00 - Templar's Acre Read online

  ‘Master Baldwin, would you object to my walking with you?’

  Baldwin shook his head, unable to speak coherently for a moment. The confrontation had left him shaken, so soon after the battle at sea.

  ‘Please, tell me how you know that gentleman,’ the Leper Knight continued.

  Baldwin told Sir Jacques about his journey and the attack at sea that had been driven off by the Falcon. ‘There was a man there who lent me money – an Englishman called Ivo.’

  ‘Ivo? Ah, I see. He would have been aboard the Falcon with Roger Flor. A Templar crew. That explains how you were saved from two Genoese ships,’ Jacques mused. He smiled down at Baldwin, and then pointed. ‘Now, master, I think you are safe enough. That rather magnificent church at the other side of the square is your destination. If you ask inside, I am sure that you will be helped. Now, once more godspeed, my friend.’

  Ivo de Pynho walked to the west door of the cathedral and stepped inside the cool interior. When the Patriarch of Jerusalem had been thrown from his city by Saladin, he commanded that the Church of Santa Anna should be torn down and rebuilt as a proof that the Patriarchate would not easily be dislodged from the Holy Land.

  Now Santa Anna was a memorial in stone of the oath sworn by so many knights, that they would retake Jerusalem in the name of Christ.

  Ivo’s head had been aching since leaving the Temple, and now he sagged with relief, dipping his fingers in the stoup by the door and crossing himself as he faced the altar. Here, in the cool nave, he could remember his wife Rachel, and little Peter, for a while. But not with an easy heart, since he had not been there when they needed him most.

  The light poured through the coloured windows before him, and splashed over the floor like red, green and blue paints. It sparkled soothingly from candlesticks and the gilded icons. He walked past merchants haggling, past men gambling on the floor, a couple arguing viciously about the husband’s wandering eye, to a pillar where he leaned, his eyes fixed on the statue of the Madonna. Her beautiful face was calming, but his loss was a tearing pain that would not leave him, and even She was powerless to help him. Not even Christ and all His angels could ease it.

  He stared, almost expecting a miracle to strike him. Perhaps Rachel would appear, or Peter. No. If he was still in Jerusalem, maybe he might see a vision of them, but not here. Ivo sighed to himself and turned to leave the cathedral – but even as his eyes fell on the gamblers, he recognised Roger Flor, and beside him a familiar face.

  Baldwin was playing at dice, and as Ivo watched, a broad grin broke out over the young fellow’s face.

  ‘Look at that! Look at that!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve won again!’

  Ivo walked around the gamers, noting who the other men were. Two were clearly sailors; a third he recognised as Bernat, Roger Flor’s henchman.

  ‘Come, Master Baldwin, you must give us a chance to win back our losses,’ Roger was saying, and Ivo saw the look he gave his companions.

  Ivo knew it was hard to adhere to the Templar rules laid down by St Bernard. There were strict orders that Templars must avoid gambling. Chess and backgammon were barred, and only merrils occasionally permitted; when a game of chance was allowed, it was only for relaxation. Discs of candle-wax were used, never money, for Templars had taken the vows of poverty, as well as chastity and obedience, the same as any other monk.

  Ivo sidled round and glanced at the piles of coins. Roger Flor had a small heap in front of him, and now he eagerly placed more in the middle, while Baldwin happily equalled his wager. Two sailors followed suit, and Baldwin picked up the dice and began to rattle them in his fist. When he flung them down, there was a stunned silence for a moment, and then Baldwin grinned and took the pile and scraped it to meet his other coins.

  ‘This game looks like fun,’ Ivo declared loudly, hands on his hips.

  ‘Master Ivo,’ Baldwin said, looking up at him. ‘I’ve been really lucky. You wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve won almost every game!’

  ‘True, I find it very hard to believe,’ Ivo said, staring at Roger.

  ‘Something wrong, Ivo? Or do you want to join our party?’ the shipmaster asked.

  Ivo looked at Baldwin again. A strange feeling washed through him: a vague memory, perhaps, of the man he had been when he first arrived here by ship.

  Baldwin was beaming up at him, and Ivo was suddenly reminded of his son’s face. That same innocent glee, fixed in the moment, without any concern for the future – it was there in the young man’s eyes. Ivo felt a shiver run down his spine as he recalled his thoughts moments before. Could this be a sign from the Blessed Virgin? On a whim, he made a decision. He would protect this fellow while he was in Acre.

  ‘No. This has been a good game, but it’s time for my young friend to come with me. Pick up your winnings, Master Baldwin.’

  ‘Oh,’ Baldwin said, crestfallen. ‘I was just . . .’

  ‘He doesn’t want to go yet, Ivo,’ Roger said. ‘Leave him for three more games and we’ll look after him.’

  ‘No. He will come with me now,’ Ivo said, stepping in front of Baldwin, who toyed with a coin but made no effort to collect the others.

  ‘I would like to stay here a while longer,’ Baldwin said. The afternoon had been enjoyable since meeting Roger Flor again. Already the memory of the pursuit through the lanes had dwindled – and gambling was a natural pastime for a knight or knight’s son. ‘Where do you mean to take me?’

  ‘Yes, Ivo. What do you want with him?’ Roger asked, climbing to his feet.

  Ivo looked down at Baldwin. He owed the boy nothing. Baldwin was a traveller who had come here, possibly in search of money like so many of the mercenaries who arrived each year from Lombardy or Gascony. Yet there was something about him that cried out to Ivo’s heart. That faint resemblance to Peter.

  It was more than that alone. Looking at Baldwin, he could see a pale reflection of himself when he had landed here twenty years ago. The difference was, when he landed, Ivo had been with an army. He had not been deposited here alone, prey to the dangers that the Holy Land contained.

  ‘Pick up your winnings, Baldwin,’ he said quietly, and then, to Roger, ‘You’ve had your fun. He’s leaving.’

  ‘Really?’ Roger said with a slanting grin. ‘Well, we mustn’t get in your way, must we? Maybe we’ll play again, Master. Soon, eh?’

  Baldwin nodded, tying his purse’s strings as he went. Ivo followed him, conscious with every step that Roger’s eyes were on his back. It felt as though the man was aiming along a crossbow’s bolt, ready to release it with a soft depression of the trigger.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Where is this?’ Baldwin asked as they strode up to the north of the city. It still rankled that he had been dragged from his game.

  ‘This is the Hospital. We’re going to my home in the suburb of Montmusart,’ Ivo said briefly.

  Baldwin hefted the purse. ‘I must have made six shillings, at least.’

  ‘Think yourself lucky. They were going to take it all away from you.’

  ‘No, they were playing well – I just kept beating them.’

  ‘They were using loaded dice to give you plenty of rope to hang yourself. As soon as they were sure of you, they would start playing with a different set, and you’d have lost everything. All the coins you’d built up, all the spare coins, all their coins. It’s a common ploy.’

  Baldwin gave a low whistle. Are you sure?’

  ‘I have lived here a long time.’

  ‘I had better warn Roger, then. If those others were cheating . . .’

  ‘Not the sailors, boy! It was Roger’s dice you were playing with.’

  ‘But he’s a Templar!’ Baldwin said, outraged.

  ‘There are Templars and Templars. None are allowed to gamble. Roger Flor is a good seaman, but he’s no knight.’

  Baldwin eyed the fortress beside them. ‘Are the Hospitallers better than the Templars?’

  ‘They are military Orders. Neither is better nor worse
than the other. Both fight for what they believe in, however, and that sometimes puts them on opposing sides.’

  ‘How can that be? They both fight for Jerusalem, don’t they?’

  Ivo grunted. ‘More or less. But Templars are allied to Venice; Hospitallers are more closely aligned to Genoa.’

  ‘Still,’ Baldwin said with a confused frown, ‘surely their aims must meet? The Genoese and Venetians want to help Christians, don’t they?’

  ‘They want to help themselves,’ Ivo said, looking at him. ‘This is the last great city of Outremer. You realise that? For hundreds of years we have fought over this land. First to win Jerusalem itself, but we lost her. Since then, we’ve tried to encourage crusaders like you to come here and fight for our faith, but all too often the crusaders themselves have been worse than the enemy.’

  ‘How can that be? We come to serve, that is all.’

  ‘Aye. But serve whom? It is greed, a desire to take lands or glory that inspires most. The others are the felons: murderers and thieves who come here in expiation of their sins. Some cause more harm than good,’ Ivo said with disdain.

  Baldwin was silent. Ivo’s words sounded like a shrewd analysis of his own journey of redemption.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Ivo said, on cue.

  ‘I was persuaded by a priest,’ Baldwin said quietly. It was no lie. As he sat by Exeter’s sanctuary, it was the priest who had suggested pilgrimage to Jerusalem, there to fight and win absolution.

  ‘I see,’ Ivo continued, eyeing him askance. ‘The city has to accommodate people like you.’

  ‘Have you ever been there?’

  Ivo nodded, and his face eased slightly at the memory. ‘Once. I visited the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and saw the birthplace of Christ. It made my life whole again.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘None of your busines,’ Ivo growled.

  Baldwin glanced at him. Ivo had his own secrets too, then.

  ‘You will find your way about the city quickly. Always look for the Towers. See, over there is the Tower of the Temple; here is the Hospital; at the top of the hill between the Venetians and Genoese is the Monastery of San Sabas with its own lands. You will need to be cautious when you are out on your own. Not all the people of the Kingdom want you here.’

  ‘So you said,’ Baldwin nodded. ‘People don’t like crusaders.’

  ‘You have the arrogance of youth. Many here hate pilgrims like you. Merchants and . . .’

  ‘The merchants don’t want us?’

  Ivo rolled his eyes. ‘Of course they don’t. Your arrival means disruption. Don’t you realise? Acre is the capital of all trading between Egypt and your home. If there is a war, how will they make their money? That is what this city exists for – money. Without trade, it wouldn’t exist.’

  ‘Surely it’s the centre for pilgrims too?’

  Aye. And pilgrims bring money with them,’ Ivo said.

  Are we leaving the city?’ Baldwin asked as a wall loomed before them.

  ‘No. This is the old city wall. The city has grown well in the last years, so a new wall was built to enclose more land for all the people.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  They walked under a tower in the wall, and out into a wide space.

  ‘This is Montmusart.’

  Baldwin looked about him. Before him was a garden with olives, and beyond, the land fell away slightly, towards another huge city wall. In the enclosed ground were houses and gardens, with broad roads separating each. ‘It is beautiful,’ he said in wonder.

  ‘Yes,’ Ivo said.

  But his voice was cold. Montmusart didn’t contain his wife and son.

  Baldwin had suffered much from his long journey, and now he took the opportunity to rest and recover.

  The city held endless fascination for him.

  There were markets which specialised in silks and muslins, others which sold exotic foods, others still in which swords and armour were for sale. At one stall he found a delightful, light blade, with fabulous markings through the steel. Ivo, who was with him, sniffed at it.

  ‘It’s good in a fight without armour, but the steel is too flexible and light to do more than bounce from a mail shirt. For that, you need a good Christian blade formed from a bar of steel and hammered to rigidity.’

  Baldwin reluctantly took his advice and invested much of the money won from Roger Flor in a two-foot-long simple blade with a broad fuller and undecorated cross. He was a knight’s son, and it was unthinkable that he should walk unarmed any longer.

  With his new, well-balanced riding sword, he practised every evening, and soon the weakness in his legs and the pain from his head wound left him.

  When he was a boy, his father had given him his first training in swordsmanship, and when he left home at seven to learn his duties at the de Courtenay household, much of his time was spent honing his skills. With a sword in his hand, he felt comfortable. His master employed a Master of Defence, who had enhanced his tactics, and his firm stipulation was that the young Baldwin should give up time every day to practise. He had taken that advice to heart.

  Ivo joined him on occasion, and they would test each other’s swordsmanship. Baldwin soon learned that Ivo was a crafty old devil when it came to fighting.

  Pietro, Ivo’s half-deaf servant, who was both bottler and doorkeeper, would come and watch them with a sour expression on his wizened old face. He appeared to consider it his bounden duty to keep others away from Ivo so that his master might enjoy as much peace as possible. When he saw Baldwin and Ivo fight, he would glower at Baldwin, and only ever smiled or clapped his hands when Ivo got close and nicked Baldwin’s arm or clothing.

  ‘Do you resent my being here?’ Baldwin asked him once, driven to irritation by the man’s cackling at his latest injury – a nasty cut over his forearm. He looked at it and grimaced. The skin had pulled away from the wound, white and foul like a pig’s flesh, he thought.

  ‘Eh?’ The old fellow screwed up his face and hooked a hand behind his ear, studying Baldwin speculatively. ‘Resent you? Why would I do that?’

  ‘You had a quieter time before I got here, I suppose,’ Baldwin said. He held out the bleeding arm so that Pietro could wipe away the blood. He wanted to shiver, but he refused to allow Pietro to see he was concerned.

  ‘You have no idea, do you?’ Pietro muttered coldly. ‘My family was in Lattakieh, and when that son of a diseased whore, Sultan Qalawun, invaded, they took my wife and children. You know what they do with women and children? My little girls will be slaves now. Ruined! And their mother, if she’s lucky, she’ll be kept well in a harem. If not, she’ll be working her hands to the bone in the fields somewhere, or sold off for menial work. I don’t know where they are, or what they do. All I know is, it was Master Ivo who saved me from life as a beggar. So if my praising him offends you, young master, so be it. I live and die for him.’

  Baldwin was about to speak, when the old man turned away, and Baldwin saw the tear in his eye as he heard Pietro mutter, ‘I have no one else.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  There was one sight that shocked Baldwin beyond uttering. One morning, as he strolled about Montmusart with Pietro, he suddenly encountered a man clad in strange mail, with a conical helmet, and turban encompassing it, a spike protruding from the top. He was bearded and had skin as brown as a conker. It was like meeting with a demon, and Baldwin took an involuntary step back.

  His hand on his sword’s hilt, the fellow swept past him with a haughty sneer that would not have looked out of place on a King’s herald.

  ‘Eh? What?’ Pietro snapped when Baldwin tugged at his sleeve.

  ‘He’s a Muslim, isn’t he?’ Baldwin whispered, his startled eyes fixed on the man.

  ‘So? Half the city is! There are many who prefer them as guards in any case,’ Pietro grumbled, half to himself. ‘Rich ladies who need protection will often have Muslims in their employ.’

  ‘Not Christians?’ Baldwin said, shocked.
r />   ‘There was a woman some years ago, who inherited vast wealth when her husband died. She was kidnapped by a Christian nobleman who wanted to take her as his wife by force. When he heard about this, the Sultan sent men to demand that she be freed. From that day on, she always had a guard of Muslims provided by him. Ironic, isn’t it? She felt endangered by the knights about here, but was happy enough with a bunch of heathens to protect her!’

  ‘I must go to the Temple,’ Ivo said, a day or so later. ‘Will you join me?’ He eyed Baldwin critically.

  ‘Certainly!’ the young man cried, wiping his face with the trailing hem of his linen shirt. He had been exercising with his sword, and in the heat had worked up quite a sweat.

  ‘That shirt was once white, I presume?’ Ivo asked drily.

  Baldwin glanced down at it. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean it’s filthy. You should let the maid take it to be washed.’

  ‘I only have this one. Since the ship . . .’ He had no need to continue. When he had lost all his money and weapons, his bag too had been taken, with his spare shirt.

  ‘I should have thought,’ Ivo muttered. ‘We must buy some cloth for a new shirt. In the meantime,’ he added as they left by the front door a short while later, ‘I have been summoned to meet with the Grand Master of the Templars. Sir Guillaume de Beaujeu is the most important man in the city, no matter what anyone says, so remain respectful.’

  The two set off, and soon walked under the gateway in the old city wall, on past the Hospital, and down towards the Temple.

  The streets here were bustling, with hawkers of all nations bellowing out their wares, men-at-arms striding about like minor barons, servants hurrying hither and thither – and beggars. Beggars were everywhere you looked: old men pleading from the ground where their crippled legs kept them, urchins standing in the way, holding out their hands, eyes enormous with hunger as they entreated all the passers-by, younger men with limbs broken or weakened by rickets, toothless youths with sores and skin diseases.

  It was the same in any street in Christendom, Baldwin knew: he had seen enough beggars in his time, and yet there was something especially poignant about these people of different races. Their eyes seemed to scorch him with their demands, and he felt ashamed to walk past them.