The Land Beyond the Sea

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I do not know how you do it, my lord,” Rolf confessed. “Just the sound of your voice can settle him down. Has anyone but you ever dared to ride him?”

  “Actually, the king once did. My brother foolishly said in his hearing that I was the only one who could ride Demon. Baldwin was just thirteen, but none of us could talk him out of trying. They took off as if launched from a crossbow and by the time they came back, Baldwin was grinning from ear to ear and Demon was as well behaved as my palfrey, Smoke. Of course, that did not last long.” Balian smiled, giving Demon a fond buffet when the stallion tried to mouth the sleeve of his hauberk.

  It was a welcome memory of a more innocent time, but the pleasure Balian took in it soon soured, for he could not help comparing that carefree boy king with the Baldwin of today, a leper facing Armageddon. That was so troubling a thought that he at once tried to disavow it. To concede defeat already was the same as saying the Almighty had forsaken them in their time of greatest need.

  As he glanced around, he saw that the other men were watching him, awaiting his will. He was not yet accustomed to his new status, and had to remind himself occasionally that he was more now than Baudouin d’Ibelin’s younger brother. He was the Lord of Nablus, with eighty-five knights and three hundred serjeants under his command, plus his knights from Ibelin, soldiers urgently needed by their young king. Handing Demon’s reins back to Rolf, he gave the order to mount up and ride on.

  The sun was sinking into the sea by the time the outer walls of Ascalon came into view. Balian said a silent prayer of thanksgiving when he saw Baldwin’s gold and silver banner streaming in the wind. They were not too late! As they approached the Jerusalem Gate’s barbican, they were quickly given admittance. Balian knew Ascalon was the fourth-largest city in the kingdom, but as they made their way toward the castle, they were mobbed by so many people that he realized the town’s population had swelled with refugees. Looking down at their frightened faces, he tried not to think about their fate should Outremer fall to Saladin.

  * * *

  Balian was glad to learn that his brother had ridden in that morning with his contingent of forty knights from Ramlah. He was about to go in search of Baudouin when he heard his name called. Turning, he smiled at the sight of the knight coming toward him; he’d not seen Jakelin for some weeks, not since he’d joined the Templar garrison at Gaza. “Are the Templars here with the king, then?”

  “Not yet. Master Odo sent me to warn the king that Saladin has circled Gaza and is heading for Ascalon. So you’re just in time to take part in our quest for glorious martyrdom.”

  Balian did not find that amusing; it held too much truth. “What lords are here?”

  “Your brother. The king’s stepfather, Lord Denys, and his uncle, Count Joscelin. Reynald de Chatillon. Hugues of Galilee and his brother Will. The lord of Caesarea, Guyon de Grenier, and his brother, Gautier. Amaury de Lusignan. Walter and Guidon de Brisebarre. The lords of Arsuf and Haifa and Montgisard. The viscount of Acre.”

  Balian grimaced. Not nearly enough. “I need to let the king know I am here.”

  Jakelin nodded and fell in step beside him as he entered the great hall. “I must return to Gaza on the morrow, but ere I leave, I want you to tell me how in God’s name you managed to snare a queen.”

  Balian grinned. “I am still trying to figure that out myself.”

  “Balian!” Baudouin’s voice rose above the noise in the hall like the bellow of a bull, and a moment later, Balian found himself enveloped in a brotherly bear hug. Snagging a cup from a passing servant, Baudouin thrust it into Balian’s hand and, catching sight of Jakelin, claimed another cup for the Templar; he never bothered remembering when Jakelin could drink wine. “Over here,” he directed, heading toward a window seat. “The king will be right glad to see you, lad. He needs every man he can get. Ere he left Jerusalem, he invoked the arrière-ban.”

  The arrière-ban required every able-bodied man in the kingdom to obey the king’s summons. It was rarely used, reserved only for dire emergencies. Balian’s weariness suddenly seemed to have increased a hundredfold. Sitting down in the window seat, he asked if there had been any word from Humphrey de Toron and felt no surprise when Baudouin shook his head.

  “There is no hope in Hell that he could recover in time to join us. From what I hear, it will be a miracle if he even survives. Baldwin did what he must and named Reynald de Chatillon as commander of the army.” Baudouin made a face. “I do not like the man much. But choosing him makes sense. Reynald fights like one possessed by a thousand devils and he knows killing the way a priest knows his psalter.”

  Dropping beside Balian in the window seat, Baudouin pointed across the hall. “That pompous ass Eraclius is taking his ease back in Jerusalem, of course. Fortunately the Bishop of Bethlehem has more steel in his spine than most of those pampered prelates. He chose to ride with Baldwin and has brought the Holy Cross with him.”

  Balian did not judge clerics as harshly as his brother. While there were bishops who’d won fame on the battlefield, most of them had not been trained in the ways of war. He would never have questioned William’s courage, but he knew the archbishop would have been of no use in a fight. Gazing across the hall at Bishop Albert, he took some comfort from the knowledge that they would go into battle bearing the most sacred relic in Christendom.

  * * *

  Their first warning was the distant echo of Saracen war drums. Men in the great hall pushed away their plates and hastened to the battlements. They saw only billowing clouds of dust along the horizon, yet the air hummed with noise, with the very familiar sounds of an army on the move—a large army. They had already sought out priests to confess and be shriven. But if their souls were ready to face God, cleansed of their sins, their bodies were still tethered to the temporal world, to their earthly existence, and even the most battle-seasoned soldiers were not immune to a fear that was purely physical, the natural shrinking of bone and muscle and sinew from death-dealing blades and axes. By the time the order came to assemble, some of them had sampled the liquid courage to be found in taverns.

  As long as they drank only enough to take the edge off their fear, their commanders did not begrudge them this combat aid. “Christ on the cross,” Baudouin told his brother, “if ever there was a time to get stinking drunk for a battle, this is it. If I did not have to stay in the saddle, I’d have curled up to sleep in a wine keg last night.”

  Balian envied Baudouin his ability to joke at such a moment. He’d never been so nervous before a battle, but then he’d never had so much to lose. “Baudouin . . . can we win?”

  “Of course we can, lad!” Baudouin followed up that reassurance, though, with a crooked smile. “But that is why I had to stop gambling. I was always so sure I could not possibly lose!”

  * * *

  Baldwin had been living with fear since that day two years ago when he’d learned of the terrifying future he faced. But he’d never experienced fear like this, so sharp edged that he felt as if he were bleeding internally. So much was at stake—the lives of the men, women, and children who depended upon their king to keep them safe. If the reports about the size of Saladin’s army were true, even the survival of the kingdom was in peril. What if he was not up to the challenge, if he failed them?

  The townspeople turned out to watch as the men rode through the city streets toward the Jerusalem Gate. As Baldwin passed by him, an elderly man hobbled forward, leaning upon a crutch, and held up an object, crying, “For you, my lord king!” Reaching down, Baldwin attempted to grasp it without touching the outstretched fingers, but it dropped into the dirt, where it was trampled by the other horsemen. Glancing back, he could not repress a shiver, for it had been a small wooden cross. Was that an omen?

  Outside the city walls, they formed the squadrons that would make up the vanguard and the rearguard. Baudouin expected that he and Balian and their knights would be in the vanguard, for he�
�d been fighting the Saracens for twenty years and Balian for ten, and he was not disappointed. They both were surprised, though, when Reynald showed unexpected sensitivity to the young king’s pride by asking him to lead the rearguard, offsetting his inexperience with the presence of his stepfather and uncle. Reynald placed Hugues of Galilee and his younger brother in the rearguard, too, for they had even less combat exposure than Baldwin and most of the knights of their principality were fighting with Count Raymond in northern Syria. Once the battle formations were set, Reynald and Baldwin addressed the troops, keeping their speeches brief, for they both knew how challenging it would be to make desperation sound inspiring. Instead, they deferred to the Bishop of Bethlehem, who promised that salvation awaited all who died for the Lord Christ.

  To the townspeople watching from the walls, they looked very impressive, God’s army, in truth. The wintry sun gilded their armor, glinted off drawn swords and the jeweled reliquary that held the fragment of the True Cross, while their spirited destriers pawed the ground and snorted, their frosted breaths making it seem as if they were exhaling smoke. When they moved out, their banners catching the wind, the citizens of Ascalon cheered themselves hoarse and assured one another that victory was theirs, surely ordained by the Almighty. The men knew better, knew that nothing was ordained on the battlefield.

  A scout had ridden in, reporting that the enemy was approaching, and they began a slow advance, keeping the city walls at their backs. The drums were getting louder. In Ascalon, the sounds of the sea were ever present and what they heard now was similar, a continuous, muted rumble like waves crashing upon the harbor rocks. Only this was a wave of men and horses, so many that the ground quivered as if a stampede were coming toward them.

  Their soldiers had been engaging in the usual prebattle behavior—taunting the Saracen scouts, swapping rude jokes, camouflaging their unease with bravado. But they fell silent as the army of Saladin came into view—and kept on coming. Baldwin’s breath caught in his throat. All around him, men were swearing, making the sign of the cross, gaping in disbelief as the Saracens continued to pour over the crest of a low hill and onto the plain.

  Asad tossed his head and Baldwin instinctively tightened his hold on the reins with his left hand. Saladin’s saffron banners unfurled against the sky, emblazoned with the eagle that was the symbol of his Ayyūbid dynasty. War drums kept up their throbbing cadence, augmented by the blare of trumpets, the clashing of cymbals, and the thumping of tambours, for a Saracen army used noise as a demoralizing weapon in and of itself. The deafening clamor grated on their nerves, but it was the size of the enemy army that sent sweat trickling down their spines. They thought they’d been braced for the worst, now discovered that was not so.

  When his stepfather reined in beside him, Baldwin shifted in the saddle so he could see the face half-shadowed by a wide nasal guard; as he expected, Denys appeared outwardly calm. Swallowing with an effort, Baldwin managed to keep his voice steady. “It seems to me,” he said, “that our scouts erred. Surely there are more than fifteen thousand men out there.” He paused then, hoping that Denys would tell him he was wrong, that his eyes were deceiving him.

  But the older man nodded grimly. “I’d say we are outnumbered by at least five to one,” he said, and Baldwin slumped in the saddle, for that meant Saladin commanded more than twenty thousand men. And he had just four thousand at his back, only five hundred seventy-five of them knights.

  * * *

  What followed felt like a childhood game of bluff to Baldwin. Both armies remained in place, watching each other. Saladin’s men were drawn up in battle formation, but so far he seemed content to let the Franks make the first move. Now that Baldwin knew they were so hopelessly outnumbered, he could not bring himself to give the command to advance, and apparently Reynald shared his misgivings, for he did not do so, either. There was minor skirmishing between the Saracen scouts and Baldwin’s turcopoles, mounted archers of mixed blood who were viewed as apostates by the Muslims even though most of them were raised as Christians. Foot soldiers surreptitiously took quick swallows from their wine flasks and the arbalesters nervously fiddled with their weapons, making sure the crossbows were cocked and loaded. Many of the knights were having trouble controlling their destriers, for the stallions were growing restless with the long delay and keenly aware that some of the Saracens were riding mares. As the afternoon dragged on, there were exchanges of taunts and insults, and a flurry of shower-shooting by a few of the Saracen archers, but any injuries inflicted were minor. The men were as edgy as their horses, not wanting to ride out to their deaths, yet finding it harder and harder to remain trapped in limbo like this. Both Denys and Joscelin had quietly approached Baldwin, urging him to order a withdrawal into the city. As daylight began to fade, Baldwin realized a decision must be made soon and he called for a council.

  They moved toward the rear, beyond the view of Saladin’s scouts. Remaining on their horses in case the Saracens suddenly launched an attack, they formed a semicircle: Reynald; Baldwin; Denys and his cousin, the lord of Caesarea; Joscelin; and the d’Ibelin brothers.

  Baldwin cleared his throat, wishing fervently that Humphrey de Toron was at his side, for his was the only advice the young king truly trusted. “I think we agree that we cannot engage them on the battlefield when we are so greatly outnumbered.” He paused, relieved to see them all nodding, even Reynald. “We must decide now whether we set up camp here or go back into the city.” He already knew which option seemed safer to him, but he respected the battle lore of these men and it seemed only right to let them have their say first.

  Denys at once argued for withdrawing into Ascalon, pointing out how vulnerable they’d be to a surprise attack during the night. Joscelin was in full agreement. When it was their turn, Baudouin and Balian also declared themselves in favor of a withdrawal. All eyes then turned toward Reynald.

  “We have no choice,” he said tersely. “We’d be mad to force a battle with an army so much larger than ours. It would be only a little less rash to camp out here tonight like lambs to the slaughter. We can hold them off once we’re behind Ascalon’s walls, at least long enough for that Flemish whoreson and Saracen-loving count to get their arses and army back to Outremer.”

  Baldwin felt as if he’d passed some sort of test, his instincts validated by the unanimous agreement among his battle commanders. He’d heard horror stories of past sieges, ones in which the people starved, others that ended in fire and blood, for a city that did not surrender could expect no mercy when it finally fell. But a siege was surely the lesser of evils. “It is settled, then,” he said. “Under cover of dark, we will withdraw into the city.”

  * * *

  It was the spiritual duty of all Muslims to pray five times a day: in the predawn hours, at midday, in the afternoon, at dusk, and during the night. This could be problematic for Muslim soldiers, but their holy book permitted them to take their circumstances into account, stating, “When you travel through the earth, there is no blame on you if ye shorten your prayers for fear the unbelievers may attack you.” Salāh al-Dīn rarely took advantage of this privilege. He’d had his tent set up behind the lines, where he’d performed the ritual ablution before the salat al-maghrib, the sunset prayer. When he finally emerged, twilight was falling and ‘Īsā al-Hakkari was waiting for him.

  “The Franks are sneaking back into Asqalan, my lord.”

  Salāh al-Dīn nodded. “I rather expected they would,” he said, and ‘Īsā grinned. Although the sultan and the lawyer were separated by rank and age, they were bound by blood, for they were both Kurds. ‘Īsā moved closer to the light cast by a nearby torch and studied the younger man’s face intently, for all of the sultan’s men were protective of him, knowing that he often pushed himself beyond his body’s limits; he rarely got enough sleep and often had to be reminded to eat. He looked relaxed now, like a man at peace with himself, and ‘Īsā felt a ripple of affection, so sure was he
that Salāh al-Dīn would do what ‘Īsā’s former master, Nūr al-Dīn, could not—drive the infidels into the sea and reclaim the sacred city of al-Quds. Others were approaching; ‘Īsā often thought that the sultan was a magnet for men, drawing them to him by the sheer force of his personality. But they hastily scattered as a rider on a magnificent roan Arabian burst through their ranks and reined in by the sultan’s tent.

  Taqī al-Dīn’s teeth gleamed whitely in the flare of torchlight. “Uncle, have you heard? The cowards are fleeing back into Asqalan, not daring to fight us!”

  “Not cowards,” the sultan said mildly. “They just know how to count.”

  Taqī al-Dīn shrugged off the correction. “Whilst they cower behind their city walls, the road to al-Quds lies open to us. Allah has truly blessed us, Uncle, for the infidel kingdom is ours for the taking.”

  ‘Īsā did not fully trust Taqī al-Dīn. While he’d proved himself to be a fierce fighter, one without fear, ‘Īsā thought he was too impulsive, too emotional, and too ambitious. But the sultan loved him, almost like a brother rather than a nephew, for they were close in age, and so ‘Īsā kept his misgivings to himself. He watched intently now, worried that Salāh al-Dīn might embrace Taqī al-Dīn’s reckless plan. With winter coming on, all-out war would not be a wise move. Nor had they planned on conquering the infidel kingdom, lacking the mangonels needed to lay siege to al-Quds. Much to ‘Īsā’s relief and Taqī al-Dīn’s vexation, the sultan merely smiled, murmuring a noncommittal “We’ll see.”

  CHAPTER 18

  November 1177

  Ascalon, Outremer

  Immediately upon their return to Ascalon, they began preparing for the siege. The castle’s larders were well stocked, but the townspeople had to be fed, too, and how much food did they have stored away? Balian had heard of sieges in France where the castle garrisons had expelled the civilians who’d taken shelter with them once their provisions began to get low. He knew Baldwin would never give such an order, though he could easily see Reynald doing so. At least the city had numerous wells. The sandstone double walls were in decent shape, too, buttressed by no less than fifty-three towers, which gave Balian some hope.