Eagle st-1

by Jack Hight

  MAY 1157: JACOB’S FORD

  John stood on the ridge of a long line of dusty, brown hills and looked down upon the Christian army as it moved through the narrow valley below, heading south alongside the silvery ribbon of the Jordan River. The Franks marched in a square formation, with foot-soldiers on the periphery providing protection for the horses of the mounted knights at the centre. But the ranks were loose. A constant stream of men left their places to go to the river and refill their skins. Most of the men marched with their helmets off and their shields strapped to their backs. A few had even removed their armour to better enjoy the beautiful spring day. Multicoloured pennants flapped gaily overhead in a cool breeze, giving the army a festive appearance. They had reason to celebrate, only three days before they had driven the Saracens from Banyas.

  John turned his back on the Frankish army to look down the opposite side of the ridge, where thousands of mounted Saracen warriors were gathered out of sight of the Christians. John knew that Nur ad-Din was waiting with an equal number of men behind the hills on the other side of the valley. After leaving Banyas, Nur ad-Din had only pretended to retreat before turning south to shadow the Christians. Yesterday, he had driven his army through the night in order to lay a trap for the Franks.

  John picked out Yusuf’s eagle standard amongst the men below. He would not ride with his friend today. Since taking the town of Banyas, John had been troubled by bloody nightmares. Fighting Reynald’s bandits was one thing; Reynald was a savage who had betrayed him. But John knew that he had put his soul in jeopardy by killing his fellow Christians. He did not wish to die in battle before he had received absolution.

  ‘The Franks have reached the ford,’ Imad ad-Din noted. He and a dozen other scribes had joined John atop the ridge, ready to record the coming battle for posterity. They sat on the ground around him, their writing tables across their laps, quills ready.

  John turned back towards the Frankish army. They had reached the shallow waters of Jacob’s Ford, the safest crossing point over the Jordan River. The first foot-soldiers were already wading across, the water reaching up to their waists at the deepest point. Behind them, the army had broken its square formation, forming a column in order to cross the narrow ford. John’s stomach tightened with nervous tension. When half the foot-soldiers had reached the far bank, the first of the mounted knights entered the water, the standard of the King of Jerusalem flying above them. They were halfway across when a horn sounded from the hills on the far side of the river. As the low, mournful cry of the horn faded, the Christian army stopped, knights and foot-soldiers looking about nervously. In the silence, John could hear the distant Frankish horses, their anxious whinnies borne to him on the wind.

  The blast of another horn sounded behind John, drowning out the sounds of the Frankish army. He turned to see the Saracen army on the move, Yusuf’s eagle standard flying at their head. They headed for a gap in the hills that led out to the valley.

  ‘Look!’ Imad ad-Din cried.

  John turned to see the other half of the Saracen army pouring from the hills on the far side of the river, the sound of the pounding horses’ hooves rolling like thunder across the plain. There was disorder in the Christian ranks as the mounted knights hurried to cross the river to meet the threat. But the narrow ford slowed their efforts. Some entered the river south of the ford to avoid the bottleneck and were swept away by the current. Meanwhile, the foot-soldiers hurriedly formed a line, pikes out.

  The horsemen led by Nur ad-Din split in two as they reached the foot-soldiers, riding parallel to the Christian lines and shooting arrows into their enemies. Christians fell by the dozen, but the line did not break. Behind the foot-soldiers, the last of the mounted knights were crossing the river to group around the standard of the Frankish king. A horn blast sounded out from the Christian ranks as the knights prepared to charge. Then, behind them, the other half of the Saracen army galloped forth from the hills, Yusuf’s banner at their head. Shooting arrows as they rode, they cut through the Frankish foot-soldiers who had not yet crossed the river and then splashed across the ford to attack the Christian knights from behind. Trapped between the two halves of the Saracen army, the Franks panicked. Individual knights attempted to ride to safety, but their horses were shot out from under them. The line of foot-soldiers dissolved as men fled, only to be ridden down from behind. Hundreds of Franks stripped off their armour and leapt into the river, swimming downstream to safety.

  A piercing horn sounded again and again as the Frankish king sought to rally his men. Only two hundred or so knights remained, encircled by the Saracen army, which closed in to finish them. John spotted Yusuf’s standard at the heart of the fighting, pushing towards Baldwin’s banner. If the king fell, the battle would be over. And then, after a final, long blast of the horn, the Frankish knights charged, heading straight towards Yusuf. Nothing could stand in the way of the Franks’ plate armour and strong horses. They crashed through the Saracen ranks, spearing men off horses with their long lances and then crushing them underfoot. For a moment Yusuf’s standard stayed aloft as he and a handful of mamluks held their ground. John thought he spotted Yusuf at the head of the mamluks, his sword flashing in the sunlight. And then the mamluks were swept away and Yusuf’s standard fell. Yusuf was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘ Allah! Allah! Allah!’ Yusuf stood in the saddle, screaming as he slashed out at the Frankish knights streaming past. Then a knight’s lance hit Yusuf’s horse directly in the chest, killing it instantly. Yusuf managed to jump free of the saddle as his horse collapsed. He landed in the path of a charging warhorse and rolled to the side. Another horse was bearing down, and Yusuf curled into a ball as the horse galloped straight over him. He sprang to his feet and jumped to his right to avoid a knight’s lance. As the Frank rode past, Yusuf knelt and slashed out, slicing through the girth that held the knight’s saddle in place. The saddle slid off and the knight crashed to the ground, to be trampled. Yusuf ran after the horse, which had slowed to a walk. He grabbed its mane and swung himself on to its back. The last of the Christian knights were now flying past, and Yusuf kicked his mount’s sides, urging it after them.

  Yusuf’s horse kicked up plumes of sand as it raced alongside the river. Two banners flew over the fleeing Franks: one a gold cross with four smaller crosses on a white background, the other royal blue and scarlet. Four knights rode under the blue and scarlet flag, surrounding a tall man in shining plate armour. That had to be King Baldwin.

  ‘ Yalla!’ Yusuf cried, urging his horse forward. He pulled alongside the rearmost knight. The knight slashed at Yusuf, who veered away to avoid the blow. Yusuf urged his horse back towards the knight and thrust out, stabbing the Frank in the side. With a cry of pain, the man slid from the saddle, taking Yusuf’s sword with him.

  Yusuf rode on. The king was just ahead now, with two knights flanking him. ‘ Yalla! Yalla!’ Yusuf cried as he surged forward into the narrow gap between the king and the knight on his right. The knight swung for Yusuf’s head, but Yusuf ducked the blow. He jumped from his horse, throwing himself at the king and dragging him from the saddle. Yusuf rolled as he hit the ground and sprang to his feet. A few feet away, the king lay on his back with sword in hand, struggling to rise in his heavy plate armour. The other Frankish knights were galloping away along the Jordan. None turned to come back for their fallen comrade.

  Yusuf drew his eagle-hilt dagger and approached the king. The Frank swung at him, but Yusuf jumped the blow. He stepped on the king’s sword arm, pinning it, then kicked the weapon away. Yusuf knelt on the man’s chest and raised his dagger. ‘I yield!’ the knight roared and pushed back his visor. Yusuf blinked in surprise. It was not the Frankish king. It was Reynald.

  ‘You,’ Yusuf whispered. He raised his dagger to strike.

  ‘Do not kill me!’ Reynald begged. ‘I am the Prince of Antioch. My ransom will be worth a fortune.’

  ‘I do not want your gold,’ Yusuf growled as he put his dagger against Reynald’s th
roat. ‘Only justice for my friend.’

  ‘What have we here, Yusuf?’ a voice called, and Yusuf froze. He looked up to see Nur ad-Din approaching on horseback.

  ‘I am the Prince of Antioch!’ Reynald cried. ‘I am your prisoner. I beg your mercy.’

  Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘Let him be, Yusuf.’ Reluctantly, Yusuf stepped away and sheathed his dagger. Two mamluks came forward and pulled Reynald to his feet. ‘You shall be our guest in Aleppo until you are ransomed,’ Nur ad-Din told him. ‘Take him away.’ The mamluks marched Reynald off to join the other Frankish prisoners. Nur ad-Din turned to Yusuf. ‘You led your men well, Yusuf, and Reynald will be worth his weight in gold.’

  ‘I had hoped to capture King Baldwin.’

  ‘In good time, Yusuf. The Frankish army is broken. Baldwin will beg for peace, but I will not grant it. I will drive him and his people into the sea!’

  MAY 1157: NEAR ACRE

  Two days later, Yusuf was riding beside Nur ad-Din at the head of the army when the walls of Acre came into sight, the city’s citadel rising high above them on its rocky perch. Nur ad-Din reined to a stop. ‘Acre, our first prize, Yusuf: it is the key that will unlock the Frankish kingdom.’

  Yusuf grinned, but then his smile faded. Looking past Nur ad-Din, he saw a column of dust rising from the horizon to the north. He pointed. ‘Look! Do you think it is the Franks? Could they have regrouped so fast?’

  Nur ad-Din shook his head. ‘No, and besides, they fled south. This must be Shirkuh and his men. They have joined us at the perfect time. We will pause here and wait for them.’

  Shirkuh arrived shortly, galloping up ahead of his men. He looked to have ridden far without stopping. He was covered in dust, and his horse was wet with sweat. ‘My lord,’ he said, bowing in the saddle.

  ‘Well met, Shirkuh!’ Nur ad-Din called, riding over and grasping his friend’s arm. He glanced at Shirkuh’s horse. ‘Your horse can hardly carry you. What have you done to it?’

  ‘We rode day and night to reach you. I fear I bring bad news. Manuel, the Roman emperor, is on the march from Constantinople.’

  Nur ad-Din’s brow creased. ‘How many men does he bring?’

  ‘Twenty thousand.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘I saw his army with my own eyes. They are only a day behind me.’

  ‘ Yaha!’ Nur ad-Din cursed. ‘I was so close.’ He rode a short distance away and sat staring at Acre. Finally he looked away. ‘Yusuf, tell the men to turn around. We are returning to Aleppo.’

  ‘But why? We can defeat the Romans, too, as we defeated the Franks.’

  Nur ad-Din shook his head. ‘The Franks will rally now that the Romans are on the march. We cannot fight them both. If we lose, then Aleppo and Damascus will be theirs for the taking. We must make peace.’

  ‘But the Franks are crushed!’ Yusuf protested. ‘We must strike now.’

  ‘No, this campaign is over. But never fear, Yusuf. My peace will be with King Baldwin, and he will not live forever.’

  Chapter 16

  JUNE TO SEPTEMBER 1157: ALEPPO

  Rose petals, luminous in the spring sunshine, showered down upon John as he rode through the cheering crowd that filled the central square of Aleppo, pressing close to the long line of riders headed towards the citadel. Nur ad-Din rode at the head of the army, and as he passed the crowd roared ‘ Malik, jazak Allahu khair! Jazak Allahu khair!’ — great king, may Allah reward you.

  But not all in the crowd cheered. John rode beside Reynald, who still wore his distinctive plate armour, although his hands were now tied before him. Some in the crowd hissed as Reynald rode past. Others made the sign of the evil eye — bringing the forefinger and thumb together in a circle and shaking their hands. Reynald ignored them, riding with his head held high and his eyes fixed straight ahead.

  John reached the far side of the square and rode into the shade of the citadel. The crowd was thickest around the bridge that led across the moat. Mamluk guards struggled to hold the masses back, but as John watched, the people surged towards Nur ad-Din, eager to touch him. After a moment the guards pushed them back, and the convoy continued. John was almost to the bridge when the crowd again surged forward. Turbaned men pressed all around him, shouting insults at Reynald. The guards had begun to push the crowd back when a grey-bearded man, his mouth empty of teeth, stepped past them and spit at Reynald, catching him in the face. Reynald grimaced in disgust and raised his tied hands to wipe away the spittle. ‘Savages,’ he muttered and turned towards John. ‘How can you fight for these infidels? You have betrayed your crusader’s oath. You will burn in hell.’

  ‘Then I shall have you there for company,’ John muttered and urged his horse ahead of Reynald’s and across the wooden drawbridge. They rode up the paved causeway and into the citadel grounds. The rest of the convoy had begun to gather around Nur ad-Din, who was addressing his men, inviting the emirs and sheikhs to a feast at his palace. John led Reynald to the right, towards the prison house.

  John had not ridden far when Nur ad-Din hailed him. ‘Where are you taking my prisoner?’ he asked as he rode out from the crowd.

  ‘To his cell, malik.’

  ‘No, bring him to the feast. And you come, too. You can translate for your countryman.’

  ‘He is no countryman of mine,’ John grumbled under his breath, but to Nur ad-Din, he nodded and said, ‘Very well, malik.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Reynald asked as Nur ad-Din rode away.

  ‘He has invited you to tonight’s feast.’

  ‘I have no wish to dine with that infidel,’ Reynald sneered.

  ‘You have no choice.’ As John rode past, he grabbed the reins of Reynald’s horse and pulled it after him towards the barracks.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ Reynald asked.

  ‘To the baths.’

  Reynald’s nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘A bath? Do you wish to kill me?’

  John gave Reynald a hard look. ‘You smell like a pig. I will be sitting beside you, and I wish to enjoy my food. Come.’

  The feast was held in the palace’s great hall, a long, rectangular room with a high ceiling held up by two rows of stone columns. The guests — fifty in all — were seated cross-legged on cushions around a long, low table, with Nur ad-Din at its centre. Nur ad-Din had Reynald seated across from him, and John sat to Reynald’s right, across from Yusuf.

  When all the guests were seated, the servants entered. One stood behind each of the guests, and in a simultaneous movement they bent forward and placed a dish before each diner. John’s mouth watered as he breathed in the aroma of the tharidah — pieces of chicken on the bone in an aromatic sauce of chickpeas, onions, eggs, pounded almonds and cinnamon. He took up his knife and two-pronged fork and carved off a piece of the tender chicken. As he did so, he glanced at Reynald. The Prince of Antioch had picked up a drumstick with his hands and was gnawing the meat straight off the bone as fat dribbled into his beard.

  ‘You are meant to use the fork,’ John whispered, pointing to the piece of cutlery.

  Reynald sucked a last piece of flesh from the drumstick and tossed it on the table. ‘Why should I use a fork when God gave me two hands?’ he asked, wiping his fingers on his caftan and leaving greasy streaks on the white cotton.

  ‘What are the two of you discussing?’ Nur ad-Din asked, leaning towards John.

  ‘The Prince of Antioch was marvelling at your use of the fork,’ John explained. ‘He says that he prefers to use the hands that God gave him.’

  ‘God gave him feet, too,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘Perhaps he wishes to eat with those.’ He chuckled at this pleasantry and was joined by the other men at the table.

  Reynald flushed red and turned towards John. ‘What did he say? Why is he laughing?’

  ‘He said that God also gave you feet and suggested that you eat with those.’

  Reynald’s jaw clenched. ‘Who is this infidel to mock me? Ask him what sort of people scorn pork and wine?’

 
John translated, and the laughter at the table died away. ‘The Prophet, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him, has told us to avoid these things,’ Nur ad-Din said sternly, his voice loud in the silence. ‘If your Pope told you to forgo wine, would you not do so?’

  ‘Fat chance of that,’ Reynald snorted when he had heard John’s translation. ‘The Pope drinks like a fish.’

  John turned to Nur ad-Din. ‘He says, “no”.’

  ‘Do you not respect the words of your prophets, then?’ Nur ad-Din asked. All eyes turned to Reynald.

  ‘What are priests good for?’ Reynald asked, picking up the drumstick and waving it to emphasize his point. ‘They sit in their churches with their gold and their wine while the real men do the fighting.’

  ‘Do your priests not pray for you, like our sufis?’

  ‘ Hmph, I have no need of their prayers, so long as they give me money when I ask. And if they do not-’ he snapped the chicken bone in half ‘-then I take it.’

  When John translated, Nur ad-Din’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You do violence to your Holy Men? Kill them, even?’

  ‘It is forbidden to kill a man of God, and I am no savage.’ Reynald paused. ‘But I have other ways of persuading priests to do as I ask. When the Patriarch of Antioch refused to fund my expedition against Cyprus, I had him stripped naked, covered in honey and tied down on the roof of the citadel. After four hours in the sun, with ants and bees crawling all over him, he became more amenable to reason.’

  Nur ad-Din turned towards John. ‘And this patriarch is like an imam?’

  ‘Yes, only more powerful, almost like a caliph.’ The emirs grumbled at this.

  ‘Do you not fear the wrath of God?’ Nur ad-Din asked Reynald.

  ‘I have taken up the cross and fought to keep the Saracens at bay. It is because of men like me that Jerusalem is Christian, its churches filled with priests instead of infidels. I do not fear God. He has need of me.’

  Nur ad-Din’s face wrinkled in disgust. ‘Men like this are why we must drive the Franks from our lands,’ he declared loudly enough for all at the long table to hear. The emirs and sheikhs nodded and thumped the table to show their approval. ‘Take him away. He is spoiling my appetite.’