That was when saw the man with the crossbow, his eyes fixed upon Baldwin as he lifted his weapon to aim.
His bowels seemed to melt within him. All was slow as though, coming close to death, the very fabric of nature and movement of time had been slowed by God. It was punishment for his crime. God was giving him time to appreciate his destruction, as if He had chosen to demonstrate just how feeble were his own puny efforts. God was watching as this ship, full of His servants, was overrun, and Baldwin could do nothing to save himself, nor would God save him. His body was grown listless, his limbs leaden. There was no escape from a crossbow’s bolt.
All was futile.
He had travelled all this way in order to reach Acre, to participate in the defence of the last enclave of Christianity in the Holy Land. It was Baldwin’s task to help destroy the ungodly hordes of pagans and help drive them back whence they came. And in return, he hoped to win peace from memories of Sibilla, and the body of her lover. In those seconds, staring at the crossbow’s quarrel, he remembered this. He remembered the oath taken at Exeter Cathedral, the journey to the coast at Exmouth, then the voyage to English Bordeaux, followed by an overland trip to the Mediterranean coast, where he had caught this ship. All those miles, all those leagues, only to see it end here.
The crossbow was aiming at his heart. He knew it, and in those last moments, Baldwin offered a prayer for his soul. ‘Dear Father, accept this soul, undeserving as it may be, and allow me to join You in Heaven. I beg. .’
He saw the point of the quarrel gleaming with a cold, blue wickedness, and then a man shoved him, bending to grab the crossbow from his fallen companion’s hands, and in that moment a roaring sound came to Baldwin’s ears. And just for a moment, he thought he was dead. For a moment.
Then the crossbow moved imperceptibly, and the man at his side gave a yelp of agony as the bolt plunged into his back, through his belly, and slammed into the timbers before him. He snarled, turning past Baldwin, and loosed his own crossbow at the ship behind him. The face of the bowman at the ship’s rail suddenly gushed blood and fell back, and the man beside Baldwin sank to the deck, coughing and swearing.
And still Baldwin stood, incapable of moving, his sword useless in his hand as he stared at where the bowman had been.
He did feel, truly, as if he had already died.
Or that his soul had — and had been renewed. He felt as though all that had gone before had been taken away by that bowshot, as if it had taken his sins and foolishness with it.
CHAPTER TWO
Master Ivo de Pynho, lately man-at-arms to the Prince Edward of England, caught hold of the wale-piece of the Falcon as the ship wallowed in the heavy swell, nearly thrown from his feet. It was pleasant to feel the air on his face again, a cooler air, free of sand and the intrigues of Acre, or the humid odours of Cyprus. The city there stank like a midden in the heat.
He closed his eyes, revelling in the sensation.
Others weren’t so comfortable. Already there were three men, one a sailor, lying and groaning down near the mast, all whey-faced as they spewed weakly. Men new to the joys of travel, he thought to himself. It was twenty years since he had first clambered aboard a ship and made his way over the seas to Outremer, the Crusader colonies, with his prince.
He had never returned home. Afterwards, the shame was too great. He had made a new life in the Holy Land. For a while — for a little while.
‘Ivo, shift your arse, man! I can’t see while you’re standing there!’
The coarse French was the natural language of those who lived in Outremer. Ivo didn’t glance towards the speaker, but waited until there was a gentle falling away sensation and the vessel began to slide down the next wave, and then walked down the sloping deck to the main mast, where he caught hold of a rope and clung on. ‘That better?’
‘We’ll make a sailor of you yet, Ivo,’ the shipmaster sneered. His father had been a German, his mother came from Brindisi. While he laughed at Ivo’s Devon burr, his own speech contained an interesting combination of accents.
‘You’ll be in Hell long before I become a sailor,’ Ivo growled with feeling.
‘Me? I’ll be in Heaven, man, singing and drinking! God won’t punish me!’
‘God hates all mariners, Roger,’ Ivo said. ‘Why else would He make the pox-ridden sons of whores so ugly?’
‘Why, so that miserable runts like you, who live on land all their lives, can have a moderate chance with the women, Ivo — because otherwise, it would only be sailors who populated the world with offspring. As it is, all men who live near to port know that their women lie with sailors if they want some fun. And it is hardly surprising, man, because-’
‘Yes, yes, Master. You should concentrate on the ship and the weather,’ Ivo said.
‘Aye,’ Roger grunted. His dark eyes were watchful as he surveyed the seas before them, gripping the steering oar beneath his armpit. His sight was not very good, and he must peer hard to see all the way to the horizon. Not that the horizon was visible most of the time, Ivo thought with disgust.
Their voyage had been comfortable until today. For all his faults, and Ivo personally thought they were many, Roger Flor was a good shipmaster who understood the ways of the water about here. They had set off from Cyprus in bright, clear weather with the sea as flat as a slate, and it was only in the last day that the weather had grown more tempestuous, with the sort of winds that made Ivo glad to be up on deck with a clear view. Even his belly would rebel, were he down below with the horses. Their whinnying could be heard now, over the thrumming of ropes and, the creaking of timbers being tested to their limit.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, watching the shipmaster.
Roger Flor was leaning forward. A tall, bearded man, almost gaunt in appearance, he had the near-black hair and deep brown eyes of a Castilian. For all that he was born a Christian a quarter-century ago, he would pass as a Saracen, were it not for the brown tunic with the red cross on the breast, and the short hair under his stained coif that marked him out as a Templar.
He called to his henchman now, a heavy-set sailor with a ragged scar on his face from nose to ear. ‘Bernat, look there. What do you see?’
Following his gaze, Ivo could make out a mast on the horizon. It disappeared as their ship dropped sickeningly into the valley between two waves, and then he saw that there was not one mast alone, but two — no, three. A flag was fluttering from the top of one, and he peered in vain to see what it might be.
‘You’d best make sure the horses are safe,’ Roger said to Ivo, and his voice had lost all banter. It was calm and commanding as he shot a look up at the rigging, checked the sails, and turned back to the three ships. The Falcon lurched sideways and a fresh outbreak of equine panic came from below. ‘I don’t want to see the brutes lost because they haven’t been tied down properly. That’d reflect as badly on me as you. Off you go.’
Ivo nodded and made his way carefully to the ladder as the ship began to tip over the crest of another great wave. When he looked at the horizon again, he could see nothing but a wall of water. It looked as though they were already pointing down to the bottom of the sea and would never rise back.
The way to the hold was a narrow ladder set against the deck, and lashed more or less securely to the hatch.