Ivo peered down at the men below. He had a good view of the front gatehouse, as well as the plains beyond, and was surprised to see that the attacking forces were standing back. There could be only one reason for that, and he bawled out a warning as he saw the catapults beginning to move and sway, their deadly missiles despatched.
Moments later, the mournful whirring he recognised so well came over the breeze, and with the others he ducked as rocks slammed into the gatehouse in front of them. The parapets were broken down, and a couple of shards of stone were flung at Ivo himself, one slashing a long cut in the tunic over his back, but fortunately not reaching his flesh. Then there was a second massive blow that seemed to hit his heart, and a great rock hammered into the gatehouse’s wall, sending a shock through the whole structure. All was noise: the enormous jolting crashes as rocks impacted, the screams of the injured and dying, the whine and tinkle of arrows that hit the walls and bounced aside. . it was Hell itself, here on Earth.
When the outer walls began to shiver, all knew that the gate could not last long. The floor was already bucking from the constant assault, and as the walls began to move, there was an urgent rush to the stairs. Ivo was there, and Roger Flor, as the turret on the north side collapsed in a rumble of tortured stone.
Ivo was well away, but he saw someone nearer the walls suddenly jerk, and pitch forward. With a horrible premonition, he ran to the man and rolled him over. It was Pietro, and the old man stared up at him. ‘Eh? Am I dead?’
‘You old fool!’ Ivo hissed, and began to drag him away. ‘What are you doing here? You’re too old, in Christ’s name! They come and find you here, they’ll think we’ve run out of men, and have to throw all the old cretins at them. Come on!’
‘Leave me, Master. Leave me!’
‘Oh, shut up. You think it’s easy to find a cantankerous old git like you? Who’ll I argue with if you’re not there?’ Ivo demanded. At the line of barricades, he saw two youths. ‘You! Please, protect this old fellow. He has been hurt.’
Even as the lads took hold of Pietro, a fresh roar of battle cries came from outside the walls.
‘They come!’ the Grand Master bellowed. ‘Knights, to the front; sergeants, prepare! The Sultan’s minions think to take our city and us! I say, “Never!” They will not take this gate nor this city while there remains a whole Christian man here! What say you? Will you give her up?’
There was a ragged denial, and the Grand Master looked about the people with satisfaction. But then there were four massive blows to the gatehouse, and two more rocks missed and went humming past, one pelting into the barricade and leaving a bloody smudge where a man had been standing a moment before.
Ivo grasped his sword more tightly. This was what he had come to this land for all those years before. To fight, and to kill the enemies of his Prince. The enemies of his faith. Perhaps he would die here today. Well, if he were to do so, he thought, pulling his little wooden cross from his chemise and kissing it fervently, he would be glad to die and see Rachel and Peter once more.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
The gatehouse collapsed all of a sudden. The gates moved apart slightly, there was a crack like a plate of steel hit with a maul. . and a moment later, a cloud of fine dust arose and the gatehouse was — gone! Only a mass of rubble remained, with here and there the timbers of the roof jutting up, as if a forest had been burned, leaving only bare trunks.
Guillaume de Beaujeu lifted his sword. ‘Templars! Lances and spears: kill as many as you can! Remain shoulder to shoulder; if they want to reach us, they will die first!’
‘Men of the Hospital! No quarter! No quarter!’ yelled the Marshal. ‘Acre! God is with us! God is on our side! You fight for Christ and the saints! Sell your lives dearly!’
And Ivo smiled, and lifted his sword as he heard the roars of the Muslims running across the plain to the ramp of rubble where the gates had been, and shouted, ‘For my Prince, my King! For England! For Rachel and for Peter!’ and began to charge in the wake of the Templars up the rampart, and stood at the top, behind the knights, waiting for the clash of arms.
For Baldwin, as the rubble fell and the cloud of greyish dust wafted away, there was a sense of relief. At last, the battle for the survival of the city was real. There was no more pretence: fighting remotely, waging war by straining catapults and bows. This was real fighting. He kissed the cross of his sword, eyes closed, and then scrambled and clambered up the rubble to the top. Only a few feet away, he saw Ivo, and in the moments they had left, Baldwin smiled at him. Ivo returned his grin, a wildness in his eyes, but then he clapped Baldwin on the back, and the two turned to face their enemy.
The arrows failed to strike them because the outer gatehouse remained intact. It was only as the Muslims came in beneath it that they could loose off their bolts and arrows, and already the men of Acre had gathered together a strong force of Pisan archers, who stood on the surviving walls at either side and kept up a withering flank attack. Sir Otto sent some of his English archers in support, who managed a faster rate of discharge. Soon many bodies lay beneath the gatehouse, and the way past was so narrow that the Muslims could only approach by clambering over the bodies of their comrades. Yet still they came.
Baldwin saw the first ranks of the Temple almost overwhelmed. The Hospitallers turned to their aid, and a shoving, heaving mêlée ensued, with the two Orders bound together, hacking, stabbing and thrusting, and then Baldwin saw Edgar throw himself in from the right flank, as he had when Baldwin was fighting in the alley for Lucia. Seeing more Muslims rushing up near Edgar, Baldwin ran to his side to help keep them back.
His entire consciousness was concentrated on avoiding weapons while trying to kill the men clambering up the rampart. A spear jabbed his flank, and he grabbed it, pulling hard, and bringing his blade down on the man’s exposed wrist. A horrible jarring, and the spear was released. He turned it on his enemies, left-handed, over his head, thrusting downwards — and caught a Muslim’s face, then stabbed at another. It sank in, and the spear was plucked from his fist. He grabbed his sword again, the bent blade gleaming weirdly as it caught the light.
It was dark before they could stop. As night began to fall, the Muslims fell back, called by blasts of trumpets, and relinquished the rampart but not the outer walls. Those were manned, and the old outer gate blocked with three mantelets. They had guards on duty all night.
Baldwin fell to his backside as soon as the last enemy ran. He was so weary he could not even weep or praise God for their delivery; for this was a delivery of sorts. They had held back the vast army today, and who could tell what the morrow might bring? For now, all Baldwin wanted was a chance to rest his head — just for an hour or two, without interruption. It had been so long since he had been able to sleep without being woken.
‘Baldwin?’
He looked up to see Ivo holding out some bread and a pottle of water.
‘Too tired,’ he mumbled.
‘You need to eat, boy. You haven’t eaten or drunk all day,’ Ivo said wearily. He looked about him at the destruction. ‘You’ll need it for the morning.’
Pietro and Lucia had cowered in the house listening to the battle raging.
‘I cannot bear it any longer,’ Lucia burst out.
‘Mistress, you can’t do anything,’ Pietro said. He had a gauze bandage wrapped about his head, but his scowl spoke of the pain he still felt from that blow. ‘A rock, and I was too slow to dodge it,’ he said again bitterly. It had been his constant refrain since waking late in the afternoon.
‘You stay here,’ she said with determination. ‘I am going to find out what is happening. I cannot stay here while Baldwin fights for me!’
‘Eh? You think it’ll help him to see you?’ Pietro said.