The man nodded once, pensively. ‘I thank you for your words.’
‘I fear words are inadequate.’
‘You meant them, and for that at least I honour you,’ the man said, and walked on, the basket held carefully in his hands like a holy relic.
Baldwin returned to Ivo. He was still shaking his head as the market trader made a fresh offer, and then made as if to walk away. The seller narrowed his eyes, turned his head slightly, and muttered a final offer. Ivo hesitated, and the trader peered closely before a broad grin spread over his face. ‘Aha, I have you, you bad bugger!’ he cried, pointing an accusatory finger, and Ivo smiled, nodded, and passed him two more coins.
There was a shout from the direction the Muslim man had taken, and Baldwin idly glanced after him, only to see the man stumble and fall. Baldwin pushed through the crush to help him.
The Muslim was on his knees, scrabbling for the clothing, which had pitched from his basket, while two Lombards and another man stood laughing.
The third man was Buscarel.
Baldwin did not hesitate but lunged, grabbing him by the belt and his shoulder, heaving him backwards over his knee, as he had learned in wrestling. Buscarel gave a startled cry, and then he was on the ground, his hand grabbing for his knife. He had the blade half out of the sheath before he realised Baldwin’s sword-point was on his throat.
‘Leave him!’ Baldwin snarled at the Lombards.
Both were young and inexperienced. They eyed Baldwin and his sword with alarm. The Muslim had gathered up his clothing once more, and wearily rose to his feet.
‘Sir,’ Baldwin said, throwing him a glance, ‘I am sorry for these fools. Please, go in peace. I pray Our Lord will watch over you.’
The Muslim gave a sharp nod, and was gone.
‘As for you!’ Baldwin snarled, staring down at the Genoese.
He remembered the ship — the men with whom he had travelled cut to pieces or pierced by arrows; he remembered the beating he had received in Lady Maria’s house, the iron bar in the brazier. It was tempting to kick him — in the groin, in the belly, in the head — to exact revenge for all he had suffered.
And then he recalled the Muslim who had lost his son. Were he to consider that murder a feud, where would it all end? How many Christians would pay for his son’s death?
This was the same. If Baldwin killed Buscarel, what purpose would it serve? He would have upset the Genoese, and perhaps they would send men to kill him and Ivo. And then Christians might take up Baldwin’s cause. . it was endless.
‘Give me my ring and go,’ he said.
Buscarel looked at the faces all around. The two Lombards had fled, and now there were only dark-skinned Muslims staring at Baldwin and him, and none would get involved in a fight between two Franks.
‘Take it!’ he snarled, pulling it off and hurling it, before rising.
Baldwin saw it hit a man’s turban, and darted to where he heard the metallic clatter as it hit the ground.
Buscarel sprang up, and his hand was on his knife again as Baldwin turned, but Ivo’s voice came as a rough hiss at his ear.
‘You try it, Buscarel, and I’ll open you from prick to throat.’
Buscarel moved away, and soon disappeared in the crowd.
‘He is a danger,’ Baldwin considered.
‘Perhaps. But we have wine and olives. Let’s get home and break some bread.’
‘We’ve only just eaten!’
‘Aye,’ Ivo said with a belch. ‘But there’s nothing can beat good wine, good olives, and fresh bread. When you’ve been a warrior, you’ll learn that.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Abu al-Fida left the gate and kept walking. There was nothing for him here, not now. The attack in the street had shown him that. One man had helped him, but what was one man amongst the teeming thousands of the city?
His entire family was dead. His life had ended.
He stared about him as he passed through the tents and shabby houses erected at the outer wall, his feet moving mechanically. Every so often, he peered down, half-surprised that he still carried the basket. It was such a heavy object, and ungainly. But it held his son’s clothes.
Some said that the Sultan would avenge the murder of Muslims. The Sultan believed in justice and honour. Perhaps he would listen to Abu al-Fida about Usmar, his son.
His son.
The clothes in the basket were rough with dried blood, and he felt the air leave his lungs at the sight of them again. His breast was empty. All love, all hope were eradicated, for what point was there in either of those things when a man had lost his son? A man lived to raise his son, because that was the greatest duty.
Tottering, he fell to his knees in the sand and dirt of the roadway, the basket tumbling before him. His right palm scraped along a sharp edge of stone, and he stared at the thick, welling blood. So bright and dark, like his son’s had been. But he could not weep for his boy. There were no tears in him. Not yet.
Rising, he took his son’s clothing and balled it in his fists, gripping it tightly. This city was a place of evil, a city founded on hatred. While the murdering Franks remained, there could be no peace in Islam. It was an affront to Allah that they remained. They should be slain to show that no matter who attempted to steal the Holy Land, they would suffer the same death. Their wailing and screams of agony would rise from Hell to give a caution to the living, so that no more would cross the seas to come here and slay the innocent.
In his hands there was a ball of material, and he gazed at it again, and then the horror returned.
His son Usmar was dead.
He had reached the outskirts of Acre now and he stopped, staring north and south. Where should he go? Where could he go?
And then a ruthless determination made itself felt. Once, he had been a warrior. He had seen death in all its forms, and he had decided to give up the path of war, but he still had those former skills. He knew how to make machines that could reduce the walls of Acre to rubble.
He turned and stared at those walls now, his entire being filled with loathing. That was his duty. He must bring the walls down. And there was one place to go to ensure that.
Abu al-Fida set his face to the south-east.
Behind him, he heard a pony whicker, and in a moment a merchant with a cart was rumbling at his side.
‘Salaam aleikum,’ the man said, peering at him. ‘My friend, are you unwell?’
‘They killed him. The Franks killed my son,’ he burst out, then clamped his mouth shut to prevent more words escaping. He knew he must keep them inside, imprisoned, so that when he could give witness, he could allow them all to fly free and tell of the guilt of the men who had murdered his son.
So that he could win the justice he needed, the justice his son deserved.
Lucia spent a second uncomfortable night and woke hungry. There was a pot of water, but she had not been given food, and when she rose to her feet, all her muscles ached. Her flank and back were one enormous bruise.
The bottler came again. He took her by the arm and half-dragged her up the stairs to the house itself, and thence to the garden. Lady Maria sat on a stone bench while one maid washed her feet and a second used a reed to dab henna onto her hands in intricate patterns.
She looked at Lucia without feeling. ‘You look awful, child.’
‘I have done nothing wrong,’ Lucia said, and rebelliously held her chin up.
‘So you say.’ The woman’s voice was dispassionate. ‘If that is true, so be it. Wipe your eyes. You need not worry about the bottler again. He will remain here.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lucia said dully.
‘I cannot trust you. You will go to one of the farms.’
‘No, please,’ Lucia said. The farms were out in the plains — hot, harsh places, where overseers whipped and raped their charges. ‘Please, let me stay with you, Mistress.’