‘Me? I don’t know what he has told you, but you’ll find he was my companion on a ride. Am I accused of something more?’
‘He admitted how he gained that wound. Otherwise he’d have kept your secret. And now your raids will cease, or . . .’
Bernat said quietly, ‘Or what?’
Ivo grabbed Roger’s forearm and swung him around and over his leg, hurling him to the ground. Then he was at Bernat, and although the seaman had already pulled his knife free, he held it low, and too close to his belly. Ivo kept moving forward, his right hand on Bernat’s knife hand, pushing with all his strength, his body’s momentum turning the blade to point at Bernat’s stomach. Then, just as Bernat’s eyes widened with shock as the blade point scratched his belly, Ivo let go, and slammed the heel of his hand up under Bernat’s chin. It struck with a sound like wet sand hitting two stones; a sudden click as Bernat’s teeth met, and the man fell.
Turning, Ivo snatched his own dagger out. Roger Flor was still smiling, but his eyes were filled with grim hatred.
‘Keep away from Baldwin, I said,’ Ivo told him. ‘I won’t see you pollute him. If you try to, I will make you wish you had never been born.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
It was Ivo who told him of the arrival of the English.
Their appearance was a shock to Baldwin. Somehow he had not expected to find so many of his countrymen in the city which he had come to think of as his adopted home.
‘Best come with me before the deofols attack a Christian because he’s wearing black,’ Ivo muttered.
They made their way to the harbour and found it in a state of turmoil. Sailors, many with their arms folded in disapproval, watched as English men-at-arms moved about the place. But this was not the arrival of bitter, impoverished peasants with neither leaders nor discipline; this was a small, efficient army. Sergeants marched along the port, bellowing at the lines of men three abreast. All were dressed in tunics with a small cross on the breast to show that they were bound for the Holy Land, but the effect was spoiled by the fact that all were befouled from their long journey. Still, their weapons looked clean and well-cared for, and as an order was given, the polearms all rose, gleaming.
Baldwin eyed them jealously. If he could, he would have become a knight. Even to be a squire would have been an improvement. To be a warrior serving a lord meant to have certainty in life. His brother Reynald now enjoyed that. But Baldwin, although he had trained for his knighthood, leaving home at the age of seven so he could live with Sir Hugh de Courtenay and his men, had not yet gained the honour of his spurs. He was still a mere rural man-at-arms, with neither lands nor money to advance him. If he had not quarrelled with Reynald, and killed Sibilla’s lover, perhaps he would be a squire by now. Then knighthood would have been achievable.
The men had gathered up their packs, and there was a pause while a horse was brought forward, and a tall, heavy-set man clad in gleaming mail with a distinct coat-of-arms, was helped into the saddle.
Ivo was staring at the man. ‘Your eyes are better than mine. What are those arms?’
Baldwin peered. The knight was still a hundred yards distant. Fortunately, a banner was unfurled as a horn blared and the men began to march towards the city.
‘It has alternate blue and yellow vertical stripes, but there’s a red line angled down it. There are gold marks on the red band, too.’
‘Dear God in Heaven,’ Ivo muttered. ‘A paly of six, silver and argent, with a bend gules and charged with three eagles in gold . . .’
‘What?’
‘That man. I think it’s Otto de Grandison.’
‘Who?’
Ivo shot him a look. ‘Your King’s most loyal servant these last thirty years. He was here with Prince Edward.’
‘He looks well for such an old man,’ was Baldwin’s only comment as the men approached.
Ivo glared at him. ‘He’s not that old.’
‘No, I mean, I . . .’
Ignoring his flustered apology, Ivo stood watching the men approach. As the knight came nearer, he called out: ‘Sir Otto! God bring you fortune.’
The knight stopped. He had blue eyes in a square face with lines etched heavily into his leathery cheeks, and seeing Ivo, he frowned suddenly, his gaze wandering all over Ivo, absorbing his dress and features, before a smile appeared.
‘Ivo de Pynho? God’s teeth, it’s good to see you!’
‘In God’s name, I’m glad to have met you,’ Sir Otto said. ‘It is good to be briefed before a conference. Is the King here?’
‘Not yet. I saw him recently in Cyprus, gathering more men. As you can see, we have strong enough walls, but without the men to protect them, we have nothing.’
‘Who controls the city?’
‘Amalric, brother to King Henry II, is Castellan. The Commune of the city also wields power: the merchants and barons have their say for the benefit of all.’
‘A gathering of merchants and stall-holders?’ Sir Otto said disdainfully. He took up a small unleavened loaf and broke it into four. Chewing, he eyed Ivo questioningly.
‘Years ago, there was a dispute about who should run the city, when the people rejected the man foisted upon them. Since then, they have decided their own issues. It works.’
Aye, perhaps,’ Sir Otto said, unconvinced.
He was not so tall as Baldwin had thought. His height was not far off Baldwin’s, but he had a way of holding himself that made him seem bigger. His hair was shorn in the way of English knights – a military pudding-basin cut. While Ivo had assured him that the knight was fifty-five, Baldwin found it hard to believe. There was a vivacity and power to him that seemed out of place for someone so old and his face, while lined, was not ancient. Even his fair hair had no sign of silver.
They were in quarters near the castle. Otto’s hall was a good size, with a pair of good chairs at the lord’s table. Trestles were set out with benches for the first mess of soldiers, and now, as Otto sat and washed his hands, drying them on a pristine towel, his servants busied themselves preparing food. Otto and his guests had silver plates and fresh white bread, while the men below had bread trenchers with their meats, and Baldwin watched them jealously in the light lancing in from high above. Dust motes danced in swirls of incense. No one looked at him. They were too busy with their food.
‘What do you say, Baldwin?’ Ivo asked with asperity.
‘S-sorry, Master Ivo?’ he stammered.
‘Woolgathering, lad?’
‘I asked you: what is the quality of the city’s men?’ Otto said. ‘Ivo tells me there’s been rioting. What was the cause?’ He was leaning forward, his jaws moving rhythmically, as though Baldwin was the only man in the room. It was intensely flattering.
‘I think it was the indiscipline, Sir Otto. Lombards and others arrived, most of them peasants.’
‘It is the way of the peasant,’ Sir Otto agreed. ‘No one who has seen the London mob could doubt that. They are like a mountain stream: calm, until roused, and then they become a torrent that can wash away boulders.’
‘They must not be permitted to run wild,’ Baldwin said. ‘There are hotheads among them, and if they get into the open country, they could attack villages or caravans. That could force Qalawun into retaliating.’
Otto glanced at Ivo. ‘You agree?’
‘Certainly. We must not provoke the Sultan.’
‘How many men can he muster? I remember vast numbers when I was last here. Now he has encircled the city, I understand.’
‘There are some outposts. The Templars have Castle Pilgrim and Tortosa, we have Beirut, Haifa, Tyre, all small cities with defences that are not so strong as ours. Also, Acre can be replenished from the sea. She is strong, so long as we have the men to defend her walls.’
‘Would Qalawun attack, do you think?’
‘If he were provoked, as Baldwin says, his response would be overwhelming. I said Acre is strong, but we could not hold her against his full might.’
‘Then we mu
st ensure no further insults are given,’ Sir Otto said. He waved to a servant, who brought cooked meats and a bowl of salad leaves. ‘I am grateful for your advice. Is there anything else I should know about before I see the Constable?’
Ivo pulled a face. ‘There is one thing I would say: trust the words of Sir Guillaume de Beaujeu. He is a crafty man, with the resources of the Temple behind him.’
‘What, you mean I should borrow from him? I have no love of moneylenders,’ Otto said impatiently.
‘Money is not his currency: de Beaujeu deals in information. He bribes the most important men in the Sultan’s court – their avariciousness is legendary. His knowledge occasionally offends those who depend on God, especially the Patriarch. Not that I blaspheme, but many would say that God helps first those who seek to help themselves.’
‘In what way?’ Sir Otto asked.
‘An example: the Templars warned of Tripoli’s plight long before it was recognised.’
‘Yes – so?’
‘Others thought the Templars were cowardly, and said so to Sir Guillaume’s face. Now all can see the truth. What I wish to say is, if Sir Guillaume asserts that the Saracens will do this or that – trust him. He is well-advised.’
Edgar had not found it difficult to locate Philip Mainboeuf’s house. A young maid in a tavern near the cathedral found him irresistible; he found her a useful source of information.
Making a mental note to return to her later, Edgar approached the Mainboeuf house, which was close to the main square. A vast-looking building, the golden stone of the area had been carved wonderfully to make pillars and decorative chevrons all over the front. Large windows gaped open to let cool air inside. At the door three men lounged in the heat, and Edgar eyed them critically. They did not look competent guards, he thought. All had leather jerkins, but while one wore a mail shirt, that was all the armour they possessed. They looked like the dregs of a lord’s host: underpaid, scruffy and ill-disciplined.
‘Friends, is this the house of Philip Mainboeuf? I would like to see him.’
‘Does he know you?’ The mail-clad sentry was not rude. He looked at Edgar’s new tunic and boots with open respect. Edgar was a man with money, the sort who would usually be permitted to speak to his master.
‘Perhaps we should ask him,’ Edgar said.
He was soon inside a long, rather narrow hall. Drapery hung from poles overhead like banners, moving gently with the breeze. Two clerks were seated at tables, writing urgently, while more clerks and a Saracen steward hurried about, bringing scrolls and records.
There were pictures on the walls. Paintings of Christian scenes, and some few of warfare. As Edgar walked, he studied them with interest. One showed the sack of a city, before which he stopped.
‘You like that? It was painted so we should not forget.’
Philip Mainboeuf was a man of perhaps thirty. He had a narrow chin and lively, amused eyes, as if he found all about him immensely delightful.
‘What was it?’ Edgar asked.
‘The end of the Siege of Acre, almost a hundred years ago. It depicts the taking of the town by King Richard, and the slaughter of the innocents in the city. It was always noticeable that when Richard Lionheart took a town, the inhabitants were invariably slain, whilst when Saladin captured cities he invariably showed mercy.’
Edgar nodded politely.
‘You wished to see me?’ Philip Mainboeuf said, looking him up and down. ‘My man said you were a merchant, but I confess I do not know you.’
‘I am Edgar of London, and I have the honour to be a known master of defence,’ Edgar lied blithely. If he wasn’t now, he soon would be, he thought.
‘And what would I want with a master of defence?’
Edgar merely smiled in reply.
‘Did you see how many men I have on my gate already?’
‘Yes – three. You have another two in the yard behind your door, you will say. I will say, they none of them would match me.’
‘So, my bold friend. You wish to see to my interests?’
‘And you will pay me.’
‘How can I tell you would be worth my money?’
‘Look at my clothes. How many of your guards have been so well rewarded for their service, to you or to friends you know?’
Edgar was pleased to see that Philip Mainboeuf smiled at that. ‘You are very certain of your abilities, sir.’
‘I have reason to be. I am the best servant you could have.’
‘But I am safe already. I have many men to guard me.’
‘How many are in here with you now? If I were an assassin, you would be dead.’
‘But you are not a Muslim enemy, are you?’
‘How would your guards know that? You remember how Prince Edward of England was attacked by a man pretending to be a Christian? Assassins are highly trained. The Old Man of the Mountain makes sure of that. They can hit a fly with a thrown knife, and they are expert with garotte and poison.’
‘How do you know all this?’
Edgar smiled. He didn’t want to admit that it was tavern gossip. It sounded good.
Mainboeuf studied him closely, considering.
‘Very well’, he said finally. ‘I will take you – for your boldness, if nothing more. And the city does feel more dangerous since the arrival of all these soldiers. I would be happy to have you at my side, I think.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Lucia woke in the under-basement – a cold, a stone-walled, stone-flagged chamber with no furniture, only pots and barrels.
The pain was enough to make her weep. When she fell, the bottler had kicked her repeatedly. Even so, that wasn’t the worst. She had never endured the sort of punishment meted out to other slaves, because of her favoured position, but that was at an end and she had endured the very limits of a slave’s suffering.
Her clothes were a ripped heap over at the wall; she rose to all fours and made her way to them, sobbing with the pain and having to stop, hanging her head, after a yard, tears streaming. She tried to push her mind past the rawness that flared between her legs. The torment would pass. It must.
A swallow, and then she deliberately lifted a hand and placed it before her, shifted her knee, and another few inches were covered.
She should have stayed with Baldwin. What could have happened that would have been worse? She couldn’t swear to follow his religion, but he might have forgiven her that. But perhaps he was like all the Franks, and only looked at her for her body. Like the bottler.
Last night he had taken her like a whore from the meanest tavern. He didn’t want information – he knew she hadn’t lied. No, he took her just to satisfy his lust. She had tried to fight him off, but he only laughed and hit back. She couldn’t resist him. He was too strong.
Sobbing at the memory of his sweating, red face over her, she reached for her clothing and pulled on the shreds. She had no idea what the time was, but surely she should be at prayer? She bent forward, and the movement caused her back to flare. She had to give up in despair. Instead she crawled to the wall, and sat with her back to it.
If only she were still in Baldwin’s house. He would be kind. He would remember how she had dabbed his face when Buscarel had hit him, and he would take her head in his lap and soothe her, caressing her hair and washing the pain away. And he would look after her forever.
If she were with him.
If he asked her again, she would not hesitate to agree to do anything he asked, provided he only took her away from this place.
‘What did you think of him?’ Ivo asked Baldwin as they walked towards Montmusart.
‘I can see why men would follow him.’
‘Yes. He inspired trust even all those years ago,’ Ivo said. He paused. They had reached a market, and he peered into the produce. There were fresh olives, and he indicated the pot. The seller nodded and soon Ivo had agreed on a quantity which were spooned into a small basket. He proffered a coin, and the trader recoiled in horror. ‘No, no! It is not
enough!’ and suggested a price double that which Ivo had in his hand.
‘No,’ Ivo said, and there was a resolute look on his face as he and the seller haggled.
Baldwin studied the goods on offer. There was evidence of the dire situation, with good Damascus knives and swords on sale. Many crusaders would want to buy one to take home as a memento – provided they did get home. If they looked upon the land as a source of profit, like Roger Flor, the country could soon erupt in rage and murder.
It was an appalling idea. Surely God would not allow His land to be overrun by heathens? It would speak much of His feelings towards the Christians here if He would see them slain and thrown from it. Baldwin shook his head. God couldn’t permit that. Not until the end of the world would He allow the Christians to be thrown from their last toehold on His Holy Land.
There was a man before him, and Baldwin was about to pass around him, when he noticed that the man carried a basket full of clothing: shirt, hosen, tunic – all soiled with dried blood. Baldwin looked at the man, who met Baldwin’s look unflinchingly. He was a fellow of perhaps forty or more, from the white-shot beard and hair.
‘Your clothes?’ Baldwin asked.
Abu al-Fida curled his lip. ‘No,’ he said, in a surprisingly deep voice, speaking French fluently. ‘My son’s.’
‘I am sorry,’ Baldwin said sincerely. ‘So much foolishness.’
‘It was not foolishness that killed my son,’ the man said heavily. ‘It was Christians. While there is strife, innocents like my boy will die.’
‘Let us pray that the strife ceases,’ Baldwin said. ‘And no more need die.’
‘You think we shall see that in our lifetimes?’ the man sneered.
‘I shall pray for your son, and for you, my friend,’ Baldwin said, feeling ridiculous. The last thing a father would want would be the prayers of those who had killed him.
The man nodded once, pensively. ‘I thank you for your words.’
‘I fear words are inadequate.’
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