Baldwin had no desire to see either. For Lady Maria his infatuation was entirely flown, and he knew he must fully recover before repaying the Genoese shipmaster for his beating.
‘Master Baldwin, would you join me for a ride?’ Roger asked one morning. He had knocked, and now stood gazing about him with interest while Pietro eyed him with dislike.
‘Gladly,’ Baldwin said, grunting as he rose from his seat. He was still stiff and sore. ‘But I don’t have a horse.’
‘A horsemaster’s house without a horse?’ Roger laughed, but then jerked his head. ‘Come, I will arrange for a beast for you. We ride east. Bring your sword.’
Baldwin would not have ridden outside the city without his sword, but on hearing those words, he looked at Roger askance. There was a subtle meaning there, he felt sure, and he sensed the thrill of impending action. He remembered Ivo’s injunction not to embarrass him, but looking at Roger Flor, he found it hard to believe the stories of his robbing people. Tolls were one thing, robbery and murder quite different. He had a devil-may-care look about him, but that was the way of Templars.
In any case, he was Baldwin’s friend.
There were more men in the streets than usual. Some hundreds of scruffy pilgrims were straggling up from the harbour, and he gazed at them with disapproval. They were — as most travellers were after days on a cramped ship — filthy. Lank, greasy hair framed faces that were pinched from lack of food, while some had been unfortunate enough to befoul themselves.
It only served to make Baldwin realise how disgusting he himself must have been when he disembarked from the Falcon. He tried to steer clear of the newcomers as he strode on by with Roger Flor.
A steady rhythmic tread intruded upon his thoughts, and he stood aside to permit four Templar men-at-arms to pass. All clad in their brown uniform habits with the red crosses, they marched in step — a picture of military efficiency that was particularly pleasing among these raggle-taggle Lombards, Baldwin thought, as he trailed behind Roger down the hill towards the Temple.
On the way, he saw a familiar figure with a white cloak and red cross. ‘Sir Jacques,’ he called. ‘God’s blessings on you.’
‘And on you,’ the older man responded. ‘You are not approaching the Genoese quarter, I hope?’
Baldwin pulled a face. ‘No. We are going for a ride outside the city.’
‘That is good,’ Sir Jacques said, but there was little humour in his eyes as he surveyed Roger Flor. ‘Beware, my friends. These fellows are new to the city, and I do not think they appreciate the land in which they have landed. I fear riots.’
Edgar Bakere walked into Acre by the gate at the Patriarch’s Tower. It was a good city, he reckoned.
The arrival of the crusaders, however, was no cause of joy to the citizens. One or two spat on the ground as the Lombards tramped past. Edgar walked about for some while, wondering where he should go, before finding his way to the castle.
At the door lounged three bored sentries. The castle was not so large as the King’s White Tower in London, but with the strength of the city’s surrounding walls, that was hardly surprising. Defences here would serve only to protect the castle’s inhabitants against the city, not from outside attack. If city walls that thick didn’t suffice to keep invaders out, the castle could hardly hope to do so.
‘I am here to serve in the defence of the city,’ Edgar said self-importantly.
‘Good for you,’ was the unpromising response of a guard. ‘Hope you enjoy it.’
‘I want to join the garrison.’
‘As it happens, just now we don’t have any vacancies.’
Edgar frowned. ‘Where do I go, then?’
The guard sighed heavily and thrust his thumbs into his belt. He had a pitying look in his eyes as he studied Edgar. ‘Anywhere you like, mate, so long as it’s not here. Pick an inn, all right? There are plenty all over the city.’
‘But I don’t have much money,’ Edgar said. He wore an apologetic smile, but in his heart a resentful anger was kindling.
‘Then get a job,’ the guard said. ‘Now piss off. We have work to do.’
Edgar walked down the street, past idling servants, merchants with gold gleaming on fingers and about their necks, and then almost bumped into a party of men-at-arms, but not warriors such as he had seen before.
They were Saracens, and wore swords with curved blades. He eyed them with interest, wondering how it could be that representatives of the enemies of the city could have gained entrance. And then he saw to his astonishment that they were making their way to the castle! The guard who had been so insulting to him, stood aside and bowed to them.
This was incredible. Edgar walked on more slowly as he digested the fact that the people from whom he had expected to defend the city, actually lived inside it.
All over Acre, the inns were filling quickly. Edgar soon learned that to the local people, a fresh influx of pilgrims and crusaders meant only one thing: profit to the men who rented rooms and sold food. The place was hideously expensive, the cost of bread and meats much higher even than in Lombardy, where he had taken ship. The people here were acquisitive to a degree Edgar had never experienced, and he was shocked to see how the innkeepers tried to gull the Lombards — and himself. Prices were inflated, and while many tried to haggle and dicker, they ended up paying with sullen resentment when they realised they had little choice.
He then had a bit of luck. There was an inn in the Genoese quarter with a stable at the back. Just now, the inn was almost full, he learned, but when the innkeeper heard why Edgar was in the city, he immediately professed himself delighted to meet a brave warrior come to protect him and his family.
‘You can take some space in my hayloft, if you want,’ he said.
By that stage, Edgar would have taken a privy. All he wanted was to sit down and close his eyes for a little.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Riding out of the massive St Anthony’s Gate, Baldwin felt his troubles fall away.
It was two weeks since his beating at the hands of the Genoese, and most of his wounds were healing. As he bent to duck under a low building, his saddle creaking, he could feel the bruises complain, but that was all. Outside in the open air, past the shanty town that had sprung up about Acre’s walls, he felt refreshed, and it was with joy in his heart that he trotted at Roger Flor’s side.
There were six others with them, all sailors from Roger’s Falcon.
‘We’ll head east, and see what we find,’ Roger said easily. He looked over at Baldwin, wondering. The Englishman sometimes was so sure of himself, like today, whereas on other occasions he could seem deliberately juvenile. ‘You never know what you might see, and it’s good to ensure that there are no spies about.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Baldwin said mildly. For his part, he was keen only to exercise. It was prodigiously hot, but he missed riding. Back at home he would ride every day, no matter what the weather, and he could feel his muscles growing flabby. ‘Will we have time for a gallop?’
‘Perhaps later,’ Roger said with a chuckle, relieved that the lad appeared to understand. There were some men who would be less keen on the idea of a raid against local houses. Maybe Baldwin was a man after his own heart. He might be young, but there was fire in his belly. ‘You are a keen horseman?’
‘Very. But at home the weather is not so hot. My land is cool.’
‘So is mine,’ Roger said. ‘At least here, when you ride, there is a purpose to it, eh?’