Lionheart moe-4

by Stewart Binns

  When the horns sounded, we were at the crest of a ridge above the valley where the Mamluk column was encamped. Some of their fires were still burning – primarily the braziers of the perimeter guards – so we had something to aim for. By then, our approach had been heard and, as our gallop began, the fires were extinguished. We had no other guide except Fauvel, who carried the Lionheart five yards ahead of us. We may as well have closed our eyes as there was nothing to see except Fauvel’s tail. It must have been much worse for the Duke of Burgundy and his men, who not only had to cope with the gloom but also to ride through a murk spiked with blinding dust.

  Nevertheless, we soon breached the perimeter of the Muslim camp. Dawn’s half-light now gave us shadows to aim for, all of which were scattering in different directions, desperate to find their horses and weapons, or a place to hide. It was carnage. Our cavalry consisted of disciplined phalanxes of men and horses, armed with swords and lances, formed up in compact multitudes, while the Mamluks were a haphazard rabble of largely unarmed men, easy targets for our experienced warriors.

  As always, I stayed close to the King, watching his back as best I could. There was rarely a need as he slashed and chopped his way through our hapless opponents. The light was improving rapidly and as I looked around I could see the mass slaughter of a one-sided battle. Men on the ground running helplessly for their lives made easy targets for mounted warriors who were murderously adept at killing from horseback. Heads rolled, severed from necks with a single blow, and shoulders were cleaved down to men’s ribcages. Lances impaled torsos, spilling innards over the ground, and blood splashed everywhere, covering men and horses until they were glistening in crimson.

  The Lionheart never looked back. We knew that we were required to keep pace with him, and he knew that he could rely on us – such was the bond of trust between us. After what seemed like an eternity of death and destruction, we reached the end of the Muslim camp. The King reeled his horse round and led us on another rampage through the bedraggled remnants of our opponents. This was not a day to show mercy, and none was given.

  The half-light offered some respite for the defenders, giving a few the opportunity to ride away, but for most, there was no escape. When we had finished our assault we regrouped to ride back and survey the results of our work. Bodies were strewn across a large area, almost all of them Mamluk. Many had been cut down by sword and lance, but many more had been killed or maimed under the hooves of our horses. At least half the Mamluk column appeared to have fallen.

  But its baggage train was intact, as were most of its corrals of horses and camels. We acquired hundreds of each, and more than 150 carts of weapons, armour, tents, spices, herbs, clothing and medicines, as well as several surprisingly large chests of gold and silver. It was a major windfall, of which the Lionheart shared a more than generous proportion with Hugh of Burgundy and his French contingent.

  When we returned to the bulk of the army there were celebrations in the camp at the news of the Mamluk gold and silver and the other booty, which usually meant a bonus for the men. The cooks began a feast of stewed lamb to make use of the bonanza of the requisitioned Muslim condiments.

  We all felt that the fall of Jerusalem was now a foregone conclusion.

  However, over the next few days, the mood changed.

  The first setback was the news that, commanded by Saphadin, hundreds of Muslim reinforcements were on their way from east of the Euphrates and beyond. Then came a series of reports from our scouts which, added together, gave the King a logistical dilemma. Saladin had issued orders, over a wide arc around the Holy City, that every water cistern (most of which had been created by the sappers of previous Latin Kings of Jerusalem) be poisoned and every well filled in. Not only was this critical for the men, but also for the horses. It was a stark fact that made it even more pressing that we launch our attack on the city, as it contained our only available source of water, apart from the modest supply that we carried.

  The Lionheart called for a tally of our stocks of water and then consulted his astrolabe. His calculations presented a clear picture.

  ‘We must have the city in our hands and, most importantly, its wells available for our use by 30th June. Assuming that we can take the city within three days, this gives the men from Jaffa just two days to get here.’

  The King jumped to his feet.

  ‘Ranulf, send a squadron of hand-picked men to meet the column. They must tell Robert Thornham and Henry to come on with all speed.’

  Early the next morning, while the King was enjoying breakfast, the squadron returned at a gallop, but with Robert Thornham at its head. He had ridden most of the night. The Lionheart was delighted, because it meant the column of reinforcements was nearby. The two men embraced, with the King beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘Robert, tell me the good news. How many men?’

  Thornham stepped away, looking forlorn.

  ‘From Europe some Danes and Norse; men of the Low Countries; some Germans from various principalities; a few Iberians; and a large contingent from your realm.’

  The King could sense bad news.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Fifteen hundred knights, and three hundred sergeants and men-at-arms.’

  ‘Burgundians? Franks?’

  ‘A handful of each, against King Philip’s wishes.’

  ‘The scheming bastard! I wish I could get my hands on him. And Henry’s men?’

  ‘Not many; eighty or so knights, and two hundred men. There are some weapons and armour and some silver, but it’s a meagre offering.’

  The King cursed like a lowly soldier, a tirade that went on for a couple of minutes. The gist of it was his fury at the size of the European contingent. Thornham offered an explanation, but it did little for the Lionheart’s humour.

  ‘The English and Norman knights will tell you that both your brother, John, and King Philip Augustus are actively discouraging men from answering your call and that, indeed, they are openly plotting against you. The Germans and others are still committed, but since the death of Frederick Barbarossa they don’t have a strong leader.’

  ‘I can’t believe Henry can only muster eighty knights to regain a kingdom! Is that all?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Richard. I’m sorry.’

  ‘We can’t take Jerusalem with two hundred and fifty knights, and five hundred men. I need twice that number of knights, and another five thousand men!’

  The Lionheart then bellowed at his groom to get Fauvel saddled. Within minutes, he had ridden out of the camp, still in a fury.

  I immediately summoned a squadron of his personal conroi and rode after him. It did not take long to find him; he was on Montjoie, staring out at Jerusalem.

  I approached him with some trepidation, but he had become melancholy rather than angry.

  ‘Take a last look, Ranulf. I doubt that we will ever see it again. Our time in Palestine is over, there is nothing more I can do. Even if we could take the city – and that would need a miracle from God – how could we hold it? If I stayed and imposed stability, where would our resources come from? John would seize England, and Philip Augustus would invade Normandy, Maine, Angers… there would be no one to stop him.’

  ‘Sire, you would have to leave the Holy Land to defend the Empire.’

  ‘Of course I would. But how is Henry going to defend Jerusalem against Saladin? With only eighty knights!’

  ‘There are the Templars and Hospitallers, my Lord.’

  ‘Still not enough. Jerusalem has gone, we must accept that.’

  ‘Sire, Saladin will not live for ever.’

  ‘I know, but the notion of the invincibility of the Latin knight in the minds of the Muslims has gone. Others will follow Saladin. He’s a great warrior and a chivalrous man, but there will be others.’

  ‘But what of the rest of the Holy Land, my Lord?’

  ‘The Christian lords can hold the coast. The land is fertile; if they have enough to pay the Pisans, Venetians and Genoese to
supply them, they can prosper. Besides, those cities mean less to the Muslims, so there is a compromise to be struck with them.’

  ‘What will you do, my Lord?’

  ‘When we’re sure the coast is secure, we go home. I fear there will be many battles to fight there. Will you help me?’

  I gave my answer without hesitation.

  ‘Always, sire.’

  25. Battle of Jaffa

  We began our withdrawal from Jerusalem on 4 July 1192. Our column was not harassed by Saladin’s men, and we made rapid progress to the coast at Jaffa. By then, disappointment had turned to resignation within the ranks. Men started to think of home, and although there was bitter resentment at the attitude of King Philip and Prince John, the actions of fickle kings and princes had long since failed to surprise them.

  Many of the men not directly loyal to the Lionheart started to disperse when we arrived in Jaffa, and he began to plan to send his own contingent home by sea from Acre. It took us less than three weeks to reach Acre, where we arrived on 22 July. The mood was sombre, both within our own ranks and among the citizens, but at least the Lionheart took some respite from his military responsibilities in being reunited with Bérengère and Queen Joan.

  To add more misery to the Lionheart’s gloom, urgent messages began to arrive in Acre within days. First came the news that Saladin’s reinforcements had arrived in Jerusalem, numbering many thousands of eastern Muslims from Persia and the distant realms beyond it. This information did offer some comfort, in that it confirmed that the King had been right to withdraw from an attack on Jerusalem. But there was nothing positive in the despatch that followed.

  On 28 July, a huge Muslim army had launched an attack on Jaffa, with siege engines and assault troops. Although the citadel had been newly rebuilt to the King’s design and was formidable, the garrison was not large and would not be able to hold out for long. The King sprang into action; he summoned the Grand Quintet and the rest of the Christian commanders.

  Once again, he was in his element, preparing and moving armies for war. And at his best, fighting them.

  ‘Gentlemen, I will crowd as many men on to the ships at anchor here in Acre as I can, and I will lead them in an attack from the beach at Jaffa to try to stall the Muslim siege. We must not lose the city; it would cut our coastal kingdom in two, and give Saladin a route to the sea. I will take my lords: William, Robert and Baldwin, and Sir Ranulf. Henry of Jerusalem will lead the rest of the army along the coast with the Templars and Hospitallers. Mercadier and Blondel will stay here in Acre to stiffen our defences should Saladin mount an attack in the north.’

  It was left to Robert de Sable, Master of the Templars, to query the obvious omission at our gathering.

  ‘What of the Duke of Burgundy, and the French?’

  ‘He came to see me last night. He has refused to join us and is returning home. He has been summoned to Paris by King Philip.’

  William Marshal was puce with anger.

  ‘But you gave him almost a third of the spoils from the Mamluks in the desert.’

  The Lionheart smiled sardonically.

  ‘That’s the French for you. But worry not, I will have my day with him, and with Philip Augustus. If not here, then in Europe.’

  Despite adverse winds, our Pisan and Genoese ships transported us down the coast to Jaffa with remarkable speed. We had our first sight of the city at dawn on 1 August. It presented a worrying scene; there were numerous fires in the city and, as the light improved, we could see Muslim standards flying from the buildings. It seemed that we were too late.

  The King ran to the prow of the boat and peered towards the shore.

  ‘The citadel holds! There is no green flag on its pole, it flies the Three Lions. Prepare for a landing!’

  Amidst the smoke from the many fires, it was difficult to see if the Lionheart was right, but few would dispute his notoriously keen eyesight. Then a courageous soul came into view. He was a Breton sergeant who had been lowered down the wall of the citadel, and had then swum out to us.

  He was exhausted when we hauled him aboard, but he brought good news, if tinged with sadness. The Muslim catapults had breached the walls of the city, which had been burned and looted. Many inhabitants had been killed, but the citadel had held – just.

  The King repeated his order to make a landing, and our captains turned our ships towards the shore. Our blood-red sails, the Lionheart’s distinctive colour, billowed in a strong westerly wind from the far Mediterranean, and the ships lurched violently towards the shore. Once again, our arbalests were invaluable in covering our disembarkation and protecting our men against the Muslim archers. The ships could only approach to a point about fifty feet from the beach, for fear of running aground, which meant that we had to wade through deep water to make it to dry land.

  The Lionheart shouted his commands as loudly as possible.

  ‘Take off your maille; let’s get ashore before the Muslims can form a line of defence.’

  We helped one another pull off our hauberks and, within moments, the King was the first into the water, only pausing to help me get to my feet – something that was not easy with only one arm. He was also the first to put his feet on dry land. The rising sun from the east was in our faces and I could see him only in silhouette, running like a deer. The bright early-morning sun picked us out against the horizon, making us easy targets.

  I looked around and saw men coming ashore in considerable numbers. William Marshal was nearby, with several Templars to my left and Hospitallers to my right. It was a comforting sight to see so many seasoned warriors, but our ranks were paying a heavy price from Muslim missiles – especially without our maille hauberks. As I watched the Lionheart ahead of me, oblivious to the arrows and javelins that flew all around him, I thought again of the Archangel Michael. Perhaps the lore was true; maybe he was God’s warrior, immune from the weapons of mortal men.

  Marshal and I called out to everyone to form a vanguard behind the King. By the time he reached the first Muslim defenders, we had formed a solid wedge of men behind him. Then the crash of clashing blades began, a sound that soon spread along the beach. The fighting was fierce – hand-to-hand at close quarters – but it was an exhilarating running battle, at a furious pace.

  The Lionheart, with never any hint of fatigue, kept shouting to us and encouraging the men.

  ‘Keep moving!… Don’t let them form up!… Don’t stop!… Keep them on the run!’

  For the first time, my fabricated arm and modified shield were given a severe test, the worst part of which was the strain on my upper arm from repeated blows to my shield. I was under much more pressure than I had ever experienced before, and I found it difficult to keep up with the King. I missed Godric and the men; they would have got me through this.

  Suddenly, I was confronted by three Muslim infantrymen, one of whom was a giant of a man. Their blows made me falter, then step backwards. I fell to my knees as the giant hit my shield with an almighty blow. The Lionheart saw me stumble and immediately came to my aid, bringing William Marshal with him. My attackers fled as soon as they saw our own pair of giants bearing down on them.

  Marshal helped me to my feet, and the King shouted, ‘Stay close, get in behind me!’ before he tore off again into the fray.

  It was, of course, paradoxical that I should need the King’s help. Once I had been his guardian; now he was having to protect me.

  After a few minutes, the tide of the encounter began to turn in our favour. Cutting through the melee, we could hear a repeated cry of alarm ahead of us.

  ‘Melek-Ric!’, ‘Melek-Ric!’

  Even though our force was vastly outnumbered, the enemy were fleeing in front of us in droves, the panic spreading through them like a plague of fear. Once again, the Lionheart’s valour and his legendary reputation had created havoc in the enemy ranks. The entire Muslim army began to retreat, granting us an opportunity to enter the streets of the burning city. We could see Saladin on his grey mount in t
he far distance, trying to turn his men, but to no avail. It was the only time we ever cast eyes on the revered Sultan.

  The King called out to Marshal, ‘Get the gates of the citadel open! Bring some pitch and plenty of flame; we must destroy the Muslim catapults.’

  Baldwin and Robert had joined us. With a group of Templars, the King led us off to seize the Muslim ballista. There was little resistance, and Marshal arrived several minutes later with the materials needed to incinerate Saladin’s siege towers and mangonels.

  Against overwhelming odds, another remarkable victory had been achieved.

  A triumphant procession into the citadel followed, where hundreds of citizens, packed in tightly with the garrison, had sought safety. People cheered from every vantage point and hollered in several languages, but they all meant the same thing.

  ‘Praise the Conquering Hero!’

  Some fell at the Lionheart’s feet, and women rushed to kiss his hand. Children were held up high to see Richard, ‘Coeur de Lion’, who had rushed from Acre to save them – just as everyone had prayed he would.

  He was a living Alexander, Arthur or Alfred. No one doubted it.

  But there was still more to be done. Just as we began to relax and rest on our laurels, the King summoned us all together.

  ‘Gentlemen, you remember what we achieved at Ascalon. Working parties are to be ready at first light tomorrow. We will begin repairing the city’s walls; everyone works, no concessions. When the main army arrives, put them to work too.’

  As ordered, work started on Jaffa’s walls in earnest early next morning. As it did so, the Lionheart, already in the garb of an artisan, sent for me.

  ‘Is Benoît of Geneva with us?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Tell him to contact Saphadin’s man… what is his name?’

  ‘Abu Bekr.’

  ‘Yes, tell him I would like to talk to Emir Saphadin about the situation at Jaffa.’