Seeing them, Sir Otto’s archers loosed off arrow after arrow, and Baldwin and the others joined in, redoubling their own efforts in the mad attempt to reach the tower.
They had nearly reached it, when the disaster happened. As Sir Guillaume lifted his sword to point to another objective, a Muslim archer saw his target. He loosed his bolt, and it sped straight and true, striking Sir Guillaume in the armpit.
Baldwin saw him thrown sideways by the impact, and thought at first he had tripped. It was only as the Templars formed a protective ring about him that he guessed at the truth. He saw men pick up their Commander and hurry him away, while he grimaced.
‘No! Don’t leave us all here!’ Baldwin heard somebody shout.
Sir Guillaume stared around, and there was wildness in his features as he cried out, ‘Gentlemen, I can do no more! I am dead! Look, see the wound!’
Although the men fought with no less determination, without the Grand Master they knew that the battle must slip through their fingers. Matthew de Clermont escorted de Beaujeu to the Temple, while the remainder of the Hospitallers and Templars resorted to hand-to-hand fighting to hold the enemy to the line near the tower.
‘To the Temple! To the Temple!’ Baldwin heard, and felt himself caught up in the general movement back along the roads. The Templars did not lessen their efforts, but held the Muslims at bay while the rest of the city folk withdrew in good order. With the walls lost, now Sir Otto’s men were vacating them, and hurrying to join the retreat.
Baldwin was swept along with them all, but even as he retreated, he wondered where his Lucia was, and prayed that she might be safe.
CHAPTER NINETY
He was alive, but Abu al-Fida felt sickened.
His own men had performed miraculously well, climbing the rampart to the city with only a small number killed, but here in the streets was where the worst danger would lurk. He knew the potential for traps.
They made their way to the inner gate, but it was barred against them. Men at the walls overhead pelted them with rocks and arrows, causing a number of injuries. Abu al-Fida sent a party along the wall to see if there might be a second entrance that could be more easily taken while he organised his men here to assault the gates. They found a heavy timber and six of his men ran with it, one falling dead from an arrow as they crashed into the gates. Pulling back, another man taking his place, they ran again — and again the wood held. A third, a fourth, and there were six of his men dead now. It was frustrating, and he chafed to be thwarted by such a small force.
Five of his men had gone to find ladders, and now they returned. The walls were high, but the men had courage and faith. They set up the first ones, and while archers beneath kept the walls clear, the first men set off up the rungs. The first was hit by an arrow, and he fell into the second, who almost tumbled from the ladder, but managed to keep his grip, and moved still more urgently up the remaining rungs.
Abu al-Fida waited impatiently. Three more of his men fell from the walls while trying to reach the parapet, but then there were shouts of glee, and the bodies of some Franks were thrown from the battlements while his men gloried in the victory that Allah was giving them. They were proving their faith in Him and He was rewarding them.
The gates opened, and they pelted in. The streets here were narrow and tangled, but they could hear the clamour of the fighting. Abu al-Fida led his men at the run towards the rear of the Accursed Tower.
The scene that met his eyes was one of carnage. Franks, Muslims, all lay together in untidy piles, body heaped upon body.
And then he heard the snapped orders, and he saw the Templars behind him, preparing their charge.
Ivo was more weary than ever before. His city was in ruins. He hurried through streets in which he had once strolled. In the past he had come here to curse traders who had bartered too crudely. One of them, he saw now, cowering in a doorway, hands over his head, wide, petrified eyes staring wildly.
It was at the western edge of the Pisan quarter that he spotted Lucia. ‘Here, Lucia, here!’ he bellowed, but it was Edgar who darted from the line of men, caught her about the waist, and drew her back to his place.
Muslims harried them along the north and eastern edges of their formation. Templars and Hospitallers were fighting with great valour, but they could not hold back the enormous numbers of their enemies without aid. One fell, then another, and soon there were all too few remaining. Baldwin joined them, protecting their left flank as best he could, but he was tired after so many days of struggle.
It was a relief when another Hospitaller ran to the line and pulled Baldwin out of his way, setting about the men ranged against him with eagerness unabated. Baldwin realised it was Matthew de Clermont.
‘Men of the Temple, I salute you! Your Grand Master has died, and is in Heaven, where we shall soon all join him! Praise be to God! We die in His service!’
With each word, his sword leaped, and three times he stabbed or cut a Muslim. His companions fought with a steady silence, men of the Hospital fighting with those of the Temple.
Seeing Lucia, Baldwin ran to her.
‘What now?’ she pleaded, staring up at him. ‘Don’t let them catch me, please, I beg.’
‘I won’t,’ Baldwin stated, but as he spoke there was a screamed command, and he turned to see more Muslims pouring out from an alley. They must have come through Montmusart to get here, he realised, but then he and Edgar were hard at it again.
The Muslims managed to separate the groups from each other. The Orders remained fighting desperately at their front, while the enemy attacked the main body of men from the rear. Baldwin pushed Lucia behind him, but then Edgar called to him.
‘The alley there looks clear. I can see to the sea.’
Baldwin looked, and sure enough, Edgar was right. There were no Muslims along here yet. Even as he had the thought, he saw two of Sir Otto’s men passing along it, and made his decision.
‘Come with me!’
He set off, gripping Lucia’s wrist in his hand, past alleys and lanes, always continuing towards the water. Down there, he thought, was the harbour, and it must be possible to get to a ship. If no one else could be saved, he could at least place Lucia on a ship and see her free.
Lady Maria stood at the harbour, jostled by the common folk, silent and bitter.
Her life was ruined. Her lovely house had been struck by two rocks today, and was devastated. She could not return to Lydda, nor to her little farms, where her olives and pomegranates grew. Instead, here she was, preparing to leave her city and her land forever. Because she would never be safe, returning here. She had come to appreciate that.
A necklace of gold was about her neck, while at her ears were her two best emeralds. Other precious stones and jewellery were held in a small box, the more valuable pieces held next to her breast in a soft purse.
But there were not enough ships to rescue everyone. Although the Venetians and Genoese had many vessels, some in the harbour, more lying off out to sea, the hubbub of the citizens at the quays was deafening. Some ships were already leaving, the number of people on board straining the boundaries of safety. Some smaller craft were being rowed out, but even as she watched, she saw one struck by a galley, and it was broken to pieces in an instant, and simply disappeared. The passengers were there one moment, and in the next, gone.
Lady Maria stared at the screaming throng.
Buscarel gripped her elbow. ‘Come with me,’ he said, and began to barge through.
The scenes were heart-rending. She saw a young woman tearing at her garments as she pleaded with an obdurate ship-man to let her children aboard. A family of merchants whom she knew vaguely were begging a rough-looking Piedmontese for passage, and everywhere women were wailing, wretched and despairing as they watched ships leave the port.