‘You meant them, and for that at least I honour you,’ the man said, and walked on, the basket held carefully in his hands like a holy relic.
Baldwin returned to Ivo. He was still shaking his head as the market trader made a fresh offer, and then made as if to walk away. The seller narrowed his eyes, turned his head slightly, and muttered a final offer. Ivo hesitated, and the trader peered closely before a broad grin spread over his face. ‘Aha, I have you, you bad bugger!’ he cried, pointing an accusatory finger, and Ivo smiled, nodded, and passed him two more coins.
There was a shout from the direction the Muslim man had taken, and Baldwin idly glanced after him, only to see the man stumble and fall. Baldwin pushed through the crush to help him.
The Muslim was on his knees, scrabbling for the clothing, which had pitched from his basket, while two Lombards and another man stood laughing.
The third man was Buscarel.
Baldwin did not hesitate but lunged, grabbing him by the belt and his shoulder, heaving him backwards over his knee, as he had learned in wrestling. Buscarel gave a startled cry, and then he was on the ground, his hand grabbing for his knife. He had the blade half out of the sheath before he realised Baldwin’s sword-point was on his throat.
‘Leave him!’ Baldwin snarled at the Lombards.
Both were young and inexperienced. They eyed Baldwin and his sword with alarm. The Muslim had gathered up his clothing once more, and wearily rose to his feet.
‘Sir,’ Baldwin said, throwing him a glance, ‘I am sorry for these fools. Please, go in peace. I pray Our Lord will watch over you.’
The Muslim gave a sharp nod, and was gone.
‘As for you!’ Baldwin snarled, staring down at the Genoese.
He remembered the ship – the men with whom he had travelled cut to pieces or pierced by arrows; he remembered the beating he had received in Lady Maria’s house, the iron bar in the brazier. It was tempting to kick him – in the groin, in the belly, in the head – to exact revenge for all he had suffered.
And then he recalled the Muslim who had lost his son. Were he to consider that murder a feud, where would it all end? How many Christians would pay for his son’s death?
This was the same. If Baldwin killed Buscarel, what purpose would it serve? He would have upset the Genoese, and perhaps they would send men to kill him and Ivo. And then Christians might take up Baldwin’s cause . . . it was endless.
‘Give me my ring and go,’ he said.
Buscarel looked at the faces all around. The two Lombards had fled, and now there were only dark-skinned Muslims staring at Baldwin and him, and none would get involved in a fight between two Franks.
‘Take it!’ he snarled, pulling it off and hurling it, before rising.
Baldwin saw it hit a man’s turban, and darted to where he heard the metallic clatter as it hit the ground.
Buscarel sprang up, and his hand was on his knife again as Baldwin turned, but Ivo’s voice came as a rough hiss at his ear.
‘You try it, Buscarel, and I’ll open you from prick to throat.’
Buscarel moved away, and soon disappeared in the crowd.
‘He is a danger,’ Baldwin considered.
‘Perhaps. But we have wine and olives. Let’s get home and break some bread.’
‘We’ve only just eaten!’
‘Aye,’ Ivo said with a belch. ‘But there’s nothing can beat good wine, good olives, and fresh bread. When you’ve been a warrior, you’ll learn that.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Abu al-Fida left the gate and kept walking. There was nothing for him here, not now. The attack in the street had shown him that. One man had helped him, but what was one man amongst the teeming thousands of the city?
His entire family was dead. His life had ended.
He stared about him as he passed through the tents and shabby houses erected at the outer wall, his feet moving mechanically. Every so often, he peered down, half-surprised that he still carried the basket. It was such a heavy object, and ungainly. But it held his son’s clothes.
Some said that the Sultan would avenge the murder of Muslims. The Sultan believed in justice and honour. Perhaps he would listen to Abu al-Fida about Usmar, his son.
His son.
The clothes in the basket were rough with dried blood, and he felt the air leave his lungs at the sight of them again. His breast was empty. All love, all hope were eradicated, for what point was there in either of those things when a man had lost his son? A man lived to raise his son, because that was the greatest duty.
Tottering, he fell to his knees in the sand and dirt of the roadway, the basket tumbling before him. His right palm scraped along a sharp edge of stone, and he stared at the thick, welling blood. So bright and dark, like his son’s had been. But he could not weep for his boy. There were no tears in him. Not yet.
Rising, he took his son’s clothing and balled it in his fists, gripping it tightly. This city was a place of evil, a city founded on hatred. While the murdering Franks remained, there could be no peace in Islam. It was an affront to Allah that they remained. They should be slain to show that no matter who attempted to steal the Holy Land, they would suffer the same death. Their wailing and screams of agony would rise from Hell to give a caution to the living, so that no more would cross the seas to come here and slay the innocent.
In his hands there was a ball of material, and he gazed at it again, and then the horror returned.
His son Usmar was dead.
He had reached the outskirts of Acre now and he stopped, staring north and south. Where should he go? Where could he go?
And then a ruthless determination made itself felt. Once, he had been a warrior. He had seen death in all its forms, and he had decided to give up the path of war, but he still had those former skills. He knew how to make machines that could reduce the walls of Acre to rubble.
He turned and stared at those walls now, his entire being filled with loathing. That was his duty. He must bring the walls down. And there was one place to go to ensure that.
Abu al-Fida set his face to the south-east.
Behind him, he heard a pony whicker, and in a moment a merchant with a cart was rumbling at his side.
‘Salaam aleikum,’ the man said, peering at him. ‘My friend, are you unwell?’
‘They killed him. The Franks killed my son,’ he burst out, then clamped his mouth shut to prevent more words escaping. He knew he must keep them inside, imprisoned, so that when he could give witness, he could allow them all to fly free and tell of the guilt of the men who had murdered his son.
So that he could win the justice he needed, the justice his son deserved.
Lucia spent a second uncomfortable night and woke hungry. There was a pot of water, but she had not been given food, and when she rose to her feet, all her muscles ached. Her flank and back were one enormous bruise.
The bottler came again. He took her by the arm and half-dragged her up the stairs to the house itself, and thence to the garden. Lady Maria sat on a stone bench while one maid washed her feet and a second used a reed to dab henna onto her hands in intricate patterns.
She looked at Lucia without feeling. ‘You look awful, child.’
‘I have done nothing wrong,’ Lucia said, and rebelliously held her chin up.
‘So you say.’ The woman’s voice was dispassionate. ‘If that is true, so be it. Wipe your eyes. You need not worry about the bottler again. He will remain here.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lucia said dully.
‘I cannot trust you. You will go to one of the farms.’
‘No, please,’ Lucia said. The farms were out in the plains – hot, harsh places, where overseers whipped and raped their charges. ‘Please, let me stay with you, Mistress.’
‘With me? Looking like that?’ Maria said with a laugh. ‘My friends would think I had lost my mind. No, you must go. And if . . .’ She took her hand away from the maid with the henna and stood, walking slowly and deliberately to Luc
ia. ‘If you tell a soul about me, and you hurt my reputation, I will have you flayed alive. Or perhaps I should put your eyes and tongue out before you go?’
‘Please!’
Maria stared down at her as she fell to her knees, hands up in supplication, but when Lucia looked up, there was only contempt in her face.
‘Go!’
‘The best way, Sir Otto, is to begin at the west side and cross the walls to the other,’ Ivo said.
They were walking to the outer wall, and Baldwin paid scant attention as he peered at his ring, rubbed at it, and rotated it on his finger with his thumb. He had not appreciated how much he had missed it, in truth.
Sir Otto had been sent to help protect Acre, and, ‘Whether the Sultan has agreed peace or no, I should investigate the defences in case his attitude changes.’
Ivo led the way through Montmusart to the Lazar Gate and then up the stone steps.
‘Here is the tower built by the Order of Saint Lazarus. There is another strong tower over there, by the sea.’
‘From here the wall extends back to the old wall, thence to the sea again?’ Otto asked, leaning forward and staring along the line of the walls. He spoke crisply, a commander getting the measure of new responsibilities.
‘Yes, Sir Otto. The double walls form a line north to south, with a dog-leg halfway.’
‘Where are the weakest points?’
Ivo considered. ‘I would be less concerned about this section. It is newer, and should be able to take heavy punishment. I would be more worried about where the dog-leg lies. The point of that has a new tower recently rebuilt by King Henry II, and outside there is King Hugh’s new barbican. The inner point is held by that tower, named the Accursed Tower – I suppose because before this new wall enclosed Montmusart, it stood all alone. I would feel cursed if I were in that tower, too.’
‘I see. Let’s walk the walls.’
They descended the inner wall and made their way through the gate to the outer wall, where they climbed another series of steps, and began to make their study of the defences.
On the way, Baldwin saw a tan-coloured cur scavenging about a foetid heap of refuse. It was only as high as his knee, and painfully thin. Spotting a discarded crust by a guard’s boot, he bent to pick it up, whistled, and the dog stopped, head tilted. Baldwin threw it the bread before rejoining the others at the wall’s top.
‘Yes, you are right about this line of wall,’ Sir Otto said. ‘The base is good and broad and there is space enough for plenty of men to stand here in safety. How many people live in the city?’
‘Around forty thousand.’
Sir Otto nodded, his mouth reflecting his unhappy thoughts. ‘That is a great many mouths to feed, even with control of the seas. And all those,’ he added, waving a hand at the tents and hovels outside the walls, ‘their clutter could give succour to the Saracens. We’ll have to fire their rubbish.’
‘Yes, Sir Otto.’
They had made their way to the corner where the new wall met the old. Here Sir Otto stood for a moment, gazing out over the plains before the city. It was the scene that Baldwin had admired during his first ride out with Roger: lush fields, olive groves, and numerous small houses of mud, much like a peasant’s home in Devon.
‘They will march right over all that,’ Sir Otto said. ‘They will want to site engines of war out there. We will need to look over the plain and consider where they will want to place their machines so that we can spoil the ground.’
‘Yes,’ Ivo said.
Baldwin felt a scratch, and, turning, saw that the little dog was sitting behind him, pawing at his leg. He tried to gently push him away, but the animal stared at Baldwin with hurt in his eyes.
‘Of course, the walls need to be prepared,’ Sir Otto said, turning and looking back at the bulk of the inner walls. ‘We must build hoardings. Any man leaning over the parapets to drop stones on attackers would be the target of all their arrows. It is a shame there is no moat.’
‘In this heat, it would be impossible to keep it filled,’ Ivo shrugged.
‘Quite so.’
‘But this is all speculative, isn’t it?’ Baldwin said, trying to ignore the dog. ‘The Saracens have promised to uphold the peace for ten years, after all.’
Ivo gave him a long, considering stare while Sir Otto continued gazing out past the barbican towards the east.
Neither answered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Had Baldwin but known it, as he stood near the tower built by King Henry II, far below him, a small party was setting out from the gate.
It consisted of two men, and one woman, dressed in old grey linen. The men were on horseback, but she followed them on foot, a cord bound about her wrists attached to a stirrup. Sometimes it was felt necessary to have slaves bound more securely, but if Lucia tried to escape, she would be at the mercy of the sun and the parched lands.
She had no thought of escape. There was nothing in her mind apart from the pain in her back and between her legs.
All hope was gone. Only misery and despair filled her heart.
Try as he might, Baldwin could not shake off the little cur, who had adopted him after that first gift of bread. Surrendering to fate, he named the mutt Uther, and now Uther followed Baldwin everywhere. The little fellow was so dependent, Baldwin felt he couldn’t discard him.
Many sections of wall required repairs before the hoardings could be constructed. The wooden platforms would jut out from the battlements, with trapdoors for rocks or oil to be dropped on enemies beneath. Their weight would put a great strain on the old walls.
In the city itself, already there were a thousand knights and mounted men-at-arms, along with perhaps fifteen hundred infantrymen, and there was a need to find space for them. Arguments and brawls were commonplace. The Templars and Hospitallers had taken to wandering about the city to try to keep the fighting to a minimum, but every so often fists would fly.
In the square outside the castle, Baldwin saw the result of yet another fight. Two men were caught up in a gambling dispute, and one drew his knife. As Baldwin passed, they were holding the guilty man before the castle’s two-legged tree: two timbers planted firmly in the ground with a beam across their tops. A rope was thrown over the top-piece, the noose set about his throat, and as Baldwin paused, the man was hauled up, kicking and thrashing, as the rope squeezed the life from him.
At home, a felon would have his suffering eased by his family. They would jump on his body to break his neck, or at least speed his throttling. Here, the Lombard had no family. He could dangle for ten minutes or more before he died. A horrible death.
There were more crusaders at the far side of the square, he saw. For some, this was a grim event, and they stood about with faces drawn as they witnessed their comrade’s death. But for others, it was merely a spectacle.
The man’s legs jerked violently as he fought for life, and Baldwin could imagine the burning agony as his lungs struggled against that rope – and then, as if that were his final peroration to life, his struggling all but ceased. An occasional jerk of his legs, a brief fluttering of the feet, a tremble, and his life was fled.
Baldwin stayed staring, rooted to the ground, struck with a premonition.
Acre would be like that man, were Qalawun to come and attack. Alone, watched by many, and with no hope of aid.
The thought made him shiver.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Abu al-Fida was not alone as he entered the great court. He was only one of a long line of men and women who wailed and prostrated themselves. Each crossed the patterned tiles to the space before the Sultan and laid down the bloodstained clothing of murdered relatives. Here a shirt, there a tunic, a robe, a turban – all with their unique blackened patterns of death and horror. In his mind’s eye, he saw the smiling face of his son. White teeth gleaming, eyes flashing, so like his mother. Looking about this hall, with Mameluk guards standing silent, the sun making their mail and helmets sparkle, he felt as thoug
h Usmar was here with him, giving him support.
It was Abu al-Fida’s turn. He walked with slow dignity and stood before the Sultan. Silently, he shook out his son’s chemise and robes. The rents in the fabric told their story. He need say nothing. Bending, he set the clothing on the floor. The robes, then the chemise with the terrible cuts and slashes in the fabric, the foul brown stains.
Sultan Qalawun stared down at the clothing arrayed on the tiles, and studied each from his chair, taking them in, one by one.
Abu al-Fida watched him closely. He appeared shocked. Over seventy-five years old, the Sultan was experienced in death, but this scene of wailing parents and siblings had moved him.
‘What was the reason for this massacre?’ the Sultan demanded in a hushed voice.
‘Some said a Muslim had raped a Christian woman, some that there was a fight after drinking in a tavern,’ Abu al-Fida said. ‘My son was not in a tavern, and he never raped a woman. He and these others were not criminals. They were not guilty, my lord. These deaths were caused by the bloodlust of the Franks. The rioters killed any man with a beard. They even killed their own: there were Christian merchants slain, just as there were Muslims.’
Qalawun stood and spoke in a voice hushed with emotion. ‘I have agreed peace with these people, assuming them to be rational. I offered them terms by which they and we could live side-by-side without war, because I am a man of peace. But these Franks have by this despicable act demonstrated their bad faith. I will not tolerate these murderers to continue to live on our sacred land.’
He stared at the mourning people.
‘Your dead will be avenged. All of them. I swear this on the holy Koran.’
Afterwards, as the petitioners bowed low, thanking the Sultan, the women still sobbing as they moved to collect the pathetic scaps of cloth, Abu al-Fida alone stood and made no move. Even as the others filed from the court, he remained.
There was a Mameluk behind him. ‘You must go.’
‘Yes,’ Abu al-Fida said. He nodded, and turned to leave, but the Mameluk called him back.
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