‘There is no profit in running away, either,’ Buscarel said. He curled his lip, staring full at the Admiral. If Zaccaria was with him, all the others would follow, with or without Grimaldi. And Zaccaria would not want to take the coward’s way out. ‘We are Genoese. We know that to get rich, we need to take risks. Would our children feel pride in their fathers and their city, were they to learn that we had fled?’
‘This is not a question of pride, Buscarel. This is simple business,’ Grimaldi said. ‘We are here to make money, nothing else. If the Muslims destroy the city, our reason for being here has gone.’
‘What do you say?’ Buscarel asked of the other men at the table.
Zaccaria sucked at his teeth, then took a long draught of wine. ‘This is a matter of money. If we stay, do we make more money, or less? I suspect we would make less.’
‘But think of the future. If there is no Acre, what will we lose in the traffic of pilgrims and crusaders across the Mediterranean? The losses would be enormous.’ Buscarel was startled that Zaccaria could go against him in this. Surely the Admiral could see that the world would view a flight of Genoese ships as a matter of betrayal. ‘We would be looked upon as traitors to the Christian faith, were we to run before heathens. If our action cost us Acre, how would others view us?’
‘How would they view us if we remained to be slaughtered, like the poor city-folk of Tripoli?’ Grimaldi said heavily. ‘For me, there is no choice. To remain would be folly. I say we conclude as much business as possible, and when the time comes, as it must, we return home.’
‘This is my home!’ Buscarel declared.
His vehemence surprised even himself. Others looked on this city as a trading post, he knew — just one of a number of little colonies strung about the seas for the benefit of Genoa. But to him it was much more. He had founded his family here, perhaps even begun a dynasty to rival the Luchettos and Zaccarias. But the Council were taking away his dreams.
‘Can you not see that your home is to be brought down over your head?’ Grimaldi demanded. ‘Don’t be a fool!’
‘I would rather die here than run and live as a coward,’ Buscarel said. He looked at the faces about the table. They were all decided. Not one looked up and met his gaze.
‘So be it,’ he said.
Pietro hurried by with an anxious expression on his face, and Lucia was intrigued, despite her inner desperation. He had been carrying a basket, and his face looked as though he wished he were not.
She had been working on her clothing, trying to mend a long rent in the skirts with needle and thread, but no matter what she tried, the material was so worn and frayed, the thread slipped through the fabric. She needed a new tunic, if she was to appear in public without embarrassment.
Again, Pietro scurried past like a rabbit with the hound behind, and she was tempted to laugh aloud at his earnest, fretful demeanour. ‘What is it?’ she called, but he was gone.
With a sigh, she set the needle by the ball of thread, and went to see what was troubling him so. Pietro had been a surly old man since the moment he had set eyes on her, but she wasn’t afraid of him. Sullen looks couldn’t scare her, when she was used to whips. She saw him slip into a chamber that had been used for storage. This intrigued her, and she followed without trying to conceal her interest.
The chamber was set into the southern wall of the house, parallel with the old city wall, and was sparsely furnished. There was a palliasse on the floor now, and as she craned her neck round the doorframe, she saw a naked man lying on it while Pietro washed him with water. A pot of scented oil stood nearby, the odour fighting valiantly, if unsuccessfully, against the stench of vomit.
She recognised Edgar from the day of the riot. ‘What is he doing here?’ she asked.
‘Eh? Oh, it’s you. Master Baldwin brought him here,’ Pietro said. ‘You remember him?’
‘Yes — but what has happened to him?’
Pietro told her the little that he had gathered from Baldwin and Sir Jacques, and she crouched at Edgar’s side. ‘He has a fever,’ she said, resting a hand on his forehead.
‘Aye. I could have told you that,’ Pietro said, as though infuriated with her for stating the obvious while he was doing all he could to help the man.
‘You have enough to do. Let me see to him,’ she said.
‘I can do it,’ he protested, but without his usual stubbornness. He reached to the bucket, dipping the cloth in the water.
She placed her hand on his. ‘I have nothing else to do,’ she said quietly. She made no move, but sat back on her haunches, staring at him, her hand still on his. ‘Please.’
He glanced up and caught the full impact of her sad eyes. ‘Oh, very well,’ he declared. He passed her the damp scrap of linen with which he had been mopping Edgar’s brow, and levered himself upright with an effort. ‘Call me if you need anything. Poor devil has been badly knocked about. Someone’s tried to break his head, I think.’
She nodded, reaching forward and wetting the material again, wringing it out and placing it gently on Edgar’s forehead. He moaned quietly as she did so, and she felt her heart move to think that the man who had helped to save her that day might be in danger of his life.
‘You are safe here,’ she promised in a whisper. ‘Be strong.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
It was a week since Philip Mainboeuf had set off with Brother Bartholomew and a Hospitaller, along with their servants and a clerk.
Baldwin hoped their mission would succeed, but the more he thought about it, the less sanguine he became. Fortunately, he had enough to occupy him with the twenty men of his command. It was a daunting prospect when he was first thrust in the midst of them. Ivo had gone with him on the first day, either to see to it that Baldwin was safe as he was introduced, or to give himself a laugh; Baldwin was not sure which.
There was a heavy-set, bullish man with a shock of black hair, who went by the name of Hob Atte Mull, and two skinnier, shorter men, with fairer features and paler hair, who were brothers called Thomas and Anselm. A very short, suspicious-looking fellow called Nicholas Hunfrey was the last of the competent fellows. The rest looked confused about every aspect of their duties. They had been gathered together from dribs and drabs of pilgrims and shipmen about the city, and few appeared even to have held a sword before.
‘They look like outlaws,’ Ivo grunted on seeing them, and Baldwin concurred.
‘I only hope that they are a little more reliable.’
‘Well, Master Vintenary, that’s up to you to ensure, isn’t it?’ Ivo said with an evil grin.
Hob Atte Mull stood, hawked and spat, studying Baldwin closely and without apparent satisfaction. ‘So, Vintenary, what battles have you fought in? Have you always been in the thick of it with the foot soldiers, or cowering away on a horse?’
‘I’ve been in battles at sea and on land,’ Baldwin said haughtily.
‘Oh aye. Which? Did they merit a name?’
Ignoring him, Baldwin addressed them all.
‘Have you seen to your weapons yet?’ he asked.
He saw the men glance at each other. There was no joy in their looks. The one called Nicholas Hunfrey pulled a grimace and shook his head, saying nothing, but staring down at the ground. The others began to make a show of chatting amongst themselves.
It was infuriating. A leader needed to lead and show that he was in charge, but just now he could think of nothing else to do, short of demanding that the men pick up their weapons to show him they were clean.
Ivo snorted and walked to his side, looking at each man in turn. ‘I think you’ll need to ask Sir Otto whether any of them has fought before. Not one of them has any skill with a sword, I’d reckon.’
Hob glanced at him with amusement in his sneering face.
‘They won’t practise, anyway,’ Ivo went on calmly. ‘They don’t want to show themselves up in front of you.’ He pulled his own sword free. ‘Very well. I haven’t had a test of swordsmanship in days. Are you ready?’