00 - Templar's Acre by Michael Jecks Page A

suddenly encountered a man clad in strange mail, with a
conical helmet, and turban encompassing it, a spike protruding from the top. He was bearded and had skin as brown as a conker. It was like meeting with a demon, and Baldwin took an involuntary step
back.
    His hand on his sword’s hilt, the fellow swept past him with a haughty sneer that would not have looked out of place on a King’s herald.
    ‘Eh? What?’ Pietro snapped when Baldwin tugged at his sleeve.
    ‘He’s a Muslim, isn’t he?’ Baldwin whispered, his startled eyes fixed on the man.
    ‘So? Half the city is! There are many who prefer them as guards in any case,’ Pietro grumbled, half to himself. ‘Rich ladies who need protection will often have Muslims in
their employ.’
    ‘Not Christians?’ Baldwin said, shocked.
    ‘There was a woman some years ago, who inherited vast wealth when her husband died. She was kidnapped by a Christian nobleman who wanted to take her as his wife by force. When he heard
about this, the Sultan sent men to demand that she be freed. From that day on, she always had a guard of Muslims provided by him. Ironic, isn’t it? She felt endangered by the knights about
here, but was happy enough with a bunch of heathens to protect her!’
    ‘I must go to the Temple,’ Ivo said, a day or so later. ‘Will you join me?’ He eyed Baldwin critically.
    ‘Certainly!’ the young man cried, wiping his face with the trailing hem of his linen shirt. He had been exercising with his sword, and in the heat had worked up quite a sweat.
    ‘That shirt was once white, I presume?’ Ivo asked drily.
    Baldwin glanced down at it. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I mean it’s filthy. You should let the maid take it to be washed.’
    ‘I only have this one. Since the ship . . .’ He had no need to continue. When he had lost all his money and weapons, his bag too had been taken, with his spare shirt.
    ‘I should have thought,’ Ivo muttered. ‘We must buy some cloth for a new shirt. In the meantime,’ he added as they left by the front door a short while later, ‘I
have been summoned to meet with the Grand Master of the Templars. Sir Guillaume de Beaujeu is the most important man in the city, no matter what anyone says, so remain respectful.’
    The two set off, and soon walked under the gateway in the old city wall, on past the Hospital, and down towards the Temple.
    The streets here were bustling, with hawkers of all nations bellowing out their wares, men-at-arms striding about like minor barons, servants hurrying hither and thither – and beggars.
Beggars were everywhere you looked: old men pleading from the ground where their crippled legs kept them, urchins standing in the way, holding out their hands, eyes enormous with hunger as they
entreated all the passers-by, younger men with limbs broken or weakened by rickets, toothless youths with sores and skin diseases.
    It was the same in any street in Christendom, Baldwin knew: he had seen enough beggars in his time, and yet there was something especially poignant about these people of different races. Their
eyes seemed to scorch him with their demands, and he felt ashamed to walk past them.
    ‘You feel it too?’ Ivo asked quietly. ‘There was a time when I would ignore the poor, but here, I find it more difficult. There is shame in living here in the Holy Land and
doing nothing for these unfortunates.’
    Baldwin made no comment, but he felt their gazes on his back long after he had passed by.
    The Temple was a glorious fortress, and Baldwin looked up at it in wonder as he approached. Before him were the two towers of the Temple, with a pair of smaller towers flanking each. On top of
the lower ones stood a great gilded lion, as massive as an ox. In the sunshine, they were painful to look at, they gleamed so. They seemed statements of pride, power and wealth. His impression was
confirmed by Ivo a moment later.
    ‘You see those lions? They cost one thousand five hundred Saracen