Baldwin saw the tears silently running down his cheeks. He refilled their mazers as Ivo continued.
‘After that, I had no occupation, no Lord. I wandered, and one day I heard a sermon, and I heard that those who travelled to Jerusalem could be healed of any earthly offence. I went, I saw the Holy Sepulchre, and I felt renewed. It was that which healed my heart.’
The two sat side-by-side, sipping wine as the sun fell and the evening grew cooler.
‘Don’t speak to anyone about the raid with Roger Flor,’ Ivo said at last. ‘I will deal with him.’
‘Will you tell the Grand Master?’
‘No. I’ll tell Flor that I know his secret. Hopefully he won’t try anything else like it.’ And if he does, Ivo added silently, I will personally see to it that the Order punishes him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Lady Maria was in a towering rage as she stalked back to her chamber. Snatching up a goblet, she was about to hurl it at the wall — but then forced herself to be calm. She carefully set the glass on a table and sat sedately beside it, her hands in her lap.
She was not going to lose her temper. She needed to think.
The stupid wretch! Lucia knew Baldwin was an enemy to Buscarel, and after their capture of him, he would be resentful. A man like that was a danger to them. To Maria. She would have to dispose of Lucia. It was infuriating, after so many years. When Maria had a need for a confidential messenger, Lucia was ideal. Maria had always been able to trust her. But no more. That trust had gone.
Lady Maria sat on warm cushions and fabrics, swirling wine in her goblet. The news about the peace was interesting. Buscarel only cared about Genoa, of course. He had a particularly single-minded focus. Anything that aided Genoa was good, all that hurt her, bad. Lady Maria had a more flexible view of the world.
Her husband had been a clever man, but a tyrant. His death had been a relief. She should not have suffered the indignities he forced upon her. He was a rural knight, when all was said and done, not one to inspire affection, but the match had seemed a good one when he pressed his suit, linking his lands at Lydda with her family’s nearer Acre. It was only after their wedding that she felt the rough end of his tongue, the clenched fist.
Since his death she had escaped Lydda to live here in Acre. She was still beautiful, as the number of her lovers attested. There would come a time when she could not attract, but the loss of her beauty did not concern her so much as the loss of her lands. Lydda was a valuable asset, and no one would willingly lose land. It was the natural basis of wealth.
Her lover, Philip Mainboeuf, had assured her that Acre was safe. Well, perhaps so. His single-minded pursuit of money and trade with Egypt led him to believe that Qalawun did not want war, his capture of Tripoli having been forced upon him when the Venetians demanded his help; Genoa had been demanding more rights while trying to force Venice and Pisa from the city — and it was that which had led to Qalawun’s attack. Acre, though, Acre must be safe. That was Philip’s belief.
Lady Maria was content with his assurances for now. But it was essential that she keep her contacts in Egypt. If Acre were to be captured, she could return to Lydda until the fighting was over — so long as she maintained her friends in Egypt.
Maria knew she trod a fine line. Politics in the Holy Land were always tortuous and dangerous. In the past she had allied herself to Greeks, to Pisans, to Arabs, and now to Genoans too. She promised to use her influence to help them, and in return, she was paid.
Philip Mainboeuf was determined to prevent war. Wars cost money; he preferred peace and increased trade. He knew the Lady Maria had contacts with the highest in the Commune, and he hoped to make use of them.
Little did he know that she also had influence at Qalawun’s court. When Tripoli fell, much of her land had been taken. Only by offering to help the Sultan did she retain control. She advised him on the political atmosphere in Acre, in return for which she kept the revenues from her estates. It was a nice arrangement.
She must see Philip and test his knowledge of recent discussions. Then a message must be sent to Qalawun to justify her position as his spy in the city.
Lucia must go. She knew too much of Maria’s business with Qalawun. How much had she told Baldwin?
The stupid girl!
Ivo saw Roger Flor in the market the next day.
The citizens were doing the best they could to make the city wholesome once more after the riots. Bloodstained paving stones were scrubbed clean, the smashed remains of pots swept away, broken doors were taken down and replaced, and all over the city there was a feeling that disaster had been narrowly averted.
Roger Flor was standing at a stall with Bernat.
‘Good day, Master Flor,’ Ivo said. He kept on the left side of Roger Flor, away both from his knife hand and his companion.
‘Master Horseman. How are you this fine day?’
‘Well enough. But I think I warned you some while ago to keep away from my friend Baldwin, did I not?’
‘What one man may threaten, another may decide to ignore,’ Roger Flor said airily.
‘When a man threatens to take proof to your Grand Master that you are involved in robbing Muslim caravans, I think you will listen.’
Roger Flor took an olive and tasted it experimentally. ‘No, too old and sour. I wouldn’t buy one such as that,’ he said, and then turned to Ivo. ‘Old man, you should be careful who listens to you. Some might think you were being threatening, and paunch you to see whether the cause of your bile was in your belly. Don’t threaten me.’
‘If you involve him in another raid, if he becomes ill, or if he is beaten and slain here in the city, I will hold you responsible, Roger, and I will have you dragged, if need be, to the Grand Master, where you will answer.’
‘Me? I don’t know what he has told you, but you’ll find he was my companion on a ride. Am I accused of something more?’
‘He admitted how he gained that wound. Otherwise he’d have kept your secret. And now your raids will cease, or. .’
Bernat said quietly, ‘Or what?’
Ivo grabbed Roger’s forearm and swung him around and over his leg, hurling him to the ground. Then he was at Bernat, and although the seaman had already pulled his knife free, he held it low, and too close to his belly. Ivo kept moving forward, his right hand on Bernat’s knife hand, pushing with all his strength, his body’s momentum turning the blade to point at Bernat’s stomach. Then, just as Bernat’s eyes widened with shock as the blade point scratched his belly, Ivo let go, and slammed the heel of his hand up under Bernat’s chin. It struck with a sound like wet sand hitting two stones; a sudden click as Bernat’s teeth met, and the man fell.
Turning, Ivo snatched his own dagger out. Roger Flor was still smiling, but his eyes were filled with grim hatred.
‘Keep away from Baldwin, I said,’ Ivo told him. ‘I won’t see you pollute him. If you try to, I will make you wish you had never been born.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
It was Ivo who told him of the arrival of the English.
Their appearance was a shock to Baldwin. Somehow he had not expected to find so many of his countrymen in the city which he had come to think of as his adopted home.
‘Best come with me before the deofols attack a Christian because he’s wearing black,’ Ivo muttered.
They made their way to the harbour and found it in a state of turmoil. Sailors, many with their arms folded in disapproval, watched as English men-at-arms moved about the place. But this was not the arrival of bitter, impoverished peasants with neither leaders nor discipline; this was a small, efficient army. Sergeants marched along the port, bellowing at the lines of men three abreast. All were dressed in tunics with a small cross on the breast to show that they were bound for the Holy Land, but the effect was spoiled by the fact that all were befouled from their long journey. Still, their weapons looked clean and well-cared for, and as an order was given, the polearms all rose, gleaming.