Baldwin eyed them jealously. If he could, he would have become a knight. Even to be a squire would have been an improvement. To be a warrior serving a lord meant to have certainty in life. His brother Reynald now enjoyed that. But Baldwin, although he had trained for his knighthood, leaving home at the age of seven so he could live with Sir Hugh de Courtenay and his men, had not yet gained the honour of his spurs. He was still a mere rural man-at-arms, with neither lands nor money to advance him. If he had not quarrelled with Reynald, and killed Sibilla’s lover, perhaps he would be a squire by now. Then knighthood would have been achievable.
The men had gathered up their packs, and there was a pause while a horse was brought forward, and a tall, heavy-set man clad in gleaming mail with a distinct coat-of-arms, was helped into the saddle.
Ivo was staring at the man. ‘Your eyes are better than mine. What are those arms?’
Baldwin peered. The knight was still a hundred yards distant. Fortunately, a banner was unfurled as a horn blared and the men began to march towards the city.
‘It has alternate blue and yellow vertical stripes, but there’s a red line angled down it. There are gold marks on the red band, too.’
‘Dear God in Heaven,’ Ivo muttered. ‘A paly of six, silver and argent, with a bend gules and charged with three eagles in gold. .’
‘What?’
‘That man. I think it’s Otto de Grandison.’
‘Who?’
Ivo shot him a look. ‘Your King’s most loyal servant these last thirty years. He was here with Prince Edward.’
‘He looks well for such an old man,’ was Baldwin’s only comment as the men approached.
Ivo glared at him. ‘He’s not that old.’
‘No, I mean, I. .’
Ignoring his flustered apology, Ivo stood watching the men approach. As the knight came nearer, he called out: ‘Sir Otto! God bring you fortune.’
The knight stopped. He had blue eyes in a square face with lines etched heavily into his leathery cheeks, and seeing Ivo, he frowned suddenly, his gaze wandering all over Ivo, absorbing his dress and features, before a smile appeared.
‘Ivo de Pynho? God’s teeth, it’s good to see you!’
‘In God’s name, I’m glad to have met you,’ Sir Otto said. ‘It is good to be briefed before a conference. Is the King here?’
‘Not yet. I saw him recently in Cyprus, gathering more men. As you can see, we have strong enough walls, but without the men to protect them, we have nothing.’
‘Who controls the city?’
‘Amalric, brother to King Henry II, is Castellan. The Commune of the city also wields power: the merchants and barons have their say for the benefit of all.’
‘A gathering of merchants and stall-holders?’ Sir Otto said disdainfully. He took up a small unleavened loaf and broke it into four. Chewing, he eyed Ivo questioningly.
‘Years ago, there was a dispute about who should run the city, when the people rejected the man foisted upon them. Since then, they have decided their own issues. It works.’
Aye, perhaps,’ Sir Otto said, unconvinced.
He was not so tall as Baldwin had thought. His height was not far off Baldwin’s, but he had a way of holding himself that made him seem bigger. His hair was shorn in the way of English knights — a military pudding-basin cut. While Ivo had assured him that the knight was fifty-five, Baldwin found it hard to believe. There was a vivacity and power to him that seemed out of place for someone so old and his face, while lined, was not ancient. Even his fair hair had no sign of silver.
They were in quarters near the castle. Otto’s hall was a good size, with a pair of good chairs at the lord’s table. Trestles were set out with benches for the first mess of soldiers, and now, as Otto sat and washed his hands, drying them on a pristine towel, his servants busied themselves preparing food. Otto and his guests had silver plates and fresh white bread, while the men below had bread trenchers with their meats, and Baldwin watched them jealously in the light lancing in from high above. Dust motes danced in swirls of incense. No one looked at him. They were too busy with their food.
‘What do you say, Baldwin?’ Ivo asked with asperity.
‘S-sorry, Master Ivo?’ he stammered.
‘Woolgathering, lad?’
‘I asked you: what is the quality of the city’s men?’ Otto said. ‘Ivo tells me there’s been rioting. What was the cause?’ He was leaning forward, his jaws moving rhythmically, as though Baldwin was the only man in the room. It was intensely flattering.
‘I think it was the indiscipline, Sir Otto. Lombards and others arrived, most of them peasants.’
‘It is the way of the peasant,’ Sir Otto agreed. ‘No one who has seen the London mob could doubt that. They are like a mountain stream: calm, until roused, and then they become a torrent that can wash away boulders.’
‘They must not be permitted to run wild,’ Baldwin said. ‘There are hotheads among them, and if they get into the open country, they could attack villages or caravans. That could force Qalawun into retaliating.’
Otto glanced at Ivo. ‘You agree?’
‘Certainly. We must not provoke the Sultan.’
‘How many men can he muster? I remember vast numbers when I was last here. Now he has encircled the city, I understand.’
‘There are some outposts. The Templars have Castle Pilgrim and Tortosa, we have Beirut, Haifa, Tyre, all small cities with defences that are not so strong as ours. Also, Acre can be replenished from the sea. She is strong, so long as we have the men to defend her walls.’
‘Would Qalawun attack, do you think?’
‘If he were provoked, as Baldwin says, his response would be overwhelming. I said Acre is strong, but we could not hold her against his full might.’
‘Then we must ensure no further insults are given,’ Sir Otto said. He waved to a servant, who brought cooked meats and a bowl of salad leaves. ‘I am grateful for your advice. Is there anything else I should know about before I see the Constable?’
Ivo pulled a face. ‘There is one thing I would say: trust the words of Sir Guillaume de Beaujeu. He is a crafty man, with the resources of the Temple behind him.’
‘What, you mean I should borrow from him? I have no love of moneylenders,’ Otto said impatiently.
‘Money is not his currency: de Beaujeu deals in information. He bribes the most important men in the Sultan’s court — their avariciousness is legendary. His knowledge occasionally offends those who depend on God, especially the Patriarch. Not that I blaspheme, but many would say that God helps first those who seek to help themselves.’
‘In what way?’ Sir Otto asked.
‘An example: the Templars warned of Tripoli’s plight long before it was recognised.’
‘Yes — so?’
‘Others thought the Templars were cowardly, and said so to Sir Guillaume’s face. Now all can see the truth. What I wish to say is, if Sir Guillaume asserts that the Saracens will do this or that — trust him. He is well-advised.’
Edgar had not found it difficult to locate Philip Mainboeuf’s house. A young maid in a tavern near the cathedral found him irresistible; he found her a useful source of information.
Making a mental note to return to her later, Edgar approached the Mainboeuf house, which was close to the main square. A vast-looking building, the golden stone of the area had been carved wonderfully to make pillars and decorative chevrons all over the front. Large windows gaped open to let cool air inside. At the door three men lounged in the heat, and Edgar eyed them critically. They did not look competent guards, he thought. All had leather jerkins, but while one wore a mail shirt, that was all the armour they possessed. They looked like the dregs of a lord’s host: underpaid, scruffy and ill-disciplined.