00 - Templar's Acre by Michael Jecks

folks.’
    ‘Peace should gladden any heart,’ Jacques said.
    ‘Yes . . .’ Ivo agreed, a poisonous thought coming into his head. ‘But Qalawun is determined to exterminate Christianity. We both know that.’
    ‘What of it?’
    ‘If he put his enemies off their guard by swearing peace, that would be a good strategem, would it not? He destroyed Tripoli while he was “at peace”. It required only a pretext
for him to break it: a dispute between Genoese and Venetian interests.’
    ‘True enough.’
    ‘It was rumoured that Venice sent an embassy to Qalawun to ask that he intervene to prevent Genoa becoming too powerful – not that they anticipated that their request would lead to
the city being torn down stone by stone!’
    ‘Come, Ivo,’ Jacques said gently. ‘Do not suffer your bile to rule your head. Qalawun is a man of his word. He can be trusted if he swears peace. More so than a Genoese,
anyway,’ he amended with a smile. ‘Only something dreadful would force him to break his oath.’
    When Baldwin woke, his head thundered like a destrier at full gallop, and when he tried to roll over, there was a sharp pain at his wrists and ankles: he was securely bound.
Overwhelmed by the need to vomit, he retched, his body convulsing, but there was nothing to bring up but a little bile, and he sagged back, panting.
    It was hot here. He was in a small square, with the sun directly overhead. Perhaps it was a garden? There, at the edge of his hearing, was the tinkle and splash of water. Looking about him, he
saw a pool of water, and sitting beside it, his Maria with the emerald dress. Her face was still veiled below the eyes, but that only added to her beauty, he thought.
    ‘You must not move. Your head will hurt,’ she said. Her French was heavily accented, and he found it captivating. She took a scrap of linen and soaked it in water. Wringing it out,
she brought it over to him and rested it on his head. He tried not to wince at the sudden pain, instead staring up into her eyes.
    ‘Maria,’ he croaked.
    Her eyes widened. ‘Not me. That is my mistress.’
    ‘Then who are you?’ he demanded.
    ‘I am Lucia. Maid to my Lady Maria of Lydda.’
    He stared. She had the olive complexion of a woman of Granada, but her eyes were the cool green of water in a Dartmoor pool. He felt instinctively that he could rest by her all his life and
never feel his time was wasted.
    ‘Lucia, you are beautiful.’
    She withdrew, alarm in her eyes. ‘Do not say that!’
    ‘It’s the truth,’ he said. He tried to rise to his feet, forgetting his bonds, and winced as pain lanced through his body. His ankles, his arms, his temples, all rebelled at
any movement. He groaned and closed his eyes, gritting his teeth.
    ‘I saw you on my first day here,’ he said. ‘Down the alleyway near the Venetian quarter. Do you remember? You were there, in your finery, and I followed you – called to
you, but you ran away.’
    She nodded hesitantly. ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘And then again in the streets at the market, but that time with your men.’
    ‘That was my Lady, not me.’
    He was surprised by that, but now other considerations intruded. ‘Why am I tied? What happened? I remember I saw you, and then I was knocked down.’
    ‘I am sorry,’ she said, and her voice was tearful. She looked up at a sound, and swiftly retreated.
    As she did so, he heard steps, and when he looked, he saw Buscarel the Genoese marching towards him with two henchmen. They went one to either side of him and picked him up by the arms. Buscarel
chuckled at the sight.
    ‘So, Englishman. You wanted my ring, I think?’ He smiled, holding up his hand so that Baldwin could see the ring on his forefinger, and then he clenched his fist, and before Baldwin
could think to prepare, he slammed it under his ribcage.
    The air left his lungs in an explosion of pain, and he collapsed, writhing, trying to breathe.
    ‘I will keep my ring. And now,’ Buscarel added with a kick at