upper lip that gave her a sardonic appearance, as if she saw something amusing that all else had missed.
Her emerald clothing was lighter, and more beautifully tailored, and the aura of wealth that surrounded her was emphasised by the gold she wore at wrists and throat.
She wiped at Baldwin’s forehead again and threw her cloth away.
Following its trajectory, Baldwin saw that Lucia was in the room. She caught the cloth adroitly, and stood with it in her hands, eyeing her mistress and Buscarel warily.
Baldwin smiled at her. He was lying full length on a carved stone bench, and the door was some distance away. It would be hard to flee this chamber even if his feet were untied. Buscarel had two
men with him, and they looked robust, reliable types. It was not a happy reflection. Behind Buscarel was a brazier, smoking lazily, and Baldwin wondered if this chamber was far below ground, to
require the heat.
‘So, Master Baldwin. You are here in Acre for your soul, are you not?’ Lady Maria asked. ‘I wonder what crime you have committed that needs such a desperate penance. Perhaps
you will tell us later. But for now, we need to know what it was that the messengers came to tell the Templars.’
Baldwin turned his head to peer at Buscarel. The man stood sullenly in a corner, and Baldwin silently swore to himself that he would avenge his beating.
‘Qalawun has agreed a peace treaty,’ he said wearily. ‘He has confirmed it for over ten years. There is no secret.’
Lady Maria looked up at Buscarel. ‘You see? Easy. All I needed to do was ask him. Now, Master pilgrim, what would you say about Genoa? I am sure that there was news of our city,
too.’
‘Why?’ Baldwin asked. He tried to sit up, but it hurt so he lay down again. His back felt as though it had been pounded with leaden mauls, and his arms were painful where his hands
were tied. ‘That was all I heard.’
‘But you must know that there was a dispute between Genoa and Venice. What was said of that?’
Buscarel approached, fists bunching. ‘Speak when my Lady asks! What did they say?’
‘Lady, could you silence your terrier?’ Baldwin said. Before Buscarel could hit him, he continued, ‘They said nothing in front of me. Why would they? They were messengers for
Guillaume de Beaujeu, and if they had secrets for him, they kept them for him.’
‘What do you think of that, Buscarel?’ Lady Maria said.
‘He’s lying! Look at him! He is a dog from the north. You cannot trust a word from such as he. Let me have him with my sailors for a day. We’ll brand him and get all we
need.’
‘Perhaps that would be best,’ Maria said. She put her thumb and forefinger on Baldwin’s chin, one at either side, and moved his head this way and that, smiling. ‘It would
be a pity to spoil his looks, but if there is no alternative, such must be done. So, burn his face to make him unrecognisable, and cut out his tongue when he has finished talking, so he may never
speak of things again. Then we could use him. Or sell him to the Moorish slave dealers.’
‘Lady!’ Baldwin protested. He hoped she was joking, but a look into her compassionless eyes told him that pleading was pointless. She looked on him as she would have looked at a cat,
or a rat. Or a slave, he thought with mounting trepidation.
‘I will do your bidding,’ Buscarel said. ‘Genoa must be protected.’
Baldwin was transfixed with horror, his mind filled with images of coals searing his flesh. He did not see how he could free himself, but perhaps if he was carried to a ship, he might get away.
Surely that was what they meant when they spoke of torturing him with Buscarel’s sailors.
But the smell of burning coals was already in Baldwin’s nostrils, and he realised there would be no journey to the sea. He was to be tortured here in this foul chamber. He struggled
against his bonds, but nothing helped. In desperation, he threw himself from the bench to the floor. The stone flags
Her emerald clothing was lighter, and more beautifully tailored, and the aura of wealth that surrounded her was emphasised by the gold she wore at wrists and throat.
She wiped at Baldwin’s forehead again and threw her cloth away.
Following its trajectory, Baldwin saw that Lucia was in the room. She caught the cloth adroitly, and stood with it in her hands, eyeing her mistress and Buscarel warily.
Baldwin smiled at her. He was lying full length on a carved stone bench, and the door was some distance away. It would be hard to flee this chamber even if his feet were untied. Buscarel had two
men with him, and they looked robust, reliable types. It was not a happy reflection. Behind Buscarel was a brazier, smoking lazily, and Baldwin wondered if this chamber was far below ground, to
require the heat.
‘So, Master Baldwin. You are here in Acre for your soul, are you not?’ Lady Maria asked. ‘I wonder what crime you have committed that needs such a desperate penance. Perhaps
you will tell us later. But for now, we need to know what it was that the messengers came to tell the Templars.’
Baldwin turned his head to peer at Buscarel. The man stood sullenly in a corner, and Baldwin silently swore to himself that he would avenge his beating.
‘Qalawun has agreed a peace treaty,’ he said wearily. ‘He has confirmed it for over ten years. There is no secret.’
Lady Maria looked up at Buscarel. ‘You see? Easy. All I needed to do was ask him. Now, Master pilgrim, what would you say about Genoa? I am sure that there was news of our city,
too.’
‘Why?’ Baldwin asked. He tried to sit up, but it hurt so he lay down again. His back felt as though it had been pounded with leaden mauls, and his arms were painful where his hands
were tied. ‘That was all I heard.’
‘But you must know that there was a dispute between Genoa and Venice. What was said of that?’
Buscarel approached, fists bunching. ‘Speak when my Lady asks! What did they say?’
‘Lady, could you silence your terrier?’ Baldwin said. Before Buscarel could hit him, he continued, ‘They said nothing in front of me. Why would they? They were messengers for
Guillaume de Beaujeu, and if they had secrets for him, they kept them for him.’
‘What do you think of that, Buscarel?’ Lady Maria said.
‘He’s lying! Look at him! He is a dog from the north. You cannot trust a word from such as he. Let me have him with my sailors for a day. We’ll brand him and get all we
need.’
‘Perhaps that would be best,’ Maria said. She put her thumb and forefinger on Baldwin’s chin, one at either side, and moved his head this way and that, smiling. ‘It would
be a pity to spoil his looks, but if there is no alternative, such must be done. So, burn his face to make him unrecognisable, and cut out his tongue when he has finished talking, so he may never
speak of things again. Then we could use him. Or sell him to the Moorish slave dealers.’
‘Lady!’ Baldwin protested. He hoped she was joking, but a look into her compassionless eyes told him that pleading was pointless. She looked on him as she would have looked at a cat,
or a rat. Or a slave, he thought with mounting trepidation.
‘I will do your bidding,’ Buscarel said. ‘Genoa must be protected.’
Baldwin was transfixed with horror, his mind filled with images of coals searing his flesh. He did not see how he could free himself, but perhaps if he was carried to a ship, he might get away.
Surely that was what they meant when they spoke of torturing him with Buscarel’s sailors.
But the smell of burning coals was already in Baldwin’s nostrils, and he realised there would be no journey to the sea. He was to be tortured here in this foul chamber. He struggled
against his bonds, but nothing helped. In desperation, he threw himself from the bench to the floor. The stone flags
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