A shout, and he saw another group of Muslims nearer the catapult. They set themselves with lances and spears butted into the ground, small, round shields before them. Baldwin rode towards them with Sir Otto and two English knights, but they could not break through the bristling points. Baldwin would have ridden past them, but there was no passage, and he swore under his breath. More Muslims were advancing, warily, from their left, and Sir Otto waved on the rest of the sergeants.
‘Use them!’ he bawled. ‘Hurry!’
Two of the men nodded, and took up the pots they carried at their saddles. They hurled them into the men crouched before them, and a third man, who had ridden to a fire, came up with a lighted torch, and flung it after the pots. Instantly there was a loud shooshing sound, and a thick, yellow flame rose from the midst of the spear-men. The rest were thrown into confusion, and Sir Otto rode into the thick of them, plying a mace with a spiked head. Everywhere he went, the Muslims fell, and even when his sergeant was killed, stabbed by a spear under his chin, Sir Otto carried on.
Baldwin rode to his side, taking the place of his sergeant, and hacked with his sword. Inside his mail coat, Baldwin was sweating profusely. His mouth was dry and he craved a drink. A fresh flash and wash of heat heralded the detonation of more Greek fire, but when Baldwin snatched a glance, he saw that only their enemies were being burned. The catapult stood high overhead still, mocking them, and Baldwin suddenly felt rage at the thing. He spurred and whipped his beast, trying to force a path forward, but the press about him was too strong. He felt a blow at his side, and looked down to see a Muslim with anxious eyes staring at him. Baldwin thrust into his face, and saw the man fall, but even as he did so, he felt a hot lash at his leg. When he glanced down, he saw he’d been cut. It was bleeding, but not profusely. He slashed with his sword, backhanded, at the man who had stabbed him, and aimed another cut at a man with a bill, but had to duck under the fearful weapon’s blade, and then a man with a lance tried to paunch him at the same time.
‘Sweet Jesu,’ he muttered. A weapon flew past his face, almost taking his eye out, and he dodged again.
They had lost their momentum. Those with the fire-bombs were held back, and the knights were involved in furious hand-to-hand combats near their standard. Their position was precarious. He heard a rallying cry, and managed to jerk his mount’s head away from the group trying to encircle him, cantering back to the banner. Behind them all, he saw that Muslims were beginning to rush to take up positions.
Sir Otto was now wielding a hand-and-a-half sword with the ease of a child with a stick. He brought it down on the head of a man with an axe, and the man’s head was cloven in two. The knight looked over at Baldwin, who shouted, pointing: ‘We’re trapped!’
‘Not yet!’ Sir Otto bawled, and then bellowed at the men to retreat to the gate.
Sir Jacques appeared at Baldwin’s side. There was a thick smear of blood on his cheek, and his mouth was raw where a weapon had smashed into his teeth.
Baldwin rode at his side as the remaining men, perhaps only two thirds of the number which had left the gate ten minutes before, galloped at the men trying to entrap them. The Muslims were scattered like grain broadcast over a field, and the Christians continued until they reached the gates. And as soon as they were back inside, the gates were slammed, the bars sent across to block out the enemy.
The night’s assault was over. Baldwin wearily sat in his saddle and gazed about him at those who had survived the carnage as they rode back into the broad area before the Hospital of St Lazarus again. There were so few, compared with the glorious force that had gathered here only a matter of a few tens of minutes before. The only emotion he could feel was despair at the thought of all those good men who had died. He should have seen it coming, after the failure of the Muslim attack on the Templar camp. They too had become tangled in guy-ropes. But he had not thought.
So many had died. And all in vain.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
There was an enormous shudder, and Buscarel came to, in time to receive a shower of grit in his eyes. Coughing, he rolled over, blinking and wiping at his eyes.
‘Wait, you fool. You want to shove sand tighter into your eyes?’
‘Where am I?’
‘In the undercroft of the Temple. You’re damned lucky, too.’
He at last managed to open his eyes and gaze about him. The chamber was an old storage room, with squat, solid pillars holding up the massive vaults of the ceiling. Sconces held candles which burned with sickly yellow flames, and there were some torches further away, set into brackets in the walls. Along the floor, palliasses were set out, and on all of them, men were lying. Some appeared to be asleep, but for the most part, the men were awake, listening to the thuds of the rocks hitting the ground overhead.
‘Are they hitting the Temple?’
‘What, with their rocks? No, these are all landing a long way away,’ the man said.
Buscarel glanced at him. He was a short, grizzled fellow with the arms of an archer — immensely strong shoulders and biceps. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I managed to get a splinter of rock on my head,’ the man said. ‘It took off my helmet, and I was bleeding so much, they thought I wouldn’t last long. Then someone noticed I was breathing. You were the same.’
‘You said I was lucky — why? How did I get here? I remember the ship sinking, and the sea washing me away. .’
‘A fisherman found you and brought you in. He thought you were too far gone but the brothers reckon you’ll be all right.’
Buscarel remembered. The water, lapping over his nose and mouth, the saltiness on his tongue, the desperate thirst, while he clung to the ship’s oar. Every so often he would see the battlefield and glimpse the rocks flying, the darkening of the sky as arrows were loosed at the walls of Acre. And then there would be a wave under him again, and it would pass on to the shore, while he was concealed from that world of pain and anguish.
He had thought of letting go. Of sinking, to drown slowly. Men said it was not so painful. But others talked of the monsters beneath the waves, the little fishes that would feast on a man’s flesh, the crabs that would pick at his eyes, the jelly-like creatures, the slugs, all eating his body. . and he knew he couldn’t submit. To do that would be to give away his entire body, and what would he then have on the day God called to the dead to rise again? So he had gripped that piece of timber, and refused to let go, while the shore slipped away, further and further, and the currents pulled him out to sea.
A man clad in brown robes moved along the palliasses, a bucket in one hand, a ladle in the other. He stopped, providing drink to those who needed it, and Buscarel realised he was parched. He swallowed, and called. The monk saw him and nodded, but continued his progress. One man did not move. The monk sighed, placed the bucket on the ground, the ladle inside it, and pulled the man from the palliasse, leaving him on the stone flags, then carried on.
There was a smell about the room, Buscarel noticed now. A fusty odour of old damp stone and mortar, overlaid with a thick, cloying stench. It was the smell of death.
Lucia was in the garden still when Pietro opened the door, and she rose with a start on seeing Sir Jacques helping Baldwin inside, an arm about his shoulders.
Sir Jacques still managed to smile with his ruined mouth as he released his patient and passed him to Pietro. ‘Take care of Master Baldwin,’ he mumbled. ‘He will need that wound seen to.’
‘What has the fellow done to himself?’ Pietro demanded, standing back and peering down.
He was pushed aside as Lucia reached him. ‘Oh, oh!’ She fell to her knees and pulled at his hosen, staring at his injured leg with her mouth curled in horror. ‘Quick, to his bed, and then fetch me a cloth and hot water!’