“The infantry has fled,” Amaury said grimly. “They scrambled up the north horn and took refuge amid the ruins of an ancient hill fort. My brother ordered them to return and the Bishop of Acre pleaded with them to do their Christian duty, telling them the True Cross will be taken by the infidels if they do not come back. They would not listen, lay sprawled in the rocks, saying they were too thirsty and sick to fight.”
Gerard was too enraged for words, sure that this disaster was all Guy de Lusignan’s fault, that if he were not such a weak, indecisive king, the infantry would not have dared to defy him like that. Thierry asked what the king meant to do and Amaury said he’d ordered their tents to be pitched just west of the Horns as a rallying point for the rest of the army.
“What army?” Gerard jeered. “The vanguard knights have fled with that accursed apostate, seeking only to save their skins. The rearguard has been cut off, mayhap destroyed by now. Or they may have deserted us, too. D’Ibelin, de Grenier, and de Courtenay are all Poulains, after all. The craven infantry will soon be begging to surrender to the infidels. But all is not lost, for my Templars will make another charge, and we’ll not be stopped until I can ram my lance down Saladin’s throat!”
Amaury did not let his dislike of the grand master affect his military judgment. It was possible that the Templars could succeed this time; they had a better chance of breaking through than the knights with Guy did. Even if Guy objected, it would do no good. As de Ridefort often boasted, he answered only to God and the Pope. “I’ll tell the king,” he said tersely, and swung his mount about to return to his brother’s shrinking circle of support.
Turning in the saddle, Gerard called to the gonfalonier, their standard-bearer. “Make ready, Brother John.” As more and more of their brethren gathered around the grand master, he thrilled many of them by promising that victory was still within their grasp, concluding with a dramatic flourish that they were riding to glory or holy martyrdom.
* * *
Balian had felt no surprise when they got no response from Guy. As Joscelin had bleakly predicted, the rearguard was on its own. They’d fallen so far behind that they had no idea what was happening on the rest of the field. Balian been forced to call a halt when they saw smoke up ahead, not wanting to lead his men into that suffocating white cloud. Better to wait for it to clear whilst giving them a chance to rest. Some of the infantrymen simply sat down when they stopped, as did knights who’d lost their horses; others dismounted to spare their stallions their weight. Every moment of respite was precious, for they did not know when the Blue Wolf would launch his next attack.
Balian had stumbled as he slid from Khamsin’s saddle, for his legs were cramping badly. He was trying to walk it off when Joscelin appeared at his side. “That fighting we heard a while back . . . you think it was their last stand?”
Balian could only shrug; his throat and mouth were so painfully dry that it hurt to talk. When they’d heard those muffled but familiar sounds of battle, the men of the rearguard assumed that Guy or the Templars had ordered a charge in a last-ditch attempt to break out of Saladin’s trap. Few thought it had succeeded. They’d seen too many of their comrades die and too many of their horses go down for them to summon up any slivers of optimism. Some of them had even begun to wonder if they were already dead and in Purgatory, condemned to continue this accursed march to nowhere until they’d expiated all their earthly sins. That made as much sense to them as their doomed rescue mission did.
When horsemen suddenly materialized out of the smoke, there was a momentary panic. Fearing the Saracens were coming at them from a new direction, Balian’s men scrambled to their feet and heaved themselves back onto their horses, their crossbowmen aiming their weapons at these intruders. They did not shoot, though, for there were fewer than a dozen of them and they wore the red cross of the Templars across their chests.
Balian was already in the saddle as they galloped toward him. The man in the lead looked familiar; Balian’s tired brain finally summoned up a name to go with the face—Brother Thierry, the grand preceptor. Before he could speak, Thierry had reined in a white stallion splattered with blood. “Lord Balian! Thank God!”
Denys and Joscelin were at Balian’s side now, and he let them interrogate the Templar, for he knew what the man would say—that they’d charged and failed. There was no other explanation for his presence here. Templars did not flee a battlefield until their banner fell.
Thierry was saying that now, expressing his relief that they’d run into the rearguard, for Templars had a duty to seek out the banners of other Christian lords if they could no longer fight under the black-and-white banner of the knights of the Temple. His story came out in breathless and sometimes incoherent bursts. They’d almost succeeded, he insisted. There had been a few golden moments when victory seemed to be theirs. Then the Saracens rallied and pushed them back, forcing them into some of the king’s knights who’d been coming to join them.
“We lost so many good men.” Thierry’s voice thickened and his chest heaved, but his eyes remained dry; his body could no longer produce tears. “May God show them mercy.”
He’d been joined by another Templar, his mantle as bloodstained as Thierry’s. He resumed their story, explaining that they’d gotten separated from the others in the confusion of their retreat. “We tried to get back, but the Saracens were everywhere and they cut us off. We fought our way free, then blundered into those clouds of smoke and damned near choked to death.” His reddened, swollen eyes and hoarse, raspy voice testified to the truth of that.
“We’d be honored to fight with you, my lords.” Thierry’s own bloodshot eyes moved from Balian to Denys to Joscelin. He shared the rest of the story then, telling them the Count of Tripoli and the vanguard were gone. Some of the other men had gathered to listen, too, and Thierry heard one voice say, “The lucky bastards,” but he pretended not to hear. “In all honesty,” he admitted, “I do not see how they could have gotten back up that hill. It is still hard not to suspect the worst of a man who’d been handfast with Saladin just two months ago.”
None of the rearguard commanders wanted to waste their dwindling energy in a discussion of Count Raymond and his motives, so they said nothing. The sudden sound of drums spurred them all into action. As they made ready to face yet another attack, Thierry realized that he’d forgotten to tell them about the flight of the infantry. But the men of the rearguard looked as if they already knew the battle and the war were lost.
* * *
Despite watching the disintegration of his army, Guy did not think they were going to lose. The ramifications of such a loss would be so terrible, so catastrophic, that he refused to consider it, assuring himself that the Almighty had not let him become King of Jerusalem to preside over the death of the kingdom. Even if it took a miracle to salvage a tattered victory from the jaws of defeat, it would happen. He continued to believe this up until that moment in midafternoon when the Saracens captured the most sacred relic in Christendom, the True Cross.
Guy’s earlier attempt to set up their tents had failed and they’d been forced onto the slope that lay between the Horns of Haṭṭīn. Retreating to the south horn, they succeeded in putting up the royal tent on the hill’s flat top. Guy was in a state of shock, as were most of the men, for the loss of the True Cross raised fears too awful to contemplate, far worse than the dread of death—that the Almighty had turned His face away from them, judging them unworthy to dwell in this land where the Lord Christ had lived and died, died for them.
Guy still did not know the details of the loss. All he’d been told was that the True Cross had been seized by the men of Taqī al-Dīn, that the Bishop of Acre had died defending it, and that it had been carried triumphantly away by the infidels, who knew full well its significance to their Christian adversaries. Its capture shook Guy’s soul to its very core, upending everything he’d been taught to believe. Even if he got his miracle and his victory,
the rest of Christendom would scorn him for it, caring only that he’d failed to protect that precious fragment of wood, said to have been stained with the very blood of the Savior.
It was Reynald de Chatillon who stopped him from surrendering unconditionally to despair. He raged like a wild lion brought to bay, snarling that he was not about to yield to these godless, loathsome, pox-ridden whoresons, that he would gladly die today as long as Saladin died with him. His white-hot hatred acted as an elixir for the knights, transforming their anguish into the holy anger of men given one more chance to prove the purity of their faith. Guy felt it, too, and, grateful to Reynald for his intervention, he gave the Lord of Kerak the honor of leading the charge as they made ready to offer their lives up to the Almighty, to let Him decide their fate.
* * *
Balian was never sure of the exact moment when he realized that the tide of battle had shifted. They were still trapped only a few miles from Maskana, unable to advance because of the steady stream of enemy horsemen heading north. These men showed no interest in detouring back to challenge the battered rearguard, clearly intent upon more important prey. Balian discussed this with Denys, Joscelin, and the Templar, Brother Thierry, and they agreed with him that these Saracens were hurrying to be in at the kill, just as hunters did once they knew their dogs had caught up with their quarry. It seemed obvious to them that their center would be the most tempting target. What soldier would not want to win lasting fame by capturing the infidel king, their cherished cross, or the man the sultan had sworn to kill with his own hand?
“But you may be sure they have not forgotten us,” Joscelin said testily, for by now his nerves were shredded down to the bone and his frequent outbursts of anger kept him from having to admit the part he’d played in a tragedy of such epic proportions. “They know the Blue Wolf has us cornered, like ripe fruit waiting to be plucked.”
Balian did not agree. “If I were Gökböri, I’d much rather be present when Saladin’s jihad comes to a triumphant end. I doubt that he wants Taqī al-Dīn to claim all the glory. I think he’s gone to join Saladin and the men he left behind are feeling cheated, losing interest in guarding us. How long has it been since their last attack?”
“You think we might be able to break through their lines, Balian?” Denys sounded dubious but willing to be convinced.
Thierry had no such doubts. “What do we have to lose?”
“For you, nothing,” Joscelin snapped, “for you are sure to die whatever we choose to do. We all know Saladin would like nothing better than to rid himself of you Templars and the Hospitallers.”
Thierry began to bristle; Balian was quicker. “You’re right, Joscelin. You and Denys and I might well survive the battle, for the Saracens are accustomed to sparing highborn lords for ransom. Though I’m not sure how we raise ransoms if we’re landless. But what of our men? If we’re captured, they’ll end up in shallow graves or the slave markets in Damascus and Cairo.”
An odd expression crossed Joscelin’s face; to Balian, it seemed almost like embarrassment. “I spoke without thinking,” he mumbled. “It is a risk well worth taking.” He hesitated, then offered an apology the only way he could, with stark honesty. “I spent twelve years as a prisoner of the Saracens. I’d rather die fighting than endure that again.”
There was a moment of silence in acknowledgment of Joscelin’s revealing candor, and then Thierry showed he held no grudges by uttering a heartfelt “Amen!” And with that, they turned back to tell their men what they meant to do.
* * *
Balian’s gaze swept along the line of his knights. Most of them had reached the ends of their tethers and they understood this would be their last chance. They showed no eagerness but something better, a grim resolve. Balian looked back toward Ernoul, wishing again that he’d left the youth behind at Saforie with Brian and Smoke. Ernoul had pleaded to come, though, insisting that his lord needed him to take care of his weapons and stallions.
The unhorsed knights had lined up with the infantrymen and Balian could not help thinking of all the destriers they’d lost in these two days. One of them was Demon. He’d offered the stallion to Renier Rohard after the Nablus lord’s horse was slain. Renier was grateful beyond words, for a knight afoot was like a crippled falcon. But a Saracen arrow had found Demon, too, and even in the midst of so much carnage, Balian still felt a pang for the stubborn black stallion that had borne him safely into so many battles.
Their plan was a simple one. The knights and Templars and serjeants still lucky enough to be mounted would strike the Saracen lines like a battering ram and, God willing, would scatter them like leaves on the wind, with the infantry and men like Renier following in their wake. Success would depend upon the element of surprise and Balian’s reading of the Blue Wolf’s troops. Balian raised his hand to signal his men and the other lords did the same, committing themselves to what Balian had heard one of his serjeants call a “try or die” sortie.
At first, they advanced slowly, keeping their stallions to a walk. They’d agreed that if they could somehow break free, they’d head toward the coast and Acre, for at Saforie or the lands north of Nazareth, they were sure to run into some of Saladin’s army. Most of his elite askar and the Mamluks would be with him, but he had thousands of eager volunteers swarming these hills in search of Franks and booty.
Even after twenty years of fighting in Outremer, Balian was always surprised by how time slowed down once a charge began. Few civilians or clerics could understand the bond that formed between knights riding stirrup to stirrup into battle, and Balian had never had any luck trying to explain it to Maria. But he felt it now, a spiritual link forged by shared risk and reward, by the tumult of emotions men experienced only on the battlefield.
The first Saracen they encountered was a scout on a bay mare. The look of shock on his face was encouraging, for his surprise seemed to confirm Balian’s hunch about the soldiers left behind to guard them. The scout whirled and sent the mare racing back the way he’d come, shouting in a language Balian did not understand, either Kurdish or Turkish. Alerted by his behavior that the Saracen camp must be close at hand, the Franks were ready when it came into view.
The Saracen soldiers were not ready. They’d been taking their ease between their lightning raids upon the stranded Franks, setting up a few tents for shade and even a fire for cooking. There was a string of camels, some still loaded with goatskins of the water that was more precious than gold now to the Franks, and even more horses being held in reserve. Warned by the scout, men were sprinting for those horses, already gripping bows and quivers. But there were not that many left in camp and they were no match for the wave about to engulf them. The fighting was brutal and brief and when it was over, there were bodies sprawled on the ground, the survivors were in flight, and the unhorsed knights were running toward the Saracen horses, stopping only to untie reins or cut hobbles before vaulting onto their backs. Most of the crossbowmen and spearmen had no familiarity with horses, neither liking nor trusting them, and some of them chose now to slip away on their own instead of following the knights.
Seeing several of his men homing in on the camels as if they were pearls beyond price, Balian sympathized. Yet they dared not take the time to unpack the goatskins and he ordered them on. One of the more resourceful leaned from his saddle to cut the beasts loose, saying with a grin that they could chase them down once they got away. Balian did not share his optimism, for it had been too easy.
His instincts were soon proved right, for they’d just reached the Acre–Tiberias road when they saw a band of men coming toward them. Their saffron-colored tunics proclaimed they were members of the sultan’s askar, as did their immediate response. Drawing their swords, they galloped toward the Franks. The knights of the rearguard quickly re-formed their line and spurred their own stallions forward. The Mamluks’ pride had led them astray, for while they were indeed excellent soldiers, they still could not resi
st a charge of armed knights unless they had numerical superiority. When the Franks smashed into them, they gave ground and then peeled away, saving themselves by their fine horsemanship.
The Franks watched them ride off, soon disappearing over a nearby hill. But they’d be back and in greater numbers. Balian was sheathing his sword as Renier drew up beside him. His new Saracen mount was a mare and Khamsin’s ears twitched as he reached out to touch noses with her. Balian was astonished to find a smile forming on his blistered lips when he noticed the stallion’s interest; for most of the day, he’d doubted that he’d ever smile again.
“We’re ready, my lord.” Renier gestured behind him to Balian’s knights and serjeants.
Balian refused to let his eyes linger on all the gaps in their ranks, to think of all the men who’d died in the two-day march that he imagined would become known as the Battle of Haṭṭīn. These men were still alive and still in danger. “Go!” he said, and within moments, what was left of the army’s rearguard was riding west, hoping to reach Acre before Saladin’s army did.
* * *
Al-Afdal would have proclaimed his father’s victory several times that afternoon; Salāh al-Dīn would have none of it. When al-Afdal expressed his excitement upon hearing that the Count of Tripoli had left the field, the sultan reminded him that if a man wanted to kill a snake, he must cut off its head. When al-Afdal exclaimed that the battle was surely won after the infidel infantry had fled and refused to fight anymore, his father’s measured response was that a man did not have wheat until he harvested it. His rebukes were gently given, but al-Afdal saw them as rebukes nonetheless, and after that he tried to imitate his sire’s impassive demeanor, for he took even his father’s most casual comments as lessons in leadership.
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 79