‘Friends, is this the house of Philip Mainboeuf? I would like to see him.’
‘Does he know you?’ The mail-clad sentry was not rude. He looked at Edgar’s new tunic and boots with open respect. Edgar was a man with money, the sort who would usually be permitted to speak to his master.
‘Perhaps we should ask him,’ Edgar said.
He was soon inside a long, rather narrow hall. Drapery hung from poles overhead like banners, moving gently with the breeze. Two clerks were seated at tables, writing urgently, while more clerks and a Saracen steward hurried about, bringing scrolls and records.
There were pictures on the walls. Paintings of Christian scenes, and some few of warfare. As Edgar walked, he studied them with interest. One showed the sack of a city, before which he stopped.
‘You like that? It was painted so we should not forget.’
Philip Mainboeuf was a man of perhaps thirty. He had a narrow chin and lively, amused eyes, as if he found all about him immensely delightful.
‘What was it?’ Edgar asked.
‘The end of the Siege of Acre, almost a hundred years ago. It depicts the taking of the town by King Richard, and the slaughter of the innocents in the city. It was always noticeable that when Richard Lionheart took a town, the inhabitants were invariably slain, whilst when Saladin captured cities he invariably showed mercy.’
Edgar nodded politely.
‘You wished to see me?’ Philip Mainboeuf said, looking him up and down. ‘My man said you were a merchant, but I confess I do not know you.’
‘I am Edgar of London, and I have the honour to be a known master of defence,’ Edgar lied blithely. If he wasn’t now, he soon would be, he thought.
‘And what would I want with a master of defence?’
Edgar merely smiled in reply.
‘Did you see how many men I have on my gate already?’
‘Yes — three. You have another two in the yard behind your door, you will say. I will say, they none of them would match me.’
‘So, my bold friend. You wish to see to my interests?’
‘And you will pay me.’
‘How can I tell you would be worth my money?’
‘Look at my clothes. How many of your guards have been so well rewarded for their service, to you or to friends you know?’
Edgar was pleased to see that Philip Mainboeuf smiled at that. ‘You are very certain of your abilities, sir.’
‘I have reason to be. I am the best servant you could have.’
‘But I am safe already. I have many men to guard me.’
‘How many are in here with you now? If I were an assassin, you would be dead.’
‘But you are not a Muslim enemy, are you?’
‘How would your guards know that? You remember how Prince Edward of England was attacked by a man pretending to be a Christian? Assassins are highly trained. The Old Man of the Mountain makes sure of that. They can hit a fly with a thrown knife, and they are expert with garotte and poison.’
‘How do you know all this?’
Edgar smiled. He didn’t want to admit that it was tavern gossip. It sounded good.
Mainboeuf studied him closely, considering.
‘Very well’, he said finally. ‘I will take you — for your boldness, if nothing more. And the city does feel more dangerous since the arrival of all these soldiers. I would be happy to have you at my side, I think.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Lucia woke in the under-basement — a cold, a stone-walled, stone-flagged chamber with no furniture, only pots and barrels.
The pain was enough to make her weep. When she fell, the bottler had kicked her repeatedly. Even so, that wasn’t the worst. She had never endured the sort of punishment meted out to other slaves, because of her favoured position, but that was at an end and she had endured the very limits of a slave’s suffering.
Her clothes were a ripped heap over at the wall; she rose to all fours and made her way to them, sobbing with the pain and having to stop, hanging her head, after a yard, tears streaming. She tried to push her mind past the rawness that flared between her legs. The torment would pass. It must.
A swallow, and then she deliberately lifted a hand and placed it before her, shifted her knee, and another few inches were covered.
She should have stayed with Baldwin. What could have happened that would have been worse? She couldn’t swear to follow his religion, but he might have forgiven her that. But perhaps he was like all the Franks, and only looked at her for her body. Like the bottler.
Last night he had taken her like a whore from the meanest tavern. He didn’t want information — he knew she hadn’t lied. No, he took her just to satisfy his lust. She had tried to fight him off, but he only laughed and hit back. She couldn’t resist him. He was too strong.
Sobbing at the memory of his sweating, red face over her, she reached for her clothing and pulled on the shreds. She had no idea what the time was, but surely she should be at prayer? She bent forward, and the movement caused her back to flare. She had to give up in despair. Instead she crawled to the wall, and sat with her back to it.
If only she were still in Baldwin’s house. He would be kind. He would remember how she had dabbed his face when Buscarel had hit him, and he would take her head in his lap and soothe her, caressing her hair and washing the pain away. And he would look after her forever.
If she were with him.
If he asked her again, she would not hesitate to agree to do anything he asked, provided he only took her away from this place.
‘What did you think of him?’ Ivo asked Baldwin as they walked towards Montmusart.
‘I can see why men would follow him.’
‘Yes. He inspired trust even all those years ago,’ Ivo said. He paused. They had reached a market, and he peered into the produce. There were fresh olives, and he indicated the pot. The seller nodded and soon Ivo had agreed on a quantity which were spooned into a small basket. He proffered a coin, and the trader recoiled in horror. ‘No, no! It is not enough!’ and suggested a price double that which Ivo had in his hand.
‘No,’ Ivo said, and there was a resolute look on his face as he and the seller haggled.
Baldwin studied the goods on offer. There was evidence of the dire situation, with good Damascus knives and swords on sale. Many crusaders would want to buy one to take home as a memento — provided they did get home. If they looked upon the land as a source of profit, like Roger Flor, the country could soon erupt in rage and murder.
It was an appalling idea. Surely God would not allow His land to be overrun by heathens? It would speak much of His feelings towards the Christians here if He would see them slain and thrown from it. Baldwin shook his head. God couldn’t permit that. Not until the end of the world would He allow the Christians to be thrown from their last toehold on His Holy Land.
There was a man before him, and Baldwin was about to pass around him, when he noticed that the man carried a basket full of clothing: shirt, hosen, tunic — all soiled with dried blood. Baldwin looked at the man, who met Baldwin’s look unflinchingly. He was a fellow of perhaps forty or more, from the white-shot beard and hair.
‘Your clothes?’ Baldwin asked.
Abu al-Fida curled his lip. ‘No,’ he said, in a surprisingly deep voice, speaking French fluently. ‘My son’s.’
‘I am sorry,’ Baldwin said sincerely. ‘So much foolishness.’
‘It was not foolishness that killed my son,’ the man said heavily. ‘It was Christians. While there is strife, innocents like my boy will die.’
‘Let us pray that the strife ceases,’ Baldwin said. ‘And no more need die.’
‘You think we shall see that in our lifetimes?’ the man sneered.
‘I shall pray for your son, and for you, my friend,’ Baldwin said, feeling ridiculous. The last thing a father would want would be the prayers of those who had killed him.