At that moment, he saw a white tunic and recognised Jacques d’Ivry.
‘I hope God holds you in His blessing,’ Jacques said, a kindly smile softening his face.
‘Sir Jacques, I am glad to see you,’ Baldwin said. ‘I was thinking of the embassy to Cairo, and any distraction would be of great service.’
‘Yes, I understand how you must feel,’ Jacques said. He looked towards the south, as though his eyes could pierce the walls of the houses and city, and see beyond them, all the way to the great city so far away. ‘But there are many things still to be done in the city.’
Baldwin groaned aloud. ‘What more? I’ve moved rocks and rubble; I have learned the mason’s arts; I have constructed two catapults and helped repair two more. My arms ache, my back is almost broken, and now I have to take on more duties?’
‘You will find as you grow older, that it is good to be occupied,’ Jacques chuckled. ‘There is nothing better, in fact. That is why Templars and members of my Order are commanded to work. When a man is idle, his mind and hands may turn to less productive efforts. So if ever we are bored, with nothing to do, we are instructed to carve tent-pegs.’
‘You think I should resort to that?’ Baldwin asked indignantly.
‘I think you perhaps could find more suitable occupation,’ Sir Jacques grinned.
They had crossed beneath the inner wall from Montmusart into the old city, and now the two turned towards the castle. Ahead they saw a lurching man.
‘I know him,’ Baldwin said. ‘He is guard to Master Mainboeuf. Master Edgar?’ he called. ‘I hope I see you well?’
It was obvious that Edgar was far from well. His face was pale, and he moved with a slower gait than before.
‘Master Edgar?’ Sir Jacques prompted.
Edgar looked as though he did not recognise either of them. He stared at Baldwin with a confused frown, head set to one side. And then he began to sway.
‘Let us take him with us,’ Jacques said, and the two put their arms beneath his armpits and helped him towards the Mainboeuf house. ‘We shall see him home. He should remain there until he is well.’
‘He was hit on the head yesterday,’ Baldwin said.
‘So I should imagine. It has left him disordered. He should rest.’
‘Why aren’t you at home, man? You shouldn’t be out and about,’ Baldwin said.
‘Thrown out,’ Edgar mumbled.
They had reached the Mainboeuf house, and Sir Jacques rapped sharply on the door. There was a grumbled comment from the doorkeeper’s lodge, and then a face appeared at a grating. ‘Yes?’
Baldwin listened to the conversation while he held Edgar against the wall to stop him falling. It was clear that the doorman would not allow the injured man back inside. ‘It’s what the master told us when he left.’
‘What shall we do with him?’ Sir Jacques wondered as the door to the grating slammed shut once more.
‘Help me take him to Ivo’s house,’ Baldwin said. ‘At least there I can have him looked after by Lucia.’
‘How is Lucia?’
Baldwin was reluctant to answer, but it was hard to ignore the Leper Knight. Rudeness to him was unthinkable.
‘She is well enough,’ he mumbled.
Sir Jacques cast an eye over him. ‘She has been a slave for many years, my friend. Do not be downcast if she takes time to realise she is free. Rather, look on it as your duty to win her over. If you give her the comfort and affection she craves, you will succeed.’
‘She is devoted to her faith. She won’t consider marriage,’ Baldwin said.
Sir Jacques looked at him sadly. ‘You would marry her?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have known many Muslims, my friend. Some were good, some were bad, just like we Christians. But few were so dishonourable as to change their faith to ours.’
‘Dishon-! But to change from a false religion to accept the True Faith, that would be an act of. .’
‘Bad faith. You remember, I told you of the Templars at Safed?’
‘The castle where they accepted death?’
‘Yes. They refused to cast aside their religion just because Baibars threatened them with death. Why should you expect an honourable Muslim to do otherwise? Do you think Lucia would be any less strong in her faith?’
‘I can have no hope she might change?’
‘You must pray to God, to ask that He too speaks with her. Ask the Blessed Virgin to enter her, and show her the path of truth and honesty. With time, perhaps, you will win her over to Christ by demonstrations of humility and integrity. All I say is, you cannot expect her to give up her past life, and the faith that supported her through her slavery, in a day or even a month.’
‘I suppose so,’ Baldwin agreed without enthusiasm.
‘But for now, what we need to do is bring this man to a bed. Here is your house, I think?’
Baldwin knocked and called for Pietro, and soon they had Edgar lying on a couch in a chamber at the rear of the house. ‘Pietro, can you wash him and clean his clothes?’ Baldwin said with his nose wrinkled. ‘He smells like he’s been living in a sty for weeks.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
In the Genoese quarter Buscarel was worried about the possible siege. His wife Cecilia kept to the house as much as possible, fretful about their fate.
It was the same matter that exercised the Council.
In every city where Genoa had a trading presence, an admiral would congregate a small council of traders of standing to discuss how best to achieve greater prominence for Genoa’s interests. Today they met over a meal seated about a table in Admiral Zaccaria’s house.
‘Gentlemen!’ Admiral Zaccaria said, when the Council members were all present. He was a short man with a body like old oak, brown and hard, and as he lifted his glass to them in a silent toast, the gold on his fingers and about his neck glinted. ‘We are living in difficult times. We all know the situation: war approaches. What should we do?’
‘There is only one course open to us,’ Grimaldi said. At three and thirty, he was nearer Buscarel’s age than the Admiral’s, although his belly was larger, and he had taken to the customs of the East more than any of the other Genoese of the quarter. ‘If the city is attacked, we have no place here. We should emulate the Venetians and take to our ships.’
‘No, I do not agree.’ Buscarel stood and leaned on the table, meeting the eyes of each in turn. ‘If we depart, we leave the city to others, and we cannot share in any triumph.’
‘Triumph?’ Grimaldi laughed, but with incredulity plastered on his face. He cast a hand about the others present. ‘How many of us anticipate a triumph if there is outright war with al-Ashraf?’
‘He has no navy,’ Buscarel said immediately. ‘If our ships bring supplies, the Muslims must fail. The worst enemy of any army is stagnation and disease. If they remain outside our walls in a protracted siege, they will grow indolent, and then disease must strike, just as all previous armies have learned. They will go, and once they have gone, Acre will be stronger than ever before. Just think of the glory in our status then.’
Buscarel had known Grimaldi would be the hardest man to persuade. He was all for an easy life, while Buscarel was happy to take risks if it meant greater profits.
‘Acre would be the jewel of the East — our East!’ he went on. ‘For Venice is known for her cowardice in the face of the Muslims. Look at their actions in Tripoli two years ago. They took all they could, and fled. It was the sight of their ships leaving the harbour that persuaded Qalawun he could storm the city. They will do the same here — they have no belly for a fight. When they leave, we shall be here to bring supplies and maintain the city. And then we shall reap the rewards, too.’
‘Rewards? Our likely rewards will be death by a Muslim sword,’ Grimaldi scoffed. ‘No, I say that when the army comes — and it will, my friends, it will — then we should be prepared to depart. There is no profit in being slaughtered.’