Templar's Acre by Michael Jecks

Author:Michael Jecks [Jecks, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: rt, Historical, 1200s, Fiction, Holy Land, Templars
ISBN: 9780857205209
Google: KpGJDuokHyoC
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 17164400
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2013-06-05T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

A short time after Jacques had left, Baldwin was ready to go out on patrol with him. He had pulled on a mail shirt and tunic, and with his sword belted over the top, he looked almost like a squire in his own right.

Ivo was about to clout the lad over the shoulder in an unaccustomed display of affection, when he heard the sound of men at the door again. The moment Ivo clapped eyes on the messenger, he felt his elation subside.

‘Who is this?’ Baldwin asked.

‘A messenger from Cairo,’ Ivo said. He beckoned the man to him, and took the proffered message.

‘What is it?’ Baldwin wanted to know next.

‘I must visit the Marshal,’ Ivo said heavily. ‘Ride fast and safe, and return quickly, lad.’

Ivo then took up his sword and made his way to the Temple, where he was soon brought before the Marshal. Geoffrey de Vendac was looking pale, Ivo thought.

Squat pillars supported the ceiling, and candles flickered and smoked from sconces set into pillars and walls of the Temple. The Marshal waved Ivo into his chamber, and when Ivo was seated, he motioned to his servants to leave them.

‘I am glad you could come, old friend,’ he said, and cleared his throat. ‘We have heard more from Cairo.’

‘I guessed as much.’

‘There has been an attempt upon the life of the new Sultan. As you know, all too often a man’s blood is dissipated in his children. Our misfortune is that our foe has left another capable leader behind.’

‘His son?’

‘Al-Malik al-Ashraf Salah al-Din Khalil ibn Qalawun,’ the Marshal agreed, rolling the lengthy name over his tongue like a man suspecting a poison in his wine. ‘Yes. When Qalawun was dying, he called al-Ashraf Khalil to him and made him swear to continue the war against us. This the man agreed. During the time he took to have his father buried, we hoped we might get another chance for negotiations.’

‘What happened?’

‘An Emir called Turuntai attempted to hasten the process of succession. He organised a plot to remove al-Ashraf Khalil, but the Sultan came to hear of it. Turuntai is dead, and the Sultan more firmly installed on his throne than before. He has already issued commands to the army.’

‘They won’t attack yet,’ Ivo said. ‘It’s winter. They’ll not advance until spring.’

‘That’s right. Our spies tell us that there are sixty thousand horse and a hundred and forty thousand men-at-arms. Two hundred thousand, all told.’

‘That means nothing unless there are machines and miners.’

‘He has them. Thousands of miners, and over a hundred engines.’

‘Over a hundred?’ Ivo asked, shocked.

‘Some of the largest catapults ever created, Ivo.’

‘How many men are there here in the city?’ Ivo asked, calculating.

‘There are perhaps forty thousand souls all told. Of them, fewer than a thousand are knights, and perhaps there are sixteen thousand men-at-arms. The rest . . .’ He let his words hang in the air for a moment, then continued: ‘There is no need for horses now. When the army of al-Ashraf Khalil descends upon us, they would serve only as food for the people of the city.

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