Baldwin watched Mainboeuf walk away. ‘What will happen to the Venetian?’ he asked Sir Otto.
Sir Otto considered. ‘I trust he will pay a fine for breaking the peace, and then be released. That is what I would do. We cannot afford to lose a single man from the city.’
‘So you do not think that Master Mainboeuf will succeed?’
‘With the embassy to the Sultan? In God’s name, no! The embassy is doomed. The preparations are too advanced, from the information which the good Grand Master has gleaned. They will never have an opportunity to fight like this again — not with so many warriors, if the reports are true.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘Practise with our weapons, Master Baldwin, see to the defences, gather food, and put our trust in God.’
Abu al-Fida rose from his devotions and walked out into the sun. Kerak had been a good staging-post. Now, he was happy to know that his time here was at an end. Orders had been received, and his machine was to go to Acre.
His clerk and servants were outside, all packed and ready, and he took the reins of his horse and mounted. It was a beautiful day, dry and hot, but with the edge of heat taken away by the remaining cool of winter. A time of year he had always enjoyed, before the unendurable heat started again in the late spring.
The small mare was frisky, and he patted her neck as he looked back over the immense wagon train stretching past Kerak and into the distance, and then trotted to the head of the column and waved his arm in the signal to advance.
Behind him he heard commands bellowed along the line. There was a creaking and squeaking of leather harnesses as oxen strained, and the jingle of chains and mail, and the complaining lowing of cattle and whickering of horses as the first wagons began to lumber forward. More cracks of whips, and shrieked urgings from drivers, while the camels and oxen slowly moved off.
Abu al-Fida stopped at the outskirts of the city’s territory and watched on his mare while the train rolled slowly past, raising clouds of sand and dust. He had an emptiness in his soul. His son should have been here to see this — but then if he had, Abu al-Fida knew he would not have left his comfortable life as a merchant, would not have been forced from his home by those murderous Frank crusaders, would not have travelled to Cairo to demand justice from the Sultan, and would not have been sent to build al-Mansour. He would not have been created Emir and placed in charge of a force to bear his weapon to Acre.
His son would have been proud to see his father in this position. Usmar had always been devoted to Islam, and ridding the land of the rapacious Franks had always been close to his heart. It grieved him that Acre sucked in the best merchandise, and that the markets there had always paid the best, but such was the case. That was why Abu al-Fida had lived in Acre. And because of that, his family had died.
An inevitable chain of consequences had brought Abu al-Fida to this place, to this position, and would inevitably lead to the destruction of the city.
The wagon train was slow. Oxen moved more ponderously than horses, but their strength was vital. No other creature could haul such loads. As it was, it would be a laborious undertaking to have the machine transported to Acre. In this wet, early springtime, it would take a month to travel as far as another caravan could go in a week. But that meant nothing. For Abu al-Fida, all that mattered was that he should reach that city and set up his machine. Al-Mansour would be one amongst many, but her immense power would do more damage than all the other hundred mangonels and catapults together.
All he need do was get the machine to Acre. And perhaps then, he could lay the ghost of poor Usmar to rest at last.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Edgar slept badly.
When he woke, he remembered waking in the middle of the night and being sick, and as he recalled it so he smelled the vomit all about him.
He rose blearily, and almost fell trying to cross his floor. It was like being drunk. He grabbed for the wall, standing and panting, and his legs felt like jelly. A fresh wave of nausea washed over and through him, and he closed his eyes, feeling that strange spinning sensation again.
There was a chair near the window, where his sword and belt had been set to rest, and he lurched across the room to it, clumsily knocking his sword to the floor.
The door was flung open, and a house servant entered, wrinkling his nose at the smell.
‘Water!’ Edgar managed. ‘Poison. .’
‘You’re not poisoned, just hit on the head. You’re lucky. The master would’ve left you there to die in the street. As it was, we had to bring you here. You’ll have fun cleaning this little lot up,’ he added, staring at the vomit-soaked sheets.
Edgar closed his mouth, his head loose on his shoulders. ‘What?’
A vague recollection came to him of the street outside the castle. There were two men, and one tried to club him. . the Templars. . then he recalled the man slumping with Edgar’s sword in his belly, his eyes dulling — and then someone else had hammered Edgar. He desperately wanted to sleep, but something told him it would not be safe. ‘Fetch me water,’ he said imperiously. ‘Now.’
‘Don’t order me about, you English turd. Fetch it yourself. As soon as you’re well, you’re leaving. Master said he didn’t want to see you again, so you’re to go. Now you be nice to me, or you’ll be out all the sooner. And that means after you’ve cleaned up after yourself.’
‘Fetch me water,’ Edgar repeated, and at last the servant nodded and left him.
Edgar studied the chamber and saw he had been sick all over the sheets and himself. He was disgusted: he had never spewed that much, even when he was deeply sunk in ale or wine. In fact, he reckoned he was fortunate not to have drowned in his own vomit. He rubbed at his breast. The acid was still in his mouth, but no less painful was the pounding at his head.
The servant returned carrying a plain earthenware beaker which he set on the floor near Edgar, who took it up and drank cautiously. In London he had seen an apprentice after a fight, who had drunk too swiftly, and then brought it up as speedily. Edgar had no wish to be sick again. Every muscle on his torso felt strained; merely breathing was painful.
‘You say I must go?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘Master said so.’
‘Where is he? I must speak with him.’
‘He’s not here. He left for Cairo. Have you forgotten already?’ the man sneered.
Edgar made a show of setting the beaker on the floor, then his head lolled.
The servant eyed him warily, but after a few moments, with Edgar’s breath snoring, he reached towards the purse on the sick man’s belt.
Edgar’s hand whipped out, fast as a snake’s, and he pulled the servant towards him. ‘Try that again, and you’ll lose your hand,’ he whispered.
Baldwin had not slept well after the attempt upon the Templars. The sight of men drawing swords in the street had been disturbing, when all in Acre should have been pulling together. Perhaps the mob was right. Maybe Mainboeuf would negotiate a fresh peace treaty. It would be interesting to see the response from Cairo.
The city of Acre had been on tenterhooks since Baldwin’s arrival last year, and to think that the situation was as dangerous as ever was disquieting. The populace was a seething cauldron of fear and alarm; if there were no firm response from Cairo, men could no longer continue to pretend that there was nothing to fear. In many ways, it would be better to have a resolute declaration of war and the intention to destroy Acre, as the Grand Master believed, than to have another period of unreliable peace.
Mainboeuf would be well on his way to Cairo now. Baldwin hoped he would hurry back.