest that it was a foreigner passing through the vill who had committed the act. The sad fact was, though, that the dead man was a King’s Purveyor; he was in the vill to collect fodder and stores for the King’s household.
It was that which had guaranteed the peasant’s execution. No man could strike down one of the King’s officers with impunity–but how would another respond if he heard a Purveyor deciding to take all the food set aside for winter?
Baldwin had seen too many men die. In an attempt to lift his own spirits, he said, ‘Only a young man would dare to fool with a knight.’
‘True. I am not so old as you.’ Simon chuckled.
Baldwin nodded, but thinking of the felon’s hanging brought to mind his dream again.
The horror of the siege was still fresh in his memory even now, more than thirty years afterwards, and he hoped it would always remain so. It had been the cause of his decision to join the Templars, because he had been saved by the Templars after being wounded. The knights had taken him to Cyprus and nursed him to health. As a result he had lived, and from that day he felt that he owed them his life. To repay the debt he had joined them.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knocking at his door.
‘Yes. What do you want?’
‘A messenger from the hospital. They’ve got a man in their infirmary who’s been attacked on the road here.’
Baldwin nodded and sighed. Then he ran a hand through his hair and grimaced at Simon. ‘I suppose we ought to talk to him.’
The fellow was lying in a cot with a tired-looking monk standing at his side.
‘Brother?’
‘I am Joseph, the infirmarer. This man was brought to us late yesterday as we were closing the gates.’
‘He looks in a bad way,’ Simon said with that hushed voice used by people in the presence of the sick.
This was a pleasant little chamber, this hospital. Not far from the East Gate, the Hospital of St John was a small chapel with six beds. Each faced the altar, with the cross prominently in view to all, so that all the poor souls in their beds could see it and pray. Brother Joseph could ease their symptoms, but naturally the actual cure was up to them and the power of their own prayers.
Joseph passed a hand over his tired face. Strange to think that only last night he had been cheerfully looking forward to his bed and congratulating himself on the fact that he took such joy in sleep. It was ironic that he should think so just as this poor fellow was being carried to him.
‘He is. His arm is broken, but I think with God’s grace it should mend without too much trouble. I think his ribs are broken, too, and his head was badly knocked. It’s the stab that worries me most, of course, but I have hope.’
‘Why should his assailant beat him so?’ Baldwin wondered.
‘If you wish to learn that, you will have to speak to the porter of the East Gate. He had the body brought here on a hurdle.’
‘Has he spoken at all?’ Baldwin enquired. ‘Has he mentioned the attack?’
‘No. He arrived in this state and has remained silent. If he recovers, perhaps he can tell what happened, but it will be a close-run thing.’
‘Is he from this city or a foreigner?’
‘I do not know. Ask the porters. One of them may know him.’
Baldwin nodded and the two left the brother in the doorway to his little hospital, yawning with exhaustion.
At the entrance to the hospital, Baldwin and Simon spoke to the gatekeeper. He was reluctant to tell them anything, other than the fact that he had been in his lodge preparing to lock up for the night when John, the East Gate porter, had arrived with three or four others and the man lying on his hurdle.
Leaving him there and walking the few yards to the East Gate, Simon muttered bitterly, ‘You would’ve hoped the bastard would want to help us find the man’s attacker.’
Baldwin shrugged. The system of fines to make sure that men turned up in court often led to their being less than helpful. ‘Let us see what we may learn from the porter.’
The lodge was built into the wall, a solid building with a thatched roof set at the back of the two towers about the gate itself, and the porter matched his home perfectly. His face was florid, topped with a messy rick of fair hair, and he was stolid and broad. His face was square, with small, hog-like eyes which held a suspicious leer, as though he doubted the integrity and honesty of any upon whom his eyes might alight. His grim expression was not improved by the sight of Simon and Baldwin. ‘What do you want?’
‘The man whom you took to the hospital yesterday,’ Baldwin said. ‘What can you tell us about him? Was he from the city?’
‘How should I know? So many come past here each day.’
Baldwin’s smile was wearing thin. ‘We need to learn who he is.’
‘Good. Do it and leave me to my work.’
Steel entered Baldwin’s voice. ‘Your work at this moment is to help the Keeper of the King’s Peace. If you do not, I will have you attached and kept in the castle’s gaol to contemplate your obstruction until the coroner holds his inquest, and I will ensure that all here know it is because of you that they are to be fined so heavily for finding the body.’
‘He’s not dead, is he?’ the porter demanded, but his arrogance was already dissipated. The First Finder of a body would be forced to pay a surety to guarantee that he would turn up in court at the trial, and if there was no proof that the dead man was English, the hated murdrum tax would be imposed on everyone in the area.
‘He wasn’t dead when you found him, was he?’ Simon pointed out.
‘If he was, I’d hardly have taken him to the hospital, would I?’
‘How did you find him?’ Baldwin asked.
‘A brat: Art. He said there was a man in the ditch out there.’ He pointed through the gate. ‘I wasn’t going to believe him, but he was a persistent little sod.’
‘Did anyone see how he got there?’
‘If they did, they didn’t say. Since the famine fewer men are prepared to help each other. No one wants to be First Finder. I dare say several saw him and chose to forget him.’
Simon knew that. Too often people would ignore a body at the roadside; they’d all grown inured to the sight of the dead. Half the population had died during the famine. ‘Did this helpful child Art say how he found the man?’
‘Someone paid him a penny to tell me. He showed me the coin–it was real enough.’
‘The boy, where is he?’ Baldwin snapped.
‘Art? Up at the market, I expect, the thieving little git. He’ll be up there scrounging something, same as usual.’
In Exeter, just as in the smallest vill, orphans tended to be protected. They could count on family or godparents to protect them and look after their property in trust. Masters would see to the needs of apprentices, sometimes neighbours the children of the family next door, with neither hope nor expectation of reward for their kindness, and in Baldwin’s experience such children often thrived. Cases of abuse were remarkably rare.
Apparently Art had been orphaned three years earlier. He was a scruffy urchin of twelve
, with a shock of tawny hair that stuck up vertically from his head. His face was long, with intelligent brown eyes that considered Baldwin like an equal. The knight reflected that the fellow had probably experienced as much life as many men of Baldwin’s age.
‘You found a man yesterday, Art?’
‘Who says?’ he responded quickly.
‘The porter of the East Gate.’
‘I told him where he was, but I didn’t find him.’
‘Who told you about him?’ Simon asked.
Art stared at him and remained stony faced until the bailiff pulled a coin from his purse.
‘Don’t know him. He was all in black–black cloak, black hood, the lot.’
Simon sighed. ‘How tall? As tall as me?’
Art looked at him speculatively. ‘Maybe taller.’
‘And I’m almost six feet,’ Simon murmured.
‘What of his face?’ Baldwin tried. ‘Was he light haired or dark? Did he have a beard, a scar? Had he lost his teeth, had he all his fingers? Was there anything which could help us?’
‘He had bright eyes, and a cold voice. That’s all. Never took his hood off, so I never saw his face,’ Art said. ‘But I suppose he was like you. He had…you know.’ Art puffed out his chest and drew his mouth down into an aggressive line, scowling, clenching his fists and squaring his shoulders. ‘Your build. His arms were like yours. Strong.’
‘You saw all that under his cloak?’ Simon asked doubtfully.
The lad said scathingly, ‘It doesn’t take much to see how wide a man’s shoulders are, no matter how many cloaks he puts on.’
There was a cry from behind them, which Baldwin ignored as he leaned forward. ‘Are you saying he looked like a knight?’
‘Yes. But not some rich one like you,’ Art said, although with a trace of uncertainty as he took in Baldwin’s rather threadbare tunic with the red colouring faded from overuse.
Baldwin was about to defend his clothing when Simon murmured, ‘Baldwin!’
A man-at-arms was hurrying towards them with a pole-arm in his hands. ‘Sir Baldwin; Sir Baldwin! There’s been a murder, sir!’
The Tainted Relic Page 19
