‘It was a whim,’ Ivo grunted.
In truth it had been, too. It was a mere whim that had taken him to Buscarel’s house with Sir Jacques, and when a servant told him that Buscarel was with Lady Maria, Ivo was filled with disquiet. When they reached Maria’s street, they spoke to one man who described a fellow much like Baldwin, who had been carried into the Lady’s house by two sailors and Buscarel. That had been enough.
Baldwin nodded as Ivo explained, but then he asked, ‘Genoa is to suffer? I don’t understand.’
‘All the mercantile cities have their favourite ports,’ Ivo said. ‘Genoa had Tripoli. That is why they attacked Tineh and a ship: to make their point. They are angry that the Sultan has wiped out their trading capital in Outremer.’
‘But surely it will hurt all the Christian seafaring nations?’ Baldwin asked.
Jacques gave a chuckle. ‘It should, but Venice detests Genoa, and has her own centre of operations here in Acre, so it was more a source of amusement to Venice that Genoa’s city was destroyed. It won’t affect them much, because they will be able to trade direct with the Egyptian merchants, and won’t lose profit to the middle-men in Tripoli.’
Baldwin couldn’t understand. This was all over his aching head. The talk of mercantile ventures was making his mind swim. He closed his eyes. ‘The Lady Maria had contempt for the Templars, too, I felt,’ he murmured.
‘When she sought to question you,’ Ivo said, ‘she was thinking of her friends, the Genoese, no doubt. I think she has a close relationship with them, so her feelings are coloured against the Templars.’
‘She dislikes the men of the Order?’
Sir Jacques tried to explain. ‘It goes deeper than simple dislike, Baldwin. In past disputes, the Templars have tended to ally themselves with the Venetians, while the Hospitallers have been more associated with Genoa. Therein lies the source of many rancorous arguments that have led to the death of Christians.’
‘What of Pisa?’
Ivo glanced at him. ‘All these three states make money from trade, and from transporting pilgrims and crusaders — and all want to make more money than their competitors. So while they exist, the three cities will fight, and since each has allies, their allies will fight for them and with them. And, of course, there are some who will fight only for themselves. Like Roger Flor.’
‘Roger? What of him?’
‘He used to go on illegal raids into Moorish lands, to kill and steal from the merchants he found. He preyed on those less able to defend themselves. He will do so again, before long.’
‘I was with him today,’ Baldwin admitted shamefacedly.
‘I know. You’re old enough to make your own mistakes — but be careful if you make him your companion. It would not take many of Roger’s attacks to upset this fragile peace.’
Ivo sat in his garden drinking strong wine. He had been profoundly shocked by Baldwin’s battered and beaten body. It brought back that horrible nightmare of the destruction of Tripoli. He often dreamed of it. Ivo could see the streets in his mind’s eye as clearly as if he had been there. He could see his street, the flames leaping higher and higher, outlining people who ran from their doors, only to be cut down. He saw his neighbours kneeling on the stones of the road, offering money, jewels — anything for their lives — and then having their throats cut. Then he saw his own wife, Rachel. His son, Peter. Saw the blades stabbing and slashing, the men taking their pleasure with her before killing her too. Poor Rachel.
‘I would have been there, if I could,’ he said quietly to himself, his voice broken with sorrow.
And afterwards, he also knew how it had looked. Bodies lying at the roadside. Men, women and children, cut to pieces and left with their blood draining, houses looted and ruined, churches despoiled, and nothing left alive. He had been to visit once. The bones were everywhere, but the city he had known was destroyed.
He had dreams in which he rescued them, Rachel and Peter. Waking afterwards was to return to a living nightmare in which they were still dead.
‘I hope you didn’t suffer,’ he murmured to himself. It was his abiding prayer, that they had been killed quickly. The siege would have been hard, but at least if they hadn’t been tortured, that would be a comfort.
But how would he ever know?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It had been a nightmare journey for the pilgrims who arrived at the city that November. The seas had been storm-tossed, and some ships had been wrecked, killing passengers and crew alike; fortunately, many had got through, and as the cogs docked in the harbour or beached on the sands outside the city, a thirsty, ill-disciplined rabble was disgorged.
Edgar Bakere was among them.
A tall fellow with a lazy smile, Edgar had been apprenticed to a London baker, but he had never enjoyed the trade. His mind was not attuned to kneading and setting dough to rise, nor to wakening a little after Matins to set the fires in the ovens, ready for a long day of sweating exhaustion. He had long dreamed of leaving England’s damp chill, and making his fortune in a land where the sun shone. A place where he would not have to slave, where others would do the menial work for a change.
No, he was not going to be a baker. He was determined upon that. It was why he had invested what little money he had in taking lessons from a Master of Defence, learning how to handle a sword, a stick, or even his fists. while doing this, he had heard of Outremer, the land where men could go and find themselves a patch of land, and where, if they could hold on to it, they could become barons.
It was such a relief to be off the ship and on stable ground again that Edgar could have kissed the sands. He and the other men were only the advance: thousands more were being recruited from Lombardy to London, and before long more transports would reach this shore, full of men eager to protect Acre.
Their ship was a heavy-built transport, and to allow the horses to disembark, the master had beached the vessel. While the passengers copied Edgar and descended the ladders to the shore, shipmen were hacking at the caulking about the door in the hull. There were two other ships beached alongside, and Edgar eyed them without affection. It would, he decided, be many long years before he would willingly submit to sailing again.
Three bodies were being removed from the ship now. He saw the first thrown over the side to dangle from a rope under the arms, gradually being lowered. That was the man who had got into a fight after a gambling dispute. He had been stabbed, and bled to death in front of everyone. No one had gone to his aid. Then there was the body of the young mother, who had simply gone to sleep and not woken up. Even now her child, a boy of perhaps ten years, was wailing as his mother was let down. Why she had sought to come here, Edgar had no idea. Perhaps she was a prostitute, and believed the tales of a land flowing with milk and honey? A whore could make a good living in a town like this, especially with an army arriving. Women of that profession always followed an army.
The third man to be set down on the sandy shore was the kindly-faced old fellow who had befriended Edgar on the first day, and who had slept at Edgar’s side, eaten with him, and shared biscuits with him during their passage.
Edgar watched the body being deposited alongside the others, and then rose, looking about him. The city lay a scant half-mile distant, and he hefted his pack, adjusted the knife at his belt, and set off. He didn’t think of the man in the sand again. The man whom he had discovered in the middle of the night going through his pack searching for money or gold, and whom he had strangled.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Baldwin saw the first of the Lombards arrive.
Ivo had gone travelling, first to Cyprus and thence to Tuscany. The horse-dealer had been instructed to acquire more beasts for the Temple — be they destriers for the knights, or faster, lighter horses for the Turcopoles and archers. Before leaving, he had specifically instructed Baldwin to stick with someone like Sir Jacques when he went outside, and to avoid any contact with Lady Maria and Buscarel.