00 - Templar's Acre

by Michael Jecks

  He was being irrational. It was jealousy: he wanted Lucia back. Here in the city it seemed everyone had a partner, and he wanted his. The idea that she was somewhere far away, toiling under the harsh sun, made him shudder. Her delicate skin was not made for such torment. ‘His woman’ – it was ironic that he thought of her in that light. She was hardly known to him. He had met her and spoken to her briefly, and she had spurned his advances. As she had said, she was not of the same faith, and unless she were to change, she could not marry him. It was unthinkable that he might change from the True Faith, after all. So it was impossible for them to marry, and he suspected she would not tolerate being a concubine.

  Yet the man Omar had said that his father, a Muslim, had married a Christian wife. Perhaps there were ways around the strictures of their religions without compromising?

  This was ludicrous, anyway. He had no idea where she was, where she was living, or how. He would have to search all the farms and manors owned by Lady Maria, if he were to find her.

  A shriek of delight came to his ears from the roadway outside, followed by a burst of giggling. Baldwin gritted his teeth.

  How many different manors did Lady Maria own? Not that many. He had heard that she possessed lands near Lydda. Perhaps he should visit them and search until he found Lucia. Better that, than lose her forever. What sort of a suitor would he be, were he to desert her to a life of slavery?

  He would take Otto de Grandison’s advice and find her. At least now, with the threat of war receding, he could search.

  Under Abu al-Fida’s careful direction, the great engine was taken apart.

  Moving a massive machine like al-Mansour was a major undertaking. All parts had been marked by the carpenters under Abu al-Fida’s piercing gaze, so it could be brought together with speed and rebuilt. The base was constructed from timbers pegged together; there was the support structure for the counterweight and arm, and ironwork for hinges and counterweights. There were many parts which could fail individually and cause the whole machine to break down. Even the simple loop which hooked over the arm, to slide free as the arm rose to release the stone, was prone to wear. If that happened, the engine was no more use than firewood.

  But Abu al-Fida would not have it cease its bombardment because of a failure of planning. There were spares for all components: multiple slings, coils of rope, vats of grease for the bearings and to keep the slings supple. In a series of chests were kept spare pegs, two for each hole, and all the paraphernalia of the machine was stowed in a logical sequence so a man could place his hands on the relevant item at a moment’s notice. In all, al-Mansour and the items necessary for its continued running, were stored in more than a hundred wagons, which formed a column half a league long.

  And all for nothing. Because the Sultan was dead.

  Abu al-Fida walked from the wagon park, and up to the castle, struggling to control his emotions.

  This castle had been built by Christians, and the fiend Raynald de Châtillon had won it when he married his wife. The hero of Islam, Salah ad-Din, had captured it, and in recent years Baibars had enhanced it.

  It was as dark in history as Acre. Both were steeped in the blood of innocents. All because of the Franks. They took a place and perverted it, with their intolerable greed and brutality. Acre, like Tripoli, should be torn down.

  Over the entrance to his new tower in the north-west corner, Baibars had masons carve two lions facing each other. Abu al-Fida paused and looked up at them now, wondering, as he had so often, what drove men like Baibars and Qalawun. He did not know. But while their ambitions matched his own, he was content to do all he might to support them. He wanted to see the last Christians thrown from these lands, to see that befouled city, Acre, pulled apart so that the blood of the innocents could be avenged.

  Qalawun had sworn – but now, now what would happen? The Sultan’s son, al-Ashraf Khalil, had taken power, but he was a weak man, from what Abu al-Fida had heard, and had been mistrusted by many, including his dead father.

  Abu al-Fida climbed the stairs and stood on the tower’s roof, staring out over the hills to the north, his fists clenched. Why was his beloved Usmar taken from him, when men like al-Ashraf Khalil survived?

  Poor Usmar. Poor Aisha. All his family gone in a matter of days.

  Abu al-Fida struggled to hold back a sob. He could not believe that he had come so far, achieved so much, only to see this great war machine lie disassembled and idle. It was built for a purpose. Without that, Abu al-Fida’s life was meaningless. His sole reason for existence was the destruction of Acre. Without the Sultan, without the army, there could be no release for him. He had lived in Acre, he had lived amongst the Franks as well as in cities which were resolutely Muslim. If possible, he would prefer not to see further slaughter: in the final days of Antioch he had seen enough to last a lifetime. After the appalling aftermath of that siege he had run away to discover a life which did not involve death. He had become a merchant, trading goods between the cities.

  His life had been good. Alas, that his wife had died with their daughters in that fire. Alas, that Usmar had died. All dead, and the city was responsible. He could never forgive that. There was no hatred in him now, only a driving passion. He must see that city of devils destroyed. It was unthinkable that it should remain. It was an insult to God.

  God wanted him to destroy that city – he was sure of it. To do His will, Abu al-Fida would bring such a shower of horror upon Acre that all would regret Usmar’s passing.

  He only prayed that the son of the Sultan would grant him his ambition.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Baldwin was glad of an opportunity to join the Templar forces riding south.

  ‘This is only a reconnaissance. We ride to ensure that there are no elements of the Sultan’s grand army on their way to us,’ the Marshal said as they tightened cinch-straps and checked their armour. ‘There have been rumours of spies over recent weeks. Our task is to see whether there are Muslim forces spying out the land.’

  Roger Flor glanced at Baldwin. Roger was wearing the brown tunic of a Templar sergeant, the red cross a blaze of brightness on his breast. His beard had been trimmed and he grinned as he caught Baldwin’s eye. They had not spoken since their return from Cairo.

  ‘Not like our last riding out,’ he murmured. ‘I’m glad you kept that quiet.’

  ‘It was not my place to denounce you,’ Baldwin said. He had no desire to recall that shameful action – he would be happier to forget it.

  ‘Godspeed, my friend,’ Baldwin heard, and turned to find Sir Jacques smiling at him.

  ‘You are joining us?’ he asked.

  ‘I was glad to ask to accompany the party.’ Sir Jacques peered ahead through the open city gates at the landscape outside. ‘It is time for us all to prepare for war.’

  ‘You think so too?’

  ‘I have no doubt. The son will want to keep his army busy, and demonstrate his determination to follow his father. He will want to end what Qalawun began.’ Sir Jacques glanced shrewdly at Baldwin. ‘I heard from Ivo that you seek a woman?’

  ‘Yes. She was once the maid to Lady Maria.’

  ‘Then I wish you joy in your search. There is a manor of Lady Maria’s down to the south and east, which is on our way. Perhaps she will be there.’

  Baldwin nodded. He would be glad to find Lucia there. Even if she was, of course, he was unsure what he might achieve. Her mistress had refused to sell her or give her her freedom, and if she remained intransigent, there would be little Baldwin could do to force her. Still, if nothing else it was good to leave the city for a while, and make a journey in the more mild temperatures of the winter.

  The order to mount was given, and Baldwin and the others rose into their saddles, and were soon trotting under the broad gatehouse of the city and into the open lands beyond. Much had changed since Otto de Grandison’s arrival. The shanties were gone and their occupants evicted. Where lean-to shacks had rested against the walls, now there was only
cleared sand, while above, along the line of walls, and atop the towers, the new hoardings concealed the sentries on the walls. The place had the appearance of an armed camp, as indeed it was.

  Some distance from the city, the first of the farmed lands stood, green and verdant and full of promise. Baldwin hoped that the harvest would be good. He was at heart a rural fellow, and it grieved him to think that good crops could be wasted by war.

  They rode for a day and a half, heading first east and south, and then sweeping back towards the coast again. On their way, Baldwin told Sir Jacques about Lucia, and how he feared for her because she was a slave.

  ‘Well, it makes your task easier.’

  ‘What, that she is a slave?’

  ‘Of course!’ he smiled. ‘She is a Muslim, you say. Well, that means she must be nearby. She will not be in Muslim-controlled lands, but close to Acre. Otherwise she would have been released. Muslims would not permit a Muslim to be enslaved any more than a Christian would allow that to happen to a Christian.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Slavery has created unique problems for us,’ Sir Jacques said musingly. ‘Baibars once settled a peace on the Christians, suggesting a free exchange of all prisoners of their wars – but of course the Templars and Hospitallers could not agree.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘For them to maintain their castles and lands, the Orders had need of craftsmen: masons, leather workers, smiths. So after every raid, they would learn the skills of their prisoners, and those who could be used were kept as slaves for life. It was the only way to maintain the Orders. They couldn’t rely on enough workers arriving from Britanny or Guyenne.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that. I would never hold any man as a slave.’

  ‘The Templars paid for it. Have you heard of Safed?’ Sir Jacques asked as they rode eastwards that first morning. ‘It was a Templar castle.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘It was after the breakdown of the peace, some forty years ago, that Baibars tried to destroy Safed. He attacked it time and again, but could not break the resolve of the occupants. So he took another tack. He made those inside understand that the Turcopoles would be welcomed, if they left. The Templars held them in a rigid discipline, but even beating them could not stop many from climbing over the walls in the dead of night. Without them, there were only two hundred Templars left inside. Not enough to man the walls. And so they were forced to accept terms. The Sultan offered them safe passage from the castle if they would only open the gates. So, reluctantly, the commander finally did so.’

  ‘And that earns them a place of pride?’ Baldwin questioned.

  ‘Yes, because as soon as his men took control of the castle, this same Baibars had the Templars gathered together. He made them a new offer. Those who submitted – you know that “Islam” means “submission”? – would live. All those who refused would be executed the following morning. The Sultan left them the night to consider, and next morning, he had the men lined up. The commander ordered his men not to forget their oaths and their faith, and for that the Sultan had him flayed alive before his men. Imagine: all those knights standing and watching while their leader had the skin peeled from his body in front of them. And then they were asked, one by one, whether they would accept the Muslim faith. It is said that as each refused, he was beheaded. And yet not one agreed to the terms. All remained firm in their faith. That is the sort of man a Templar is. Resolute, you see. Guillaume de Beaujeu is one of the mould of Safed. It is in his blood to do all he can to protect the people here, and if necessary, he will die trying.’

  ‘I hope he will not need to,’ Baldwin said.

  A little later, Baldwin found Roger at his side. ‘So, you like his story of death and glory at Safed?’ Roger asked.

  ‘I would prefer to think they had retained the Turcopoles in the castle and had not lost it and their lives,’ Baldwin told him.

  ‘Aye,’ Roger said ruminatively, studying the men in front of them. ‘But they’d think they’d won a glorious victory by dying as martyrs.’

  ‘I think winning is better than a glorious death and losing the battle,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Me too,’ Roger said. The sand was rising from the hooves in front, and he snorted, hawking and spitting, then adding, ‘Stiff-backed hairy-arses, the lot of them. But good men to have on your side in a fight.’

  Baldwin smiled, confused. ‘But you are one too.’

  ‘Nay, only for a short time. Soon I’ll be free again, and I’ll buy my own ship and make a fortune bringing pilgrims here – if there is a “here” to bring them to.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  At the city’s gate, Baldwin felt his failure overwhelm him. With the Templars he had visited two farms of Lady Maria’s, but there was no sign of Lucia in either. All the long ride back, he had kept his face covered. Partly against the sand, but in truth more to hide his dejection.

  ‘Good day, my friend,’ he heard, and Sir Jacques trotted up to join him as he walked his horse back to the stable at Ivo’s. ‘If you do not object to the observation, you appear less than content after our ride.’

  ‘I am desperate to find Lucia,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘But how can I? Lady Maria has hidden her away.’

  ‘That is the counsel of despair,’ Jacques said. ‘Continue to join reconnaissance parties, and you will find her. I have faith that you will. You must have it too.’

  Baldwin nodded without conviction. It seemed ridiculous that he should hold such a heaviness in his heart. ‘I would see her again. I am sick for love of her. Without her I feel like a flower missing the sunlight. I am nothing.’

  Sir Jacques smiled sympathetically. ‘I understand.’

  ‘You cannot – you are a monk!’

  ‘Even monks were once men,’ Sir Jacques said mildly. ‘I loved deeply before I joined my Order. I was an enthusiastic hunter and gatherer of feminine hearts, if you can believe that.’

  ‘What made you join your Order, then?’

  Sir Jacques sighed, and Baldwin saw for the first time that behind his smile there was a great sadness. ‘I loved one woman with more devotion than I had been able to summon before,’ he said. ‘She was beautiful to me, a generous, warm woman, with the natural grace of her people.’

  ‘She was Muslim?’

  ‘No, a Christian, but of the Jewish race. Her name was Sarah, and I adored her. If I had been able to marry her, I would have.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She fell prey to leprosy. It is not uncommon. I would have married her and tended to her, but it was not to be. When she became leprous, I lost her. She was declared dead, and left me to join the Order as a nun. She was based here, in Acre. And when I heard she had done so, I chose my own path.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘I had thought that we would become wealthy. I saw myself as a baron to rival any in Guyenne, while she would be a glorious wife and mother to a brood of children who would be our constant pride. A man begins life with so many plans and hopes, does he not?’

  Baldwin felt his throat constrict at the tone of sad acceptance in the knight’s voice. ‘You do not forget her?’

  ‘How can a man forget the only woman he truly loved? I knew many before her, but not a single one since. I could not gain pleasure from any after her. So, I went to the Grand Master and asked if I could join. And after I had been questioned as to my commitment, I was permitted to take the threefold vows and entered the Hospital.’

  ‘Have you regretted your choice?’

  ‘What a curious question, Master Baldwin. Why should I regret my vocation? I am a calmer, better man for my position. And one day, when I die, I will die here, in the Holy Land, not far from my Sarah.’

  ‘She is still here?’

  ‘She died many years ago. Her body is buried in the Convent of the Nuns of Saint Lazarus in the old city.’

  ‘I do not know how I shall ever see my Lucia again. Perhaps I shall have the same fate as you.’

&nbs
p; ‘Master Baldwin, do not be disheartened. You are young, and so is she. There is always hope, until death. And then we go to a better place than this. So all is good. Still, I wonder . . .’

  Baldwin glanced at him, but the knight was peering into the middle distance with a speculative frown and would not speak of his thoughts. The most he would say was, ‘I have some friends. I will speak with them.’

  The day was hot, and the sun bore down upon them like a blast from a forge as Lucia stood in the field with the heavy shovel, digging up the sodden soil where it had blocked the irrigation trenches and banking up the field. She had never been so close to wet soil before in her life. Just now, the thought of lying down in the cool earth was very appealing.

  Her back was healed now, but not her mind. She had been raped by that foul Kurd, time after time, and she would never forget how it made her feel inside, as though her womb had been shrivelled.

  She thrust the wooden shovel into the soil. It had a metal blade fixed to the edge. Perhaps she could use it to escape? But that was foolish. There was nowhere to escape to.

  The work was mind-numbingly dull. Her hands were sore where they had been chafed by the wooden shaft, there were blisters on her palms, and the soles of her feet where they had been soaked with the water, and now her back was beginning to complain. Not the scars from the whipping, but the muscles deep at either side of her spine, above her waist. They ached and complained, and she closed her eyes as she stabbed once more at the ground.

  A few yards away was another slave, legs wide, bending from the hips, as she picked at the weeds that infested this patch. God forbid that Lady Maria might see a single stray plant here in her garden when she deigned to visit.

  When she did, Lucia hoped she might have a stick ready for her too.

  Baldwin was sitting with Ivo, when the knock came at the door. He was relieved to hear Jacques d’Ivry’s voice. It seemed to calm Ivo, too, as though he had been expecting someone else.