00 - Templar's Acre Read online

  He had known Roger Flor some years. The shipman had gone to sea at the age of eight, and his skill as a navigator had led to his being made shipmaster after he joined the Templar Order. In those days Roger had been a callow young man of some nineteen or twenty years, and while his ability with a ship was never in doubt, it was plain that his interests lay more in the opportunities available in the Holy Land than in his duties as a Templar. And just now, he could see the potential for a good profit. At sea Ivo quite liked Roger Flor – but he didn’t trust him on land.

  They made good way, even with the roiling waters. At each crest, Ivo could see the ships growing closer and closer. The one in the middle appeared to be rolling to and fro violently, while the two at either side seemed more stable, and he saw that men were loosing arrows from them into the stricken ship.

  Ivo knew how the crew would be served there. He had endured such battles himself, and could imagine the scene already: arrows would make the decks lethal. Bodies would be pinned to the planks beneath them, men panting and struggling for breath, while others tried to hide behind the flimsiest partitions. Screams, groans, sobs, the sounds of panic and horror.

  The shame of it: Christians fighting on the open sea, when their last city, Acre, the jewel of Outremer, was desperate for aid. The other states of the crusader kingdom had been taken, and even now Muslim hordes waited at her borders, slavering with the thought of the easy prize sitting there so defenceless. Christians needed to unite to defend her, but no. Genoa, Venice and Pisa were at loggerheads as usual. And now a pair of Genoese galleys were trying to capture a Venetian cog. It made his heart weep.

  But he was not by nature prepared to submit to misery. He had seen such things too often since he took up his new life in the Holy Land, and now he felt the warrior’s anger again, the slow burning rage that heated the blood, as he looked at the ship. He had noticed it in the harbour, sailing off while he was seeing to the last of the horses being stowed belowdecks – a small buss, a two-masted ship of perhaps double the size of a cog from the northern waters.

  Roger suddenly bawled commands, and his sailors scurried. One man paused, puked on the deck, and then carried on. The others had forgotten their sickness in anticipation of the fight to come.

  ‘Let the flag of the Order be flown!’ Roger bellowed, and the pennant, which had been stowed away two days ago when the wind began to tear at it, was hurriedly attached to the halyard and hoisted. ‘Let’s see what they make of that, eh?’ Roger asked, his teeth shining.

  The swooping, rolling motion seemed to grow in urgency, as though the ship herself was desperate to get to grips with the pirates. Ivo clung with desperation to a rope, his legs bending as the ship slammed into a great wave, hurling spray over the whole deck. There were men on the yards now, reefing the sail, while others worked with frantic haste, running hither and thither, each man knowing his position. Roger Flor was a good master, and now he kept an eye on his crew as they hurried from one point to another, depositing weapons, readying themselves and the ship for battle.

  But when they were done, there was a long wait as they approached the three. It felt as though they were crawling, foot by foot, yard by yard, and Ivo was convinced that they must arrive too late to help. As it was, they must have been seen, and the two ships would be ready to beat them off.

  ‘Bowmen, to the tops!’ Roger roared, and the sailors with crossbows took their leather pots of quarrels and began to climb, bows slung over their backs. ‘Men! These Genoese whoresons have tried to take a shipload of crusaders! Crusaders are here to defend our kingdom! They are here to help us! They are our friends and allies, and I mean to make these pirates pay for harming them! Do you want to let them escape with that black crime unavenged? Should we permit them to go free? I say no!’

  There was a bellow of approval from the men nearest, although Ivo was sure that only a half of the crew could have heard his words over the roar of the sea and howling winds. Still, he saw from their expressions that many of them were anticipating the fight with joy in their hearts.

  Typical sailors, Ivo thought to himself. Never happier than when in a brawl.

  Roger looked at him. ‘Soon now, Ivo. Are you ready?’

  ‘I’m almost double your age, lad. I’ve seen enough fights since I came here with my prince,’ Ivo said.

  ‘Aye. That prince is King now, isn’t he? And you’re still here,’ the master added pointedly.

  Ivo felt his face stiffen at the reminder of his old shame. ‘How long?’ he muttered.

  ‘Soon. Very soon.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Baldwin de Furnshill was crippled with shame.

  He was brother to Sir Reynald de Furnshill, son of a knight, a man of honour and trained in the sword, and yet he had been bested by Genoese pirates.

  When the men came over the rails, he stood back to give himself room, but before he could do more than slash inexpertly at the nearest attacker, a blow from a cudgel drove him to his knees. All around, he saw pockets of resistance as pilgrims attempted to hold the Genoese at bay, but it was impossible to stand against them for long. A number of the crusaders and pilgrims allowed themselves to be driven back towards the hold, while others dropped and submitted, craving mercy of the sailors. All were spared.

  Baldwin’s head span, and as the deck rolled, he fell to the side, as helpless as a newborn foal. His legs were incapable of supporting him. But worse than the shocking pain was the shame. He should have died killing his enemies – that was the way for a knight’s son to fight! He wanted to reach for his sword. It lay near him – but he lacked the strength to lift it.

  Two sailors from his own ship continued to fight, one with a short sword and a knife, the other with a long-handled axe, and side-by-side, they held their opponents at bay. They forced one sailor to spring back, while another caught a slash from the axe across his belly that made him howl. At last two crossbowmen were brought up and ended their final stand. Their bodies fell, and were thrown overboard like carrion to feed the fishes. No Christian burial for them.

  He felt himself jerked up and shoved back against the hull, and sat, his head lolling, watching as the Genoese walked amongst them, snatching at jewellery and other valuables. Any who carried purses were relieved of them. Baldwin’s sword was taken, and now he felt a man yank at his purse, and there was a sudden release as the strings were cut and it was gone.

  Another grabbed his hand. Baldwin looked up to find himself meeting the stare of a black-bearded man with a round face, burned the colour of oak by the sun. Baldwin tried to jerk his hand away, but the man laid a knife’s edge against his knuckle and then drew the ring off. It was Baldwin’s last possession given to him by his father, and he should have wept to see it taken, but he couldn’t. He was without feeling. Numb.

  And then the Genoese began to scurry, sensing a new danger.

  There was no attempt to conceal their approach. Roger Flor aimed the Falcon straight at the three vessels locked together, constantly adjusting the oar under his arm as he saw the way that the three moved. There was movement on the left-most galley. A man appeared, a thick-set fellow with a black beard that was trimmed neatly. He stood on the sheer, a hand on a stay nearby, and as the Falcon came closer, he turned and beckoned to another. This was a crossbowman, who stood at the rail, listening to instructions from the bearded commander.

  Ivo eyed them warily. He knew how accurate Genoese bowmen could be, but while they were under wind, gaining on the three ships, the bowman’s ship was wallowing. He had a rolling, plunging deck to fire from. Ivo felt moderately safe.

  He was right. The crossbow was raised, aimed and fired – but as the three ships breasted one wave, Ivo’s plummeted down another, and the bolt flew safely overhead.

  ‘If that prickle tries a trick like that again, I’ll have his ballocks,’ Ivo muttered, unnerved.

  ‘Scared, are we, Master Ivo?’ Roger Flor chuckled ‘Fear a quarrel from a Genoese bow?’

  A second quarrel sl
ammed into the wale-piece directly below Roger.

  ‘You fox-whelp whoreson!’ Roger bellowed, and roared for his own bowmen to return fire. Soon three men in the forecastle joined with seven in the fighting top, trading quarrels with the other ships. ‘Keeps the men busy,’ he said defensively, seeing Ivo’s eye upon him.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Ivo said, and then, ‘Who is it on those ships? Can you see who the master is?’

  ‘It’s that Genoese bitch-son, Buscarel.’

  Just then, another quarrel flew past Ivo’s belly and thumped into the wood behind him. He had a vision in his mind, just for a moment, of what that bolt could have done to him, and then he was roaring encouragement to the sailors. All were clad in their brown tunics with the red cross, apart from him. He was wearing a red linen tunic that left him cool in the summer at Tripoli, but here, about to enter a battle, he wished he had some armour: mail, a coat of plates and a helm.

  He hoped and prayed he wouldn’t need it.

  A clatter, and another bolt fell from chains at the lateen sail overhead. It was enough to inspire his rage. He drew his sword, his head lowered, as another bolt flew past, and then there was a cheer as the bowman in the Genoese ship was hurled back, a bolt in his skull.

  ‘A florin to that archer!’ Roger shouted, and then, ‘And another to the man who hits the other pirate!’

  There was a loud cheer at that, but now the bolts were flying in earnest, and even Roger ducked as a pair came perilously close. ‘They don’t like me, Master Ivo.’

  ‘Few men do,’ Ivo said.

  ‘True enough!’ Roger said with a wide grin. Then: ‘Grappling irons!’

  Three men had already moved forward with their hooks, and stood measuring the distance between the ships. There was only a chain between them; a half-chain. The men grew silent with anticipation as the distance closed. Five yards, two yards, and the men swung their hooks from both ships, all hauling to pull the ships together. While the rest of the sailors weighed the weapons in their hands, the Templars crouched, ready to attack, the Genoese scowling on their lower decks, all waiting, filled with the desire to kill.

  One grapnel landed in the cordage overhead, and the Templar hauled on it with determination, while the others carried on tugging at their ropes. Then the sea moved, and the gap disappeared, the Falcon thundering into the side of the nearer ship.

  And then the peace was shattered.

  ‘Board them!’ Roger screeched at the top of his voice.

  There was a clash of steel against steel, and Ivo saw three felled by arrows, all together, but the others carried on, weapons aloft, screaming battle cries as they went.

  Overhead, the man with his hook in the rigging climbed up the rope hand over hand, a long knife in his belt, and soon was at the yard. A Genoese saw him, and began to make his way up a stay, but the sail was already falling away, the upper fixing cut through by the knife.

  ‘To me, men of the Order! For God and the Temple!’ Roger shouted, and fixing the tiller oar with a rope, he snatched up a sword and ran at the side of the ship, leaping over and in among the Genoese.

  Ivo followed, his own sword gripped in his hand, but as soon as he landed on the ship, he was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of their enemies. All about him were Genoese sailors, and he was forced to hack and slash from side to side, keeping them away, until at last some more sailors from the Falcon arrived at his side and began to flail about too, forcing the Genoese back. There was a man who had a long stabbing weapon, which held them up for some time, but Ivo grabbed the point and yanked at it, thrusting forwards with his sword at the same time. It caught the man below the chin and slipped in, down into his chest, killing him quickly. A second ran at him with an axe held high, and Ivo turned, whirling with his sword as the man’s blow fell, and sweeping off both wrists. The man stood staring, shrieking at the wreckage of his forearms, until Ivo reversed his blade and hacked off his head, moving forward all the time.

  Suddenly he was at the ship the pirates had boarded, and he sprang down onto the deck. There were bodies all over the place, blood seeping into the boards underfoot making each step treacherous, and Ivo was cautious as he made his way onward.

  A cry, and suddenly missiles were flying all about him. A shot from a sling rattled against metal, then two men nearby fell, but he managed to make his way to the far side of the ship where a lanky, black-haired youth was sprawled against the timbers, eyes almost as dull as a dead man’s. Ivo threw himself down and glanced back over the deck. There were three men from the Falcon lying and moaning, each with an arrow pinning him, but there were more men near him, and all had weapons. The clamour of war still came to him from the other pirate ship, but now as he looked about, more men were coming to this deck. There was a bellowed order that made him give a grunt of satisfaction. The ropes binding the ships together were cut, and with a shiver, he felt the vessel shake off her attacker. With a roar of defiance and glee, the sailors of the Falcon lifted their arms and shook weapons still smeared with the blood of their enemies.

  Ivo glanced to his side, at the young man beside him. ‘You’ll have a story to tell your children, anyway,’ he told him.

  Baldwin looked at him, and vomited weakly.

  BOOK TWO

  CRUSADER, JUNE–JULY 1290

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The view was one to fill a man’s heart with wonder. Baldwin gaped: truly, this must be the Holy Land. God had preserved him to see this, to fight and protect it. He would be saved, he thought. His murder would be forgiven here.

  Behind him he had left his guilt in a green, but drab England. There was little colour but grey stone, mud-daubed and whitewashed houses, and grass under a gloomy grey sky.

  As they approached, the vast sweep of a natural bay opened before him, and it was on the northernmost edge that the city of Acre stood. Vast, more glorious than Exeter or Limassol or any of the great French cities he had passed by and through, it took his breath away. This city gleamed as though it was clothed in perpetual sunlight: a city of gold. Terracotta made a splash of colour, and there were patches of red, blue and green that rippled in the heat: awnings to provide shade.

  Stone towers ringed a fortress at the tip, overshadowing the rest of the city, and from beneath it, the wall of the harbour stretched out into the bay, where there stood another tower upon a rocky prominence. There were houses everywhere, and what looked like a monastery, with a castle behind. A double line of walls ringed it, reaching all the way to the sea, the inner wall higher than the outer so that archers could fire over the heads of men at the outer wall into enemies on the plain. More massive towers rose up along its length, while outside the walls there was a number of tents and small houses, with farmland beyond.

  A city of gold, with verdant land to feed it, Baldwin thought. Yes, this was how Heaven must look. It was no wonder that men wanted to take it from Christians. Nor that Christians would fight to the last to protect it.

  ‘That’s the Temple up there at the tip,’ Ivo said with a smile, seeing the direction of his eyes. ‘Templars always pick the best locations. This is their headquarters, now Jerusalem is lost.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here, to help win it back,’ Baldwin said with a hint of pride.

  ‘Yes?’ Ivo said, and his smile was not unkind as he looked down at Baldwin. He sounded condescending, however, and Baldwin tried not to scowl as he replied.

  ‘I will fight for the Church to win back Jerusalem,’ he said. ‘My father was a knight.’

  ‘You’ve much to learn, Master.’

  Baldwin gave him a sharp look. He did not like to be patronised, but before he could speak, Ivo continued.

  ‘This is the last bastion of Outremer, the “Land Over the Sea”. Twenty years ago we could have taken Jerusalem, but now? We’ve lost the castles, we have lost Lattakieh, Tripoli, everything.’

  ‘Those who come with pure hearts will win for God,’ Baldwin asserted. ‘He will not allow His land to be taken by the heathen.’
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  ‘So, of all the thousands who have come here, you think you’re the first to have a pure heart?’ Ivo snapped. ‘Are you truly that arrogant, boy?’

  ‘No, of course, I . . .’ Baldwin faltered.

  ‘How’s your head?’ Ivo asked after a moment, regretting his sudden outburst. There was no need to offend the lad. He had come in good faith to fight for the Holy Land. As had Ivo himself, all those years before.

  ‘Better, I think,’ Baldwin said, his hand at his temple. ‘Why did they attack us?’

  ‘Your flag. The Genoese hate Venice. It’s always war when they meet on the seas.’

  ‘But both are Christian.’

  ‘Aye. That doesn’t mean they like each other. They’re enemies, and fight when they meet. They’re so keen on trade with the Muslims that they’ll draw swords against anyone rather than upset their actual enemies. That’s how the Muslims have taken so much land from us.’

  ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘You think I don’t realise that?’

  Baldwin searched his face, but Ivo gave him no further explanation. So Baldwin gazed instead at the city. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Acre is the jewel of Outremer,’ Ivo agreed.

  ‘You are English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ivo was not forthcoming, and Baldwin turned from him. Looking at the vast port, he felt his soul shrink. The attack on the ship had terrified him, and the blow to his head had jarred his entire body, making him for the first time fully aware of the dangers of battle. He desperately wanted a friend. Home seemed so far away. He had so much to atone for: Sibilla and her man. The man Baldwin had killed. That was why he had fled. He had been right to do so, he was sure. Here he could serve God, and hopefully forget his shame. But he still dreamed of Sibilla. Her eyes, her lips, her warmth and softness.

  He ought not.

  Baldwin felt sure that if he told this stern fighter about his reasons for coming here, he would alienate himself. He was here to join the crusaders and win absolution, and yet seeing Acre for the first time, he realised its immensity. He dreaded being set ashore alone.