by Hight, Jack
‘That is why he is perfect,’ Agnes replied. ‘He can bring the support of the French king and also of Henry II of England, who is his lord.’
‘Henry chased him from his lands, Mother. That is why he is in Jerusalem.’
‘Sire!’ Amalric protested. ‘We left France to fight for Christ in—’
Baldwin held up a hand. ‘Save your talk for my mother’s bed, Amalric.’
‘How dare you!’ She raised her hand to slap him.
Baldwin caught her wrist. ‘I am the King, Mother. How dare you?’
They locked gazes.
John cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me, sire. I have important news.’
Baldwin waved him forward. ‘Speak.’
‘Saladin is on the march from Cairo. He will reach Ascalon in a matter of days.’
Agnes paled. ‘All our men are in the north. We must recall them.’
‘There is no time,’ Baldwin said. ‘By the time the army returns, Saladin will have taken Jerusalem.’
Agnes looked to Reynald. ‘Why did you insist on supporting Philip? You have doomed us all.’
Reynald flushed red. He turned to John. ‘How many men does Saladin have?’
‘As many as thirty thousand,’ John replied.
‘We cannot defeat such a number.’ Reynald swallowed. ‘The court should withdraw to Acre.’
‘And let Saladin take Jerusalem?’ Baldwin asked. ‘No. Saladin will have to take Gaza and Ascalon on his way north. Ascalon is strong. If we can stop him there, then we can save Jerusalem.’ Baldwin looked to Reynald. ‘How many men can we gather?’
‘Perhaps eight thousand sergeants, but most of our knights went north with Philip. There are no more than five hundred available.’
‘Have the constable assemble them as quickly as possible.’
‘Humphrey is gravely ill, sire,’ John said.
‘Then you do it.’
‘But sire!’ Reynald protested. ‘I am your regent. It is my duty to command your army, and I must insist that we withdraw to the north. Riding to confront Saladin is mad. If we fail to reach Ascalon before him, then we will have to face him in the field. He will outnumber us nearly three to one. We will be slaughtered.’
‘Then we shall have to reach Ascalon first.’
‘No. I insist that we—’
‘Reynald!’ Agnes’s sharp voice cut the regent short. ‘We have followed your advice and look where that has led us. We will do as the King says.’
Baldwin turned to John. ‘Send out the call for men. We leave tomorrow.’
Chapter 24
NOVEMBER 1177: THE ROAD TO ASCALON
A crow’s harsh cry carried from the branches of a dead tree, startling John awake. He had nodded off in the saddle, lulled to sleep by the even gait of his mount. The army had left Jerusalem the day before. They had reached the coast and ridden south late into the night until Baldwin finally allowed the men a few hours of sleep. The march had resumed early, when the birds were still sleeping and the only sounds were the jangle of tack and the crash of the surf. Now it was getting light and the crows were waking. They were the inevitable companions of every army. They picked over the scraps of food the army left behind during its march. After the battle they would feast upon the bodies of the dead. John watched as one of the infantrymen scooped up a pebble and threw it at the crow in the dead tree, sending the bird flying off, cawing in protest.
John shivered as a chill wind blew off the sea. The long column marched along the coast under low, scudding clouds. At their head the Patriarch of Jerusalem and the knights of the Holy Sepulchre carried the True Cross: a small fragment of the original, embedded in a huge cross of gold. Just behind the cross rode John, Baldwin, Reynald and the other great lords, followed by nearly four hundred knights. Eight thousand sergeants brought up the rear. It was a sizeable force, but less than half as large as Yusuf’s army.
Baldwin slowed his mount to draw alongside John. The king wore mail under a white surcoat adorned with the Jerusalem cross: a single large cross of gold with four smaller crosses around it. Despite the weight of his armour, he rode straight-backed. His helmet had a long nosepiece and wide cheek pieces, which together hid most of the sores on his face. He looked nothing like the sickly man who had spent most of the past year huddled before the fire in his chamber.
‘That armour suits you better than priestly robes, John,’ he said.
John had set aside his alb, chasuble and stole for mail and a surcoat. Instead of the cross around his neck, he wore a sword at his side. It was normally forbidden for priests to shed blood, but under the circumstances no one had protested. The Kingdom needed every soldier it could find.
Baldwin spoke again in a lower voice. ‘I do not trust Reynald. Keep an eye on him for me. If he so much as takes a piss, I want to know the colour.’
‘He will not welcome my presence, sire.’
‘Tell him you are there on my orders. Say that I feel he needs a spiritual adviser, and that I have chosen you.’
‘Very well.’
John rode ahead to join Reynald. The regent had been talking with Odo Saint Amand, the bull-necked grand master of the Templars. The two fell silent at John’s approach.
‘What do you want, Saxon?’ Reynald demanded.
‘Baldwin has asked me to ride with you. I am to be your spiritual adviser.’
Reynald snorted. ‘Tell Baldwin he can—’
‘Good day, Reynald,’ Baldwin said as he joined them. The regent flushed red. ‘Tell me,’ the king continued, ‘will we reach Ascalon soon?’
‘This afternoon, sire. But if Saladin has arrived first, we are dead men. Perhaps it would be best to stop some distance off and send scouts ahead.’
‘We do not have time to be cautious. We will ride on and pray to God that we reach Ascalon first.’
‘I have no talent for prayer,’ Reynald muttered.
‘That is why I have instructed John to remain by your side every waking moment. He is a priest. He shall pray for you.’
They rode on as the afternoon sun burned off the clouds and the gulls began to circle overhead, filling the air with their harsh cries. Finally they saw Ascalon, at first only a smudge on the distant horizon. It was an ancient city, already great when the Romans conquered it. It was said to be the place where Delilah had cut off Samson’s hair. Now it was a fortress town, its thick walls protecting the frontier with Egypt. As the city grew closer John began to make out some details: walls dotted at regular intervals with square towers; tall buildings of white stone; a church fronted with twin, massive towers. He squinted. The cross still flew above the city gates.
Baldwin grinned. ‘God is with us! We have arrived in time!’
‘You may have spoken too soon, sire,’ John said. He pointed beyond the city to the horizon, where a tall cloud of dust was rising. ‘Saladin’s army.’
‘There is still time to retreat,’ Reynald said.
Baldwin shook his head. ‘We must reach the city first.’ He raised his voice. ‘Forward, men! As fast as your legs can carry you!’ He urged his mount to a trot. The knights followed, and the sergeants jogged to keep up.
All eyes were fixed on the ever-growing cloud of dust on the horizon. Ahead, the city was no more than half a mile off. John could clearly see the walls, which were thick and fronted with a broad moat on the land side. On the ocean side, waves crashed against their base. He looked back to the horizon. He could now make out figures, thousands of men on horseback, stretching inland across the plain for as far as he could see.
‘We will not make it, sire!’ Reynald said. ‘The sergeants are moving too slowly.’
‘We must buy them more time. Knights, follow me! We will hold them off. For the Kingdom!’
Baldwin urged his horse to a canter, and John followed. The rest of the knights thundered in their wake. Behind, the careful ranks of the army dissolved as the sergeants ran for the city gates. The knights continued south with Baldwin at their head, his sword held al
oft. Ahead, the Saracens were surging towards them; a solid wave of warriors covering the plain. Baldwin spurred his horse to a gallop.
Reynald pulled alongside John. ‘He is mad!’ the regent shouted over the rumble of hooves.
John ignored him and spurred after the king. The Saracens were no more than two hundred yards off, close enough that John could make out the banners flying above them. He spotted the eagle of Saladin. Then the Saracen advance stopped. They began to form ranks in order to meet the Frankish charge. Baldwin reined in just outside bow range. John pulled up beside him. He glanced over his shoulder. The sergeants were pouring through the city’s northern gate.
‘The men are safe, sire.’
‘Let us not press our luck. Ride fast, men!’ Baldwin shouted. ‘We may yet escape with our lives!’ He wheeled his horse and spurred towards Ascalon.
John followed at a gallop. He heard a roar from the Saracen ranks behind and then the thunder of thousands of hooves. Leaning forward in the saddle he flicked the reins, urging his mount to greater speed. An arrow hissed past and shattered on the hard ground. ‘Faster!’ he shouted in his horse’s ear. Ahead, the southern gate of Ascalon had opened. Arrows were falling thick about them now. One struck Baldwin in the back, but the king seemed not to notice. And then they were clattering across the drawbridge and through the city gate. As the last of the knights entered behind them, the drawbridge went up, sealing the city off.
Baldwin ignored the cheers of the people crowding close to greet him. He dismounted and took the stairs to the top of the gate. John followed.
‘Are you injured, sire?’ he asked, gesturing to Baldwin’s back.
Baldwin craned his neck to see the arrow. ‘I did not even know I was hit. It did not penetrate my jerkin.’ He looked back out past the wall. Saracen riders were spreading out to surround the city. To the south, thousands more continued to pour over the horizon.
Baldwin looked to John and grinned. ‘They are too late! Ascalon is ours!’
‘Fifty-three towers,’ Qaraqush reported. He had just returned from an inspection of the city’s defences. ‘The wall is thirty feet high. On the far side it is protected by the sea. Ascalon will be a tough nut to crack.’
Yusuf said nothing. He was standing outside his tent with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the city. The walls were crowded with men whose helmets gleamed in the setting sun. The flag of Jerusalem flew from the top of each tower.
‘How long to take the city?’ Turan asked.
Qaraqush shrugged. ‘We will have to starve them out—three months, if then.’
‘We do not have three months!’ Turan paced in frustration. ‘Winter will be upon us soon, and the Frankish army will return from the north. Akh laa! If only we had arrived a day earlier. We would already have the town in hand.’
‘It does not matter,’ Yusuf said. ‘We do not need Ascalon.’
‘But we cannot leave an enemy in our rear,’ Qaraqush protested. ‘It is unheard of. They will attack us when we make camp.’
‘Not if they are locked away inside Ascalon. The Franks think they have entered a mighty citadel, but we shall transform it into a prison. Turan, you will stay here with ten thousand men, more than enough to keep the Franks trapped. Ubadah will go to Gaza with a thousand men, to ensure that their garrison cannot escape. I will ride for Jerusalem.’
Qaraqush and Turan were silent for a moment. Then the grizzled old mamluk grinned. ‘There will be no one to stop you.’
‘Exactly. By the time the Franks return from the north, the city will be ours, and they will be forced to besiege us.’
The following morning Yusuf led the army away from Ascalon, leaving Turan’s troops ringing the city. Yusuf and his men angled inland, towards Ramlah and the road to Jerusalem. Every small settlement they passed had been abandoned. Yusuf gave orders to take what provisions could be found and put the rest to the torch. He sent detachments to take the towns of Lydaa, Arsuf and Mirabel, while he marched on with a reduced army of some thirteen thousand men. Before the sun had set they made camp beside a river less than a day’s march from Jerusalem. With Saqr in tow, Yusuf toured the camp, occasionally stopping at a campfire to speak with the men. They were in a festive mood; they spoke of what they would do when they took the city. Some spoke of women or riches, but most said they would go to the Al-Aqsa mosque to pray. Yusuf promised that he would join them.
At one of the last fires he found a dozen men sitting silently, sharpening their blades as they stared at the embers. Yusuf recognized Liaqat and Nazam. With them sat Qadir, a mamluk who had already distinguished himself in Shirkuh’s service when Yusuf was only a boy. Qadir was still an imposing man with biceps as thick as Yusuf’s thighs, but he now had a paunch and his beard was streaked with grey.
Yusuf stepped into the circle of firelight and the men began to rise. He motioned for them to remain seated and took a place before the fire. He drew his eagle-hilt dagger and asked for a whetstone. Nazam handed one to him. Yusuf began to sharpen the blade.
‘Is it true that the Franks have left Jerusalem unguarded?’ Nazam asked.
Yusuf nodded.
‘How could they be so foolish?’
‘They had little choice. They do not have enough men to meet us in the field. They no doubt hoped I would pause to lay siege to Ascalon.’
Yusuf was surprised to see wetness in Qadir’s eyes. ‘Al-Quds,’ the huge mamluk said. ‘Your uncle told me long ago that we would conquer it together. I wish Shirkuh were here to see you, Malik.’ He shook his head sadly before he met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘Do you remember the day we first met?’
‘I do.’ Qadir had called him a little bugger. He had humiliated Yusuf before the rest of Shirkuh’s men. But Yusuf had deserved it. He had not known the first thing about how to lead men.
‘What a fool I was,’ Qadir said.
‘Not as great a fool as I. But the years have made us wiser.’ Yusuf smiled. ‘Although in your case, Qadir, no prettier.’
The mamluk chuckled and waved a fist in mock anger. ‘Do not make me teach you a lesson, little bugger.’
‘Maybe some other time.’ Yusuf rose. ‘Get your rest, men. There will be a long march tomorrow before we reach Jerusalem.’
Yusuf returned to his tent, where he lay in the dark, unable to sleep. He had wanted peace but war had found him. Tomorrow he would take Jerusalem. It was the culmination of nearly eighty years of struggle by his people. But Yusuf knew it was a beginning, not an end. The Franks would try to retake the city. Yusuf had not taken Ascalon or Gaza, so he would be surrounded with no open road to Egypt. He would have to hold Jerusalem with the men he had. The walls would need to be fortified. And he would have to deal with the populace. After the carnage that had occurred when the Christians took Jerusalem, Yusuf knew his men would want blood, but there was no sense in creating martyrs who might provoke another crusade. He would allow the Christians to leave. Perhaps afterwards he could negotiate peace. Then he could remake the city. He would drive the monks from the Dome of the Rock and rid the Temple Mount of the Templars. The Al-Aqsa would become a mosque once more, and he would go there to pray. Inshallah, he added silently. Inshallah.
NOVEMBER 1177: ASCALON
John hurried up the steps to the top of the wall and strode to where Baldwin and Reynald stood looking out at the enemy campfires, which seemed as innumerable as the stars. Closer to the walls, thousands of mamluks were massed before the nearest gate, ready in case the Franks tried to sneak out. They were less than a hundred yards off, but John could barely see them. It was a dark night, cloudy with no moon.
‘The tide is out,’ John told Baldwin. ‘It is time, sire.’
‘Are you sure of this?’ Reynald asked. ‘The lands beyond the sea wall are dangerous, a morass where sucking sand can swallow a horse whole.’
‘We have no choice,’ the king replied.
They rode across the city to where the army had gathered before the west gate. Most of the time the oc
ean crashed against the bottom of the gate, but the tide had receded, exposing the ground beyond it. They would have to go far out amongst the receding waters to avoid being seen by the Saracens. A local boy, who often visited the tidal flats to hunt for clams, had volunteered to guide them. He stood in front of the gate, biting his thumbnail.
‘We haven’t much time,’ he said as Baldwin and John rode up to him. ‘When the tide returns, it will come like a horse at gallop.’
Baldwin nodded to the men at the gate. ‘Open it.’
The gate swung open and the boy led them out on a winding path across the dark tidal flat. Soon the ocean was washing against the ankles of John’s horse. When he looked back, the walls of Ascalon had been swallowed up by the darkness. Suddenly there was loud shouting. ‘Help! Help me!’ A knight had strayed just a short distance from the path picked out by the guide. His horse was mired in sucking sands, and the more it struggled, the deeper it sank. ‘Help!’ the knight shouted again.
‘You, sergeant,’ Baldwin called quietly to a nearby foot-soldier. ‘Silence him.’
The sergeant drew back his bow and let fly. The arrow hit the knight in the chest, and he cried out in shock. The second arrow lodged in his throat. Baldwin rode on. John watched for a moment as the knight slowly sank into the sands. ‘God have mercy on his soul,’ he murmured, and spurred after the king.
The waves were now slapping against the knees of John’s horse. ‘The tide is coming,’ their guide called softly. ‘We must hurry.’ He began to jog, lifting his knees high. They angled back towards shore, but the water continued to rise around them. Then the land sloped up sharply. A moment later they were leaving the sea behind and riding on to the sandy shore. John looked south, but saw no sign of the Saracens.
‘Praise God!’ Baldwin said. He tossed their guide a pouch heavy with gold coins and then turned to John. ‘Come! We ride for Jerusalem!’