00 - Templar's Acre

by Michael Jecks

  At the end of the first day, the Templars busied themselves. The Marshal selected a location near a pool of water and the men waited for the command to dismount, and only then did they begin to unload their equipment. Sir Geoffrey’s pavilion was placed at the centre, and while Baldwin struggled to remove his saddle, squires and knights silently made the camp. Tents were pitched, fires lit, and men saw to the horses. Baldwin was impressed to see that the men who groomed the horses and saw to their needs tended to be the knights themselves.

  ‘The Marshal asks that you join him, Master Baldwin.’ The air was already cooling as the sun sank below the horizon, and Baldwin followed the young squire through the maze of guy-ropes and huddled figures to the Marshal’s tent, where he was given a goblet of wine and waved to a seat.

  For all the deference shown to the Marshal by both knights and squires, Baldwin was struck by the fact that the man’s equipment was precisely the same as that of the other knights. Even his food was taken from the same cookpots. There was no favouritism.

  ‘You look surprised, Master Baldwin,’ Sir Geoffrey said when Baldwin glanced about him.

  ‘I am unused to the ways of your Order,’ he said. ‘I had expected more display of wealth.’

  ‘We take the threefold oaths, of chastity, poverty and obedience, as Saint Benedict demanded,’ the Marshal said mildly. ‘You see, our purpose is to serve God in the best manner possible for a knight, as both warrior and monk. So, we are careful to be frugal, while also maintaining our strength. But we take our oaths seriously, naturally.’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘Why do men join the Order?’

  ‘I can answer that easily. For the same reason we interest you.’

  ‘Me?’ Baldwin said and gave an uneasy chuckle. ‘I don’t think I would be good Templar material.’

  The Marshal peered at him over the rim of his goblet. ‘That itself makes you better qualified than most,’ he observed, and Baldwin suddenly realised he was being sounded out to join the Order. He began to feel very nervous.

  ‘You were born to a knight?’ the Marshal pressed on.

  ‘Yes.’ Baldwin cleared his threat. ‘But that does not mean—’

  ‘And to that knight’s wife? You were not born out of wedlock?’

  ‘Well, yes – I mean, no. They were married, I mean.’

  ‘And you were trained as a knight?’

  ‘I was taught how to handle weapons of all sorts, yes.’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘Sir Hugh de Courtenay at Tiverton. I went to him from an early age.’

  ‘But because your elder brother survived, he took the manor and the title?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That is why so many of us joined the Brotherhood of the Temple. Like you, Master Baldwin, we were second brothers. Others, of course, were knights who inherited, and donated their worldly wealth to the Order, but most were like you. Religious, men of commitment to God. And we all joined the Order because we sought to serve Him as best we may. Just as a monk would serve in a scriptorium because of his skill in writing beautiful script, so I joined the Order because my skills lay in fighting and killing heathens. But I am no better than any of my brother monks in the Order. I am one of them. So my food comes from the communal pot, and my allocation of meat and wine is the same as that for any other Brother Templar.’

  ‘It is a harsh responsibility, surely?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘It is a responsibility,’ Sir Geoffrey agreed. He sipped wine and gazed through the tent-flap. Tonight his eyes held an inner calmness which Baldwin had only ever seen before in the faces of priests. ‘If you consider your duty to God, it is also an honour. To be accorded the responsibility to protect His pilgrims and His lands, is a marvellous privilege, after all.’

  ‘Was it a difficult choice?’

  ‘To come to the Order? No more than it would be for you. One reaches an age when secular pursuits no longer hold their former fascination. When one has chosen to eschew those natural pleasures, and instead select a life of duty, it can, in fact, come as a great relief. We were all brought up in the worship of God, so to make our oaths involved only a minor alteration in our lives. It is not as if we were forced to take up the sword and the cross.’

  ‘No,’ Baldwin said. ‘Any Christian should be proud to join the Order.’

  ‘Most are,’ the Marshal said.

  Baldwin heard the tone of enquiry in his voice and replied honestly: ‘I am not yet ready to shun the world.’

  ‘It is not really a matter of shunning the world. We do not hide from the world, we embrace it – but forego transitory pleasures that mean little. To spend a life in contemplation and prayer, firm in the knowledge that what you do each and every day will help God and the poor souls here on earth – that is glorious, my friend.’

  ‘I hope to marry some day.’

  ‘I am glad for you. You are a strong, good-hearted man.’

  ‘You know that from two brief conversations?’

  The Marshal smiled. ‘I have spoken of you with Ivo, and respect his judgement.’

  ‘What has he said of me?’ Baldwin asked, torn between amusement that Ivo had little better to speak of than him, and annoyance that he should be discussed behind his back.

  ‘That you are a fine young man, but have much to learn.’

  ‘That is true.’

  The Marshal leaned forward. ‘Why are you here, my friend? Ivo tells me that you came here to escape something. Is it a matter for which you need feel shame?’

  Baldwin looked out over the camp. The tent-flaps caught and rattled in the wind, and he could feel Sir Geoffrey’s eyes on him.

  ‘I killed a man over a woman I wished to marry. And when I heard of the disaster that overcame Tripoli, it seemed the most natural thing to come here and serve. But I had no idea of the situation.’

  ‘Our position is perilous,’ Sir Geoffrey said, so quietly that Baldwin was not at first sure he had heard him aright. ‘It would take but a single blow from the Muslim army to destroy our city. And without Acre, there is nothing. No Kingdom, no Patriarch, no hope. It would mean the end of our Crusading endeavour.’

  Baldwin smiled. ‘Marshal, I know little, but I do know that Acre is a strong city. I have never seen any to match its defences. With God on our side, we would prevail against any foe. And the Sultan has given us peace, has he not. We are safe for ten years, as he swore.’

  ‘I believed that once, but we have suffered much and lost much in the last years,’ the Marshal said. He sighed. ‘So you think that Sir Otto and the Orders are wasting our efforts in strengthening the city? You think you waste your time?’

  ‘I believe strengthening the defences will not harm us,’ Baldwin shrugged. ‘But the timbers will be ancient by the time they see a siege, I think.’

  ‘I hope you are right.’ The Marshal stared out over the encampment. ‘I was there in Tripoli, Baldwin. I went to help protect her, and I failed, along with my companions. We were as much use as a single dog against a pack of wolves. We could sound the alarm, but the numbers were overwhelming.’

  ‘It must have been terrible.’

  ‘You can have no idea. Until you have seen friends crushed to a smear of blood and bone, or seen men smothered in oil and pitch, burning like candles and screaming – you never heard such screams! I hear them in my dreams . . .’

  He glanced at Baldwin, and brightened, not without an effort. ‘But while there are fit, honourable young men like you to serve with us, we can protect our lands and peoples.’

  ‘I shall do everything I can to help.’

  ‘Consider joining us, then,’ the Marshal said briskly. His eyes were fixed keenly upon Baldwin once more. ‘We lost many of our men in Tripoli. Your quality is already noted. You would be welcomed into the Order.’

  ‘I am no knight.’

  ‘We have need of all men-at-arms. Watch us, while we are on our little journey. See if you enjoy the camaraderie of our Order, and if you find you could work with us, then j
oin us. You need not sign for your life’s course, if you do not wish to, but if you would consent to taking on a black mantle for a time – during the defence of Acre, for example – you would be serving God.’

  Baldwin nodded, aware of the honour being paid him. Not many were invited to enter the ranks of the Templars. Shortly thereafter, he bade the Marshal goodnight and walked from the pavilion to his sleeping space. Lying under the sheet the draper had provided, he stared up at the stars. The Marshal’s offer was very tempting. He did believe most strongly that the Templars were a good, dutiful and principled force, but he did not believe this was the best way for him to serve God.

  Would he do so, were it not for Lucia? he asked himself. Perhaps he should forget her. Let her pass from his mind and aim at a more honourable ambition than merely marrying a woman and raising a family. As he closed his eyes, he saw her face again. No. While she lived, he would join neither the Templars nor any other Order. He would marry her, and make her the focus of his life’s efforts.

  * * *

  Lucia halted and straightened slowly in the field as the overseer shouted at them to stop. She took up the mattock, and followed the shuffling line of exhausted men and women back towards the farm buildings a half-mile away.

  Her mind was empty. To allow thoughts to intrude was to permit pain to return. Her hands were blistered, the base of her right thumb bleeding, and there were sore patches on both palms. If she were to look at them, she would notice the black, broken and ruined nails, too. Once she had enjoyed the attentions of the best manicurist in Acre. No longer.

  They were at the outer gates. These were locked at night, but why, she did not know. If a slave were to attempt to escape, they would have many miles of dry, waterless lands to cross. There was no escape. Only death.

  Many sobbed themselves to sleep. Lucia listened with the detachment of a slaughterman listening to fasting cattle. They meant nothing to her, they were only companions in this torment. She squatted on the floor beside her bowl of pottage and flat bread, eating with a slow precision to stretch out the experience. If she closed her mind, she could imagine the rich tang of lemon and orange, the subtle savoury tone of olive, the sweet odour of lamb roasting on charcoal. She could almost imagine herself back in the garden in Acre.

  In those days, she had delighted in life. The softness of silk under her fingers, the cool, swept paving slabs of the yellow stones underfoot, the constant scent of jasmine and spices.

  It was enough to make her weep. They were gone, all a mirage. Her life in Acre was ended, and so too was her hope. She would remain here until death claimed her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Although his decision had been made, Baldwin watched the Templars with interest that second day, awed by their organisation and efficiency.

  They rose and ate together in contemplative silence while one brother read from the Gospels. The camp, he learned, was always set out in the same manner, with the Marshal’s pavilion at the centre, with a portable altar set up in a tent alongside, where the Brothers all met for their services.

  When it was time to strike camp, the Templars waited in silence until the order was given, and then all was taken up and carefully stowed away. At another command, they packed their paraphernalia onto their horses, and at last, on the final bellow, the men all mounted and prepared to ride.

  It was an impressive sight, to see so many men ready and prepared to be commanded before performing the least task. Impressive and at the same time alarming, for Baldwin knew many knights – ‘ruthless individualists’ described them well – and to see these men submitting to a commander was a big shock.

  At evening on the second day, he finished his meal and lay back. The effect of sun and sand on his face had made his flesh feel like old leather, and he was bone-weary. He soon drifted into an utterly dreamless sleep.

  His eyes snapped open at the first shout.

  A dark mass was rolling towards the Templar camp. There was a strange thrumming noise, as of drums, in the distance, a bellowed command, and then, before he had thrown off his sheet and blanket to snatch at his sword, he saw three knights were already at the outer edge of the camp, their great shields firmly planted in the ground, swords at their hips, their lances held low, butted into the sand. Sergeants joined them, the Marshal among them, while turcopoles took position at their flanks, and squires rushed forward with more lances, gripping them like their masters, the points low, menacing the breasts of any horses foolish enough to come close.

  A shriek, and a whistle, a thwack as an arrow cracked into a shield . . . and as Baldwin scurried towards the line of Templars he saw that the ghostly rolling blackness was a troop of cavalry cantering straight at them. He had his sword in his hand now, and threw the scabbard away, gripping the hilt with both hands.

  This time, although he felt sick, he was aware of less fear than he had experienced on the ship.

  There was a cacophony of noise as the first enemy mounts broke in upon the line of shields. Arrows zipped all about, and he felt one skim over the front of his breast, miraculously not breaking his skin. He had no mail.

  There was a screamed command from the right, and he saw a pair of Templars rammed backwards. The foe’s horse, whickering high like a banshee, flailed at them with vicious hooves, blood spurting from a ragged wound where a lance had pierced his breast, and then Baldwin had to concentrate on his own post. A roar, a shout, and another horse was almost through, and Baldwin sprang forward, all thoughts of fear or anger passed. Now there was only the urgent need to support the front line, and he grabbed a shield that had fallen, his sword at the ready. The shield was a ponderous weight that felt as though it must drag him down, but he resolutely thrust the bottom edge into the sand and held his shoulder to it, peering over the rim.

  Another horse was charging him. It was tempting, so tempting to drop the shield and run, but if he did that, he would present that spear-thrower with a broad back at which to aim, and he had no wish to die spitted on a Moorish lance. He grimly held his position as the leaf-shaped point hurtled towards him, and at the last moment ducked well below the shield’s protection.

  The concussion as the brute crashed into his shield was tremendous. It felt as though his arm was shattered. There was a roaring in his ears as he felt the great mass of horse and rider roll him back, and then he was on the ground, beneath the shield, and the horse had gone over him. His face was full of sand. It was in his ears and mouth and nose. He could scarcely open his eyes, but he must, if he were to avoid the lance. Pushing the shield aside, he scrambled to his feet, and felt the sand trickle down beneath his chemise as he gripped his sword firmly once more.

  The horse had passed him, but now turned and the rider spurred to aim at him.

  Baldwin had no time to plan. He slipped his arm from the shield and waited. As the lance was almost on him, he hefted the shield up, blocking the weapon before it struck him, and felt the point pierce the wood. He threw the shield down immediately, and it took the lancepoint with it, its great weight bearing the lance to the ground, and making the shaft shoot upwards. There was a cry of pain from the Muslim rider, and then Baldwin’s sword span around, and the edge caught the rider behind the knee. A spray of blood hissed over Baldwin’s face, and then he saw another horse speeding towards him and turned to face it, sword up, before recognising the Templar’s symbol.

  The knight glanced at Baldwin, but then his lance was down and he speared the Muslim almost without effort, so it seemed, and as he passed, the Templar flicked his wrist and the Muslim was thrown to the ground behind him, writhing.

  Baldwin whipped round. A second Muslim was riding towards him, and even as Baldwin crouched, staring about him in an urgent search for another shield, the rider’s horse gave a loud whinny, stretched its neck and fell sprawling, its hindquarters caught in the guy-ropes of a tent. The rider was thrown, and landed on his head with an audible crack. He didn’t move again. Another man lay sobbing near the wreckage of a tent, his ho
rse’s leg entangled in guy-ropes, and as Baldwin watched, a sergeant despatched the rider.

  Baldwin’s first man lay moaning and choking still.

  He had a narrow face, and a thin, black beard. From the look of him, he could not have been more than two years older than Baldwin himself. He looked up at Baldwin with agonised incomprehension, a hand pressed to his belly below his ribcage, and Baldwin could see he was dying. The blood seeped from his wound thickly, and there was a foul odour. His intestines were punctured too.

  The man’s eyes were pleading, and Baldwin ended his misery with a quick downward thrust of his sword.

  He saw the life leave the body as it slowly slumped, the man’s eyes on Baldwin’s face, until it was nothing more than a sack of bones and muscle. The dark eyes seemed to fade, somehow, and then go dull, like a dead fish’s.

  For some reason, Baldwin muttered a prayer for the man’s soul. It seemed the right thing to do, but as soon as he finished, he wanted to weep. He had never prayed for Sibilla’s man, he realised.

  He knelt, set his sword before him, and rested his brow on the cross as he begged forgiveness for that murder, and prayed for the man’s soul.

  And afterwards, for the first time since killing him all those miles away, Baldwin felt as though God had heard his prayers.

  Perhaps he was forgiven.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Baldwin and the Templars returned to Acre on the fourth day. After the excitement of that night attack it had been an uneventful reconnaissance. There had been no signs of Muslim forces, only the occasional caravan slowly lumbering along the ancient roadways.

  As they came nearer to the city, Baldwin found the Marshal at his side once more.

  ‘You acquitted yourself with honour in that fierce little fight,’ Sir Geoffrey told him.

  ‘I am glad you think so.’

  ‘There are many who would not have bestirred themselves so swiftly, nor thrown themselves into the fray with such eagerness. Your training is a tribute to your old master.’