‘Lucia, you are beautiful.’
She withdrew, alarm in her eyes. ‘Do not say that!’
‘It’s the truth,’ he said. He tried to rise to his feet, forgetting his bonds, and winced as pain lanced through his body. His ankles, his arms, his temples, all rebelled at any movement. He groaned and closed his eyes, gritting his teeth.
‘I saw you on my first day here,’ he said. ‘Down the alleyway near the Venetian quarter. Do you remember? You were there, in your finery, and I followed you – called to you, but you ran away.’
She nodded hesitantly. ‘Perhaps.’
‘And then again in the streets at the market, but that time with your men.’
‘That was my Lady, not me.’
He was surprised by that, but now other considerations intruded. ‘Why am I tied? What happened? I remember I saw you, and then I was knocked down.’
‘I am sorry,’ she said, and her voice was tearful. She looked up at a sound, and swiftly retreated.
As she did so, he heard steps, and when he looked, he saw Buscarel the Genoese marching towards him with two henchmen. They went one to either side of him and picked him up by the arms. Buscarel chuckled at the sight.
‘So, Englishman. You wanted my ring, I think?’ He smiled, holding up his hand so that Baldwin could see the ring on his forefinger, and then he clenched his fist, and before Baldwin could think to prepare, he slammed it under his ribcage.
The air left his lungs in an explosion of pain, and he collapsed, writhing, trying to breathe.
‘I will keep my ring. And now,’ Buscarel added with a kick at Baldwin’s kidneys, ‘now, I would learn what . . . news the two riders had . . . for the Temple. Is it news of an attack on Genoa’s interests? You will tell me everything . . . just as soon as I have finished enjoying my . . . self!’
With each pause, he punctuated his speech with a kick until Baldwin felt that his spine must surely break. Then Buscarel’s boot caught his head – and everything went black.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ivo and Jacques were returning homewards when they saw Roger Flor walking along the street. He was waving his arms to make a way for himself among the crowds that thronged the square and streets.
‘You will find the roads blocked all the way to the gatehouse,’ Ivo warned him.
‘They won’t hold up a Templar,’ Roger said. ‘You have heard the news?’
‘Yes. It’s remarkable. I had assumed that Qalawun would overrun us,’ Ivo said. He could feel Jacques’ eyes on him as he spoke, but he refused to meet the Leper Knight’s gaze. It wasn’t his fault he distrusted Roger Flor. There was something excessively mercenary about the man.
Roger curled his lip into a smile. ‘It is the wrong time to remove the last port where his traders sell their produce, I suppose.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Oh by the way, your boy enjoyed his ride with me.’
‘Baldwin went riding with you?’ Ivo asked sharply.
‘Do not concern yourself. He didn’t have to draw a sword, although he thought he might when we met the messengers. It was we who escorted them back.’
Ivo glared at him. ‘Do not think to teach him your ways, Roger. I will not have you hire men from my house to help you rob and kill.’
‘Perhaps you should tell him that? He was a willing enough student on the ride, and back here too with wine and women,’ Roger said, smiling lazily, but with his hand near the knife on his belt.
‘If you pollute him, I will kill you myself!’
‘Ivo, you are too old to be making threats to a man like me. Go and find him if you are so concerned about his morals.’
Jacques stepped between them and said pleasantly, ‘Where is he now?’
‘Last time I saw him, he was heading up the street,’ Roger shrugged.
Ivo left without further speech, Jacques hurrying at his side. Roger Flor was a low felon who would murder for a clipped penny. He was not worth talking to. But if Baldwin had walked up this street here, he would be safe; it did not lead to Buscarel’s area.
Still, Ivo could not help but glance down into the alleys that led to the Genoese quarter as he strode up the street, a feeling of apprehension niggling at him all the way.
This time, Baldwin was not out in the open. The air was cool on his flesh. He woke to the sensation of a damp cloth being pressed against his brow, and he revelled in the gentle touch of muslin. It was delicious. He moved his fingers, but it was difficult. The bonds tying his wrists and feet were so tight, they might as well have been cut from his own skin.
‘We must hear all he knows,’ Buscarel was saying.
‘In good time. Whatever he has overheard, a single evening will not change matters. If you had not so belaboured him, my dear friend, he would have answered much sooner. I shall report your hotheadedness to your Admiral, if you wish?’
There was steel in that gentle voice. Baldwin relished the note of concern in Buscarel’s as he apologised.
‘It is unlikely he knows too much,’ the gentle voice continued. ‘If, as you say, he was with the party returning with the messengers, that does not mean he overheard secret communications, does it?’
Baldwin opened his eyes as the cloth was removed, and found himself looking into the face of a different woman.
She was clad in a similar dress to that of Lucia, and her eyes too were green, but that was where the similarity ended. Lady Maria had higher cheekbones, and while her eyes were green, they were closer set in narrow features. Her lips were less full, and there was a slight twist to the upper lip that gave her a sardonic appearance, as if she saw something amusing that all else had missed. Her emerald clothing was lighter, and more beautifully tailored, and the aura of wealth that surrounded her was emphasised by the gold she wore at wrists and throat.
She wiped at Baldwin’s forehead again and threw her cloth away.
Following its trajectory, Baldwin saw that Lucia was in the room. She caught the cloth adroitly, and stood with it in her hands, eyeing her mistress and Buscarel warily.
Baldwin smiled at her. He was lying full length on a carved stone bench, and the door was some distance away. It would be hard to flee this chamber even if his feet were untied. Buscarel had two men with him, and they looked robust, reliable types. It was not a happy reflection. Behind Buscarel was a brazier, smoking lazily, and Baldwin wondered if this chamber was far below ground, to require the heat.
‘So, Master Baldwin. You are here in Acre for your soul, are you not?’ Lady Maria asked. ‘I wonder what crime you have committed that needs such a desperate penance. Perhaps you will tell us later. But for now, we need to know what it was that the messengers came to tell the Templars.’
Baldwin turned his head to peer at Buscarel. The man stood sullenly in a corner, and Baldwin silently swore to himself that he would avenge his beating.
‘Qalawun has agreed a peace treaty,’ he said wearily. ‘He has confirmed it for over ten years. There is no secret.’
Lady Maria looked up at Buscarel. ‘You see? Easy. All I needed to do was ask him. Now, Master pilgrim, what would you say about Genoa? I am sure that there was news of our city, too.’
‘Why?’ Baldwin asked. He tried to sit up, but it hurt so he lay down again. His back felt as though it had been pounded with leaden mauls, and his arms were painful where his hands were tied. ‘That was all I heard.’
‘But you must know that there was a dispute between Genoa and Venice. What was said of that?’
Buscarel approached, fists bunching. ‘Speak when my Lady asks! What did they say?’
‘Lady, could you silence your terrier?’ Baldwin said. Before Buscarel could hit him, he continued, ‘They said nothing in front of me. Why would they? They were messengers for Guillaume de Beaujeu, and if they had secrets for him, they kept them for him.’
‘What do you think of that, Buscarel?’ Lady Maria said.
‘He’s lying! Look at him! He is a dog from the north. You cannot trust a wo
rd from such as he. Let me have him with my sailors for a day. We’ll brand him and get all we need.’
‘Perhaps that would be best,’ Maria said. She put her thumb and forefinger on Baldwin’s chin, one at either side, and moved his head this way and that, smiling. ‘It would be a pity to spoil his looks, but if there is no alternative, such must be done. So, burn his face to make him unrecognisable, and cut out his tongue when he has finished talking, so he may never speak of things again. Then we could use him. Or sell him to the Moorish slave dealers.’
‘Lady!’ Baldwin protested. He hoped she was joking, but a look into her compassionless eyes told him that pleading was pointless. She looked on him as she would have looked at a cat, or a rat. Or a slave, he thought with mounting trepidation.
‘I will do your bidding,’ Buscarel said. ‘Genoa must be protected.’
Baldwin was transfixed with horror, his mind filled with images of coals searing his flesh. He did not see how he could free himself, but perhaps if he was carried to a ship, he might get away. Surely that was what they meant when they spoke of torturing him with Buscarel’s sailors.
But the smell of burning coals was already in Baldwin’s nostrils, and he realised there would be no journey to the sea. He was to be tortured here in this foul chamber. He struggled against his bonds, but nothing helped. In desperation, he threw himself from the bench to the floor. The stone flags struck his brow and knees with a shocking jolt, and he thought he would fall senseless, but then hands grabbed his shoulders and he was hauled to the brazier where the grinning Buscarel stood with a poker.
‘It’s all perfectly straightforward,’ the captain told him. ‘I have need of information, so I’ll burn and hurt you as I may, and then leave you to Lady Maria’s tender mercies. Now, while I heat this iron, think carefully about the question I asked you.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jacques pounded on the door with his mailed gauntlet again, and this time an elderly Moorish servant opened it, bowing low in terrified respect as the two men barged past him.
‘We want the lad, Baldwin de Furnshill. He was seen brought here, Lady,’ Ivo rasped as he strode into the house. He glared about him. ‘I will search the house if you do not produce him quickly.’
‘You? Search my house?’ Lady Maria said coolly. Two of her guards were close behind her, and now Buscarel and another sailor appeared at a doorway.
Jacques smiled. ‘I am sure that there is no need for us to argue about him. He is only a young fellow. But I would have him freed, madame.’
‘And if not?’
There was a rasp of steel as Sir Jacques drew his sword. ‘I will fight for him. And there will be the embarrassment of all your dead men, and the necessary explanations as to why I was here. You do not need such indignities.’
She nodded. ‘I have no use for him, in any case. He was struck by a footpad in the street and I had him carried in for his own protection. But if you wish to have him, you may take him,’ Lady Maria said with a patrician hauteur. ‘He is through there. Please, be careful with him. Don’t let him vomit on my floor. He has been knocked on the head.’
Ivo hurried through the door she indicated, and found Baldwin lying on the floor, rosewater being applied to his brow by a maid. ‘Baldwin? Are you able to stand?’
Baldwin gave a weak smile. ‘Cut my bonds and I may.’
With the thongs sliced from wrists and ankles, he slowly rose, and with Ivo’s arm to steady him, Baldwin managed a step or two, not without pain, the sweat standing out on his forehead as he made his agonising progress, through the doorway and out to the hall. There he gave a grateful nod to Jacques.
‘I thank you for my life, sir,’ Baldwin said. ‘You have today saved another pilgrim.’
‘My friend, I am taking responsibility for your safety from now,’ Jacques said with a cold fury. ‘If any man attacks you in this way again, they will answer to me and my Order,’ he added, sweeping a look around the assembled men.
‘Do be careful in the streets,’ Lady Maria called to him. She smiled, her curled lip making it look like a sneer. ‘I would not want you injured again.’
‘Now I know who are my enemies and my friends,’ Baldwin said, ‘I shall be careful to avoid the former, and stay close to the latter – until I am ready.’
Ivo helped him through the door and out to the street. ‘What happened?’
‘They wished to torture me to learn about a message concerning Genoa,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I know nothing of it.’
There were two Muslims at the street corner, and Sir Jacques took a coin from Ivo to persuade them to help Baldwin.
Baldwin was reluctant to have their aid. All he had heard of these people said that they were murderous and evil, but so far in his time at Acre, most appeared to be cultured and generous. Perhaps, he thought, it was the way of a subject race living cheek by jowl with their rulers, but somehow he doubted it.
Sir Jacques nodded, speaking quietly. ‘I know what they wanted to learn. Genoese galleys attacked an Egyptian ship and sacked the port of Tineh.’
‘So that’s why Qalawun is leaving us for the nonce,’ Ivo said. ‘He is planning revenge against them.’
‘What, he will build a navy to destroy them? I think not, old friend. No, they will have cause to regret their behaviour, I am sure. He will tax their goods extravagantly and make them weep,’ Sir Jacques said with a quiet grin.
‘How did you know to find me here?’ Baldwin asked. His throat was sore, and he felt an overwhelming desire to close his eyes and sleep.
‘It was a whim,’ Ivo grunted.
In truth it had been, too. It was a mere whim that had taken him to Buscarel’s house with Sir Jacques, and when a servant told him that Buscarel was with Lady Maria, Ivo was filled with disquiet. When they reached Maria’s street, they spoke to one man who described a fellow much like Baldwin, who had been carried into the Lady’s house by two sailors and Buscarel. That had been enough.
Baldwin nodded as Ivo explained, but then he asked, ‘Genoa is to suffer? I don’t understand.’
‘All the mercantile cities have their favourite ports,’ Ivo said. ‘Genoa had Tripoli. That is why they attacked Tineh and a ship: to make their point. They are angry that the Sultan has wiped out their trading capital in Outremer.’
‘But surely it will hurt all the Christian seafaring nations?’ Baldwin asked.
Jacques gave a chuckle. ‘It should, but Venice detests Genoa, and has her own centre of operations here in Acre, so it was more a source of amusement to Venice that Genoa’s city was destroyed. It won’t affect them much, because they will be able to trade direct with the Egyptian merchants, and won’t lose profit to the middle-men in Tripoli.’
Baldwin couldn’t understand. This was all over his aching head. The talk of mercantile ventures was making his mind swim. He closed his eyes. ‘The Lady Maria had contempt for the Templars, too, I felt,’ he murmured.
‘When she sought to question you,’ Ivo said, ‘she was thinking of her friends, the Genoese, no doubt. I think she has a close relationship with them, so her feelings are coloured against the Templars.’
‘She dislikes the men of the Order?’
Sir Jacques tried to explain. ‘It goes deeper than simple dislike, Baldwin. In past disputes, the Templars have tended to ally themselves with the Venetians, while the Hospitallers have been more associated with Genoa. Therein lies the source of many rancorous arguments that have led to the death of Christians.’
‘What of Pisa?’
Ivo glanced at him. ‘All these three states make money from trade, and from transporting pilgrims and crusaders – and all want to make more money than their competitors. So while they exist, the three cities will fight, and since each has allies, their allies will fight for them and with them. And, of course, there are some who will fight only for themselves. Like Roger Flor.’
‘Roger? What of him?’
‘He used to go on illegal raids into Moorish lands, to kill an
d steal from the merchants he found. He preyed on those less able to defend themselves. He will do so again, before long.’
‘I was with him today,’ Baldwin admitted shamefacedly.
‘I know. You’re old enough to make your own mistakes – but be careful if you make him your companion. It would not take many of Roger’s attacks to upset this fragile peace.’
Ivo sat in his garden drinking strong wine. He had been profoundly shocked by Baldwin’s battered and beaten body. It brought back that horrible nightmare of the destruction of Tripoli. He often dreamed of it. Ivo could see the streets in his mind’s eye as clearly as if he had been there. He could see his street, the flames leaping higher and higher, outlining people who ran from their doors, only to be cut down. He saw his neighbours kneeling on the stones of the road, offering money, jewels – anything for their lives – and then having their throats cut. Then he saw his own wife, Rachel. His son, Peter. Saw the blades stabbing and slashing, the men taking their pleasure with her before killing her too. Poor Rachel.
‘I would have been there, if I could,’ he said quietly to himself, his voice broken with sorrow.
And afterwards, he also knew how it had looked. Bodies lying at the roadside. Men, women and children, cut to pieces and left with their blood draining, houses looted and ruined, churches despoiled, and nothing left alive. He had been to visit once. The bones were everywhere, but the city he had known was destroyed.
He had dreams in which he rescued them, Rachel and Peter. Waking afterwards was to return to a living nightmare in which they were still dead.
‘I hope you didn’t suffer,’ he murmured to himself. It was his abiding prayer, that they had been killed quickly. The siege would have been hard, but at least if they hadn’t been tortured, that would be a comfort.
But how would he ever know?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It had been a nightmare journey for the pilgrims who arrived at the city that November. The seas had been storm-tossed, and some ships had been wrecked, killing passengers and crew alike; fortunately, many had got through, and as the cogs docked in the harbour or beached on the sands outside the city, a thirsty, ill-disciplined rabble was disgorged.
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