Ivo had descended this three times a day to check on his charges, a pair of strong destriers, seven rounseys and a few sumpters, along with a number of ponies, all needed by the Templars at Acre to replace their losses at Tripoli. Today, with the sea moving like a sheet of silk flapping in a gale, the passage was treacherous. Sinking down through the hatch, he felt lighter on his feet, as though there was an invisible hand plucking at him, tugging him from the rungs to fling him to the deck, but he clung on until the ship’s motion changed once more. . regained his weight and made it to the decking. He had to stand there a moment, still clutching at the ladder while he caught his breath, breathing in the odours of horse sweat, urine and shit.
Down here it was a scene from Hell. The destriers in particular were wild, lumbering and stumbling as the ship moved, kicking at the boards behind them, and Ivo could easily understand why. Down here, all noise was emphasised and enhanced. Every wave slapping against the hull made a noise like a kettledrum, as if a giant was beating the sides of the vessel. Amidst the groaning of the timbers, the constant howl of the ropes added to the hideous din for the terrified animals.
He saw a groom sitting miserably, his head over a pool of vomit, and kicked him up. ‘Go and see to the horses, unless you want me to tell the Grand Master you’ve been derelict, you bitch-son! If any more die, you’ll be responsible.’
The man weakly muttered a curse, but rose and wandered sluggishly amongst his charges, while Ivo went to his palfrey and tried to calm him. Black as coal, he was, with a white star to the right of his brow, a strong, powerful brute. But as he patted the beast’s neck and rubbed its nose, he heard bellowing up on deck. It sounded urgent, and he heard the sonorous pounding of the drum calling the sailors to. His horse whickered and jerked his head, eyes wild, but Ivo could not wait. He darted for the ladder, and was soon back on deck, relieved to be out of that noisome hole.
‘Well?’ Roger demanded.
‘They’ll live. Only two have died this passage.’
‘Good.’
‘Why the drum?’
‘Why?’ Roger asked, leaning heavily on the steering oar as he bared his teeth in a smile of wicked pleasure. ‘Look up there, Ivo: Genoese, mother-swyving pirates.’
Peering ahead, Ivo gauged the distance between their vessel and the ships bound together in their battle. Shrieks and cries came to him over the water, even above the din of the massive waves. He saw three ships: two were galleys, but of different classes. The third looked to Ivo’s eye to be a Venetian merchant vessel, designed for transporting high-value goods, while the galleys looked to be Genoese, as Roger Flor had said. No surprise there: the Genoese and Pisans both detested Venice.
‘What will you do?’
Roger gave him a grin. ‘What should a Templar ship do? I will go to the aid of our allies, Master Ivo. It is my duty!’
Ivo nodded, and clung to a rope as Roger bellowed his commands. There was a general movement of men, some clambering up the ratlines to the sails at Roger’s urging, while others fetched grappling irons and boathooks, setting the tools about with careful precision. Each knew his place: these were Templar shipmen. They would fight united, as would their brothers on land.
‘The Grand Master will be disappointed if his horses are harmed,’ Ivo said meditatively.
‘Today, the Grand Master can kiss my arse,’ Roger responded, leaning heavily on the oar. The ship slowly heeled over, breasting one wave and sliding down the farther side. ‘He isn’t here. We have allies in the Venetians, and I won’t see them boarded and robbed.’ He grinned. ‘Not when we could take them and keep their booty for ourselves.’
‘You would rob your own grandmother.’
‘That is a malicious piece of villeiny-saying!’ Roger said with a hurt glance. ‘I wouldn’t dream of robbing her. She had nothing worth taking! But a Genoese trader, that’s different. It depends what they’re carrying, of course, but there could be a rich cargo on board.’
He was silent a moment, but Ivo could sense his eyes flitting towards him every so often, gauging his reaction to the news.
He had known Roger Flor some years. The shipman had gone to sea at the age of eight, and his skill as a navigator had led to his being made shipmaster after he joined the Templar Order. In those days Roger had been a callow young man of some nineteen or twenty years, and while his ability with a ship was never in doubt, it was plain that his interests lay more in the opportunities available in the Holy Land than in his duties as a Templar. And just now, he could see the potential for a good profit. At sea Ivo quite liked Roger Flor — but he didn’t trust him on land.
They made good way, even with the roiling waters. At each crest, Ivo could see the ships growing closer and closer. The one in the middle appeared to be rolling to and fro violently, while the two at either side seemed more stable, and he saw that men were loosing arrows from them into the stricken ship.
Ivo knew how the crew would be served there. He had endured such battles himself, and could imagine the scene already: arrows would make the decks lethal. Bodies would be pinned to the planks beneath them, men panting and struggling for breath, while others tried to hide behind the flimsiest partitions. Screams, groans, sobs, the sounds of panic and horror.
The shame of it: Christians fighting on the open sea, when their last city, Acre, the jewel of Outremer, was desperate for aid. The other states of the crusader kingdom had been taken, and even now Muslim hordes waited at her borders, slavering with the thought of the easy prize sitting there so defenceless. Christians needed to unite to defend her, but no. Genoa, Venice and Pisa were at loggerheads as usual. And now a pair of Genoese galleys were trying to capture a Venetian cog. It made his heart weep.
But he was not by nature prepared to submit to misery. He had seen such things too often since he took up his new life in the Holy Land, and now he felt the warrior’s anger again, the slow burning rage that heated the blood, as he looked at the ship. He had noticed it in the harbour, sailing off while he was seeing to the last of the horses being stowed belowdecks — a small buss, a two-masted ship of perhaps double the size of a cog from the northern waters.
Roger suddenly bawled commands, and his sailors scurried. One man paused, puked on the deck, and then carried on. The others had forgotten their sickness in anticipation of the fight to come.
‘Let the flag of the Order be flown!’ Roger bellowed, and the pennant, which had been stowed away two days ago when the wind began to tear at it, was hurriedly attached to the halyard and hoisted. ‘Let’s see what they make of that, eh?’ Roger asked, his teeth shining.
The swooping, rolling motion seemed to grow in urgency, as though the ship herself was desperate to get to grips with the pirates. Ivo clung with desperation to a rope, his legs bending as the ship slammed into a great wave, hurling spray over the whole deck. There were men on the yards now, reefing the sail, while others worked with frantic haste, running hither and thither, each man knowing his position. Roger Flor was a good master, and now he kept an eye on his crew as they hurried from one point to another, depositing weapons, readying themselves and the ship for battle.
But when they were done, there was a long wait as they approached the three. It felt as though they were crawling, foot by foot, yard by yard, and Ivo was convinced that they must arrive too late to help. As it was, they must have been seen, and the two ships would be ready to beat them off.
‘Bowmen, to the tops!’ Roger roared, and the sailors with crossbows took their leather pots of quarrels and began to climb, bows slung over their backs. ‘Men! These Genoese whoresons have tried to take a shipload of crusaders! Crusaders are here to defend our kingdom! They are here to help us! They are our friends and allies, and I mean to make these pirates pay for harming them! Do you want to let them escape with that black crime unavenged? Should we permit them to go free? I say no!’