‘Ivo is away, but Jacques d’Ivry knows I am with you,’ Baldwin told him, fearing some kind of retribution. ‘If I don’t return, he will want to know why. The blame will attach to you.’
‘Baldwin, be calm,’ Roger said, still smiling. ‘You’re safe. But if I learn you’ve been talking of our little chevauchée, you will die before me. Somewhere in a dark alley, you’ll be found, and with a Genoese dagger in your back, I expect.’
‘We understand each other, then,’ Baldwin said.
Roger nodded. It was a shame, but the fellow was not going to be an ally. Nor could Roger kill him with impunity. Better to keep an eye on him, and if necessary silence him later, in Acre, when it was less likely any blame would attach to him.
Baldwin remounted with the rest of the party. His flank stung, and he looked at it nervously. A raking slash had skimmed his ribs, but it did not hinder his sword arm. Just as well, since one glance at Roger’s face told him he must look to his own safety on the ride back.
Baldwin rode back alone, using his injury as an excuse for riding slowly at the rear of the column, from where he could keep an eye on the others, but to his considerable relief, nothing untoward happened. It seemed Roger was content to trust him for now. Yet it was good to see the city once more, and as he rode in under the gate, Baldwin was aware of a sense of relief. He only wished he could lose his feelings of guilt and shame as easily.
After seeing to their horses, Roger Flor found one of his sailors falling into step beside him. It was Bernat.
He spoke quietly. ‘That fellow today — Baldwin. I don’t know if we can trust him.’
‘How do we know whether any man can be trusted?’ Roger said. ‘The only way is to let him have enough rope to hang himself.’
‘He isn’t safe, I tell you.’
‘He won’t let us down. I trust him.’
‘He may hang us.’
Roger smiled. ‘I said, I trust him. I have spoken to him before, but if you wish, I’ll have another word with him and make him realise he must hold his counsel.’
Bernat nodded and said no more. There was no need. They both knew that the young Baldwin was potentially a threat to them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It seemed to Edgar Bakere that all the peoples of the world congregated here in one babel of sound.
The sight of Saracen warriors had shaken him, but the more he walked about the city, the more he grew to notice others. It was astonishing to see so many Saracens tolerated. Merchants, traders — they seemed to be everywhere. Almost more than there were Christians, and yet this was supposed to be a Christian city, with Christian beliefs. How Christians could trade with their enemies, and worse, allow them to live in the same city, Edgar did not understand.
Nor did the other crusaders.
He was on his way back to his inn in search of a little food when he saw the first of the fights. A woman, veiled and swathed in black material so voluminously that only her eyes could be seen, was walking with two men to guard her. For a moment Edgar reflected that Saracen women were harder to admire than Christian ones, and for that he was sorry. Edgar had always liked the company of women, and on the journey here he had enjoyed mild erotic fantasies about exotic Saracen girls. . only to learn that they would have to remain pure speculation.
It was not the woman who held his attention, however: it was the jeering, taunting men behind her.
Edgar could see that she was terrified. Her eyes were wildly shooting from one side to another, and her men were as fearful. They didn’t know what to do to escape the baying mob. For that’s what it was: a mob of unruly Lombard mercenaries who had no idea how to occupy themselves. They had no discipline, and what order there had been was degraded by drink. Edgar could understand their language moderately well after spending days in their company, and now he listened with a careful ear to their insults and taunts.
‘Why’s she covered up?’
‘Come on, girl, give us a kiss!’
‘What’s the problem, eh? Don’t you like real men?’
One man, bolder, or more foolish than the others, pushed his way to the front. One of the guards shot a look at his companion, and then the two tried to block the man’s path, but he truculently set his hand to his knife and stared them down, before shoving past them.
The mob enveloped her guards like a wave washing over pebbles.
Edgar frowned. He could leave matters, return to his hayloft and forget this woman and her guards, and yet the behaviour of the man and the rest of the mob showed that the woman would probably be raped, perhaps killed. The death of other men did not bother Edgar unduly — he was unconcerned that the two guards would almost certainly die — but he disliked the idea of the woman being ravished or slain. It offended his sense of chivalry.
As she retreated, Edgar smilingly went to her and stood between her and the man.
‘Out of the way, boy,’ the man threatened, his hand still on his knife. His French was rough and, for Edgar, hard to understand.
‘Your pardon? What was that?’
‘Out of my way, fool!’
‘You are troubling this lady. I would see her left to go on her way.’
‘She’s only a Moor.’
‘That doesn’t give you the right to pester and annoy her. There are taverns throughout the city where even you can find a woman. You don’t need this.’
‘What’s she to you?’
Edgar shrugged. ‘Nothing. But I dislike seeing a woman harried.’
‘You’re still in my way.’
Edgar nodded happily. ‘I am, yes.’
The Lombard muttered a curse and drew his knife, holding it wide of his body as he crouched. On his breath was the unmistakable reek of cheap wine.
In the London streets in which Edgar had grown, a man soon learned to defend himself against drunk apprentices or clerks. His strength was good, his technical skills honed by the Master of Defence. He eyed the man now, his eyes moving from the Lombard’s face to the knife, gauging when the man would make his attack.
There! The point jabbed forward, then withdrew and slashed towards Edgar’s belly, but both were feints. They hardly reached close enough to tear his tunic. Edgar didn’t move.
‘When in a fight, get inside your opponent’s reach,’ his Master had always instructed, ‘but if he has a knife, you must be fast and sure. Or you will be cut.’
Today, Edgar tested his theory.
The knife stabbed forward, the Lombard’s arm straight. Edgar darted towards him. His left arm went over the Lombard’s right, clamping the man’s knife-hand under his armpit, while he wrapped his left arm about the Lombard’s gripping his clothing at the shoulder. The Lombard was locked in his grasp, and Edgar punched twice, with stiffened right fingers, quickly, at the man’s throat. The man choked and retched, and Edgar span him around, ramming his face into the wall, then, as the man wailed, his nose flooded with blood, Edgar slammed his open hand into the man’s elbow, wrenching it sideways.
He screamed and dropped the dagger, clutching his ruined elbow. Edgar turned him around, placed his boot on the man’s backside and pushed, hard.
As the Lombard fell amongst his companions, Edgar picked up his dagger. It was a good blade, strong and well made. He tucked it away into his belt and eyed the crowd. ‘Anybody else want to try their luck?’ he challenged mildly.
As he spoke, the two Saracen guards pushed through the crowd and went to his side, one setting his hand on his sword, but Edgar hoped he wouldn’t draw it. If someone pulled out a weapon now, the mob could become nasty. They had the ugly temper of London apprentices on riot, he thought, and he could all too easily imagine them ripping stones from the roadway to hurl at him and the two beside him. That wouldn’t be good.
‘You a Moor-lover, boy?’ someone shouted, and another jeered, ‘You want a whore, they’re cheaper in the tavern. She’ll cost you dear!’