‘Good luck on the seas tomorrow. And God be with you.’ Baldwin hesitated. Then, ‘I will pray for you.’
Buscarel stared at him, and then patted Baldwin’s dog. ‘I never thought to make a friend of you.’
‘I think we have both seen much that has changed us in the last days,’ Baldwin said.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
That night, Baldwin did not return to the house. He was desperate to go to Lucia, and to hold her, to lie with her, as though in her bed he would be safe from the rocks flying through the air, but even as he made to return from the harbour, he heard the cries of men pleading for help.
‘What’s that?’
Hob jerked a thumb. ‘Look at the fires.’
Swearing under his breath, Baldwin hurried up the roads to the city centre, Uther at his heels. The scene that met his eyes was one of horror. Fires had broken out through the whole of the eastern section near the Patriarch’s Tower: there were eight great conflagrations near the church itself. Gathering himself, he bellowed for Hob to join him.
Hob was soon with him, and began to issue commands. In moments a boy had been sent to find Anselm and Thomas and the rest of the vintaine, while Hob and Baldwin sent another to find buckets. There seemed to be none about the area – all had been taken to the walls, where the fires had been burning already. Baldwin spotted the young James of Gibelet again and told him to run to the Templars and beg for any spare men they had, and all the buckets they could provide.
The Patriarch, a rather short, plump man with a white robe and cap, was standing before his cathedral, praying with his eyes squeezed tight shut. Two of his clerks were behind him, in the same attitude of prayer. Baldwin spoke to one, asking him to join them in helping put out the flames.
‘Leave us, man! We are praying to save the cathedral,’ he snapped.
‘God might consider helping you more if you helped put out the fires around your church!’ Baldwin snarled back.
‘Sir, we have buckets,’ Hob announced, and Baldwin was relieved to see a small force of Templars hurrying up.
One of them was Roger Flor, who gazed about him quizzically. ‘Not looking good, is it?’
‘It’ll be better when you’ve helped put out the worst of it,’ Baldwin said.
‘Aye,’ Roger said. Bernat was with him and the two strode over to join their companions in their brown tunics. Soon a chain of men was organised, and buckets were being manhandled up to the nearest fires, and while Baldwin felt the flesh on his face scorching in the heat, at least he saw that the advance of the flames was being halted.
Uther was running about and yelping with excitement, or perhaps fear, and Baldwin saw a man aim a kick at him. He didn’t like to see a dog harmed, but for now he left the fellow alone. Uther retired, with a slinking hurt pride, which may have saved his life.
Moments after he had gone, there was a loud rumble, and Baldwin had to lunge away, taking Hob with him, as a wall collapsed, the stones glowing dully from their heat. Some fell into a pool of water, and instantly a cloud of steam rose. Then suddenly there was an explosion, and bits and pieces of stone shot all about. A man gave a thin scream, and clapped his hand to his face when a shard of red-hot stone lodged in his cheek. Others had to hold him down as he threshed about, and cut the stone out with a knife. Baldwin saw the next buildings begin to smoulder, and to his relief Hob gave orders for the men to hurry with the water again.
And so the work continued all through the night. At times Baldwin thought that they were getting the better of their enemy, and at last the flames were beginning to die down, but even as he had the thought, another wave of clay pots filled with Greek fire hurtled over the walls towards them.
One smashed on the ground before Baldwin, and he felt the liquid hit his tunic, but by some miracle, the contents did not ignite. Three or four others landed in the road or on buildings, and Baldwin and Hob were hard put to have the men stop the fires from taking hold again. It was not easy. The flames seemed impervious to water, and while the men threw bucket after bucket at them, still the flames continued to burn. Then, while the men were running about trying to douse one fire, a further pot crashed to earth near the cathedral, and instantly one of the two clerks was immersed in a column of flame. His figure could be seen encased within the fire, still bent and praying, and then slowly tumbled to the ground.
Baldwin swore under his breath. He grasped the Patriarch and his remaining clerk, pulling them from their contemplations, and shoving them away. ‘If you won’t help, you can at least get out of our way,’ he shouted.
The Patriarch nodded, staring at his dead clerk. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said with a pained voice.
‘Who does?’ Baldwin snarled.
* * *
Baldwin and Hob worked until the sun lit the horizon. In the orange glow of so many fires, it was hard to appreciate that this new light was not merely a hellish reflection, but soon Baldwin realised he could see Hob’s face.
Every crease was black, filled with soot from a hundred houses, from the remnants of clothing and wood. His eyes gleamed, the whites reddened with soreness, and his lashes were darker, like a woman’s lined with kohl. But most of all it was the weariness that Baldwin saw, and knew that he was every bit as exhausted.
They had fought the fires all night, but even now, the sun brought no respite. The thunder and crash of the missiles shattering and scattering their flames far and wide was just as prevalent as it had been in the middle of the night.
‘Hob, go and get some rest. I’ll see you on the wall,’ Baldwin said.
‘Aye,’ Hob said, and called hoarsely to the rest of their men. Soon they were shuffling away, and Baldwin called to Uther, who was cowering under a cart.
‘Come, little fellow,’ Baldwin said. He took a moment to crouch and stroke his dog.
The road here had lost many houses. Remains of their masonry stood up like blackened teeth against the glowing sky.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ Baldwin murmured, remembering his first glimpse of the city from the ship. Back then, it had been a city of gold, he had thought. Now it was possessed by a demonic glow. Gradually he became aware of a strange stillness. There were still one or two crashes as rocks hit the city, but many of the machines seemed to have fallen silent.
He stood, carrying Uther, made his way to the walls and climbed the stairs. At this point, a large section of hoarding had been crushed and burned away, and there was little timber to replace it. It did at least mean Baldwin could see much of the plain.
All about him there was still the rumble of missiles. Before him on the plain, tens of thousands of warriors stood with their banners fluttering in the light morning’s breeze. And then, the last of the catapults fell silent. There came a loud cheering from the field, and as Baldwin watched, he saw the appearance of a warrior on a horse.
‘The Sultan,’ a man next to him said.
He was followed by at least three hundred men on horseback, all wearing armour that gleamed in the early light. As Baldwin watched, the Sultan lifted his arm, and then let it fall, and in an instant, all the catapults fired together.
In the corner of the nearer tower, men were huddled down in the lee of the walls, watching a cock-fight. It astonished Baldwin that men would want to see more death, but at least the cocks meant there would be food later. A sentry, peering over the wall, ducked back and hissed at the men to expect a missile, before throwing down his own coin to bet on the winner.
The Muslims had adjusted their range, and now the machines were aiming solely at the walls, the majority beneath the Tower of King Henry. A vast weight of clay pots filled with Greek fire were aimed at that narrow section. Clouds of flame gushed, billowing black clouds smothered the area, and the noise was appalling. Over it all, Baldwin heard the iron clanging of the huge bolts fired by mangonels, their hideous heads burying themselves in the rock. He detested them.
‘What now?’ he said.
The man at his side was the same blue-eyed Englishman with the heavy
falchion. ‘Now? They’ll concentrate all their efforts on the walls, and leave the damage inside the city to the two bigger ones over there.’
Baldwin looked to where he pointed, and saw al-Mansour rising over the field like a hideous gallows. He could almost imagine a man being hanged from that vast sling. It made the gorge rise in his throat. But then he saw something else from the corner of his eye. There, out at sea, was Buscarel’s cog, and even as he watched, the cog’s catapult swung up, and another rock was sent tumbling through the air.
‘They will not hit it, you know,’ Jacques said.
Baldwin turned with surprise. ‘My friend, what are you doing here? You should be at the Lazar Tower.’
‘I was aware of my post, yes,’ Jacques said with a very slight tone of impatience. ‘I have been sent to speak with Sir Otto. Sir Guillaume thinks that the ship will not succeed.’
‘Why? Buscarel is doing a good job, flinging his rocks. It’s only a matter of time before he has destroyed that damned machine.’
‘Damned it may be, my friend, but do not be confused. We will die before it, at this rate. There is need for us to take the initiative.’
One of Sir Otto’s men saw Sir Jacques, and hurried to take him over to the English Commander. Baldwin waited, watching them discussing something, both close to each other, glancing through gaps in the hoardings. Then there was a nod of agreement between the two, and they clasped their forearms in a display of trust.
‘Wait for me tonight, Baldwin, at Ivo’s house. You will come with us,’ Sir Jacques said, with that quiet smile on his face.
‘Where do we go?’
‘We ride to that damned machine, my friend. We shall go there and burn it and send it to Hell, where it belongs!’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
By mid-morning, Buscarel was pleased with the way that the catapult was working. They had thrown fifteen of the great lumps of masonry, and although the Muslims had tried to fire their darts in retaliation, it had availed them nothing. With the cog bobbing and dancing near the coast, it was impossible for them to hit her. She wove a frenetic course along the coastline here, where the water was good and deep, and then tacked to return the other way, the men frantically working the great machine all the while.
It was good to be on the water again, he thought as he looked up at the sails and saw how she was falling away. This would be the last shot from this tack, he thought, and called to the sergeant in charge of the catapult to get a move on.
The sergeant roared at his men to withdraw, then pulled the pin. The long arm swept up, the sling caught the lump of broken stone, and with a scraping rasp, the missile was hoiked along its channel and up into the air. The sling released perfectly, and the stone flew straight and true.
His heart seem to stop. From here, Buscarel could see the stone moving swiftly away from him, up into the air, and then seem to hang, like a hawk stooping, only to plummet. And all the time, the rock was moving perfectly in line with the hideous bulk of al-Mansour.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ he prayed. ‘Let it hit!’
There was a gout of sand, a spray of bodies, and al-Mansour was gone!
Buscarel bellowed with joy, his fist in the air, but even as he punched at the sky, he saw it was an illusion. The rock had hit men between him and that horrible device, but had missed it. Al-Mansour still functioned. As he watched, he saw the arm rise lazily, and fling a rock at the city wall.
Swearing to himself, Buscarel was hit with a dejection so intense, he could have thrown the oar from his sore armpit and gone to find his skin of wine. This was a fool’s errand. How they could hope to hit a machine like that at such a distance, especially from a moving platform like a ship. It was stupid at best, insane at worst. A waste of time and precious materials.
‘We go about!’ he roared at the men, but the noise of the creaking and whining timbers of the cog took his voice away.
Suddenly, a wave hit the hull and the vessel began a long, slow roll. No great problem – a cog like this round-bellied old sow was capable of weathering much worse seas than this. But then, when he looked at the deck, he realised his error, and the new danger.
‘Lash the ammunition securely!’ he roared again, and this time one of men heard him. Seeing his frantic wave, the ship-man glanced about him, and Buscarel could see the dawning horror on his face as the rocks began to move.
‘All of you! To the rocks! Tie them down!’ Buscarel shouted in despair.
The rocks which he had so carefully piled on his deck had been fired from the one side as he beat up the coast and sailing back, from the other. But now, the weight of rock was unbalanced. There was too much on the port side of the ship, and as the wave caught her, the rocks on the starboard deck began to move. The slow sea made her roll sluggishly, and he could see the strain on the lashings over the rocks as the ship edged further and further over, until he was hanging onto the oar in a desperate panic.
Up on the castle, the sergeant was hanging on to a rope, cursing and berating his men while they tried to rope down the rocks, but it was too late. With a sharp report, the first lashing snapped, and a snake of tense cordage flew back. Buscarel heard the scream as it whipped past a shipman, cutting through his body, and flinging him aside. Then the rumble of the shifting load could be felt through the deck. Buscarel gritted his teeth in horror as the entire load moved, and the cracking of the parting ropes sounded like the reports of thunder. The moving rock seemed quiet in comparison, a hollow grating as tons shifted with a terrible inevitability to port. And with every inch they moved, the ship’s ability to return to true was reduced, until suddenly she was too far over, and the rocks began to accelerate.
A pair of shipmen stood in the path of the avalanche. One scrambled, agile as a monkey, onto the top of the firmly lashed rocks at the port side, but the second was too slow. As he tried to follow his mate, a rock tumbled over and over, crushing his leg. His wail of agony made his companion stop, and Buscarel saw him gaze back with terror, then continue, leaving his companion behind. The trapped man glanced over his shoulder, and Buscarel saw the madness in his face as the next rocks engulfed him. His shrieks were soon silenced.
Buscarel tried to save the cog, hauling on the rudder to bring her around, thinking perhaps he could turn her port side to the sea, and that way have her forced upright . . . but a final wave thundered into her hull, throwing her over with a squeal of tortured wood. As he leaped from the deck, hit the water and sank in, the cool brine stinging his nose and throat, he heard a distant sound and realised it was a cheer of glee from his enemy.
He had failed.
Back at Ivo’s house that evening, Baldwin ate an early supper. It was good to come home. He was so weary, it was hard to keep his eyes open, and the thought of heading straight for his bed was very appealing. At least in Ivo’s house there was peace. It was far enough away from the walls to be safe from most of the catapults, although it was impossible to shut out the noise of stones hitting the walls and other buildings. A constant rumble and thud came even here: the threnody of war.
Ivo was at the gate with Pietro. ‘How are you?’ he asked, looking at the young man with sympathy.
‘Tired,’ Baldwin said.
When he saw Lucia, sitting on the bench in the garden, he was struck by a sudden embarrassment. He had no idea whether she had welcomed his advances on the night of the burning chapel. What if the poor girl had been too scared to refuse him, with the fear of a slave for her master? Perhaps she had thought he would rape her if she tried to refuse his advances? That was a horrible thought.
Edgar was at the table. ‘I was over with the men at the English Tower today,’ he said. ‘The attacks on the Barbican and the Tower of King Henry are having an impact. It worries me, the way that the walls are shaking.’
‘They must hold,’ Ivo growled. ‘If that point falls, the enemy will have immediate access to the city.’
‘Perhaps. But even a baker can see when stones begin to shift in the masonry. A
man beside me today was killed by a shard of rock. A missile struck the wall, and a great jagged piece of the parapet snapped off and flew through the air. It cut off both his legs.’ Edgar wore a pensive frown.
‘There were many on the outer wall today who died,’ Ivo said. He sounded weary, and rubbed a hand over his eyes as he spoke. ‘Too many.’
Pietro brought some skewered meats from the charcoal brazier. ‘God’s blood, many inside the city died as well,’ he said harshly. ‘We need God’s protection, or the city will fall.’
‘There are plenty of knights here,’ Baldwin said. ‘You shouldn’t fear.’
‘Eh? There are not enough men-at-arms. We need archers and axemen to defeat this foe,’ Pietro said. He didn’t meet Baldwin’s look, but stared aggressively at the floor. ‘I must go to the walls as well. I can do no good here, but I can wield a bow and arrows.’
‘Who will guard the house from looting?’ Ivo demanded.
‘If the Muslims get in, there will be no house to protect,’ Pietro said flatly.
Baldwin shot a look at Lucia. She had been listening, but her eyes were downcast. Feeling his guilt return, he too averted his eyes.
After they had finished their meal, Edgar and Pietro declared their interest in leaving the house for a while and seeing the damage outside. They left soon afterwards.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Ivo demanded, peering at Baldwin.
‘Nothing. But I have been asked to ride out tonight.’
‘Ride out?’ Ivo echoed. ‘What – outside the city?’
‘I am to ride with the Templars and try to destroy that damned catapult,’ Baldwin told him.
‘It would have been better, had that blasted fool on the cog hit the thing,’ Ivo muttered.
Baldwin shrugged. ‘Sir Otto is determined to remove it,’ he said.
‘When do you go?’
‘Sir Jacques will come for me.’
‘Good,’ Ivo said, and drained his wine. ‘At least he can keep an eye on you, eh?’
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