The Spymaster's Protection

by S A Monk

  Lucien spurred his piebald Arabian forward to ride with Count Raymond. He turned to look behind him. God’s Christian warriors stretched as far back as the eye could see and cut a wide swath of nearly a league across the flatland. Banners waved and dust rose up to envelope all. Overhead, the sun was climbing to its zenith, promising a grueling ordeal ahead. Turning back around, the ex-Templar pulled the crescent pendant from its nest next to his skin and offered a silent prayer that God would show him mercy this day and keep death at bay. Then he added one for Gabrielle’s safety.

  They were not more than an hour on the road when small mobile detachments from Saladin’s light cavalry began to harass their flanks with deadly volleys of arrows. Swift and agile, the infidel’s desert ponies carried them in for their lethal assaults, then carried them away again, unharmed.

  Like never-ending swarms they came, relentless in their attacks, hitting the Templar contingent in the rear especially hard, shooting their arrows into the foot soldiers and the mounted knights. Bodies of men and horses began to fall, impeding progress, just as Saladin had no doubt intended. But the army, the military orders included, did not pursue the villains. The king had given the order not to break ranks.

  So they endured, frustrated, hot, and growing increasingly thirsty.

  By mid-morning, they reached Tur’an. Saladin was waiting for them with a large portion of his main force. Lucien quickly estimated that he must have left a smaller number of men at Tiberius, then rushed to Tur’an to prevent the Christian army from reaching the spring. From the start, he suspected the sultan of having three primary strategies; draw the Christian army out of defensive positions, make them fight out in the open in the heat without water, and choose the location where they would fight that would ensure victory for Mohammed’s faithful.

  The man was brilliant, and the Christians had come like lambs to the slaughter. God’s bones! The terrain they were heading into, the Horns of Hattin, was a rugged, uphill march, surrounded on either side by roughly wooded terrain, steep ravines, and blind cornered hilltops. The enemy had all the advantages, particularly control of the springs, and most likely, the route to Lake Tiberius.

  Lucien’s feeling of ominous inevitability plagued him like an unshakeable ague.

  At Tur’an some of the troops on the left flank, in Count Raymond’s division, were able to refill water gourds and skins at the spring, but most were too busy fending off Saladin’s assaults. Lucien was lucky enough to be one of the men who had the opportunity to re-supply his water. But as soon as Raymond’s troops left the spring, Saladin’s came rushing in to close off the source of water to the remainder of the Christian army. Moral began to decline once men knew they had been denied what could have been their last opportunity for water.

  With the count on the left side of King Guy’s forces, Lucien made several attempts to scout around the Muslim formations, but each time, he and his small band of men were driven back. To their right, the Christian army was being enclosed in an ever tightening net as the infidel began to surround them.

  They made an attempt to move across Saladin’s front at the king’s order, but the ruthless battering by the enemy’s mounted archers, combined with the heat and the dust and the lack of water prevented the Christians from pushing back the infidel in order to gain access to the springs. The throbbing Muslim drums began to play on everyone’s nerves, and a growing loss of horses, struck down by arrows, hampered any attempt to take the offensive.

  By noon, the rearguard had halted. King Guy was advised that the harassed Templars and Hospitallers could go no further. De Ridefort demanded that they all halt where they were and make camp for the night. Count Raymond and Lucien rode to the king and advised him to press on; to fight their way to the next spring, four miles away. It was a change in direction, but it would allow them to reach water by the day’s end and possibly push on tomorrow to the life-giving waters of Lake Tiberius.

  The Christians were now spread out over a fairly level plain, and yet condensed into an area about a third of a league across. Wooded slopes and two small villages flanked the wide dirt road in the distance. The Horns of Hattin, with its twin rounded peaks, were clearly visible to the mounted soldiers, and if one rose up in his stirrups, the waters of Lake Tiberius were a tiny blue reflection to the right of them.

  Agreeing with the count and Lucien, King Guy decided in favor of changing direction and heading for Hattin. The turning of thousands of men and horses resulted in mass confusion. Lucien looked toward one of the hills to the south where Saladin sat atop his horse. From his position, he had a clear view of the disorder that began to occur within the Christian ranks. To him, it must have appeared as if the three divisions of King Guy’s troops each had their own agenda. As soon as it became clear that at least one, if not two, divisions were going to try to head upward toward the Horns, Saladin sent his nephew, Taqi al Din, with a large contingent of Arab troops, into the path of the Christians.

  Being in the forefront, Count Raymond’s division was closest to the road that led up the hill. The king ordered the baron to race to the top and prevent al Din from reaching it. Lucien rode at Raymond’s side, pushing his horse as fast as the animal would go. At last, they were going to fully engage the enemy and possibly take the offensive! The anticipation of finally doing something positive spurred him and his horse up the rise.

  Speed was urged. The infantry could not keep pace with the cavalry as the horses charged up the hill to reach its crest first, but they were running behind them nevertheless. To Lucien’s dismay, Taqi al Din and his troops reached the plateau just ahead of the count’s cavalry. A skirmish ensued. The clash of swords raged on for a long while, and Lucien took many infidel lives, but they never managed to punch a hole through the Arab division.

  Below them, the main force of the Christian army and the Templar rearguard were battling Saladin’s two other divisions. Repeated charges by the military orders failed to drive their tormentors away.

  Beside Lucien, Count Raymond swung around and looked below also. The sight that met his eyes was grim. The Christian army numbered ten thousand foot soldiers, near two thousand light cavalry, and near as many mounted knights, and yet it was as if an infant were trying to push back against a giant. “Dear God! The war is over here and now. Look at that! We are betrayed unto death. The land is lost!”

  All of the men around Raymond heard their commander’s hopeless assessment. His despair was followed by an order to retreat back down the hill to give aid to the king. By the time they reached him, Saladin had withdrawn his divisions, but only as far as the surrounding hills. Since the daylight was waning, it was generally agreed by everyone at that point to make camp for the night.

  Tents were assembled for the barons and the commanders, but the majority of the troops chose to sleep in the open, hoping that the cool breezes of evening would relieve some of their suffering. Until darkness fell completely, small groups of Saracens harassed the outer perimeters of the camp. Christian soldiers began to break away in sporadic attempts to search for water. They were killed immediately, effectively stopping the defections for the time being.

  Once night fell completely, Lucien used its black mantle to take a few men out to scout along the forward lines.

  He discovered the enemy was close enough for their sentries to talk to one another, if they so chose. It was crazy, this proximity; this halt that left them surrounded on nearly three sides by the enemy.

  The morrow did not bode well. They had been unable to punch through enemy lines today. What made the commanders think they could tomorrow? The sultan’s three divisions numbered over thirty thousand men. The Saracens had an advantage of more than ten thousand men, some even whispered a ten to one advantage, though Lucien did not estimate it to be that large. And they had water.

  The Christian army was nearly gasping for lack of it as they lay under the stars, listening to the throbbing of the Muslin drums and the singing of their troops. Lucien, himself, had only a
precious half of a canteen left after sharing what he dared with his brave and loyal group of Frank and native scouts hidden in the bushes. He had more back at camp due to the fact that he had been one of the fortunate men to refill his canteen and gourd at the last waterhole before it had been shut down by Saladin’s troops. But he needed to use it as sparingly as he could because he did not think there would be any more access to water unless some by some miracle they managed to prevail against the massive forces of the infidel.

  Around midnight, he encountered his friend, Conrad, belly down, dangerously near the very edges of Saladin’s encampment. The sultan’s yellow silk pavilion was only a stone’s throw away from their position in a thicket of dry brush. Through silent hand signals, they agreed to draw back to an outcropping of rock that would conceal their bodies and their voices so they could exchange information.

  With his mail clad back pressed to a large boulder, Brother Conrad pointed to the far side of the sultan’s camp. “Saladin has moved the rest of his troops from Cafarsset. He brought camels loaded with arrows for the morrow.”

  “Aye, my men and I have counted nearly three score of the beasts so far. His infantry is in full force now,” Lucien replied, his voice pitched to a whisper.

  “Your estimate of his troop size?” his Templar friend asked.

  “Thirty to thirty-five thousand.”

  “That is close to mine, as well, although I would not be surprised to discover there were twice that many.” Conrad pulled out a flask of water and offered his old friend a drink.

  “Keep it. I have some.”

  “The poor bastards down the hill, our brethren included, will die of thirst tomorrow if we do not reach the springs at Hattin or the lake.”

  Lucien agreed with a grim nod. “We could end up losing as many men to dehydration as to Saracen arrows.”

  “The sultan also has a steady stream of camels carrying water up from the lake,” Conrad told him, tightly capping his water skin.

  Lucien had seen the same thing. “It is being emptied into large reservoirs dug in the center of each division.” With his back against the rock wall, he raked his fingers through his hair, molding it to his head with the sweat at his hairline. “God’s blood, Conrad, this is madness! It will take a miracle to see us through this.”

  “The Temple has taken a bloody beating at the rear. The Hospitallers as well. I do believe Saladin intends to wipe us, in particular, from the face of this land.”

  “He believes that the Franks would not have lasted half as long in Outremer if it were not for the military orders. It is a compliment and a curse, is it not, brother, to be both hated and admired?”

  “We are not so easy to defeat,” Conrad added.

  “Thank you for your support at the council at Sephorie,” Lucien finally had a chance to say.

  “No one should call you traitor. You have fought bravely and loyally for the kingdom for over a decade.” Conrad was quiet for several moments, then asked, “How is Lady de Châtillon?”

  “Someone has convinced the Assassins to leave her alone. She is in Jerusalem with the queen.” Lucien stared at his friend and smiled, his teeth a white slash against his dark skin; skin made even darker by the night. “I intend to marry her as soon as her annulment is granted.”

  “I am happy for you, Lucien. She is a good woman. Even the few times I was in her company, I could see that.”

  “She is my life now, Conrad.” Though, it was hidden beneath his gambeson, Lucien lifted his hand to where her pendant lay against his skin.

  “Then I wish you life tomorrow, Lucien. I shall pray devotedly for that before the battle.”

  “And though I will not be allowed to fight at your back, my brother, I will do what I can to watch out for it tomorrow.”

  “Go with God, Lucien.”

  “And you, Brother.”

  They parted soon after, each going in the direction of their own camps.

  On the way back to Raymond’s division, camped to the left of the king’s, Lucien began to smell smoke. He turned to look over his shoulder, and was appalled to see that the Muslims were building fires all along their sentry positions. They smelled of dry native grass and brush. The smoke created was thick and acrid, the kind that came from burning tinder dry thistles. The breeze was blowing in such a direction as to send it directly into the Christian encampment.

  When Lucien walked into the camp, he immediately heard and saw the misery the burning brush caused. There was much choking and coughing, and it hindered the sleep the fighting men needed. With this new harassment, the Christians were going to be even more hampered by morning.

  At the edge of Raymond’s camp, distracted by the sounds of the suffering troops, he was suddenly tackled from behind. He went down under a heavy weight, cursing his breach of personal vigilance.

  The scarf he had tied over his nose to filter the heavy smoke was yanked down, as he was thrown onto his back. No sooner had he recognized his assailant as Reynald de Châtillon than he felt the sharp edge of a knife at his throat.

  “Are you going to kill me here and now, Reynald?” Lucien taunted as he reached for the dagger strapped to his thigh. “You will be accused of murder this close to Raymond’s camp.”

  The two of them were concealed in the smoke covering the ground and several dozen feet from the nearest sentry, out in the open, but not visible.

  “No one can see us, and an infidel scout could just have well ended your life here, Reynald snarled.”

  Lucien managed to bring his short blade up to the baron’s temple, the sharp point a thread away from breaking skin. “Then you will die with me. Who will be faster? Can you slit my throat faster than I can jam this into you skull?”

  “Bastard half-breed!”

  “Wife beater! Child killer!”

  “Ahh!” Reynald smiled cynically. “I see the bitch has told you all her sad tales.”

  Lucien felt the press of Reynald’s blade against his skin. The tip of his own drew blood, which trickled down the side of the knight’s heavily bearded face. “Whoreson! I would enjoy killing you for any one of them.”

  “It seems we are at an impasse, then, infidel dog.”

  Lucien had had enough. Reynald was a heavier man, but not as tall or as young. Lucien brought his forearm up, wedged a space between himself and Gabrielle’s husband, then rocked his body upwards and threw the knight’s weight off of him and jumped nimbly to his feet.

  Reynald rose more slowly and faced him, still gripping his long thin blade. “You can have my spoils, renegade monk. The little chit was never worth much once I gained Oultrejourdan. She wasn’t any good in bed, and she is more mad than sane.”

  “And I have no doubt you will personally face Saladin’s wrath tomorrow. He will be a hundred times less merciful than I, de Châtillon. Prepare your black soul tonight.”

  Despite the fact that Lucien would have loved to walk away, he dared not turn his back on Gabrielle’s husband, so he waited until the man stepped backwards and disappeared into the smoke before he finally made his way wearily to his pallet in Raymond’s tent, wishing the whole way that he had foresworn his conscience and killed Reynald de Châtillon.

  CHAPTER 22

  The Christian army was roused from whatever fitful sleep they had been able to find before dawn the next morning. The insistent prodding of their commanders called them to rise to a quick meal of dried beef and drier biscuits, but no water. As a result, few ate. Most were already arrayed in their body armor, whether it was padded cowhide and leather, or chain mail and steel plate.

  The fact that the sun had not risen yet was a blessing, but all knew the cooler night air would not last long in the face of a sun that would soon rise with blisteringly hot intensity. Throughout the three divisions, priests who had marched with the troops went about saying masses, hearing quick confessions, and offering pater nosters.

  Lucien found a secluded spot and kneeled to pray.

  “Dear Lord,” he began, his head
bowed. “For all the trespasses that I have committed and are about to commit, forgive me. For all the lives I must take, grant me your mercy. For the woman I love, keep her safe from all harm. For myself, I beg life at the end of this battle. Let me see her again, and return to make her my wife. Give strength and protection to all of my brethren this day. Almighty Father, in your name, I give my humble service. Amen.”

  Pushing to his feet, he went back into Raymond’s tent to finish arming himself. He emerged covered in chain mail, head to foot, with his flat-topped helm held under one arm. On his hip, he carried one sword, with another strapped to his back. In addition, he carried three long daggers, one in his boot, one tied to his thigh, one in the back of his leather belt.

  His horse stood nearby, munching on dry grass. Lucien saddled him, then equipped him with his lance, his axe, and his kite-shaped iron shield. They were both as ready for battle as they could be. Lastly, he slipped the meager remainder of his water over his saddle pommel. God knew, it was precious little to last the long hot day ahead!

  As he walked his horse to the briefing King Guy was conducting at his tent in the center of the camp, he touched his heart. Gabrielle’s pendant lay over it, inside his padded hauberk. God forgive him, but at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to ride away from here, directly back to Jerusalem and her arms! He’d never been so reluctant to go into battle. He, who had earned a reputation on the field of battle for his skill and ferocity, wanted nothing to do with fighting, not today, maybe never again.

  The portents for this battle ending well were nonexistent. The army was in the middle of a two day march, miles away from Tiberius or the lake. They had no water for either men or horses. They had slept little, and the cursed fires were still burning this morning. On top of that, they were cut off from going backwards to either Tur’an or Sephorie, and the enemy was positioned all around them with greater numbers and unlimited access to water.