Baldwin nodded. ‘We need a miracle,’ he said.
‘Let me in,’ Buscarel said as the grille opened. A short time later, he was inside the familiar, cool entranceway to Lady Maria’s house.
‘Buscarel. I thought you were dead,’ she said coolly.
‘Your man found me.’
‘Your house. Yes. I heard it was gone,’ she said.
She snapped her fingers and her bottler appeared with a tray which held chilled wine and goblets of fine glass. He set the tray down on a table, and poured. As he did so, there was a crash from somewhere nearby, and he nearly upset the tray. Buscarel did not need to look to know his face was twitching. The fellow had enjoyed ruling over the slaves and servants in the house, but now the enemy was near, his nerves were frayed. Buscarel didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything.
‘What do you want with me?’ he demanded.
He had been camping in the main room of his ruined house when Lady Maria’s henchman had seen him and asked him to come here. Buscarel had nowhere else to go. He had salvaged a few shreds of cloth from another house up the road, and had used this to create a shelter and some shade from the sun – but apart from that, he had done nothing since discovering the house, merely spent his time squatting, watching the piles of rubble as though he half-expected to see his wife rise from them at any moment. It was futile to dig amongst the ruins; a man from further up the road had told him that his family had all been inside when the house was struck, and no one had come out alive.
Buscarel should have gone to the walls, to carry on fighting, but he couldn’t. He was still enfeebled after his fevers and instead had remained there with the shattered remnants of his life. He had lost the will to do anything.
‘I would like you to come and live here with me,’ Lady Maria said.
‘Why?’
She pulled a face. ‘I have no guards. They have been taken to the walls, and I must have someone here to protect me and my house.’
‘You think I can protect you against the Muslims? Lady, when they arrive, we’ll all die.’
‘I am not worried about them,’ she said impatiently. ‘It’s the mob that scares me.’ The bottler served the wine and walked off with his tray. ‘I know enough of the Sultan and his court to know the right men to speak with,’ she went on. ‘You can leave all that to me. All you need do is protect me and my house. Do that, and you and I will be safe.’
‘Safe?’ he laughed hoarsely. ‘No one is safe here!’
‘Will you do this? Protect me, please!’
‘Very well. I have nothing else to do,’ he said. And nothing mattered anyway. Not any more.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Later that same day, it seemed as if God had answered the prayers of the people in the city, for a little after noon, cries went up all over the city.
‘The King! The King’s here!’
Edgar had remained on the walls, while Baldwin and Hob went to help a team of Pisan engineers near the Patriarch’s Tower, helping to piece together an even more massive catapult than those which Hob had already built. Hob’s eyes blazed with an ungodly light when he was working on these machines of death, and Baldwin clapped him on the back and joked, ‘You will kill more Muslims with your catapult than I will with a sword and twenty men behind me!’
Hob nodded grimly. ‘I hope so.’
At that moment, a man on the wall above turned and bellowed, ‘Look! Ships! Christ Jesus, I’ve never seen so many ships!’
Hob and Baldwin exchanged a look and walked down the roadway towards the harbour for a better view. Baldwin stopped, mouth wide. ‘Good God!’
‘Aye. They’ll help,’ Hob said.
From the port itself all the way to the horizon was a mass of shipping. Baldwin’s delighted eyes ran over them, trying to count. ‘How many are there?’
‘The way they’re rolling, I doubt even a shepherd could count that little lot,’ Hob grunted.
Baldwin reached thirty great cogs, but then gave up. Herding them were galleys of war, with Venetian or Pisan flags flying cheerily in the wind. Men and arms: hope for the people of the city!
But it was the flag on the ship quickly approaching the shore that made Baldwin’s heart race: the sky-blue background and five gold crosses of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.
That night was a festive occasion like no other Baldwin had attended in the city.
There was a feast, which had originally been intended to be held in the castle’s yard, but bearing in mind the proximity of the catapults, it was agreed that they should move further from the city walls. Instead, King Hugh II of Jerusalem ordered that tables be set out before the Temple, and here the notables of the city gathered, including secular knights and merchants wearing their finest silks. With the press of people in the yard, it was a miracle anyone could sit. If a missile had landed in their midst, it would have wiped out most of the commanders of the city, Baldwin thought. The Commune was present, as were the Grand Masters of the Orders, Otto de Grandison, the leaders of the Venetians and the Pisans, amongst others, and all were determined to demonstrate that they were unconcerned by their position.
Ivo was invited, and he brought a reluctant Baldwin along with him. Baldwin would have been happier to remain behind with Lucia, and leave this task to Edgar. More and more men had turned to theft and violence in recent days, and although those caught trying to cut a man’s purse or stealing into a house at night were invariably hanged, some still used any opportunity that presented itself. Still, with Edgar and Pietro in the house, Baldwin told himself, there could be few women as safe as Lucia.
When Baldwin and his master entered the court, the young man felt as if he had been transported back to Acre’s heyday. He had never seen such a feast, even when he was living back in England. Beneath flags bearing the royal symbols were set out spiced dishes of many kinds that Baldwin did not recognise. Many were coloured into a variety of hues, and he wondered what might be in them. Glad to leave Ivo at his table, he walked over to where servants stood, watching the festivities. As he glanced about him, he saw Buscarel, standing in a corner.
‘I wondered if you would be here,’ he said as Baldwin approached.
‘I thought you were dead!’
‘So did I. I was found by a fisherman and brought back. The Templars looked after me.’
‘You were unwell?’
Buscarel shrugged. ‘I lived.’
‘You are not recovered – I can see that. You should be resting.’
‘I don’t want to rest. My family . . . they are all dead. A stone.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘While I lay in the Temple, recovering, a rock tore down my house with my family inside. I wish I’d been with them.’ There was a world of despair in his tone.
Baldwin could say nothing. Any enmity between them was done, and he could empathise with a man who had lost so much.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked eventually.
‘Without me, my Lady Maria would lack a guard tonight.’
‘Maria?’ Baldwin repeated, and then risked a quick glance around the tables. There, up at the top of a middle table, he saw the familiar green clothing, and as she turned her head, he saw her features once more. ‘Why are you here with her?’
Buscarel looked over to his mistress, and shrugged. ‘She has no one. Why should I not help her?’
‘I see.’ Baldwin had little sympathy for the woman who had threatened him and his lover.
‘She reckons she will be safe when the Muslims get in, but I think I will kill her when they do.’
Baldwin nodded slowly. It would save her from rape or slavery. Either was not to be borne.
‘With these ships, perhaps we will fight them off,’ he said.
‘There are not enough men. What, another thousand, two thousand? To what avail are such numbers when they have hundreds of thousands?’
‘She might take a berth on a ship leaving here,’ Baldwin said.
‘Perhaps,’ Buscar
el muttered.
‘Shipman, are you well?’ To him, the man looked broken.
‘I’m alive – what more can a man ask?’
‘So many have died,’ Baldwin said solemnly.
‘And more will yet. I will kill as many Muslims as I can for revenge. Oh, when will the bastards break in!’
Baldwin nodded, but he could not help a feeling of elation to see the King of Jerusalem here. It seemed to show that God was on their side again – that He was holding them in His hands and defending them. If the banners of Jerusalem were here, in Acre, it meant that He was here too. And He wouldn’t wish to see His kingdom on Earth lost to heathens.
‘And what of your Lady over there?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Is she still devoted to the city?’
‘Lady Maria is devoted to herself,’ Buscarel said coldly. ‘Not to the city.’
It was hard for Baldwin to recall that this man had beaten him, that he had robbed him of his father’s ring. He felt the last vestiges of anger and bitterness leave him as he saw the deep sorrow in the Genoese’s eyes. Buscarel had remained when all his countrymen had sailed to safety, he reminded himself.
Buscarel’s eyes fell, and he began to walk off, but Baldwin called him. ‘Master Buscarel?’
‘Yes?’
‘God be with you, my friend.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Baldwin settled back on his bench as the feast progressed, but he couldn’t help but think that such a profligate use of food was foolish. All these dishes had been brought with the King when he landed, and now it was being squandered. There was a part of him that understood the importance of such celebrations, demonstrating to the populace that life would continue, and that they should not be downhearted, but while his heart understood such reasoning, his brain told him that they should be husbanding their reserves.
But perhaps they knew there was no point, he thought. What if they already accepted that the city must fall? No, that was ridiculous. For one thing, the King would hardly want to come and risk his life if he thought there was no possibility of success.
There came a bellow, and the King’s steward stood at the front of the King’s table with a staff, which he ceremoniously slammed into the ground.
‘What’s that for?’ Baldwin said, looking at Ivo.
His friend sucked a piece of meat from his teeth. ‘How should I know?’
Baldwin watched as a succession of young men were called to the table. Some few he recognised. One he was sure had been with Sir Otto’s men, and had ridden on the night of the attack on the catapult. Others were unknown to him.
And then his own name was called.
He looked at Ivo.
‘Go and find out,’ Ivo said, answering his unspoken question. There was a gleam in his eye.
‘You are Baldwin de Furnshill?’ the King asked when Baldwin stood before him.
‘Yes, Sire.’ Baldwin could feel his belly dissolving with nervousness to be standing before all the great men here.
King Henry stood and held out his hands. ‘My Lords, knights and friends, people of Acre, we are here to celebrate our arrival today with this feast. We all know that our city’s future is resting on a knife-edge. To fail will mean disaster. Because if we fail, Outremer will lose her last great city. But we will not fail!’
There was a loud cheer, and the pounding of fists on table-tops. Baldwin felt proud to be here, but a cynical part of his mind questioned whether there would be feasting and cheer in another fortnight.
‘There have been many deeds of bravery in the last weeks. I am honoured to recognise the individual courage of these young gentlemen here, and I should like to reward them. From the defence of the walls to the outstanding courage of those who rode to the great catapult, these men deserve their recognition.’
Baldwin felt his mouth fall open.
‘Kneel, gentlemen!’
Baldwin knelt, but the rest of the ceremony went by in a blur. There was the brief lecture from the King, about how a knight should be courteous, bold, hardy, generous and debonair, but to a foe, ferocious and determined. He should protect the poor and weak, and uphold God’s law. There was more in a similar vein, and then the Patriarch came and blessed them and their swords, and they were each given the collée – a light blow from the Patriarch’s hand to remind them of their oaths and responsibilities.
Soon, he was walking back to his seat.
‘Sir Baldwin.’
He almost didn’t turn. It would take him time to become used to his new title, he thought. ‘Sir Jacques?’
‘Well done, my friend. Well done indeed.’
‘But I’ve done little more than any other.’
‘It was the way you saved the Marshal of the Temple on the night of the attack. He was impressed.’
‘That was kind of him.’
‘He thought you merited it,’ Sir Jacques said. He rested his fist on Baldwin’s shoulder. ‘I am sure he was right, my friend.’
When Baldwin and Ivo entered the house, they knew at once that something was wrong. Edgar was standing in the garden, and Lucia was nowhere to be seen as Sir Jacques closed the door behind them.
Baldwin did not know Edgar well, and the expression on his face was not one to inspire trust. Edgar shuffled and looked away as soon as Baldwin entered. It was the kind of look Baldwin would expect to see on a felon.
Edgar mumbled, ‘I am very sorry, Baldwin.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Who – Lucia? She is with him.’
‘What?’
Ivo put his hand on Baldwin’s wrist and pointed.
It was at that moment that Baldwin saw the hole in the rear of the house. A stone had smashed through the north-eastern corner of Ivo’s house and demolished the whole of that section. Baldwin stared, and then was running to his chamber.
She was in his room. Uther was lying on his scrap of cloth as usual, but now his wide, anxious eyes were still. There was no answering thud of his tail as Baldwin walked in.
Lucia stood and stepped back from Uther, as a slave would, trying to become invisible.
‘No, please, Lucia,’ he said, and held out his hands to her. She put her arms around him, but it was no comfort as he stared down at the dog’s body. ‘You poor brute,’ he muttered. ‘You never had much of a life, did you?’
And then he realised he was weeping as he buried his face in Lucia’s shoulder.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
The days following the arrival of King Henry were happy ones, Baldwin thought afterwards. Whereas before, all had begun to give up any hope of the city’s survival, suddenly there was renewed optimism. The sea could bring them reinforcements along with food, and the sight of the bright blue robes of the King’s guards and his footsoldiers gave a fillip to all those who had already endured a month of siege.
It was not merely the sight of new warriors walking about the city, men with clean clothing who were not bandaged and foul with lice, it was the confidence that they radiated, and the ideas that they brought.
King Henry’s first proposal was that an embassy should be sent to the Sultan.
‘It will not hurt us to ask whether the Sultan has a legitimate grievance for breaking his peace treaty. We can investigate whether there is any restitution the city can offer, while also delaying further offensives,’ he said.
That at least had been the hope.
Baldwin heard of the failure when he spoke with Sir Jacques. That morning, Baldwin and his men were stood down from the walls, while newcomers from King Hugh’s entourage took their places. They were nothing loath. Baldwin stretched his legs walking about the city, and when he returned, he found Sir Jacques talking to Ivo.
‘The King sent Guillaume de Canfran, a Templar, and Guillaume de Villiers to speak with the Sultan,’ Sir Jacques said. His face was still twisted where the gauntlet had hit him two weeks before, but his smile was still there. ‘And they did as they were bid. De Villiers is a mild-mannered fellow, but de Canfran is, I fear, one of the
old breed, who learned no humility when a child. His arrogance must have been difficult to curb. Not that it mattered.’
‘What happened?’ Baldwin asked.
‘They reached the tent and waited. The Sultan demanded to know whether they had brought him the keys to the city, and they said that they couldn’t, and when they asked whether he would accept redress for any imagined grievance, he reminded them that it was their people who had murdered Muslims in the market during the riots. When they asked what he wanted, he said that his father had said he wanted the city, not the people. Just as he had said to the Templars last year. So, there you have it. A pleasant chat all round, I think. Almost convivial.’
‘Really?’ Baldwin said.
‘Baldwin, you need to learn about sarcasm, lad,’ Ivo grunted.
Sir Jacques’ twisted smile grew. ‘There was an unfortunate incident. While they were talking, the Muslim artillery was continuing to fire their weapons at us. One of our catapults retaliated, and flung a stone that landed near the tent where they were speaking. It sent the Sultan into a rage, and he had men grasp the shoulders of the two Guillaumes and force them to their knees while he drew his sword to despatch them. It was only the intervention of one of his men that saved their lives.’
The three men fell into a gloomy silence. It was clear that there would be no further negotiations. Baldwin thought he had never see Sir Jacques so sunk in gloom, and Ivo sat scowling at the mazer in his hand as though searching for the future in the wine’s depths.
‘Well, at least we know where we stand,’ Baldwin said.
‘Aye,’ Ivo breathed. ‘On the brink of Hell.’
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Baldwin was dozing when the shout came. His first, groggy thought was that the enemy had managed to break in through the walls, but as he snapped his eyes open, he saw that the fellows on his section of wall were not alarmed.
‘What is it?’
‘They want tinder and combustibles in the barbican,’ Hob said. There was a deflated look about him, like a punctured pig’s bladder.
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