00 - Templar's Acre (10 page)

Baldwin was already sweating profusely. He wore a new shirt, but even with the fine muslin, the heat was intolerable, and the fine dust thrown up by the hooves before him made breathing
difficult. He had copied the men about him, pulling a scarf over his face and trying to breathe through that, but it was uncomfortable and he felt as if he was lurching along the road to Hell.

They had ridden up a slight rise, and all about here was scrubby vegetation, with an occasional olive grove. They stopped at a village, where the Templar demanded water and bread, and Baldwin
was glad to climb down from his saddle. He soon drained the goatskin he had brought with him, and went to the well to refill it.

When he returned, Roger motioned to him, and he sat at Roger’s side to share flatbread and olives.

‘So, do you like the countryside?’ Roger asked.

Baldwin looked around at the dry walls of the village buildings, the pale soil and sparse plants. ‘I think it could do with a little Devon rain,’ he said.

There was a shout from the edge of the village, where a man had been set to watch the road, and Roger sprang to his feet. The knight was already at his side, and staring out towards the distant
hills.

‘What is it?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Looks like people on horseback,’ Roger said, and there was a suppressed excitement in his tone that Baldwin could feel in his own breast.

In the distance, travellers had been betrayed by the cloud of yellowish dust that enveloped them. Now, in the midst of the dust, Baldwin saw figures. Horses or camels, he couldn’t make out
from here, but he felt they were likely camels because their legs were so long. Surely these were Saracens, he thought, and the idea brought a tingle to his blood: he would see his enemy at
last.

The knight snapped a command at Roger, who hurried to his horse, calling Baldwin as he went. Baldwin mounted, still chewing his bread, and the two trotted from the village and down a slight
incline to the roadway. Side-by-side to avoid dust, they loped along.

‘Saracens often ride into our territories,’ Roger said. ‘Usually they are just travellers, but occasionally we get the odd outrider who is here to study our defences. When we
find them, we send them on their way.’

Baldwin nodded. He stared at the men riding towards him, but was already prepared for disappointment. Nothing in the Holy Land was as he had expected.

‘What now?’

‘We shall talk to them,’ Roger said, glancing at Baldwin. ‘This isn’t a riding out.’

‘Yes, I understand. I just wasn’t expecting to come all this way and not fight. I want to be useful.’

‘Maybe later,’ Roger said. ‘You’re game, Baldwin. You’ll be a good friend in a fight, I think.’

Baldwin brooded. ‘Scouts for the enemy are to be left to ride home – no matter what information they carry?’ He was a knight’s son, and pride dictated that enemies should
be engaged and vanquished, not sent on their way.

‘Oh, there will be time for profit later,’ Roger laughed. ‘Yes, later we can see what such men have, if we’re lucky. I think I’m glad I found you.’

Baldwin wasn’t sure what Roger meant, but it was clearly intended in a friendly light, and he was prepared to take any compliment.

As the party drew nearer, Baldwin saw that the heat haze had deceived him. The three newcomers were all on horseback. The horses’ legs had seemed longer because of the mirage.

Holding up his hand, Roger walked his horse to them.

Baldwin heard him give the Muslim greeting and studied them as they chatted. The man in the front was a tall, thin fellow with a grey beard that covered half his breast. Behind him were two
younger men, both also bearded. The one nearest Roger had narrow, suspicious eyes, and Baldwin thought he looked the sort who would be glad to kill a Christian.

Their mounts were all well-caparisoned, sturdy ponies, designed for stolid journeying rather than for racing, and looked as if they had covered many miles already. As spies’ beasts would,
Baldwin thought to himself. Deep in his belly, he felt misgivings grow.

Three was an odd number to be wandering, he thought. And it was peculiar that there were two young men with one older man. He would have expected all to be similarly young. But perhaps this
leader was an experienced spy, with knowledge of the area hereabouts, and had been sent with two young guards to assess the land, to find the best routes for an army to take to invest Acre.

There was no news of an army from Egypt, but Baldwin had heard that the army which had overrun Tripoli had appeared from nowhere . . . yet it had brought machines of war and tens of thousands of
men. Perhaps, in the weeks before that battle, there had been men such as these, who had ridden about the land before the city had realised an army was on the move. Parties like the one of which he
himself was a part, could have been surrounded and cut to pieces so that they were unable to return to the city to warn of the approaching disaster.

He threw a look over his shoulder. The Templar stood watching. Baldwin returned his gaze to the three, feeling a heightened alarm. If they were to draw their swords and set about Roger, it would
be difficult for Baldwin to protect him. Still, he remained where he was, his hand resting on his saddle’s crupper near his sword hilt. If need be, he could draw steel quickly.

Over the shoulder of the old man, a patch of dust caught his eye – a rider, making short work of the roads.

Baldwin’s distrust increased. If there was one rider, there could be more. He shouted to Roger, pointing, and set his hand on his sword. In a moment, the two younger men had drawn theirs,
too. Roger snapped something at Baldwin, shaking his head, but Baldwin couldn’t make out his words as he hefted his sword to charge the group about Roger. His feet were out, preparing to spur
his mount on, when he realised that all three and Roger had turned to face the gathering dust-cloud.

There was more than one man approaching, he saw. There were two, and both were cantering with a lazy motion that could eat up the miles with ease.

Roger bowed to the older man, hand on breast, and remained on his horse, staring at the approaching pair as the other three rode on towards Acre and the sea.

‘This doesn’t look too good,’ Roger said.

He could not have been more wrong.

Their ride back was a hurried affair.

When Roger was given the news by the two messengers, his roar of laughter could have been heard in Acre, Baldwin reckoned. Roger had turned and spurred his horse towards the village at full
gallop, Baldwin struggling to persuade his own mount to turn and join him.

By the time he reached the village’s wall, all the other Templars were already packing and mounting. Roger bared his teeth as Baldwin appeared. Great news, isn’t it?’ he said
heartily.

Baldwin eyed him helplessly. ‘What is?’

‘The leader of our enemies, man! He’s promised peace!’

Baldwin heard no more. The command was given, and in a moment the horses were off at a swift, loping trot, the two messengers riding in their wake.

‘Who do you mean?’ Baldwin said when they were under way.

‘Sultan Qalawun,’ Roger said, looking at him with exasperation. He had thought Baldwin would have picked up a little Arabic by now. ‘The murdering fiend who overran Tripoli,
and wanted to take Acre too. It seems he’s sworn peace for ten years, ten months and ten days!’

‘You would take the word of a heathen?’ Baldwin asked. ‘What of his court? Wouldn’t they force him to attack?’

‘They’d soon be put in their place. Qualawun is a warlord to be feared. If he wants peace, we’re safe. His barons and nobles wouldn’t dare argue. They bicker and fight
amongst themselves more than we Christians do, but not with Qalawun. He doesn’t brook any dispute. No, this is good news. With luck we can turn to the old ways soon.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Roger shot him a sharp look. He liked this tall English fellow, but he was as yet untried. Still, he seemed game enough. ‘There are many traders come here from Egypt,’ he explained.
‘We stop a few, ask them to pay our tolls, and that helps us all.’

‘Tolls?’ Baldwin had not heard of any tolls on the roads here. He had thought that the roads, such as they were, were built by slaves.

‘That’s what I call ’em,’ Roger winked. ‘The travellers have to pay if they want to continue on their way. And if they refuse, we take their money anyway. It only
needs the rumour of a couple of dead men for others to fall into line.’

Baldwin was shocked. It sounded no better than banditry – but Roger was so open about it that such behaviour must be approved. If it was the custom of the country, he was in no position to
question it. He was a newcomer, after all. The idea left him uneasy, but he did not want to embarrass himself or lose his new friend.

‘I will call you to join me, next time I go,’ Roger said, taking Baldwin’s silence for tacit agreement, and the rest of the way, he chattered inconsequentially.

Even as they entered the gate to Acre, Baldwin was still uncomfortable. Admittedly these people were Saracen, and therefore not to be accorded the same privileges as Christians, but still, the
idea of holding them and demanding ransom made him feel like a felon.

They continued on to the Temple, the two messengers attracting the notice of the crowds as they passed, and many men and women pointed and muttered amongst themselves. At the gate of the Temple,
a groom came and took their horses, and the two found themselves alone.

‘Master Baldwin, I think this calls for a well-deserved pint of wine each!’ Roger said.

News had already spread about the arrival of the messengers, and tongues were wagging with speculation about their mission. Roger took Baldwin to a little tavern which had a
wide seating space outside, with vines growing over a wooden frame for shade. The two took their seats at benches near a small rickety table.

Baldwin was in the company of a good friend, and his day had been more than a distraction – it had been an education. He felt he was coming to understand the way of this country. After the
first two cups of wine, he was certain Roger could teach him more about the Holy Land than Ivo or Jacques. After the third, he was convinced that he was more at home here in Acre than he had ever
been in Devon.

‘You get on well with Ivo?’ Roger asked as he called for another pint of wine.

‘He has been kind to me. I was lost when I arrived,’ Baldwin said.

‘But do you like him?’

‘He is a good man.’

‘Aye, but depressing, eh? Not the sort of fellow to enjoy a game with dice?’

‘He doesn’t approve of gambling,’ Baldwin said with a snigger.

‘What about women?’

‘He doesn’t have any about the house.’

Roger belched and shook his head. ‘He ought to become a Templar. The knights aren’t even allowed to kiss their mothers or sisters, in case they get unclean thoughts.’

‘What of you?’

Roger pulled a face and his Italian accent grew more pronounced. ‘Can you imagine me taking a vow of chastity? I don’t think so. No, I am fond of feminine companionship. But I am a
shipman: I have not taken the three oaths of poverty, chastity and obedience. They are the vows taken by monks. The knights, they are all monks, you see? Not me. I have agreed to become a
lay-brother for a period of five years, and after that, in two years, I will be free again.’

‘Why did you do that?’

Roger shrugged. ‘When I was eight, I joined a ship. I’m a sailor, but I had no ship. I learned my craft well, and the Templars wanted shipmen. With them I was able to gain access to
ships, and be my own master. Perhaps some day I will be rich enough to buy my own ship. I could bring grain to Acre to sell at market, and take away sugar-cane to sell in Lombardy or Tuscany.
I’ll make my fortune.’

‘Tell me, what do you know about Ivo? He is so stern, like a disapproving father.’

Roger stared into his drink. ‘He was a strong fighter, I heard. He came here when your King was a Prince – that must be twenty years ago. But when your King returned home, Ivo
remained here. He married, had children, and I suppose he was happy.’

‘What happened to his wife?’

‘Did he not say? She was in Tripoli when the assault came last year. She and their son were there.’

‘He was away buying horses?’

‘Aye, and when he came back it was too late. The siege had begun and all he could do was wait for news. There was nothing he could have done even if he’d been there, of course. One
more sword wouldn’t have aided them. But that reflection would not help a man who saw his family slain.’

‘How could the people of Tripoli have been so easily taken?’

‘They did not think they were in danger. Just like Lattakieh before them, three years ago. Qalawun is a wily old devil. He gives peace treaties, but carefully hoards exclusions. Lattakieh
was a principality, so Qalawun declared that it was not a part of the treaty with Tripoli. When Lattakieh was assailed by a great earthquake, and her walls tumbled to the ground, Qalawun took
advantage: he rode straight in and the city capitulated. Last year, there was a dispute about who should inherit Tripoli when the Lord Bohemond VII died. Some sent to Qalawun to help them prevent
the Genoese from taking the city, and he considered that absolved him from his oath and the treaty.’

‘Yes, but the city must have realised it was in danger. Were there no outriders to keep watch for an invasion? Even if there were not, surely some people from villages far away would have
seen the army’s approach?’

‘He sent his army to Syria, but the people of Tripoli didn’t understand their danger,’ Roger said. He leaned forward on his elbows and explained.

The Templars knew the true target of Qalawun’s army, he said. For years the Grand Master had made good use of Templar gold, bribing officials in the Sultan’s court, and he alone had
advance warning. He sent messengers to warn Tripoli an attack was imminent, but his urgent exhortations went unheeded. They thought he had his own mercantile interests at heart rather than the
defence of their city and sneered at his prophetic alarms.