Baldwin nodded, drawing his own sword, wondering why Ivo had lied. It was scarcely a day since his last trial with their Saracen teacher.
Ivo drew his sword up into the two-handed guard so favoured by recent visitors to Acre, while Baldwin held his own sword in the outside guard, his right fist gripping the hilt at waist height, the point crossing before his body, tip raised slightly.
There was a flash as Ivo’s sword descended. Baldwin blocked his blade and twisted his own blade, but couldn’t snatch Ivo’s away. Ivo’s came back again, and Baldwin knocked it down and away, before launching his own swift assault. Ivo managed to slip away, giving ground, and Baldwin moved forward to harry him, the two swords flashing in the sunlight.
It was curious. Baldwin was pressing moderately hard, and while Ivo would normally defend himself vigorously and then lash out with some startling surprise attacks, today he didn’t. Perhaps he was tired, Baldwin thought. He kept his eyes fixed on Ivo’s, waiting to see if his master would try to alarm him soon, but there was nothing obvious at first. Not until he saw Ivo’s eyes quickly narrow. Then Baldwin was sure he was about to launch a new approach.
Ivo moved his feet, and then, as Baldwin stabbed at empty space, he was whirling, spinning, ready to sweep his sword round at Baldwin’s head. But Baldwin knew that move already. It was the first Jacques had shown him, and he blocked it swiftly, returning his own blade to Ivo’s, and with a competent flick of his wrist, sent Ivo’s away to safety, while Baldwin’s rested on Ivo’s breast.
‘I missed my mark,’ Ivo groused. ‘That was too easy for you.’
Baldwin smiled. But he saw that the vintaine were eyeing him with an increased respect. It was only later, when Ivo walked away and Baldwin caught a glimpse of his grin, swiftly concealed, that he understood.
‘You crafty old sodomite!’
Baldwin left his men after a day’s hard training, and made his way homewards along the alley that led to the postern near the castle. It was a useful short cut, although it was a narrow, twisting way. Still, Baldwin was confident that his own ferocity was adequate to deter thieves and cutpurses. The day had gone well. The men were beginning to work as a team, rather than a disparate bunch of felons, and Baldwin was just congratulating himself on the way that they were learning their trade, when an arm slipped about his neck and a dagger touched the skin under his ear.
‘I have no money,’ he said.
‘I know that.’
Baldwin felt his face harden at the voice. ‘You want my ring again?’
‘No.’
Suddenly the knife was away from his throat, and he was pushed away. He turned.
‘Remember, Master. I could have killed you.’
‘Well? Why didn’t you?’
Buscarel was silent a while. In truth he found it hard to answer. ‘We need all the men we have. I am Genoese, but this is my city. My family lives here. I wouldn’t see the city weakened.’
‘So?’
‘Lady Maria told me to kill you. I could have done so just then. But I won’t kill you, nor take your ring.’
‘Good.’
‘Why did she want you dead?’
‘I have her maid. I suppose she is angry.’
‘No. I think it is more than that. Her lands are all she has. If the Sultan takes all this,’ Buscarel said, waving a hand, ‘she will lose everything. So she seeks to remain a friend of the Sultan.’
‘How so?’
‘It’s said the Templars have a spy in the Sultan’s court. Wouldn’t he have the same?’
Baldwin gave a dry chuckle. ‘That, I think, was Philip Mainboeuf. He was the spy.’
‘Really? Then he is safe.’
‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. And those words would come back to him later.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Edgar woke again that evening. He felt muzzy, distressed to find himself in a strange room, lying on an old palliasse that seemed to have more broken straws sticking into his back than a stook. He would give much for a good English palliasse.
Then his eyes snapped wide as he recalled his last interview with Philip Mainboeuf’s household. He had been thrown out like a beggar. If he saw that steward in a dark alley, he’d take a stick to the man’s head. God’s blood, but the fellow evicted him when he had been injured in the service of their master. When Mainboeuf got back. .
That was the point, he recalled. There was no telling when, or whether, Mainboeuf would return. It was a dangerous journey, especially now, with the rumours of war apparently justified. Edgar groaned. The thought of having to start again from scratch appalled him. For the last months he had worked hard, ensuring that his master was safe, and reaping the rewards. He had enjoyed expensive clothes, decent food and other luxuries he had only dreamed of before. He wanted them again.
He sat up and gasped, pain lancing through his skull. A hand to his head, he slowly sank back to the palliasse, and moaned.
A light step, and then a soft rustling of material at his side, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself staring up at Lucia’s face.
‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘I feel considerably better at this moment,’ he croaked. ‘I know you — you are the woman we rescued from the mob.’
‘Yes. Your head was broken.’
‘Someone didn’t like me,’ Edgar agreed. ‘I think it was the way I stabbed his friend.’
‘You killed him?’
Edgar shrugged. ‘He was attacking my master. I had to stop him. His companion did this to me.’
‘You must rest.’
‘I should be going,’ Edgar said, but without conviction. The thought of rising made the nausea return. He felt sick at the mere thought of walking.
‘You can go nowhere today. It is late, and if you try to walk the streets, you will be prey to any cut-purse. You must sleep here tonight.’
‘If you are sure,’ he said with a relieved grunt. He let his head gently down on the pillow, feeling her cool hands on his head. ‘That is good.’
‘Sleep, Master. Sleep.’
She heard his meandering thoughts and dreams, and guessed much of his story. It was sad, she thought. He was another like her. Used while the whim took his master, and then, as soon as a fault was perceived, discarded. He too was little better than a slave.
* * *
Baldwin was exhausted. There had been a delivery of fresh timber, and he and his men had been ordered to go and unload the great baulks of wood and move them nearer to the walls. In the absence of a great Muslim army appearing at the top of the plain before the city, there was a distinct lack of enthusiasm among his vintaine.
‘Come on, haul!’ Baldwin bellowed. He eyed his dog with jealousy. Uther lay panting in the shade of an awning while he and the vintaine worked and sweated.
Hob and Anselm pulled with Baldwin on ropes near the head of the horse, while others pushed from the back of the cart as they manhandled the timbers up the hill towards the castle. It was hard, hot work in the rising humidity.
‘Be grateful it’s not full summer yet,’ Baldwin snarled when Thomas complained that the day was too hot, but he knew how they felt. It was impossible to get any citizens to help. People were living in a limbo, in which they could persuade themselves that the Muslim army would not come. Many of them believed that the embassy would be able to talk the new Sultan into agreeing to an extended peace. Where was the profit in destroying Acre, after all?
Baldwin, who could still recall that ant-hill of men outside Cairo, was unconvinced. So many men needed an occupation. He did, too. Perhaps he could become a merchant, as Sir Otto had suggested, but so often it seemed that everything he undertook came to naught. He wanted to marry Lucia, but could not; he had come all this way to help recover Jerusalem, but there was no bid to recover the Holy Land.