‘If I fought the Genoese, I would die in moments,’ Baldwin said sulkily, shoving his sword away. He felt a wave of self-pity. ‘I didn’t land a single blow on you.’
‘If you met with a man as old and feeble as me, perhaps yes,’ Jacques chuckled.
‘I came here to fight, and at that I am a failure. In my first battle at sea, I was beaten; in the streets you had to save me. I cannot fight anyone. I am pathetic.’
‘You have much skill, my friend,’ Sir Jacques said kindly. ‘But you need to learn how to watch your opponent and anticipate his moves.’
‘What, am I to spend my time learning and not fighting?’
Ivo nodded. ‘There are no great battles to fight yet. Some time soon, perhaps, we’ll have need of more swords. The Sultan Qalawun wants all Christians thrown from this land.’
‘You see, he hates us,’ Sir Jacques continued, ‘and so he should, for we wish nothing less than the denial of all his ambitions: we seek the recovery of Jerusalem for God’s chosen people, for the Christians. There will come a day when your arm’s strength may lead to the protection of the people of this city. Until then, you must prepare yourself, as the Knights of Saint Lazarus do, and as the Knights of the Temple do: by practising with sword and lance and knife and mace — until you can wield all weapons to their best effect, to the glory of God.’
He stood and rested his hand on Baldwin’s shoulder. ‘Come! You fought well today. With practice, you will fight still better, and be a great joy to all Christians.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was a few days later that Baldwin met the Templar shipmaster Roger Flor again.
For the last few days, Ivo had been taken up with business. More horses were needed for the Order, and Ivo was the Templars’ chief trader in horseflesh. He was known, Baldwin learned, all over the Mediterranean for his fairness, but also for his determination to win a good deal for his clients.
Well, that attitude was fine in business, but Baldwin thought it made him too easy-going. Ivo was happier to negotiate than protect his own interests, but Baldwin was the son of a knight. He had a duty to avenge any slur, and the Genoese had gravely insulted him. Baldwin would have his day.
But not with Ivo’s help.
Baldwin took to walking about the city in the early morning before the heat began to hammer at the senses. He liked it best just after daybreak, when he would walk to the cathedral to listen over the hubbub of merchants haggling and children playing to the solemn prayers. The scent of incense lifted his spirits, and in there it was hard to believe the dire warnings from Guillaume de Beaujeu of an army being raised by the Egyptians to overwhelm the city. God would protect His own. He would not see His last city destroyed, giving His Holy Land to the heathen.
Walking from the cathedral one morning, Baldwin stood in the sunshine and snuffed the air. There was a fresh breeze from the sea, and he could imagine the waves chopping at the hulls of the ships in the harbour, the hum of the great cables as the wind plucked at them.
‘Master, I am glad to see you once more,’ said a familiar voice, breaking into his reverie. ‘I hope Ivo the killjoy has not completely destroyed your pleasure in gaming?’
‘Master Roger — I am glad to see you,’ Baldwin said, grinning. It was easy to smile at such a welcoming face, especially since Roger Flor was only a little older than himself. Baldwin felt a ready affinity for him which he could not feel for Ivo. After all, stern Ivo was old enough to be his father.
‘What, no Ivo today?’
Baldwin grinned as Roger made a show of peering high and low in all directions. ‘No, he is at the Temple. He prefers to spend his time counting coins there.’
‘Ah, an honourable occupation, I doubt me not. Being a Templar, I’m assured there is no nobler way for a man to spend his time,’ Roger stated, nodding sagely.
‘I would prefer to be busy with my sword,’ Baldwin said. ‘I came here to fight the enemies of all Christians.’
‘You should be a Templar, then. We exist to serve the pilgrims,’ Roger said.
Baldwin laughed at that. ‘What, serve? With the riches owned by your Order? You’d do better to give money to people so they can afford to travel here!’
Roger looked at him, and there was an unwonted seriousness in his voice. ‘Don’t make that mistake, Master. There are many who deride the Templars, but we need that money. It is essential. If pilgrims are attacked here, they need help here, and were it not for the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, they would be entirely at the mercy of the Saracens. But come! We will not fall out over such affairs.’
‘No, indeed,’ Baldwin said, ‘but I should like to know, if the reason for the Templar Knights’ existence is to protect others, how can they do it from inside a great fortress like that?’
Roger followed his pointing finger and gazed at the tower of the Temple. ‘We don’t,’ he said simply. ‘Our service lies in bringing people here by ship, like you, and then protecting them all about here.’
‘In the city?’
Roger looked at him. He still wore his customary little smile, but there was a hardness in his eyes Baldwin hadn’t seen before. ‘If you want to see what we can do, come with me today. I’m riding with a reconnaissance out to the south, into the bay. You may join us, if you wish.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Their journey had been a great success, and the trader Abu al-Fida was glad as he paid off the leader of the caravan and took his leave.
Abu al-Fida smiled at his son. ‘You did well this time, Usmar.’
‘I had a marvellous teacher, Father.’
‘This is true,’ Abu al-Fida said contentedly.
He and his son had hired a pony, and now, with the proceeds of their sales in Damietta laden on the beast’s back, they began to walk along the narrow streets to their home. Many Muslims lived here, in the Christian city of Acre, but few had a past like Abu al-Fida’s. He had once been a warrior, but for him the days of lust and slaughter were closed away behind a sealed door in his mind. Once in a while he had awoken his darling Aisha with his screams in the night, but she would comfort him through his nightmares, and over time, his dreams had lost their virulence. It was many years now since Antioch’s fall, when he had clambered up over the rubble with his sword drawn, to deal death to the inhabitants. It was to escape his past that he had come here to Acre, to forget machines of war, to become a simple merchant. A man of peace.
He shuddered. It was peculiar that he should have begun to have such dreams again.
They were passing the castle now, and soon would be at Montmusart, where they would go along the alley to their little house. There, his wife and daughters would be waiting. It was a good place to live, a good city. Acre was rich, and had made Abu al-Fida comfortable. He had a good reputation.
Passing under the gate of the inner wall that separated Montmusart from the old city, he entered the lane that would take him to their house.
‘Usmar — you should buy a gift for your mother,’ he said with a frown.
‘I shall buy her flowers, Father.’
‘Very good. I will meet you at home.’ Abu al-Fida watched as his son hurried away. He smiled to himself. His boy, already twenty, was becoming a masterful negotiator in his own right.
He continued, anticipating his welcome, turning over in his mind different ideas for new ventures, and how he might make best use of his son’s skills, until he reached the house, and there he stopped.
He must have come to the wrong street, he thought at first. This wasn’t his home.
For where his house had stood only a shell remained, a twisted mess of charred and broken timber and rubble.
‘What has happened? Where is my wife?’ he called, but no one came. Only Usmar, who reached him gripping a brightly coloured rose in a clay pot.