Eagle st-1

by Jack Hight

  John nodded. The ‘spies’ were a ploy to convince the council to move on Damascus. Reynald had held the tournament to eliminate the only witnesses. ‘How do you know these things?’ he demanded. ‘Who are you?’

  Amalric placed a finger to his lips. ‘ Shhhh. ’ He nodded back towards the council floor. ‘There’s more. Watch King Baldwin.’

  Baldwin was shifting nervously on his throne while Raymond concluded: ‘If we attack Aleppo, we can crush Nur ad-Din before he grows too powerful. But if we attack Damascus, we will force our enemies to join together.’

  ‘Then we can defeat them all at once!’ Conrad declared, and the assembled knights roared their approval.

  Raymond turned from the German king in disgust. ‘What say you, Queen Melisende?’

  The hall quieted. ‘This crusade was called to avenge the loss of Edessa,’ she said, her sharp voice filling the hall. ‘Taking Aleppo will stop Nur ad-Din and allow us to reclaim Edessa. I say we strike there.’

  ‘I say differently,’ King Baldwin declared. Melisende sat forward, clearly surprised. ‘Aleppo is far. Attacking it will leave our kingdom vulnerable. After today’s incident with Unur’s spies, I do not believe we can take such a risk. Damascus is close and rich. Once we take it, then we will have wealth enough to hire all the men we need. We will be able to take Aleppo at our leisure.’

  ‘You speak out of turn, Son,’ Melisende reprimanded.

  Baldwin hesitated, his tongue flicking over his lips. He looked to King Louis, then to Reynald, who nodded encouragement. Baldwin swallowed and spoke: ‘No, mother. I am the King. It shall be as I say.’

  ‘To Damascus!’ King Louis shouted.

  His cry was echoed throughout the hall. ‘ Damascus! Damascus!’

  ‘No! No! No!’ Raymond shouted, his face red. ‘You damned greedy bastards! If you move on Damascus, then you will do so without me!’ He looked to Baldwin. ‘Think well on that, King.’

  All eyes turned to Baldwin. He said only one word. ‘Damascus.’ The hall exploded into confusion as half the men present roared their approval, the other half their anger. Fights broke out on the floor between Raymond’s and Louis’s men. In the confusion, Raymond stormed from the hall. John noted that Eleanor began to rise to follow him, but Louis grabbed her arm, holding her down.

  Baldwin also left, striding down the middle of the hall. He stopped near the exit and turned to Amalric. ‘Come, Brother. We have work to do.’

  Giving John a wink, Amalric followed Baldwin from the hall.

  Shocked, John stood staring after the boy until Reynald came up and clapped him on the back. ‘Let’s get back to camp,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to pack for Damascus.’

  ‘Damascus,’ John whispered. Back in England, men returned from the first crusade had spoken of it as a fabulous city, second only to Jerusalem. ‘It will be a great victory for God.’

  Reynald grinned. ‘Yes. And it will make us rich!’

  Chapter 3

  JULY 1148: DAMASCUS

  Yusuf buckled his new sword belt tight about his waist and drew the curved blade, marvelling at its beauty. It had been made not far from the room where he now stood, in the famed forges of Damascus, and the bright steel was covered with interlacing patterns of darker grey. Yusuf tested the blade with his thumb and winced as the razor-sharp edge drew a thin trickle of blood. He carefully sheathed the sword, then pulled on the conical helmet that his father had given him. It was too large: only his ears kept the hard iron from sinking down over his eyes. Yusuf stepped in front of the polished bronze mirror in his room and frowned. The slate-grey chainmail that he wore was too long, covering his hands and hanging well below his knees, and the tip of the sword hanging from his waist almost touched the ground.

  Turan entered behind Yusuf. His new armour was a perfect fit. ‘You look like a scarecrow,’ Turan smirked, and he slapped Yusuf on the back of the head so that his helmet slid down over his eyes.

  Ayub stepped into the doorway. ‘You look a true warrior, Turan.’ Yusuf pushed up his helmet to see Turan grinning proudly. Ayub looked at Yusuf and frowned.

  ‘When will we fight the Christians, Father?’ Turan asked.

  ‘Inshallah, you will not have to fight, not if Emir Unur finally acknowledges Nur ad-Din as his overlord in return for aid against the Christians. I only pray that Nur ad-Din arrives before the Franks.’

  ‘If Nur ad-Din becomes Unur’s overlord, will he force the emir to return Baalbek to you?’ Yusuf asked.

  ‘Perhaps. In time, I might even be given something more.’ Ayub cracked a rare smile. ‘But that is for the future. Now, we must look to save ourselves. The Franks are many, and if Nur ad-Din does not arrive in time, the city may fall. You must be prepared to fight, to the death if needs be. I will not have my sons taken as slaves.’

  Turan drew his sword and slashed it from side to side. ‘I will kill any Frank who dares stand before me.’

  Ayub nodded. ‘If you must fight, then I am certain you will bring honour to our family. Now come. It is time that you both begin your education as warriors. I will show you how the walls are to be defended.’

  Yusuf followed his father and Turan out into the narrow street that ran in front of their home. They turned right, Abaan and four other mamluks marching around them as an escort. Ayub nodded towards a man hammering up boards to cover the windows and doors of his home. ‘Little good it will do him if the Franks take the city.’

  They reached the city’s main street, which was crowded with men and women lugging their possessions in heavy sacks, fleeing east, away from the Christians. A long train of camels passed, each bearing two heavy chests. The caravan was surrounded by heavily armed guards.

  ‘Moneychangers,’ Ayub spat. ‘Always the first to flee. And taking good men with them.’ Once the camels had passed, Ayub turned towards the city’s eastern wall. It was squat — as thick as it was tall — and built of brown bricks made from clay dredged from the river that flowed through Damascus. It did not look very imposing. Yusuf followed his father up a ramp to the top of the wall beside the Bab Tuma, the city’s eastern gate. From where he stood, Yusuf could see only a dozen troops, staggered along the wall at wide intervals.

  ‘Where are the emir’s men?’ he asked.

  ‘To the north and west,’ Ayub replied. ‘The walls are at their weakest here, but the desert offers its own protection.’ He gestured past the wall to the dry, cracked earth that stretched away to the horizon. ‘No army can last long out there.’

  Ayub led them north. As they walked, the wall rose higher beneath them and became more and more crowded with mamluk soldiers. They passed through the upper rooms of the Gate of Peace, where a huge vat of oil sat over a smouldering fire, ready to be poured on any attackers who came too close to the gate. As they neared the Gate of Paradise, the empty waste beyond the wall gave way to fields, then to the lush orchards of Damascus. They continued to the western gate, the Bab al-Jabiya, where they paused to watch the mamluk warriors pouring out of the city and heading into the orchards.

  ‘The orchards are the key to Damascus,’ Ayub told them. ‘Always remember: strength of numbers, bravery and steel are important, but an army cannot survive without food and water. Whoever controls the orchards controls the lifeblood of the city. The emir will concentrate his forces there. If they are taken, his men will fall back to the walls. They might hold them for several months. But eventually the city will run short of food and it will fall.’

  Yusuf gazed over the orchards, which ran for miles towards the rocky foothills of the nearby mountains. It was from these that the Franks would come. Yusuf was looking away when he saw something out of the corner of his eye — the flash of the sun off steel. There it was again. Squinting against the bright morning light, he could just make out tiny figures moving over the hills, headed for Damascus. ‘ Look!’ he said, pointing.

  ‘The Franks,’ Ayub whispered. A moment later one of the sentries in the nearby tower caught site of the enemy, and a tru
mpet blast shattered the air, followed by another, then another. ‘Allah protect us. They are here.’

  John gritted his teeth against the pain in his back and legs as he trudged up the steep hill. His heavy pack dug into his shoulders, his armour chafed against his sides, and his feet were swollen after days on the long march from Acre. He reached a flat spot and sighed in relief as he stepped aside and dropped his pack, letting the other soldiers plod past. He looked back at the long line of men. The mounted knights had mostly passed, leaving the foot-soldiers to slog on, bent under their heavy packs, their spears held aloft and bobbing up and down as they walked. Behind them came a ragged band of pilgrims, with no armour and lightly armed with bows, spears or simple wooden staffs. They had come to pray in Damascus after the Christian victory, but they would fight if necessary. John turned his gaze to the sun, hazy brown through the thick cloud of dust kicked up by the army. Grit was everywhere, in John’s nose, his eyes, his mouth. He unstopped his waterskin and held it to his lips, but it was empty. ‘’Sblood,’ he spat. Even his spit was brown.

  ‘Keep moving, Saxon!’ Reynald called as he rode past. ‘We’ll be there soon enough.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ John muttered under his breath as he shouldered his rucksack. Bone-tired, he walked on with his head down, eyes on the parched, rocky ground before him. He was so intent on putting one foot in front of the other that he did not immediately notice when the slope began to level off. When he finally looked up, he saw that he stood atop the crest of a long rise, with Damascus, the garden of Syria, spread out on the valley floor below. A dark brown wall enclosed a warren of narrow streets that cut between square houses of creamy white and light brown. In the centre of the city, rising above it all, was the dome of a giant mosque. Beyond the walls, a verdant expanse of gardens and orchards — ancient Roman aqueducts rising high above the thick trees — spread west from the city towards the ridge where John stood. The brilliant green of the gardens was a sharp contrast to the cracked, dry landscape that the crusaders had marched across and which resumed on the far side of the city. A thin stream flowed through those parched lands, entering the city and flowing out again just to the south of the gardens. John licked his parched lips. He could almost taste the cool water.

  He marched with renewed vigour as he descended to where the army was drawing up ranks on the plain before the orchard. There he found a dozen men from his company of fifty sitting on their helmets before one of the narrow paths leading into the orchards. They were all covered in dust. Some sat with their heads between their legs. Others stared vacantly ahead. John flung down his pack and sat beside Rabbit. The young man held out his waterskin.

  ‘I saved some,’ he said.

  John took the skin and shook it, feeling the water slosh inside. He took a sip, just enough to rinse the dust from his mouth. ‘By God, that’s good,’ he said, handing the skin back.

  Shortly after the last of the men had joined them, Reynald rode up. The men rose, groaning and cursing at the pain in their feet and backs. ‘Well done, men!’ Reynald shouted. ‘Damascus is almost within our grasp. The kings have decided to push through the orchards to the walls. We are to march through on this path, clearing out any enemy that we find, and reconvene at the river on the far side. Stop for nothing. Any man who breaks ranks to collect spoils will be flogged on orders of King Louis himself. Is that understood?’ Reynald glared at the men. ‘Ernaut, you will take the lead. I will follow with the rest of the men.’ Reynald spurred his horse towards the rear of the troop.

  ‘All right, you heard him!’ Ernaut shouted from horseback. ‘Let’s get going. The sooner we reach that river, the better.’

  The company formed into a column, and John and Rabbit found themselves at the front, just behind One Eye and the old crusader Tybaut. They marched down a narrow path that ran between shoulder-high mud walls. The branches of tall walnut trees heavy with nuts hung out over the walls and met overhead, casting dark, ever-shifting shadows on the trail. The air was thick with dust from marching feet, mingled with the smell of ripening fruit. Walnuts crunched underfoot, adding their rich aroma.

  Looking beyond the walls and the thick trunks of the walnut trees, John could see plots of green vegetables, rows of vines heavy with ripening grapes, tall palms crowded with coconuts and closely planted trees weighed down with apples and cherries, as well as a variety of exotic fruits: bright yellow and green ones; oblong fruits that ranged from dark red to fiery orange; and dark-brown pods that dangled like earrings.

  ‘It’s like Eden,’ John said.

  ‘And you can be sure there’s a snake somewhere in here,’ Tybaut grumbled. ‘Just waiting to strike.’

  At that moment a long howl of pain came from somewhere off to their left. They all froze, and John dropped his hand to his sword hilt. More cries of agony pierced the silence, joined now by loud shouting.

  ‘What’s that?’ Rabbit asked, his nose twitching.

  ‘Pick up the pace!’ Ernaut ordered from where he rode just behind John.

  Tybaut and One Eye moved ahead at a jog, and John hurried to keep up. He could hear shouting all around him now, growing fainter as the walls on either side rose high above them. The path turned sharply to the right, and as they rounded the corner they stopped short before a five-foot-high barricade of logs, laid across the trail.

  ‘Christ, what’s next!’ Ernaut complained. ‘Let’s get this moved!’

  Tybaut and One Eye put their shoulders against one of the logs, and John stepped forward to join them. They strained, but the heavy log did not budge.

  ‘By God, it’s heavy,’ One Eye cursed.

  ‘We could go over the top,’ John suggested, ‘and pull the logs down from the other side while you push from this side.’

  ‘Do it!’ Ernaut ordered.

  John managed to pull himself up to the top of the barrier and dropped over to the far side, followed by Rabbit, Tybaut and One Eye. They immediately went to the barricade and grabbed hold of one of the logs. ‘On three!’ John shouted. ‘ One, two, three!’ The log shifted, then rolled free. John and the others jumped back as it fell with a loud thud.

  ‘Only a dozen more to go,’ Tybaut grumbled.

  John grabbed hold of the next log. One Eye, however, was in no hurry. He had wandered over to the side of the trail, where the branches of a fruit tree hung over a mud wall. He plucked one of the oblong, fiery-orange fruits and sniffed at it.

  ‘Get back to work, One Eye,’ John growled.

  ‘Cool it, bath-boy,’ One Eye replied, leaning back against the wall. ‘It’s cursed hot, and I’m hungry.’ He took a bite of the fruit. It was golden and pulpy inside. One Eye closed his eye as juice dripped from his beard. ‘Sweet Jesus!’ he sighed. ‘It’s delicious.’ The words were hardly out of his mouth when the iron point of a spear burst from his chest. He dropped the fruit and stared down at the bloody spear tip. A second later the spear was withdrawn, and One Eye collapsed, dead. There was no sign of any attacker.

  ‘Christ! What was that?’ Rabbit shouted.

  A scream came from the far side of the barricade, then another and another. ‘It’s an ambush!’ John cried out, drawing his sword and crouching behind his shield, his back to the barrier. He pulled Rabbit down beside him.

  ‘Where are they?’ Tybaut demanded. Sword in hand, he went and knelt beside One Eye. He touched the wound in One Eye’s back, and then looked up to the wall. John followed his gaze and noticed that there were dozens of round holes, each just wide enough for a spear to fit through. ‘The wall!’ Tybaut whispered. A spear shot through one of the holes, catching him in the shoulder. He cried out in pain and scrambled backwards. Another spear shot out from the opposite wall, catching him in the back and dropping him.

  ‘We’re going to die,’ Rabbit whimpered. ‘We’re going to die!’

  ‘Your shield!’ John snapped, and Rabbit raised his shield just in time to deflect yet another spear. ‘We’re not going to die, follow me.’

 
John climbed up to the top of the barricade and pulled Rabbit up after him. The ground on the far side was littered with dead and wounded men. Ernaut’s horse had been killed beneath him, and he lay pinned beneath it, screaming for help. Four knights were hurrying forward from further down the column. An arrow struck one, dropping him, and the others hugged the walls, only to be cut down by the spears. As John watched, an arrow sank into the barricade just in front of him. He looked past the wall to a tall building set amongst the fruit trees. There, in the windows of the upper floor, stood four archers. One took aim at John, and an arrow whizzed past his ear.

  ‘Come on!’ John shouted as he grabbed Rabbit’s arm. They scrambled to the wall, which rose four feet above the barricade. John pulled himself up and dropped over the other side. He landed on top of a Saracen, knocking the man unconscious and sending them both sprawling. John sprang to his feet to find himself facing three more men. The closest stabbed at John with a spear. John blocked the blow with his shield and thrust with his sword, impaling the man through the chest. Another man attacked, and John was forced to jump aside, leaving his sword with the dead Saracen. He backed away, his shield raised, as the two remaining Saracens advanced, their spears pointed at him. One of them screamed ‘ Allah! Allah! Allah!’ and had started to charge when Rabbit landed on him from above, knocking him flat. John rushed the other Saracen, taking advantage of the surprise. He slammed his shield into the man’s face, dropping him. He turned to see that Rabbit had slit the other man’s throat. The boy was white-faced and shaking.

  John clapped him on the back. ‘Well done. You saved my hide.’

  ‘Th-that’s the first man I ever killed.’

  ‘You did well,’ John replied as he wrenched his sword free from the chest of the dead Saracen. ‘We have to deal with those archers.’ He pointed towards the tall building before them. ‘Are you up for it?’ Rabbit nodded. ‘Let’s go, then.’

  John kicked the door of the house open and rushed inside. The bottom floor was empty. He and Rabbit hurried up the stairs on the far wall. The door at the top was locked. John raised his shield, then kicked the door hard. As it swung open, a volley of arrows thumped into his shield. John threw it aside and charged. Four archers stood along the far wall, each frantically trying to nock another arrow to his bow. John slashed across the face of the one furthest to the right, dropping him before his arrow was free of the quiver. The next in line had managed to nock an arrow, but John sliced the man’s bow in two before he could shoot, then finished him with a thrust to the chest. He turned to see a third archer kneeling and holding up his bow in a vain attempt to block Rabbit’s sword. Rabbit’s blade sliced through the bow and cleaved the Saracen’s head in two, spilling blood and pink brains on wooden floor. Rabbit turned away and vomited.