But the men themselves had escaped, and, with the constant comings and goings at Ascalon, it was impossible to say who had been absent from the city-camp during the week in question. In the event, no one was arraigned. Isabella remained at Tyre, waiting to be reunited with Humphrey. At Ascalon, Richard summoned a second council of his barons – this to decide on the new King of Jerusalem.
Guy was now happy to relinquish the throne. He had managed to raise the money with which to purchase Cyprus from the Knights of the Temple. Their harsh military rule had made them unpopular on the island, and they were anxious to reassert themselves in Palestine. The documents were drawn up, the money paid into the Templar coffers, and a handclasp exchanged between King Guy and Grand Master Robert of Sablon. The men did not like each other, though they were aware that the deal was to their mutual advantage.
Amalric resigned his office as Constable of the Kingdom. Guy complained bitterly to Richard. ‘I don’t want him with me. Cyprus offers me fresh opportunities; I know I can prove myself there. I no longer need my brother to shade me from the sun. Keep him here with you, as a favour—
‘I cannot do that. But I’ll tell you what you should do.’
Guy listened, and followed his overlord’s advice. He sailed for Cyprus under cover of night. When Amalric learned of it, he went in pursuit. He was met on the harbour wall at Limassol and presented with a decree, the first Guy had signed as King of Cyprus. The decree stated that Amalric of Lusignan, one time Constable of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, was barred from the island and from the deck of any Cypriot vessel for all the days of his life. Amalric returned, expressionless, to Ascalon.
Humphrey, meanwhile, faced a bitter truth. He wanted Isabella, as he had always wanted her, to love and cherish, to live with in peace, today on the coast, someday in their castle at Toron. But he did not want the throne. He had maintained as much throughout the years of marriage; because his wife was a Princess of Jerusalem did not mean that he had to be king. Guy of Lusignan had been king because his wife was the Princess Sibylla. But Guy had been the wrong man for the job. For his part, Humphrey had no desire to wear the crown, then discover what he had long suspected, that he, too, was unsuited to the rigours of monarchy. He had little appetite for power, and none for self-aggrandisement. Toron was his, and would one day be his again, and it was enough.
Well, not quite enough. He wanted his wife back.
The results of the second council of barons showed that Isabella’s title came before any considerations of the heart. They held another vote. There were four candidates: Robert of Breteuil, Humphrey of Toron, Henry of Troyes and Balian of Ibelin. Of the sixty-nine votes cast – there were only two blank sheets this time – twelve went to Robert and twenty to Balian. Humphrey was awarded a miserable five votes, while Henry of Troyes amassed thirty-two. The Crusaders had found themselves a new king.
They wasted no time. The marriage and subsequent coronation were held at Acre on 5th May. By then the young princess had been without a husband for just eight days.
* * *
By mid-May Ascalon had been refortified, leaving King Richard free to contemplate a new offensive against the Saracens. He chose Gaza and Darum as his first targets and sent word to King Henry, requesting him to assemble the French Crusaders – many of whom were still at Acre – and bring them south without delay. Since Amalric had resigned from office, Balian and Humphrey were now the senior local barons. In this capacity, and as Richard’s supporters, they accompanied the king from Ascalon. The Crusaders were arrayed for battle for the first time since Christmas.
They covered twenty miles in two days. Gaza had been destroyed, though the small, solidly built fortress of Darum was still intact. The diminished Christian force pitched camp on the seaward side of the plain, while the leaders took stock of the situation.
‘The town will give us no trouble,’ Richard said. ‘It’s a morning’s work to fight our way through that. But the castle – the damned thing’s a perfect miniature.’
‘I sent my men around it when we first arrived,’ Balian told him. ‘My squire’s over there, drawing a plan of the place.’ He pointed to where Ernoul sat at a trestle table, with Fostus at his shoulder, growling instructions. The barons waited for the draughtsman to complete his work.
After a while Fostus grunted approval and Ernoul signed the drawing with a flourish of vanity and took it to his master. With professional dissatisfaction he complained, ‘I should have had more time. You know I can do better than this, my lord.’
‘It’ll do very well. Stay by to explain those points that defeat us.’
‘It was the largest sheet I could find. Normally—’
‘It’s sufficient.’
‘to show such detail, I’d employ a finer—’
‘I said it would do.’
‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘so long as it pleases you.’
Balian nodded, trying not to smile. He knew that if Richard, of any of them, had criticized the drawing, Ernoul would have defended every pen stroke. So again he said, ‘It does very well,’ and turned his attention to the plan.
The castle of Darum boasted seventeen towers. One was broader and higher than the rest, and surrounded by a deep, stone moat. Fostus was brought forward, and he explained that the main tower was protected on one side by a wall of flagstones, and on the other by a natural overhang of rock.
Richard studied the plan, compared it with the nearby castle and said, ‘We’ll have to mine it. If we can reduce the main tower, we’ll gain access to the others.’
Beside him, Robert of Breteuil turned towards the sea. ‘The ships should be here soon with the mangonels.’
As if waiting for the word, the Moslem garrison launched a barrage of rocks from their manjaniks, positioned along the walls. The Crusaders scattered without ceremony, and the camp was hastily re-pitched half a mile to the north.
The Frankish fleet arrived during the night, and by dawn the siege machines were being carried ashore, piece by piece. Richard worked alongside his men, sweating as he helped bring the beams and counterweights up from the beach and on to the open plain. As yet, there was no sign of King Henry and the French contingent, so the Crusaders concentrated on assembling and testing the mangonels. They were in action before noon, and the day was given over to the hiss of flying stones and the glare of naphtha. The catapulters were divided into shifts, so that the barrage could be laid down throughout the night.
Next day the miners went to work. They skirted the town and tunnelled into the base of the main tower, shoring the tunnel as they advanced. It was dangerous work, for they risked being drowned in the moat, crushed by rocks, or burned alive by bladders of Greek Fire. The mangonel duel continued. Any Frankish missiles that fell short crashed through the insubstantial town buildings; any Saracen missiles that overshot their mark bounced on among the Christian tents. Gradually, the slingers and crossbowmen drove the Moslem garrison from the embrasures, forcing them to crouch behind the sloping merlons, where they were blind to the Frankish tactics.
Each contingent singled out a tower and directed its efforts against it. As so often in battle, this aroused their competitive spirit, and the Normans attempted to outshine the Poitevins, the Pisans to eclipse the Genoese. During the afternoon, a well-aimed rock hit the centre of the castle gates. They collapsed inwards, and the Crusaders launched blazing pitch into the opening, to fire the splintered wood. A cheer rippled through the army, while the Normans and Genoese both claimed that the missile had come from their machine. For a while it seemed that they would be content to share the glory; but it was not the way of Normandy, nor of Genoa.
Hard-faced and unsmiling, the Norman contingent refused to fight on until they had been given sole credit for the shot.
In return, the Genoese announced that they were not there to be cheated. Their machine would stand idle until the Normans admitted their error.
The other contingents allied themselves with one claimant or the other, and the barra
ge thinned to nothing. The Saracens redoubled their own efforts, and re-established their defensive positions.
Richard had fought in too many battles to be surprised by such a display, but partisan behaviour never failed to enrage him. He had witnessed it in Europe and at Acre – Germans nursing a grievance against the French; Italians exhuming some long-borne grudge against the English. But Jambes de De, it was not going to happen here, not while he was in command!
He decided to deal first with his own men, and started towards the Norman contingent. Then he heard the distant shouts, and squinted in the direction of the castle. Smoke billowed from the base of the main tower. Following their usual practice, the miners had set fire to the beams that shored the tunnel. The flames would eat through the timbers, expand the surrounding stones and, if they had done their work well, bring down a section of the tower. But they did not wait to see; instead, they ran for their lives.
If the Frankish barrage had not faltered, most of the miners would have escaped unharmed. As it was, the Saracens were once again crouched in the embrasures of the walls, well positioned to pick off the fleeing soldiers.
Richard yelled, ‘You see what your pettiness costs us? Spring those machines, or by God I’ll come among you!’ He broke into a run, then slowed again as he saw the tower move.
It came down a section at a time, first the lower half, then the north-east corner, then the entire north face. The plain trembled. Soldiers braced themselves, or fell like straw dolls. Dust erupted, as from a volcano, smothering the tower. The few miners who had survived the hail of arrows emerged, cheering, from the dust cloud. The mangonels were wound down, loaded and released. Someone shouted, ‘God and the Sepulchre!’ The cry was taken up, as the stones hissed from their cups. The dust settled around the overhanging rock and around the cavity that had once been the tower. Richard allowed the barrage to continue for some time, then commanded the heralds to sound a general advance.
He congratulated the miners as they stumbled past.
One of them said, ‘I have mixed feelings about it, lord King. I’m close on sixty years of age—
‘Then I’m doubly proud of you.’
‘No, no, I tell you that because I was here twenty years ago. I was the senior stonemason at Darum. I helped build that tower. It was designed to last longer.’
* * *
It took the Crusaders two days to capture Darum. Sixty Saracens were killed in the tower-to-tower fighting, and three hundred taken prisoner. When it was over, the elderly stonemason led a group of soldiers down damp steps and along shoulder-wide passageways to the dungeons. The air shafts that opened in the roof were angled so that no daylight could enter the cells. The stench was unbearable, and the mason wept when he saw that the cruel design had been turned against his compatriots. There were more than forty Christian prisoners in the dungeons. These were victims of the defeat at Hattin, too poor to be worth an individual ransom, yet of some value, en bloc, if their suzerain could have been found and made to pay. But they had become forgotten men, and, after five years in the Stygian darkness, ruined men.
Rags were tied around their eyes, and cloaks draped over their heads to protect their leprous skin from the sun. Then they were assisted gently to the surface. As they stood trembling in the outer bailey of the castle, the Saracen captives filed past, their wrists bloody where the irate Crusaders had tightened the leather thongs.
Balian waited with Robert of Breteuil near a gap in the wall. They moved aside to let the Saracens out, and Balian said, ‘I hope King Richard will not give a repeat performance.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of cold-blooded murder, such as happened at Acre.’
Without conviction, Robert said, ‘He needed to establish himself then. But now, as undisputed leader of the army—‘
‘And that’s another question. Do we have an army? The French are still wherever they are, and we lose a hundred defectors every day.’
Robert kicked idly at a piece of broken flagstone. He glanced across at the tragic, swathed figures. Then, because he was powerless to help, he turned away from them.
‘You sound uncommonly low today, friend Balian.’
‘Yes and no, yes and no. Tell me, do you believe we will retake Jerusalem?’
‘You ask me? You are the one with the knowledge of this country. You have fought over it for, what, thirty years? It’s your opinion that’s required these days, not mine.’
‘Nevertheless—’
‘I do not know. Is that an answer?’
‘It’s the one I give myself,’ Balian mused, ‘though I do know that I’m afflicted by a deep weariness. I have lost all I hold precious: my castle, my lands, my stepdaughter, even, for all I see of her, my Lady Maria.’ He gazed down at the broken flags, then stooped and gathered up a chip of stone. ‘Do you know, I used to pray that we would regain Jerusalem at the point of a sword. I used to pray for that above all else.’
Robert frowned, ‘And no longer?’
‘Yes, it is still in my prayers, though I say openly, it is no longer uppermost. Now I ask God to write a treaty for us, one that will last beyond the drying of the ink. I have great admiration for your good sense, Robert, but I doubt if you know how many treaties have been made and broken since I first came out here. I cannot give you a figure, but—’ He paused, tossing the chip of stone in his hand.
Robert watched the last of the Saracen prisoners file past. He said, ‘But what?’
‘I could speak sense, and it would sound like treason.’
‘Speak it anyway. I can always become deaf.’
Balian smiled briefly. ‘It’s this. It takes several Christian elements to bring about such a treaty: the King of Jerusalem, his Regent, his Seneschal, his barons, the mass of the people. Yet we always find one man willing to break it. Always, as though we kept him by for the purpose. I believe that Sultan Saladin is sincere. He has never yet been known to break a treaty. On our side, we have yet to keep one. Why should that be?’
‘Such naïveté?’ Robert asked. ‘Surely not from you.’
‘No. I do know why. Because we do not truly understand what we are here to achieve. Oh, you may know, and I think I have some grasp of it. But for too many it means unearned lands, power such as they could never wield in France or England, the freedom from petty restrictions. Some act with honour, for the glory of God, and are intent on making this country safe for Christian pilgrims. But others, as I say, put themselves before the general good. It’s natural, and we have all done it, but these days we seem unable to stop.’ He laughed suddenly, mocking himself. ‘Perhaps I should stop. I sound insufferably pious. Yet, look around. This was our castle, built for the protection of our people. And now it is we who have reduced it to rubble. And that, really, is my heartfelt sadness, that we are only able to approach God through the smoking ruins of our achievements. We ask each other if we will retake Jerusalem. But the question is, must we destroy it, in order to return it to the Holy Family? The way we have gone so far, it seems we must.’
‘Before that,’ Robert said, ‘we must reach it.’
Balian nodded and let the stone chip fall, to be part of Darum again.
* * *
One month later the army, now joined by a handful of Frenchmen under the command of Hugh of Burgundy, advanced as far as Betenoble and Latrun. King Henry was still at Acre, attempting to raise more reinforcements.
On 23rd June, the leaders heard a rumour that Saladin had withdrawn his troops from Jerusalem, and Hugh pressed for an immediate advance on the capital. Richard organized the scanty force, dividing them into two sections. He would lead the first from Betenoble, while Hugh followed, via Latrun. The king’s troops were already moving into position when Hugh showed that he could be as partisan as any Norman or Genoese catapulter. Apprised of the simple order of march, he promptly refused to support Cœur-de-Lion.
‘For God’s sake, why not?’ Richard bellowed. ‘You’ve been goading me about this for days, and now is yo
ur chance. If, as we hear, the Saracens have departed, you will have the city by dusk.’
‘I? No, I won’t have it. You will see to that.’
‘Indeed?’
Hugh nodded. ‘While you take your men eastward, directly towards Jerusalem, I have to start in the opposite direction—’
‘I did not think,’ Richard snapped, ‘that I would need to give you lessons in strategy. But if I must, I must.’ He stabbed a finger at the road that led east from Betenoble. ‘It is a very narrow way to Jerusalem, my lord Duke, and, understrength though we are, we amount to more than a packhorse and a cartload of kindling. We would make very slow progress, bunched together on one road. So I have decided that we will pitchfork, one prong from here and one from Latrun.’
Hugh wagged his mailed hand. ‘Dress it up as you will, you will be there ahead of us. Or will you wait here until I have passed through Latrun and drawn level on the other road?’
‘I most assuredly will not.’
‘As I thought.’
‘You clamoured for this move on Jerusalem, but I give the directions.’
‘All you’ve done is to direct us to the rear, where we will gain no glory and arrive to find your banners on the walls. Either we ride together, sharing the risks and the rewards—‘
‘What, like bunched onions on a pole?’
The Kings of Vain Intent Page 21