‘At our last meeting, I warned you that the threat posed by Qalawun was real,’ Guillaume stated, addressing them all. ‘He has already constructed the largest siege artillery ever seen, and his army is enormous. There is talk of over one hundred thousand men. It is not a force designed to wage war. It is an army brought together to eradicate the last Christian outpost in the Holy Land.’
Philip Mainboeuf had been sitting on a stool but now he stood and held his hands aloft. ‘My friends! Men of the Commune of Acre! How many more times must we listen to the same old song? My ears are tired with hearing the same allegations at each meeting. Where is this army? Is it here? Is it marching to us now? No! Are their siege engines before our walls? No! Do we have news of Qalawun leaving his capital city? No! Yet every few weeks the Templars seek to petrify us with vague threats and rumours. In God’s name, how much longer must we put up with this nonsense?’
De Beaujeu could see that the majority sided with the merchant. Very well. He waited for the tumult to die down, but now he did not speak in the mild, gently persuasive manner he was accustomed to use before the Commune, he used the tone he employed when speaking to subordinates. A cold, resolute voice that brooked no argument.
‘My Lords, Squires, Gentles, listen to me carefully. An army is assembled against us. It will leave very shortly. There are siege engines enough to destroy our city and forever dispel any hopes of winning back Jerusalem. We risk not only our own lives, but the souls of all Christians if we fail here: for if we do, God must turn His face from us. We have a holy duty to protect that which we hold.’
‘Against a will o’ the wisp!’ Mainboeuf laughed.
De Beaujeu did not look at him. ‘Not only have I been warned of this, I have been warned too that there is a spy in our city who seeks to convince us that the danger is not severe. I am told that this spy has been given much gold to persuade you, the Commune, that you are safe.’
‘You accuse me of taking Muslim gold?’ Mainboeuf roared.
Before he could cross the floor, three Templars stepped before their Grand Master, and stood, hands on hilts. The Hospitallers were irresolute, while merchants bellowed and shouted, fists waving in the air.
Constable Amalric stood and boomed in a voice that reflected his anger, ‘Be still! Grand Master de Beaujeu, I hope you have evidence to support this allegation?’
‘The evidence of my eyes and ears in this assembly is all I need, Constable,’ the Grand Master said. ‘There is one man who is determined to undermine the defence of the city at every opportunity. He is there.’
Philip Mainboeuf snarled in response, ‘Look at him! A Templar, secure in his arrogance and pride! He tells us to prepare for war, and why? So his Venetian friends can make money bringing crusaders here – and we know what that achieved, don’t we? The very danger he warns us of was caused by the last influx of Lombards. How many more does he think we need bring to our city to guarantee its utter collapse?’
The Grand Master motioned to the Marshal, who snapped an order, and the three Templars moved aside. Guillaume de Beaujeu stopped before the irate merchant.
‘I do not spend money foolishly in the hope of gaining information. I spend carefully and wisely to ensure that I have the best intelligence I can acquire. If you are uninformed, your opponent is not. He will make sure that he knows as much as it is possible to learn about you. About your forces, your defences, your food stocks, your water – everything. And that is exactly what I try to learn about Qalawun. I pay a lot for the best results. And I have sent people to Qalawun directly to gain information about his forces.’
‘And you say that we have a spy?’ the Constable said.
‘We have. Someone who is greedy and debased enough to sell his city for gold.’
‘What should we do?’
‘Master Mainboeuf should be held so he may not earn more from Qalawun,’ Guillaume said. He stared at Philip Mainboeuf for a long moment, before turning and facing the Commune once more. ‘I have sent an embassy to Qalawun. He agrees to peace and the renewal of the treaty for as many Venetian Sequins as there are men and women living here in Acre.’
If the noise before had been loud, now it was a roaring torrent of sound that threatened to deafen even the strongest. Guillaume de Beaujeu held up his hands. ‘Listen! Listen to me!’
‘You say this deofol will bring an army to engulf us, and then you tell us to pay him? What stupidity is this!’ Mainboeuf bellowed.
‘We can hold him off for a little – if we pay,’ de Beaujeu explained, but no one wanted to hear.
‘You tell us to pay our enemy? First you state that he is on his way to kill us all, and then you tell us to bribe him! This is Templar logic, is it? I tell you, you wouldn’t last long in my world!’ Mainboeuf jeered. ‘If you were to run a business in this way, you would soon have no trade and no money!’
‘This is cowardice!’ someone else shouted. ‘The Templars want to surrender. If Qalawun is coming, then surely it’s better to hold on to our money to pay to protect ourselves!’
‘There’s a traitor here all right, and it isn’t a merchant!’ another roared from the back of the room. ‘The Temple wants to give our money to heathens? This is an insult to our intelligence!’
Guillaume de Beaujeu felt his rage rise to encompass his whole soul. He drew himself up to his full height and stormed from the court, his men behind him, and out in the road, he turned towards the Temple, shoving his helmet onto his head as he went.
The fools! Their brains were in their arses! They had no more hope of protecting themselves against Qalawun than a sparrow against a hawk.
But already, as he marched past the Genoese quarter, past the cathedral, and down St Anne’s Lane to the great gate of the Temple, he was thinking strategically. He must write to the Holy Father in Avignon, apprising him of their dire situation, and asking for men and money to defend the last Crusader city, and then there should be plans laid for emptying the city of all but essential people.
Reaching his chamber, he pulled off his helmet and set it aside. Then he began to remove his tunic. His squire was already at his side, and helped with the coat of plates, the mail, the thick padded habergeon, and all the while Guillaume de Beaujeu was thinking, assessing, analysing, considering.
‘Leave me!’ he said when his armour was off, and he could shrug himself into his white habit.
The squire left the chamber with a graceful bow, and the Grand Master was alone. He walked to his chair and sat, staring into the middle distance, meditating – until it came to him.
No matter what he plotted and schemed, there was little he could do against the army Qalawun had gathered. Without God’s help, the city must fall.
And suddenly Guillaume de Beaujeu was aware of a heat at his eyes, and mistiness in his vision.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The next weeks were for Baldwin and Ivo a time of unparallelled effort. There was not a single part of the walls which was not resurveyed, and every week brought more timbers for the defence of the city. Some were to go to the construction of engines of war, while others were stored. During a siege they would be brought out to shore up buildings, or strengthen mines.
No matter that some continued to deny that the Sultan would attack; there were enough now who believed Guillaume de Beaujeu’s contention.
Ivo had been made a vintenary, responsible for a group of twenty men recruited from pilgrims, crusaders and city men. His first decision was to install Baldwin as his sergeant. Baldwin had already decided that if he was to die, it would be with his countrymen, so he was glad to hear they would take a section with the English under Otto de Grandison. Ivo came and watched Baldwin with a grudging approval as his sergeant took men aside and gave them lessons in fighting with spears or swords.
‘Ye’ll have your work cut out teaching that lot to fight,’ he said that evening.
‘They’ll fight better when there’s an army outside the city walls,’ Baldwin said.
‘Per
haps.’
‘You know it’s true.’
‘They’ll fight, all right, because they’ll have little option when Qalawun appears over that horizon. When men see him, some will fall to wailing and weeping, some will be beshitten, and a few will stand and defy them. It’s the way of a siege.’
Baldwin remembered those words as he walked along the new hoardings atop the wall. He had taken to traversing his section, from the Lazar Gate all along to the Accused Tower, staring through the hot air towards the horizon. He came here most mornings now.
Today, he saw a speck in the distance trailing a cloud of dust. Clearly it was a horse, and moving quickly. Baldwin peered through the haze, wondering who it might be. As the rider approached, he saw it was a Turcopole, who waved and shouted as he rode, and Baldwin stared into the distance, fearing that at any moment the great army would appear. But there was nothing: no sparkle of weapons, no cavalry, no sand rising from hundreds of thousands of feet.
He was still on the wall, when he heard the first great cheer from the gate, mingled with screams and sobbing.
Hurrying down the steps to the gate, almost tripping over Uther, he saw guards being kissed and hugged by women. The Turcopole had all but fallen from his mount, and stood, red-faced, his back to a shaded wall, facing the sky, panting, while his horse puffed and blew nearby, head drooping.
‘What is it?’ Baldwin demanded.
A woman took his face in her hands and planted a kiss on either cheek.
‘He’s dead! Qalawun’s dead! We’re all safe! Our city’s safe!’
And Baldwin felt as though his stomach had fallen to his boots with the shock.
When he was called to Lady Maria’s house, Buscarel was intrigued. A maid led the way to the paved garden. ‘My Lady,’ he said with a bow.
‘Master Buscarel, I should be glad of your assistance,’ she said. She lounged on a comfortable couch in the shade. ‘As you know, I am a friend of Genoa.’
‘Yes.’
‘Venice is not, however. Nor are the friends of Venice. One such is this Baldwin de Furnshill, Ivo Pynho’s friend. I would pay you to kill him.’
He rubbed a thumb against his beard. ‘Why?’
‘Ivo wishes to foment war with Cairo. It serves his purpose, and that of Venice. We must stop that. Kill his friend, and he will have other things to consider.’
‘Very well.’
She watched him leave with a feeling of contempt for all men. They were so transparent. This Genoan, Buscarel, he was as dull-witted as the rest. Typical of the breed, he would fight for his purse, but as soon as he was back in port, any money he had taken would be frittered away on whores and drink. It was the way of sailing men.
Taking a mazer of wine, she sipped contentedly.
That was why it was so easy to pull the wool over their eyes. Over those of the Sultan too, who thought he was gaining so much from her reports, while in truth she was learning more about him than he did about the city. Over those of men like Mainboeuf, also. Oh, he had a pleasing thigh, and a nice tarse, but she was not bedding him for fun. He was the most prominent merchant here, and he could tell her about the defences of the city and what matters were discussed in the Commune before anyone else knew.
He was the source of her value to the Sultan. And for that reason, her farms were safe. She would give away the secrets of the Pope at Rome to protect her lands.
The evening was warm and sultry, with wind blowing in from the sea as Baldwin walked back from the cathedral.
All had wanted to participate in the service of thanks which the Patriarch of Jerusalem had held. The bells had been ringing all afternoon, making a cacophony that was at first exhilarating, but now tedious. Not that Baldwin cared. Like others, he was euphoric. And, to be honest, slightly drunk after all the wine he had quaffed.
Otto de Grandison and Ivo were chatting, walking in front of him. Suddenly a man bolted from a doorway. He almost lurched into the three, burped, apologised, and smiled crookedly, saying, ‘God has saved us! God be praised!’
‘God be praised,’ the tall Swiss agreed, and the drunken man walked away unsteadily up the road.
‘For Qalawun to die so suddenly, it must be a miracle,’ Baldwin said.
‘Or a poison given to him by an enthusiastic politician,’ Ivo said sourly. ‘They have different ways of ensuring their succession. Does anyone know who will be taking his position as Sultan?’
‘No. I doubt me it matters,’ Grandison said comfortably. ‘Whoever it may be, he will spend his time consolidating his position, not worrying about war.’
‘But a man with a vast army must occupy it,’ Ivo pointed out.
‘This is true,’ Grandison replied. ‘But he will be concentrating on putting down plots about his succession, and the army will be useful for that. All I know is that the worst threat to the Holy Land is dead. And that means I will be taking my men back to England soon. It will be good to get away from this infernal heat.’
‘I do not know what I shall do,’ Baldwin said, only half-realising he spoke aloud. It was a curious thought. For the last months, his mind had been completely focused on the defence of the city. Without that spur, there was nothing to keep him here – only the memory of Lucia. He passed a couple fornicating against a wall, and thought perhaps he should go to the whores and dispel his natural passion. But he remembered the unsatisfactory coupling all those months ago when he had first arrived, and pushed the thought from his mind.
‘Well, what do you want to do?’ Ivo asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Baldwin said. ‘I cannot return home.’
‘Remain here, then.’
‘What, and join the Templars?’ Baldwin laughed.
‘You could join a worse organisation.’
‘I am not ready to become a monk.’
Grandison looked at him. ‘You could become a merchant in your own right.’
‘I know nothing about trade,’ he protested.
‘Then permit Ivo to teach you,’ Grandison said.
‘I would be glad if you remained,’ Ivo said.
Baldwin felt a welling that blocked his throat. ‘I . . . I am grateful.’
‘Good. That is settled, then,’ Ivo said.
They were passing a large mound of broken lathes and spars burning merrily, while people danced about it, hands linked. Men with bells buckled to their knees were dancing too, and behind them people were drinking and eating. A man with a huge tabor drummed enthusiastically, piping at the same time, and a hurdy-gurdy was taking up the rhythm. Women sang and laughed, and Baldwin saw children scuttling about and playing. It was a scene of joy. All were happy.
‘Everybody is celebrating. All the stores saved for the siege are being devoured,’ he said.
‘And the wine, too,’ Ivo said.
‘There will be more than a few children conceived tonight,’ Grandison sighed. ‘My men will leave many a young maid with an expensive present.’
Ivo glanced at Baldwin. ‘Is there any news of her?’
‘No.’
Grandison looked at him. ‘You have lost a woman?’
‘Yes. A maid. But her mistress sent her away.’
‘If it was a servant, you need only consider where your mistress owns houses.’
‘Lady Maria owns many,’ Baldwin said.
‘Then you will need to visit many, won’t you?’ Grandison said. ‘Faint heart never won fair maid, boy.’
Baldwin resented his bluff confidence. It was tempting to snap back at him, but then he found himself considering the Swiss’s words. He was right, after all. And if he were to search, he might find his Lucia. ‘I will do so,’ he said.
‘We can sleep better tonight, anyway,’ Grandison said.
‘Yes,’ Baldwin agreed.
‘I hope so,’ Ivo nodded.
‘There is surely reason for a little more confidence than a vague “hope”,’ Grandison said. ‘God has saved us.’
‘For the nonce, yes. But I just wonder what will
happen to that army.’
‘Ivo, you could make Bacchus miserable!’
‘Not as miserable as a hundred thousand warriors marching against us.’
The people thronging the streets made it hard for Buscarel to follow Baldwin. As soon as he saw the young man in the crowds, he gripped his dagger’s hilt under his cloak and pushed forward. The drunks would shield him from view, and he could reach Baldwin, stab him, and be away before anyone was any the wiser. It was the perfect place for an assassination.
But there were too many celebrating for him to be able to get close without trampling all in his path in an unseemly manner. It was one thing to push men and women from his path, another to cause such a disturbance that Baldwin must hear and seek the cause.
He followed, hoping to find the right moment.
In the last weeks he had been moving regularly amongst the men of Genoa. The mood was not good. All feared the loss of business if the Sultan arrived, and the Genoese had enough spies of their own to know the Templar warnings were valid. Many spoke of leaving.
Buscarel trailed after the young man all the way into Montmusart, and thence to Ivo’s house. He stood in the alleyway near the entrance to the house for some little while, watching and thinking. Acre was the only place he knew. It was the home he loved. He had his wife here, his son. The thought of fleeing to some other city was depressing.
It was a relief to know that the threat was receding.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Baldwin lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, his mind full of thoughts of Lucia.
It was the scenes all over the city tonight that had provoked this. Happy, cheerful faces had loomed in the flickering torchlight, people dancing, singing, kissing, laughing – the whole of Acre making merry. Baldwin alone was miserable.
The pleasure-seekers should realise that although their enemy was dead, his army was still in Cairo, he thought. Yet how could they realise, for they had not seen that vast army.
Uther jumped onto his lap, making Baldwin start violently. He growled, ‘Clumsy brute,’ as the dog lay down, his chin on Baldwin’s belly, staring up at him. ‘You wouldn’t be as foolish, would you?’ Baldwin muttered, scratching him behind the ears.
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