Seeking Jerusalem

by H A CULLEY

  The sword got stuck in the skull for a moment and Richard had to let go of the hilt. Luckily the sword was attached to his wrist by a leather strap and he quickly recovered it. Then the crusaders were through. Richard pulled his mount up and turned round. Only one Saracen was still mounted and the only other one still alive was the one whose horse had been killed. The lone rider quickly pulled the other man up behind him and they headed away at a gallop. Richard’s attention was suddenly drawn back to the direction that the Saracens had come from and he saw a troop of at least a hundred more bearing down on him and his serjeants. Richard and his men turned their horses round again and galloped down the road towards Acre as fast as the animals could go. Their horses were not as fast as the Arabians ridden by the enemy and they were more heavily armoured, so Richard was well aware that the Saracens were catching them up without having to look behind him. Nevertheless, he did so and saw, to his horror, that the nearest Saracens were now only three hundred yards away and slowly closing the gap. He knew that at this rate they would be caught long before they could reach the crusader lines.

  ~#~

  Berengaria of Navarre looked out of the arrow slit in the wooden castle that Richard had brought with him from Cyprus. It was very similar to the pre-fabricated castles that William the Conqueror had taken with him across the channel when he invaded England. The small keep contained a hall, a solar and two bed chambers: one for the king’s sister, Joan, and one for himself and Berengaria. There were no windows, just narrow arrow slits, but at least they did allow some light and a slight breeze into the hot and humid interior. It was from one of the slits in the solar that the queen of England looked out towards the sea half a mile away and wondered why her husband had bothered to bring the two women with him.

  She had enjoyed Cyprus, especially as they lived in a palace and she could indulge in her favourite sport of hawking. Here, outside Acre she was confined to this wooden oven. She glanced over towards her sister-in-law. Joan had been kept a prisoner after her husband, the previous king of Sicily, had died and had been replaced by the usurper, Tancred. So she was grateful to Richard for rescuing her. Now she sat embroidering the three golden lions of England on a new red surcoat for her brother with the crusader’s red cross in a white square on the upper left chest whilst she wondered idly what the future held for her. She had no doubt that her brother would want her to make another political marriage and she groaned despondently at the prospect.

  Berengaria hadn’t seen much of Richard since she and Joan had arrived. He was always busy directing siege operations, in conference with the other leaders or inspecting the siege lines. He did come to her bed most nights but sometimes he was exhausted and fell asleep as soon as he lay down. The occasions that they did make love left her feeling dissatisfied. He took no trouble to try and arouse her and it was all over too quickly. She suspected that his sole interest in her was to get her with child.

  She had hoped that this might be the result of their frequent, but unsatisfactory, couplings but she had remained depressingly unpregnant. Berengaria knew that Richard had at least two bastards by his mistress, Joan de St. Pol - the seven year old Philippe de Fauconbridge, Seigneur de Cognac and another boy he had christened Fulk - so it couldn’t be his fault that she had failed to conceive so far. She began to worry that she might be barren, but there was no-one she could discuss her concerns with; certainly not Joan, who seemed blind to Richard’s faults.

  She turned with a sigh and went to pick up her own embroidery work. Joan smiled at her and Berengaria forced herself to smile back. Her one hope had been the possibility of a return to Cyprus but Richard was negotiating the sale of the island to the Templars to replenish his war coffers, so even that option seemed remote. Perhaps they might be able to move into more agreeable surroundings once Acre fell.

  ~#~

  Ferhat Yusuf and his ten men circled the two Norman knights. His horse archers had killed their destriers and now the two men stood back to back with sword in hand preparing to sell their lives dearly. If Miles saw the irony of his protecting the back of the man he had sworn to kill he quickly erased the thought from his mind. For his part Waldo contemplated killing Miles and throwing himself on the mercy of the Saracens. Then he banished the thought from his mind as unworthy. It was one thing to kill the murderer of his father but quite another to betray a fellow crusader.

  Suddenly Ferhat barked out an order and his men edged their horses forward until their spear points rested on the chests of the two Normans. Both could see how hopeless their situation was.

  ‘At least if we surrender there is always the hope of escape,’ Waldo whispered to Miles, who thought about the idea for a minute before a prod of a spear on his chest decided him.

  ‘I agree,’ he muttered and both men turned their swords so that they held them by the blade and offered the hilts to Ferhat.

  Five minutes later they had been stripped of their clothing and their armour, except for their braies. Miles felt the heat of the sun on his bare shoulders and knew that it wouldn’t be long before his fair complexion started to burn. Halters were placed around their necks and then they were led stumbling along behind the mounted Saracens at a pace they had real difficulty in maintaining. Once Waldo had fallen and had been dragged along by his neck until he was nearly strangled to death. Luckily the horses had to slow down as they re-joined the main column and Miles was able to help Waldo to his feet. Miles looked about him but he couldn’t see much. Dust obscured the column except for the few ranks around him.

  By now their feet were scraped raw, as was much of Waldo’s body where he had been tugged along over the sand and stones that made up much of the terrain around Acre. At one point both men could vaguely hear the sounds of a skirmish up ahead but they were both so far gone with exhaustion by that stage that they didn’t even look up.

  The day wound its interminable way onwards. At one point the column halted at an oasis and the two knights were given a cup full of water each. When they started again Miles was surprised at how stiff he had become. He prided himself on his physical fitness but now his joints ached like those of an old man. He glanced over at Waldo who seemed to be in a far worse state, but after a few minutes his stiffness got easier and then went completely.

  ‘What are you going to do with the infidels?’ Ferhat’s brother asked him in Kurdish

  ‘I intend to present them to Salah-ad-Din in the hope that he will reward me, of course.’

  The other man laughed derisively. 'Salah-ad-Din will have a camp full of these Frankish cowards ; I doubt if he will want another two.’

  ‘He will want to question them, of course. They will know the latest situation and may know something of their plans.’

  ‘I doubt it, brother. They look like knights, not great lords.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  On arrival at the camp they had been manacled hand and foot and put in a small tent under guard. In case they did know something of value, Saladin sent one of his captains who spoke French to interrogate Miles and Waldo. The captain started by giving them water and sending for a slave to coat their raw and sunburnt skin with a salve before started to question them. Both men were determined not to give anything away but in truth there wasn’t much that they knew that the captain wasn’t already aware of.

  When the captain went to leave he paused by the entrance flap. ‘I fear we are short of food in the camp so we can’t afford to keep captives. Had you been wealthy nobles Salah-ad-Din, Allah’s blessings be upon him, might have ransomed you but, as it is, I fear that you will be executed in the morning.’

  ~#~

  The next time that Richard de Cuille glanced back he saw that the leading Saracens were now barely more than two hundred yards away. His destrier was tiring whereas the horses carrying the more lightly armoured serjeants had all overtaken him and were now some twenty yards ahead. Just as he was resigning himself to turning to face his pursuers and selling his life as dearly as he could, he saw ano
ther body of horsemen in the distance. They were coming from the direction of Acre and were therefore likely to be fellow crusaders. He spurred his horse on to keep ahead of the Saracens until he could meet up with whoever it was heading towards him.

  As he got closer he could make out a few riders in the front, one of whom was carrying a banner. He couldn’t make out the device at this distance, nor could he estimate how many men there were as all but the leaders were obscured by a cloud of dust kicked up by their horses’ hooves. After a few more hundred yards he could make out the device on the banner flapping in the stiff breeze blowing across the plain from the coast. He recognised the gold and blue diagonal stripes in a red border as that of Hugh, Duke of Burgundy, and thanked God for deliverance as Duke Hugh wouldn’t go anywhere without a large escort.

  The sounds of pursuit were fading; presumably the Saracens had decided that the French column was too strong to attack. Richard slowed his horse to a canter and then a trot as he approached the French column. His serjeants fell in behind him, looking somewhat shamefaced at having overtaken their lord during their flight. Now Richard could see that the leader was much younger than the fifty year old duke; presumably his second son, Alexander de Montagu, who had accompanied his father on crusade. Riding behind him with Montagu’s squire and standard bearer were Tancred, Gervaise and Warin.

  ‘Thank you for your timely arrival, my lord,’ Richard greeted Alexander with a broad smile. ‘I was afraid that our friends were about to turn me into a pin cushion.’

  ‘Glad we were able to help, Lord Richard,’ Alexander smiled in return. ‘If only our masters were so helpful to one another. I have been sent out to ascertain the truth of these reinforcements for Saladin, but it seems you have already confirmed the reports.’

  ‘Look, my lord, over there,’ Gervaise had spotted the vanguard of the Saracen reinforcements moving out of the hills and onto the plain, keeping well away from Acre as they made for Saladin’s camp.

  ‘You have sharp eyes, Gervaise, well done. I fear that neither your master nor Sir Miles made it. I’m sorry, my boy,’ he added turning to Warin. ‘We can only hope that they were captured and are being held for ransom.’

  By the time that Richard had returned to report to the king, the French attack on the Accursed Tower had started. Every mangonel and trebuchet that the two kings possessed were pressed into service to batter the tower. After three days the top half of the tower had been demolished and the Moslem defenders abandoned it. The rain of boulders continued until the walls either side of the tower were tuned into rubble and then the target was changed to the inner walls. These were not so high or so substantial as the outer walls and, after a further hour’s bombardment, they too were converted into heaps of masonry. The way was now clear for an assault.

  Both Richard and Miles had volunteered to join the first wave into the breeches in the walls, but Philip Augustus insisted that the honour should be given to his men. Two thousand French knights and men-at-arms formed up ready to charge into the city, covered by another thousand crossbowmen to keep the enemy archers’ heads down and to thin the ranks of the Moslem soldiers standing on top of the first breach ready to repel the attack.

  Richard watched as the French swarmed forward yelling their lust to shed blood and wreak revenge on the defenders who had kept them out of the city for so long. The charge soon disintegrated into a careful and slow scramble through the piles of rubble after several men broke their legs in the first mad rush. This made them easy targets for the spears, arrows and javelins hurled down at them.

  As they neared the crest of the rubble the French crossbowmen could only fire at the archers on the walls to the sides of the breach and those leading the assault came under heavier fire from the Moslems archers defending the breach itself. At last, the leading Frenchmen got to grips with the enemy but they had become spread out during the climb up the mound of stones so that they were outnumbered and easily killed.

  Eventually enough of their comrades joined them to make the contest more of an even one and the French started to gain the upper hand. Suddenly, the remnants of the defenders withdrew and the French found themselves in possession of the first breach. However, they were now faced with climbing down the other side of the first breach and struggling up yet another pile of debris. Some four hundred Frenchmen had died or been severely wounded during the assault and the remaining crusaders were demoralised at the thought of attacking the second breach, so they started to withdraw.

  As soon as they saw this the Moslems swept forward and again and recaptured the first breach, yelling exultation at their victory. The crusaders were no further forward and the French had lost nearly ten per cent of their army for no gain. It was little consolation to know that the Moslems must have suffered even more losses.

  ~#~

  Ferhat Yusuf wasn’t happy when he heard that his two captives were to be executed. He had handed them over to Saladin, expecting him to ransom them so that he would receive at least part of the money they brought. He debated what to do for some time before going to see his uncle, Bashir al Melik. After he had explained his problem to Bashir, they went to see the sultan together.

  Saladin was grateful to Bashir for the additional five thousand men he had brought to join his army and, moreover, was conscious that Bashir ruled Kurdistan next to a part of Saladin’s empire that was in revolt against him at the moment. He would need Bashir’s support to restore his authority in Upper Mesopotamia once he had dealt with the infidels who were besieging Acre.

  When the formal greetings, enquiries after each other’s health and expressions of undying mutual admiration were over with, Bashir came to the point quickly.

  ‘My nephew captured two Franks this morning and presented to them to you, highness, as an expression of his affection and devotion to you. He was therefore a little upset that, instead of using them to your advantage and ransoming them, you propose to execute them. He feels that,’ here Bashir paused for effect and glanced at Ferhat for a moment, ‘you have rejected his gift.’

  Saladin was taken aback. He hadn’t considered that his decision to kill two unwanted extra mouths to feed could be seen in this light.

  ‘My dear Bashir, please assure your nephew that I meant no disrespect. It’s just that, were I to keep all the Franks we captured, we would have no food for our own mouths.’

  Ferhat was itching to protest against Saladin’s decision but he had to stand and listen to this exchange without saying a word. He was a mere junior captain in his uncle’s army until he could prove himself as a leader, then he might progress from a captain of ten to captain of a hundred and finally, if he was lucky, to captain of a thousand. After all, his uncle had many sons of his own and many brothers who also had many sons. At the moment one of his rank was beneath the sultan’s notice. But he needn’t have worried.

  ‘Have you considered, highness, that the infidels may want to negotiate soon. I understand that they are near to breaching the walls of Acre and being able to storm the town. The arrival of Richard of England, who men are beginning to call the Lionheart because of his courage in battle, seems to have imbued them with new vigour. I am told he has also brought twenty thousand men with him.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I know all of this. What’s your point, Bashir?’ Saladin was losing patience and, however much he might need Bashir al Melik on side, he didn’t suffer fools gladly.

  ‘It’s just that my informants tell me that the city is devoid of both food and the will to carry on, so Acre will surrender in the near future unless perhaps you are able to relieve the city?’ Bashir paused whilst Saladin gave him a bleak look. ‘No, as I thought. Well then, I suspect that this King Richard will want three things in exchange for freeing the inhabitants and the garrison of Acre.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Money, the restoration of what they call the True Cross which you captured at the Horns of Hattin, and the release of all Frankish captives. If you have been killing your captives, this last dem
and might prove a little difficult to meet.’

  ‘I have listened patiently to all that you have said, Lord Bashir. However, I’m sure that Acre is a long way from surrender. I am planning another attack on the infidels tomorrow. Perhaps this time we will win a glorious victory, with Allah’s help. But some of your advice is wise.’ He paused to think. ‘Very well, I will accede to your request and keep our captives alive for the time being.’

  In their tent Waldo and Miles were unaware of Saladin’s change of mind, and so they were preparing themselves to face death at the coming dawn.

  ‘You need to understand, Miles, that from the date of my birth my mother continually impressed upon me that it was my destiny, above all else, to avenge my father’s murder. It was a duty I grew up with and I could think of little else until I was knighted. Then I was free to seek out the man who everyone said was my father’s killer. Indeed, he was declared outlaw and had a price on his head.’

  ‘He might have turned outlaw because he killed your father, but the reward was because his championship of the poor was becoming an embarrassment to King Henry and the sheriff. Don’t forget that he blamed your father for the loss of his manor of Hathersage.’

  ‘But that wasn’t my father’s fault.’ Waldo was indignant. It was King Henry’s decision to deprive Guy FitzRichard of his lands that cost Robert of Locksley his manor. His loss was incidental damage when the king took revenge on Stephen’s supporters. If anyone, your father should have killed Henry. It might have done everyone a favour if he had,’ he muttered before continuing.