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Marshal pointed out.
    ‘We have messengers riding to the Pope and all Christian kings,’ the Grand Master said, and drained his cup, adding more quietly, ‘But whether they can help, I doubt me. We
lost too many at Tripoli.’
    Walking from the Temple’s gates and out into the bright sunlight, Ivo was content to know that there would be more work for him. The weight of the coins in his purse was a comfort. There
was a truth and honesty in money – and money bought wine and forgetfulness.
    He kept on towards the cathedral. The Patriarch of Jerusalem had based himself here since the capture of his city. Ivo had a notion to go there and pray for his wife and son. When he had visited
the ruins of Tripoli, he could not find their bodies among the piles of skeletal remains to bury them. He just hoped their deaths had been swift.

CHAPTER SIX
    The moment of stillness was all too fleeting. Baldwin turned, but behind him he heard a bellow from the Genoese, and two more shipmen set off in pursuit.
    There was one alley, which Baldwin might reach. He bolted for it, his boots slapping on the paved square, panting already with the exertion. The heat was not oppressive, but the humidity was,
and he felt the sweat bursting out all over his back, under his arms, across his chest. He would give anything for a long draught of water from the stream at Furnshill. Just the memory of that
chill, refreshing liquid was a torment. He slipped at a corner, and pelted up a second passage, narrower than the first. With no idea where he was heading, he simply kept running, his feet beating
a regular tattoo.
    In the shade of the alleys, he ran at full tilt, surging past traders, women, urchins and hawkers of all types. One man he butted into lost all his goods from a wicker basket, and hurled abuse
after Baldwin as he raced off again, his wound pounding with each step, his head feeling that it must burst.
    There was a roaring in his ears, and the hot air scalded his throat. He was using muscles that had grown moribund during his long sea-passage and did not know if he could keep running. Pain
reached along the top of his thighs, and when he turned a corner and glanced back, he saw that the men were catching up. Gritting his teeth, he pounded onwards.
    After another thirty yards he found himself in broad daylight in a wider thoroughfare. Ahead he saw a mass of people and was deafened by their cacophony: shouting voices, rattles and squeaks,
the thunder of cartwheels and hooves. A glance behind showed his pursuers within a matter of yards, and he continued at a breakneck speed, hoping to lose them. Each breath was painful, not helped
by the dust and sand in the air. Twenty yards, fifteen, and he had to leap over a boy who scrabbled in the dirt and yelped as he passed, and then he was in the street. He joined the throng, making
his way past carts and donkeys, until he was in the midst of the people, and there suddenly caught sight of the magnificent church of St Anna’s.
    With a quick glance behind him that showed his pursuers were out of sight, he hurried on towards the cathedral.
    A man stood in front of him. It was the Genoese.
    He gripped his long knife, grinning, and called to his friends. Baldwin unthinkingly put his hand to his scabbard, only to remember that his sword had been taken along with his purse and his
ring.
    The knife moved from side to side like a serpent, and Baldwin could only stare in horrified fascination. He dared not look behind for the other men.
    There was a shout as a stall-holder saw the flash of the blade, and men called to each other in some foreign tongue. The Genoese snarled something, and Baldwin had just steeled himself to try to
wrest the knife from his hands, when he heard a gentle cough.
    ‘Master Baldwin, I see you have some difficulty. May I help?’
    Baldwin threw an agonised glance over his shoulder to see the white-clad knight again. Jacques d’Ivry’s eyes held a menacing gleam. His thin features