‘Against a will o’ the wisp!’ Mainboeuf laughed.
De Beaujeu did not look at him. ‘Not only have I been warned of this, I have been warned too that there is a spy in our city who seeks to convince us that the danger is not severe. I am told that this spy has been given much gold to persuade you, the Commune, that you are safe.’
‘You accuse me of taking Muslim gold?’ Mainboeuf roared.
Before he could cross the floor, three Templars stepped before their Grand Master, and stood, hands on hilts. The Hospitallers were irresolute, while merchants bellowed and shouted, fists waving in the air.
Constable Amalric stood and boomed in a voice that reflected his anger, ‘Be still! Grand Master de Beaujeu, I hope you have evidence to support this allegation?’
‘The evidence of my eyes and ears in this assembly is all I need, Constable,’ the Grand Master said. ‘There is one man who is determined to undermine the defence of the city at every opportunity. He is there.’
Philip Mainboeuf snarled in response, ‘Look at him! A Templar, secure in his arrogance and pride! He tells us to prepare for war, and why? So his Venetian friends can make money bringing crusaders here — and we know what that achieved, don’t we? The very danger he warns us of was caused by the last influx of Lombards. How many more does he think we need bring to our city to guarantee its utter collapse?’
The Grand Master motioned to the Marshal, who snapped an order, and the three Templars moved aside. Guillaume de Beaujeu stopped before the irate merchant.
‘I do not spend money foolishly in the hope of gaining information. I spend carefully and wisely to ensure that I have the best intelligence I can acquire. If you are uninformed, your opponent is not. He will make sure that he knows as much as it is possible to learn about you. About your forces, your defences, your food stocks, your water — everything. And that is exactly what I try to learn about Qalawun. I pay a lot for the best results. And I have sent people to Qalawun directly to gain information about his forces.’
‘And you say that we have a spy?’ the Constable said.
‘We have. Someone who is greedy and debased enough to sell his city for gold.’
‘What should we do?’
‘Master Mainboeuf should be held so he may not earn more from Qalawun,’ Guillaume said. He stared at Philip Mainboeuf for a long moment, before turning and facing the Commune once more. ‘I have sent an embassy to Qalawun. He agrees to peace and the renewal of the treaty for as many Venetian Sequins as there are men and women living here in Acre.’
If the noise before had been loud, now it was a roaring torrent of sound that threatened to deafen even the strongest. Guillaume de Beaujeu held up his hands. ‘Listen! Listen to me!’
‘You say this deofol will bring an army to engulf us, and then you tell us to pay him? What stupidity is this!’ Mainboeuf bellowed.
‘We can hold him off for a little — if we pay,’ de Beaujeu explained, but no one wanted to hear.
‘You tell us to pay our enemy? First you state that he is on his way to kill us all, and then you tell us to bribe him! This is Templar logic, is it? I tell you, you wouldn’t last long in my world!’ Mainboeuf jeered. ‘If you were to run a business in this way, you would soon have no trade and no money!’
‘This is cowardice!’ someone else shouted. ‘The Templars want to surrender. If Qalawun is coming, then surely it’s better to hold on to our money to pay to protect ourselves!’
‘There’s a traitor here all right, and it isn’t a merchant!’ another roared from the back of the room. ‘The Temple wants to give our money to heathens? This is an insult to our intelligence!’
Guillaume de Beaujeu felt his rage rise to encompass his whole soul. He drew himself up to his full height and stormed from the court, his men behind him, and out in the road, he turned towards the Temple, shoving his helmet onto his head as he went.
The fools! Their brains were in their arses! They had no more hope of protecting themselves against Qalawun than a sparrow against a hawk.
But already, as he marched past the Genoese quarter, past the cathedral, and down St Anne’s Lane to the great gate of the Temple, he was thinking strategically. He must write to the Holy Father in Avignon, apprising him of their dire situation, and asking for men and money to defend the last Crusader city, and then there should be plans laid for emptying the city of all but essential people.
Reaching his chamber, he pulled off his helmet and set it aside. Then he began to remove his tunic. His squire was already at his side, and helped with the coat of plates, the mail, the thick padded habergeon, and all the while Guillaume de Beaujeu was thinking, assessing, analysing, considering.
‘Leave me!’ he said when his armour was off, and he could shrug himself into his white habit.
The squire left the chamber with a graceful bow, and the Grand Master was alone. He walked to his chair and sat, staring into the middle distance, meditating — until it came to him.
No matter what he plotted and schemed, there was little he could do against the army Qalawun had gathered. Without God’s help, the city must fall.
And suddenly Guillaume de Beaujeu was aware of a heat at his eyes, and mistiness in his vision.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The next weeks were for Baldwin and Ivo a time of unparallelled effort. There was not a single part of the walls which was not resurveyed, and every week brought more timbers for the defence of the city. Some were to go to the construction of engines of war, while others were stored. During a siege they would be brought out to shore up buildings, or strengthen mines.
No matter that some continued to deny that the Sultan would attack; there were enough now who believed Guillaume de Beaujeu’s contention.
Ivo had been made a vintenary, responsible for a group of twenty men recruited from pilgrims, crusaders and city men. His first decision was to install Baldwin as his sergeant. Baldwin had already decided that if he was to die, it would be with his countrymen, so he was glad to hear they would take a section with the English under Otto de Grandison. Ivo came and watched Baldwin with a grudging approval as his sergeant took men aside and gave them lessons in fighting with spears or swords.
‘Ye’ll have your work cut out teaching that lot to fight,’ he said that evening.
‘They’ll fight better when there’s an army outside the city walls,’ Baldwin said.
‘Perhaps.’
‘You know it’s true.’
‘They’ll fight, all right, because they’ll have little option when Qalawun appears over that horizon. When men see him, some will fall to wailing and weeping, some will be beshitten, and a few will stand and defy them. It’s the way of a siege.’
Baldwin remembered those words as he walked along the new hoardings atop the wall. He had taken to traversing his section, from the Lazar Gate all along to the Accused Tower, staring through the hot air towards the horizon. He came here most mornings now.
Today, he saw a speck in the distance trailing a cloud of dust. Clearly it was a horse, and moving quickly. Baldwin peered through the haze, wondering who it might be. As the rider approached, he saw it was a Turcopole, who waved and shouted as he rode, and Baldwin stared into the distance, fearing that at any moment the great army would appear. But there was nothing: no sparkle of weapons, no cavalry, no sand rising from hundreds of thousands of feet.
He was still on the wall, when he heard the first great cheer from the gate, mingled with screams and sobbing.
Hurrying down the steps to the gate, almost tripping over Uther, he saw guards being kissed and hugged by women. The Turcopole had all but fallen from his mount, and stood, red-faced, his back to a shaded wall, facing the sky, panting, while his horse puffed and blew nearby, head drooping.
‘What is it?’ Baldwin demanded.