and beyond, the land fell away slightly, towards another huge city wall. In the enclosed ground were houses and gardens, with broad
roads separating each. ‘It is beautiful,’ he said in wonder.
‘Yes,’ Ivo said.
But his voice was cold. Montmusart didn’t contain his wife and son.
Baldwin had suffered much from his long journey, and now he took the opportunity to rest and recover.
The city held endless fascination for him.
There were markets which specialised in silks and muslins, others which sold exotic foods, others still in which swords and armour were for sale. At one stall he found a delightful, light blade,
with fabulous markings through the steel. Ivo, who was with him, sniffed at it.
‘It’s good in a fight without armour, but the steel is too flexible and light to do more than bounce from a mail shirt. For that, you need a good Christian blade formed from a bar of
steel and hammered to rigidity.’
Baldwin reluctantly took his advice and invested much of the money won from Roger Flor in a two-foot-long simple blade with a broad fuller and undecorated cross. He was a knight’s son, and
it was unthinkable that he should walk unarmed any longer.
With his new, well-balanced riding sword, he practised every evening, and soon the weakness in his legs and the pain from his head wound left him.
When he was a boy, his father had given him his first training in swordsmanship, and when he left home at seven to learn his duties at the de Courtenay household, much of his time was spent
honing his skills. With a sword in his hand, he felt comfortable. His master employed a Master of Defence, who had enhanced his tactics, and his firm stipulation was that the young Baldwin should
give up time every day to practise. He had taken that advice to heart.
Ivo joined him on occasion, and they would test each other’s swordsmanship. Baldwin soon learned that Ivo was a crafty old devil when it came to fighting.
Pietro, Ivo’s half-deaf servant, who was both bottler and doorkeeper, would come and watch them with a sour expression on his wizened old face. He appeared to consider it his bounden duty
to keep others away from Ivo so that his master might enjoy as much peace as possible. When he saw Baldwin and Ivo fight, he would glower at Baldwin, and only ever smiled or clapped his hands when
Ivo got close and nicked Baldwin’s arm or clothing.
‘Do you resent my being here?’ Baldwin asked him once, driven to irritation by the man’s cackling at his latest injury – a nasty cut over his forearm. He looked at it and
grimaced. The skin had pulled away from the wound, white and foul like a pig’s flesh, he thought.
‘Eh?’ The old fellow screwed up his face and hooked a hand behind his ear, studying Baldwin speculatively. ‘Resent you? Why would I do that?’
‘You had a quieter time before I got here, I suppose,’ Baldwin said. He held out the bleeding arm so that Pietro could wipe away the blood. He wanted to shiver, but he refused to
allow Pietro to see he was concerned.
‘You have no idea, do you?’ Pietro muttered coldly. ‘My family was in Lattakieh, and when that son of a diseased whore, Sultan Qalawun, invaded, they took my wife and children.
You know what they do with women and children? My little girls will be slaves now. Ruined! And their mother, if she’s lucky, she’ll be kept well in a harem. If not, she’ll be
working her hands to the bone in the fields somewhere, or sold off for menial work. I don’t know where they are, or what they do. All I know is, it was Master Ivo who saved me from life as a
beggar. So if my praising him offends you, young master, so be it. I live and die for him.’
Baldwin was about to speak, when the old man turned away, and Baldwin saw the tear in his eye as he heard Pietro mutter, ‘I have no one else.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was one sight that shocked Baldwin beyond uttering. One morning, as he strolled about Montmusart with Pietro, he
roads separating each. ‘It is beautiful,’ he said in wonder.
‘Yes,’ Ivo said.
But his voice was cold. Montmusart didn’t contain his wife and son.
Baldwin had suffered much from his long journey, and now he took the opportunity to rest and recover.
The city held endless fascination for him.
There were markets which specialised in silks and muslins, others which sold exotic foods, others still in which swords and armour were for sale. At one stall he found a delightful, light blade,
with fabulous markings through the steel. Ivo, who was with him, sniffed at it.
‘It’s good in a fight without armour, but the steel is too flexible and light to do more than bounce from a mail shirt. For that, you need a good Christian blade formed from a bar of
steel and hammered to rigidity.’
Baldwin reluctantly took his advice and invested much of the money won from Roger Flor in a two-foot-long simple blade with a broad fuller and undecorated cross. He was a knight’s son, and
it was unthinkable that he should walk unarmed any longer.
With his new, well-balanced riding sword, he practised every evening, and soon the weakness in his legs and the pain from his head wound left him.
When he was a boy, his father had given him his first training in swordsmanship, and when he left home at seven to learn his duties at the de Courtenay household, much of his time was spent
honing his skills. With a sword in his hand, he felt comfortable. His master employed a Master of Defence, who had enhanced his tactics, and his firm stipulation was that the young Baldwin should
give up time every day to practise. He had taken that advice to heart.
Ivo joined him on occasion, and they would test each other’s swordsmanship. Baldwin soon learned that Ivo was a crafty old devil when it came to fighting.
Pietro, Ivo’s half-deaf servant, who was both bottler and doorkeeper, would come and watch them with a sour expression on his wizened old face. He appeared to consider it his bounden duty
to keep others away from Ivo so that his master might enjoy as much peace as possible. When he saw Baldwin and Ivo fight, he would glower at Baldwin, and only ever smiled or clapped his hands when
Ivo got close and nicked Baldwin’s arm or clothing.
‘Do you resent my being here?’ Baldwin asked him once, driven to irritation by the man’s cackling at his latest injury – a nasty cut over his forearm. He looked at it and
grimaced. The skin had pulled away from the wound, white and foul like a pig’s flesh, he thought.
‘Eh?’ The old fellow screwed up his face and hooked a hand behind his ear, studying Baldwin speculatively. ‘Resent you? Why would I do that?’
‘You had a quieter time before I got here, I suppose,’ Baldwin said. He held out the bleeding arm so that Pietro could wipe away the blood. He wanted to shiver, but he refused to
allow Pietro to see he was concerned.
‘You have no idea, do you?’ Pietro muttered coldly. ‘My family was in Lattakieh, and when that son of a diseased whore, Sultan Qalawun, invaded, they took my wife and children.
You know what they do with women and children? My little girls will be slaves now. Ruined! And their mother, if she’s lucky, she’ll be kept well in a harem. If not, she’ll be
working her hands to the bone in the fields somewhere, or sold off for menial work. I don’t know where they are, or what they do. All I know is, it was Master Ivo who saved me from life as a
beggar. So if my praising him offends you, young master, so be it. I live and die for him.’
Baldwin was about to speak, when the old man turned away, and Baldwin saw the tear in his eye as he heard Pietro mutter, ‘I have no one else.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was one sight that shocked Baldwin beyond uttering. One morning, as he strolled about Montmusart with Pietro, he
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