‘Yes.’ Ivo was pensive. ‘I wonder if Qalawun is as pleased as these folks.’
‘Peace should gladden any heart,’ Jacques said.
‘Yes. .’ Ivo agreed, a poisonous thought coming into his head. ‘But Qalawun is determined to exterminate Christianity. We both know that.’
‘What of it?’
‘If he put his enemies off their guard by swearing peace, that would be a good strategem, would it not? He destroyed Tripoli while he was “at peace”. It required only a pretext for him to break it: a dispute between Genoese and Venetian interests.’
‘True enough.’
‘It was rumoured that Venice sent an embassy to Qalawun to ask that he intervene to prevent Genoa becoming too powerful — not that they anticipated that their request would lead to the city being torn down stone by stone!’
‘Come, Ivo,’ Jacques said gently. ‘Do not suffer your bile to rule your head. Qalawun is a man of his word. He can be trusted if he swears peace. More so than a Genoese, anyway,’ he amended with a smile. ‘Only something dreadful would force him to break his oath.’
When Baldwin woke, his head thundered like a destrier at full gallop, and when he tried to roll over, there was a sharp pain at his wrists and ankles: he was securely bound. Overwhelmed by the need to vomit, he retched, his body convulsing, but there was nothing to bring up but a little bile, and he sagged back, panting.
It was hot here. He was in a small square, with the sun directly overhead. Perhaps it was a garden? There, at the edge of his hearing, was the tinkle and splash of water. Looking about him, he saw a pool of water, and sitting beside it, his Maria with the emerald dress. Her face was still veiled below the eyes, but that only added to her beauty, he thought.
‘You must not move. Your head will hurt,’ she said. Her French was heavily accented, and he found it captivating. She took a scrap of linen and soaked it in water. Wringing it out, she brought it over to him and rested it on his head. He tried not to wince at the sudden pain, instead staring up into her eyes.
‘Maria,’ he croaked.
Her eyes widened. ‘Not me. That is my mistress.’
‘Then who are you?’ he demanded.
‘I am Lucia. Maid to my Lady Maria of Lydda.’
He stared. She had the olive complexion of a woman of Granada, but her eyes were the cool green of water in a Dartmoor pool. He felt instinctively that he could rest by her all his life and never feel his time was wasted.
‘Lucia, you are beautiful.’
She withdrew, alarm in her eyes. ‘Do not say that!’
‘It’s the truth,’ he said. He tried to rise to his feet, forgetting his bonds, and winced as pain lanced through his body. His ankles, his arms, his temples, all rebelled at any movement. He groaned and closed his eyes, gritting his teeth.
‘I saw you on my first day here,’ he said. ‘Down the alleyway near the Venetian quarter. Do you remember? You were there, in your finery, and I followed you — called to you, but you ran away.’
She nodded hesitantly. ‘Perhaps.’
‘And then again in the streets at the market, but that time with your men.’
‘That was my Lady, not me.’
He was surprised by that, but now other considerations intruded. ‘Why am I tied? What happened? I remember I saw you, and then I was knocked down.’
‘I am sorry,’ she said, and her voice was tearful. She looked up at a sound, and swiftly retreated.
As she did so, he heard steps, and when he looked, he saw Buscarel the Genoese marching towards him with two henchmen. They went one to either side of him and picked him up by the arms. Buscarel chuckled at the sight.
‘So, Englishman. You wanted my ring, I think?’ He smiled, holding up his hand so that Baldwin could see the ring on his forefinger, and then he clenched his fist, and before Baldwin could think to prepare, he slammed it under his ribcage.
The air left his lungs in an explosion of pain, and he collapsed, writhing, trying to breathe.
‘I will keep my ring. And now,’ Buscarel added with a kick at Baldwin’s kidneys, ‘now, I would learn what. . news the two riders had. . for the Temple. Is it news of an attack on Genoa’s interests? You will tell me everything. . just as soon as I have finished enjoying my. . self!’
With each pause, he punctuated his speech with a kick until Baldwin felt that his spine must surely break. Then Buscarel’s boot caught his head — and everything went black.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ivo and Jacques were returning homewards when they saw Roger Flor walking along the street. He was waving his arms to make a way for himself among the crowds that thronged the square and streets.
‘You will find the roads blocked all the way to the gatehouse,’ Ivo warned him.
‘They won’t hold up a Templar,’ Roger said. ‘You have heard the news?’
‘Yes. It’s remarkable. I had assumed that Qalawun would overrun us,’ Ivo said. He could feel Jacques’ eyes on him as he spoke, but he refused to meet the Leper Knight’s gaze. It wasn’t his fault he distrusted Roger Flor. There was something excessively mercenary about the man.
Roger curled his lip into a smile. ‘It is the wrong time to remove the last port where his traders sell their produce, I suppose.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Oh by the way, your boy enjoyed his ride with me.’
‘Baldwin went riding with you?’ Ivo asked sharply.
‘Do not concern yourself. He didn’t have to draw a sword, although he thought he might when we met the messengers. It was we who escorted them back.’
Ivo glared at him. ‘Do not think to teach him your ways, Roger. I will not have you hire men from my house to help you rob and kill.’
‘Perhaps you should tell him that? He was a willing enough student on the ride, and back here too with wine and women,’ Roger said, smiling lazily, but with his hand near the knife on his belt.
‘If you pollute him, I will kill you myself!’
‘Ivo, you are too old to be making threats to a man like me. Go and find him if you are so concerned about his morals.’
Jacques stepped between them and said pleasantly, ‘Where is he now?’
‘Last time I saw him, he was heading up the street,’ Roger shrugged.
Ivo left without further speech, Jacques hurrying at his side. Roger Flor was a low felon who would murder for a clipped penny. He was not worth talking to. But if Baldwin had walked up this street here, he would be safe; it did not lead to Buscarel’s area.
Still, Ivo could not help but glance down into the alleys that led to the Genoese quarter as he strode up the street, a feeling of apprehension niggling at him all the way.
This time, Baldwin was not out in the open. The air was cool on his flesh. He woke to the sensation of a damp cloth being pressed against his brow, and he revelled in the gentle touch of muslin. It was delicious. He moved his fingers, but it was difficult. The bonds tying his wrists and feet were so tight, they might as well have been cut from his own skin.
‘We must hear all he knows,’ Buscarel was saying.
‘In good time. Whatever he has overheard, a single evening will not change matters. If you had not so belaboured him, my dear friend, he would have answered much sooner. I shall report your hotheadedness to your Admiral, if you wish?’
There was steel in that gentle voice. Baldwin relished the note of concern in Buscarel’s as he apologised.
‘It is unlikely he knows too much,’ the gentle voice continued. ‘If, as you say, he was with the party returning with the messengers, that does not mean he overheard secret communications, does it?’
Baldwin opened his eyes as the cloth was removed, and found himself looking into the face of a different woman.
She was clad in a similar dress to that of Lucia, and her eyes too were green, but that was where the similarity ended. Lady Maria had higher cheekbones, and while her eyes were green, they were closer set in narrow features. Her lips were less full, and there was a slight twist to the upper lip that gave her a sardonic appearance, as if she saw something amusing that all else had missed. Her emerald clothing was lighter, and more beautifully tailored, and the aura of wealth that surrounded her was emphasised by the gold she wore at wrists and throat.