Baldwin nodded. They hurried back through the crowd of people to where he had seen Sir Otto — but by the time he reached the ships where the English and French were embarking, there was no sign of him.
‘Where is Sir Otto? Sir Otto, where is he?’ he shouted, but the guards at the harbourside said nothing. They couldn’t. They were standing with polearms held half-staff, while all the frantic men and women surrounding them shouted, screamed, cajoled.
‘Come away, Baldwin, please,’ Lucia begged, and at last, baffled and miserable, he returned up the road whence they had arrived.
He was distraught. ‘How can I get you away? I have to make sure you’re safe!’
‘Where would I go without you? What should I do? I am happier here.’
‘No, I have to-’
‘Baldwin. If we are to die, let us die together.’
The decision tore at him. He would do anything to make her safe and happy, but God had chosen a different fate for them.
There was a shout, and the clatter of arms from an alley. People were streaming down it, screaming in terror, and when Baldwin looked up, he saw turbanned heads.
He also saw Edgar and Ivo. They were fighting for their lives.
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
Ivo shouted to Pietro to move, and they bolted towards the sea. A group of Muslims had encircled them, but with Edgar on their side, the fellows were soon routed. Edgar went through them like a hot knife through butter, shrieking a battle-cry as he wielded a sword and a dagger.
‘I’ve never seen a man like him,’ Pietro said with awe as Edgar drove off the last of them. He was like a man possessed.
Ivo grunted, and the two hurried after him.
They were almost at the harbour when disaster struck. At the crossroads there came a scream from the alley on their left, and a flurry of arrows shafted past, the nearest almost grazing Ivo’s nose. He jerked his head back, and gave a loud, ‘Phew,’ then realised that Edgar was at the opposite side of the junction from them.
‘Edgar, carry on!’ he said. The sea was visible from here.
‘What of you?’
‘We have to take another route.’
Edgar looked at him, and gave a slow nod. ‘God be with you, my friends.’
‘Aye. Well, godspeed. Be careful!’
They watched as Edgar trotted off.
‘What now, eh?’ Pietro asked.
‘Well, we could try to run through that space. If we are missed by the arrows, we can join him,’ Ivo said.
‘And if not? We’ll be punctured like my lady’s pin-cushion and will bleed our last there on the roadway. So, perhaps we should find another way to the sea.’
‘You know as well as I that there is none.’
‘Aye.’
Pietro looked up at him from beetling brows. ‘So this is it?’
Ivo was about to suggest that they might run to the Temple, when he saw behind them a fresh mass of Muslim troops. They saw him at the same time, and with wild shrieks, swords held high, they began to advance the alley.
‘Ballocks!’ Pietro spat.
He and Ivo exchanged a look. Then, roaring with their fear, the pair bolted. A desultory clattering told them arrows had been fired, but they were neither of them harmed. Ahead was a bend in the lane, and they hurried along it, but then there was a shout, and they slowed.
It was Edgar. He crouched at the next alley’s entrance. ‘I thought you were going the other way?’
‘We were,’ Ivo agreed. ‘Some Muslims dissuaded us.’
‘I see. There’s a bowman up there,’ Edgar said, pointing up the alley. ‘We may be able to rush over, before he can fire. What do you think?’
‘It’s better than waiting and knowing we’ll die here.’
‘That was my thought, too.’
Edgar gave the two a grin, and then launched himself over the gap. He almost made it, but as he reached the wall, there was a solid sound, like a knife cutting into a cabbage, and he gave a cry, turning and falling; an arrow was protruding from his left arm, pinning his arm to his back. Snarling, he took his sword and hacked the shaft away, then drew his arm free from the stump with a grimace of pain.
Peering round the corner, Ivo saw a solitary bowman fumbling with an arrow. Bellowing his rage, Ivo raced up the alley to get at him, closely followed by Pietro. The wide-eyed Muslim drew his bow and launched an arrow that hissed past his ear. Then Ivo was on him, and when his sword hacked into the man’s neck, he fell, wriggling and moaning quietly.
‘Sweet Jesus, how many more are there?’ Ivo panted, and was about to make his way back to Edgar when he almost tripped over Pietro.
The old man had taken the arrow meant for Ivo. It had hit his brow, and he was so close, it had sunk in deeply.
‘Old friend,’ Ivo muttered, and felt the tears spring. ‘I’m sorry it was you, not me.’
There was no answer. Ivo wiped at his tears and patted Pietro’s face, then stood, sighed, and ran off. He made his way back to Edgar, and helped him along the roadway some yards, but they could hear the booted feet of the Muslims pursuing them.
‘We have to fight,’ Edgar hissed through his pain.
‘Can you?’
‘I fight better than I die,’ Edgar snapped.
They stopped there, and as the enemy approached, Edgar lifted his arms with that familiar war cry. The Muslims were nothing loath, and the two soon found themselves beset in an unequal fight. Edgar was tiring, and Ivo could see that the arrow’s shaft was a sore irritation. He was almost ready to accept defeat — when Baldwin appeared.
His silent entrance was a surprise to their enemies. His eyes fixed with a ferocious determination, he wielded his blade with a savagery that drove back the nearer Muslims. A moment later Buscarel arrived, fighting with a cool precision that saw two men killed in the first moments.
But even their fighting skills could not check so many. They were driven back towards the harbour, and Baldwin saw that Edgar was slowing as he went. ‘Ivo, Buscarel, Edgar’s losing too much blood.’
‘No, Master,’ he gasped. ‘I am just a little over-tired, that is all. I need a draught of good English ale.’
And then came a familiar bellow, and the tramp of many boots. It was the English, with Sir Otto himself leading them.
Baldwin and the others retreated while the English troops kept the enemy at bay.
‘Sir,’ Baldwin said. ‘I was never so glad to see a man.’
‘I can imagine it,’ Sir Otto said. As he spoke, one of his men fell back, a horrible tear in his throat. ‘God’s blood, save us,’ he muttered as the fellow collapsed on the ground. ‘Your woman told us of your peril.’
‘I thank you sincerely. I wanted to ask you, would you take her with you?’
‘I should like to, but my men come first. I have to have all of them embarked before I can think of passengers,’ Sir Otto said.
‘I understand.’
Make your way to the ship, then,’ Sir Otto said, and Baldwin put his arm around Edgar and helped him down the alley.
They passed many bodies on their way, mostly women and children. ‘Have the Muslims been here already?’ Baldwin wondered.
‘Look at them. There are no stab wounds or arrows to be seen, are there?’ Ivo grunted. ‘These were killed in the rush to the harbour. They were trampled to death, poor sods.’
‘Sweet Mother of God,’ Baldwin murmured.
He found Lucia at the entrance. She gave a little gasp on seeing them, and flew up the alley to them.
‘I found the ship and wouldn’t go until I’d spoken to the knight,’ she said breathlessly. ‘He was very kind.’
‘He will take us away from here,’ Baldwin said. He had a great feeling of relief at the thought.
Several Venetian galleys had already slipped their moorings and had taken their cargo of English soldiers with them out to the open seas. The harbour was still filled with the wailing, distraught women and children from the city, who pleaded with the shipmasters and others to take them to safety, offering money, lands — one woman even baring her body in her desperation for rescue — but the shipmen could offer nothing.