by Dan Davis
“This is irrelevant,” the Master said, in something approaching a wail. “My men are dying. The best knights in Christendom are dying and it is your fault.” He thrust an accusing finger at my king.
“Saladin’s horses are lighter and faster than ours,” Richard explained, with astonishing patience considering the Master’s disrespect.
While he spoke, William and I stared at each other. His eyes were burning with intensity. Arrows and screams fell all about us.
Richard continued explaining to the Master as if we were on a training ground not a battlefield. “If we charge too soon they shall pull back from us until our horses tire. They shall turn and slaughter us while we are separated from our soldiers. We must suffer and die until they have exhausted themselves. Then we shall catch them.” Richard rode close to the Master who put his hand warily to his sword. “My lord, if we catch them when they are close we will crush them all. We can recover Jerusalem for Christendom if only we hold. Until the signal. Six blasts of the trumpets, then you may charge and win back the city of Christ in a single stroke.”
The Master looked almost convinced but still desperate. William, his eyes flickering between me and the king, walked his horse sideways a step and leaned in toward the Master, speaking quietly. The Master nodded once, he wheeled his horse about and charged back to his dying men.
William gave me a final grin before scything his reigns hard and rode off after the Master of the Hospitallers.
“Saladin’s banner,” a knight shouted. “Saladin himself is there.”
“Is he correct?” King Richard shouted to his men.
“It may be his, sire,” one of the barons said. “Or his brother’s.”
“If it is Saladin,” the king said to one of his barons. “Then he means to break us here.”
“Perhaps we should charge after all,” Henry of Champagne said from next to the king.
“Not yet,” the king said, irritated. “We are in no true danger.”
“Yet we have lost so many horses I wonder if we will have enough to make a deadly charge,” the mercenary lord Mercadier said. “We have to flatten the bastards.”
A huge cry went up on our left.
The Hospitallers were surging forward and bellowing a battle cry. “Saint George!”
They roared it over and over and hundreds of horsemen were galloping from the ranks of infantry into the Saracen forces.
“Damn him,” King Richard shouted. “Damn that man.”
The Master of the Hospitallers was leading the charge into the Saracen horses, who were indeed pulling back away from the charge.
It was William who made that charge happen. But even I admit that the Hospitaller charge was glorious to behold. They formed ragged lines as they rode, drawing close to charge knee to knee forming a wall of man and horse and armour, lances couched and deadly. When they reached forces who could not ride away the crash of arms on armour and flesh was loud enough to wake the dead. Unmounted Saracen archers and javelin men, lightly armoured and packed tightly together. Pinned by the thousands behind them were crushed. When their lances stuck fast into men or shields they were dropped and swords and maces seized. The Knights Hospitaller, released finally from hours of suffering, began to pay back what they had received.
“Shall we call them to retreat, sire?” Richard’s men asked.
The king stared at the horsemen. They would soon be surrounded and cut off and I thought the king was going to sacrifice them. If they could not obey orders then let them die, I thought. It’s what I would have done.
“Sound the attack,” Richard cried. “Our whole line, every man, all-out attack. Destroy them!”
The trumpets sounded six times, the signal repeated again and again all along our line.
The Hospitaller foot soldiers had begun their charge even before the king had ordered the trumpets to sound. They were the first to reach their mounted knights and they ran right into the Saracen counter attack.
The French knights and the barons of Outremer charged by us through their infantry into the Saracen centre and the men ran after them to support. The ground shook and drummed louder than a thunderstorm. The trumpets sounded and cymbals crashed and men bellowed the names of their lords and favoured saints.
Saladin’s banner fluttered at the rear. King Richard stared at it across the thousands of men and horse. Saladin had committed heavily but not yet completely. The Saracens were restricted by the weight of their own men at the back who did not know to flee but here and there gaps began to open in their lines and their mounted archers began to slip away.
King Richard had no need to fight. Our counter attack had stunned the Saracens and we were carving our way into them. But he loved to fight and he believed a king should fight and lead by example. He was raised in a chivalric court and so he grinned at us over his shoulder, raked his heels back and charged into the battle for the centre.
We rode hard with him. I was in grand company.
“For the Lionheart!” Henry of Champagne cried on my left, his lance tight under his arm.
“God wills it!” the Duke of Burgundy shouted.
I had no lance but I extended my sword and charged into the massed ranks of Saracens. The press of men was terrifying and arrows cracked into helmet and mail. Dust kicked up everywhere and the sweat ran into my eyes, half blinding me. I hacked down again and again. I found myself with enemy on all sides. Swords stabbed up toward me and hands grabbed at my legs and feet, trying to heave me from my saddle. I stabbed and hacked. My horse was trained well in the ways of war and he snapped his teeth at the men about him and kicked his feet back and raked the air in front as I tried to clear a path and keep moving.
A gap opened on my left and I was fighting toward that gap when King Richard charged into it, away from his men and thrusting deep into the Saracen lines.
His barons, his bodyguard, his household troops were cut off from him and shouting and pleading for him to come back. Those men laid about them trying to reach him. They were the finest warriors in Christendom and they loved their king dearly but the mass of men and horse was so dense that even when horses were killed there was no room for them to fall over.
Mercadier, Richard’s beloved chief mercenary roared and battered friend and foe alike to force his way through.
“Save him,” Henry of Champagne shouted at me with tears in his eyes.
For I was the man closest to the king.
Other lords and knights took up the cry and shouted at me to bring him back. They begged and in their voices were the tears they were shedding at the thought of his death.
I fought harder and urged my horse on toward the king. My sword arm was numb from use and there was little strength left in my blows. Earlier I had been crashing my blade into helmets so hard that the men beneath fell from a single blow but it was all I could do to keep my arm rising and falling.
The king was so close I could hear the juddering of his breath. The sound of a man close to collapse from exhaustion. A huge, armoured Saracen knight on a heavy war horse forced his way between me and the king. He had a magnificent great beard and a face like an eagle that showed no fear. Whether he recognised the king’s lion shield and coat or just knew he was a lord worthy of a fine prize, it was clear he wanted to take the king. Yet he knew he had to deal with me first so he swung his curved blade into what remained of my shield. The man’s blows were powerful and swift and he hacked it into splinters in moments while I held off attacks from behind me. I gripped hard with my knees while my horse kicked and bucked.
The last of my shield was smashed away and I stabbed my sword through into the armoured Saracen, catching him by surprise and piercing his head under the ear. I sawed my blade back out and blood gushed everywhere and he slumped over still trying to fight.
I looked up in time to see king pulled slowly from his saddle down onto the ground.
Pulling my feet from the stirrups I got my feet underneath me on the saddle. As I crouched, my horse ha
d his guts torn out. A spear was stabbed up into his belly and dragged back and forth and the destrier screamed and tried to rear up in the cramped space.
I leapt from the saddle across the dying Saracen knight and fell down where the king had fallen.
The fall stunned me.
Beneath the press of men and horse it was dark and airless. The ground drenched with blood. Richard was dazed and two Saracen bowmen pulled him away by the feet. Another furiously yanked at the king’s helmet.
They wanted to capture and not kill the king. Some men shoved each other trying to get at him. Others stared up, no doubt at the king’s bodyguard cutting their way toward him. Those Saracens hesitated, edged back into the throng while those behind could not push through to reach him.
Stabbing up with my sword, I cut into the man trying to steal Richard’s crowned helmet. It was easy to push the blade into his kidney as he wore no armour. Crawling over the king I pushed him down into the drenched ground and bullied the other two away from him. On my knees, slashing wildly above I flung the king onto his back to check how badly he was wounded.
The blood made it impossible to tell at a glance but his eyes were open, though unfocused. He may have been stunned or dying.
Above me, the Saracens were closing in again, blades and bows being used as clubs smashed into my back. I felt ribs break and catching a single breath was hard. A powerful blow rang my head and I staggered upright, swinging my sword all around and driving away the crowd to make a space about us.
I never saw the spear. The Saracen who thrust it into me must have been strong. It pierced the mail outside my left forearm, tore through the muscle and then the mail on the other side of my arm, rent the hauberk again and lodged deep into the bone at my hip.
What a shock that blow was. Incredible, pinning me against the king’s horse who snapped his teeth at me. The Saracens roared victory and charged forward for the king who was gaining his feet. Blinded by the agony I staggered forward, scything my sword back and forth. I clove a man’s hand in half down the middle. I bashed an archer’s jaw from his face. I narrowly missed striking the king’s head from his body. They attacked me, someone grabbed the spear in my side and twisted. The agony brought me to my knees. My lips snarled back into a grimace so tight I felt them split.
Hooves drummed on the earth and I knew we were dead. The Saracen knights had reached us. I threw myself across the king and blindly batted away the hands that reached down.
A voice and hot breath in my ear. “They are friends, Richard. They are friends. You have done your duty.”
I was flat on my back. Shapes moved above.
“Have him healed,” the voice said. “Mercadier, bring me your surgeon. I want this brave man treated as if it were me under the saw.”
“Do not take my arm,” I begged but the noise I made was a moan and no one answered.
Chapter Six - Loss
Time passed. There were moments where I thought I must be in Heaven but then I would feel agony lancing through me and I knew I was not dead. There were flashes of faces and sensations. I was burning hot and another time I was washed with cool water. A woman sang to me. A great lord stood over me asking questions of someone I could not see.
Please do not take my arm.
“Is he awake again?” A woman’s voice said. It sounded familiar. “He’s mumbling.”
“His wound has not festered,” the physician as I came to. He was prodding my hip through stiff bandages that reeked of vinegar. “The fever has passed.” He did not seem happy about my recovery. I could tell he was a proper physician because he was old and arrogant and he seemed offended by the very existence of my body.
I reached up with two arms and looked at both my hands. One was bandaged all around the forearm. They had not removed my arm. A great sigh poured out of me.
“Where am I?” It was daylight but I lay in shadow. A hot breeze fluttered the yellow walls of tent. There was blue sky beyond the flapping canvas.
“Do not attempt to speak,” the physician said, peering down at me. There were other men behind and about him. On a long table I saw glass jars, bowls of piss and blood and leeches.
It was Alice who then spoke. “Surely his swift recovery is a miracle?”
The physician scoffed. “Ha.” Which I believe was intended to convey what he thought of God’s intervention on earth compared to his own medical abilities.
“Alice?” I looked for her.
“I am here, Richard.” Her face appeared over me, smiling. Behind her were two of her ladies that I recognised from Messina.
I knew that time had passed since the battle but the last clear thing I remembered was being skewered with a spear. “What happened, Alice, with the battle? Does the king live?”
She laughed softly and patted my arm. “You ask that every time. You were gravely wounded, many times over, saving the life of the king. He is extremely grateful. But your wounds healed, miraculously.”
“It was no miracle,” the physician said, intruding. “In all likelihood it was simply a matter of receiving a superior standard of medical attention. In all likelihood.”
“What happened?” I asked. “How did I get here?”
“Leave us,” she commanded the physician and he bowed to her and backed away, waving his hovering attendants with him. They huddled in the corner of the tent throwing irritated glances back at me.
“How are you?” I asked her. “Your children?”
Her face lit up brighter than the sun outside. “We are all well,” she said. “You are sweet to ask.”
“Did we destroy the Saracens?” I said. “What has happened?”
She laughed. “The battle was won, my darling. We could have destroyed the Saracens army if only those stupid Hospitallers had not charged too early. But it was a great victory. They were beaten badly and have pulled back to Damascus or wherever to lick their wounds. And so we took back Jaffa really quite easily. So everyone says, I did not see anything of it, thanks be to God.”
“It was William,” I mumbled. “Earl William started that Hospitaller charge. Where is he? Why in God’s name was he riding with the Order? Did he survive the battle? Has he been seen?”
Her face clouded over at the mention of his name and I thought I had erred in bringing him up. “Since the battle everyone has been talking about him. He was with the Hospitallers because he lost his lands in the County of Tripoli for some dark crime. He swore his service and the service of his men to the Order. I suppose they did not realise what they were accepting. After the battle he did another great murder. He slaughtered a group of Saracen nobles. They were valuable prisoners and he did it in some bloody fashion that grows with the retelling. People are saying that he drained their blood into barrels so that he could drink it like wine. Isn’t that absurd? Anyway, Earl William has taken flight once more. The king declared his lands in England forfeit. The Hospitallers have disowned him also and even sent men to hunt him down but he eludes capture. It seems you were right about him. And everyone of note agrees.” She smiled again, a sudden brightness. “But he is gone, do not concern yourself.”
“He is gone,” I repeated. “Praise God.”
“They told me you would die,” Alice said, her mouth drawing tight. “Then they said they would have to take your arm before infection set in but I commanded them to wait. Then that it would take you months to heal. They know nothing.”
“How long have I been here?”
“A week? Yes, seven days, or eight. So much has happened.”
“Where is here?”
“We are in Jaffa, in the grounds of my house. The servants are clearing all the Saracen nonsense from inside. And the doctors said you required air that is fresh.”
“Your house?” I did not understand how we could have moved from such disagreement and bad feeling to me being welcomed, I assumed openly, into her household. She was chaperoned by her ladies but still it was strange. I lowered my voice. “I had assumed we would not see each ot
her any longer. Not like this, at least.”
“Like this?”
“Me laying under you so.”
She smiled but I saw pain in her eyes. “I thought I had lost you,” she whispered. “When I heard that you had fallen I thought that I would never see you again.” She looked away for a long moment and sighed before continuing. “You are a fool, Richard. An uncouth, ignorant blustering great fool with no clue how to speak to a lady.”
“I am.”
“But I cannot imagine spending my life with anyone else.” She smiled again and took my hand. Her fair skin had been darkened by the sun since I last saw her and her hair was even fairer. She was so beautiful that it took my breath away.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“You sweet fool, Richard. The king has granted you an estate here in Palestine, not far from Jaffa,” Alice said, her huge eyes shining over me, her face ringed with golden locks lit from behind by the glare of the sun. “Now we can be married.”
***
The king did not attend our wedding. In truth, it was a rather modest ceremony. But a few nobles from across Christendom were there in the small, beautiful church of Saint Michael near Jaffa’s harbour.
They wanted to have my acquaintance. For I had saved the life of the King of England by defending him from uncounted enemies and an otherwise-certain death. And I had done so alone and done it so successfully that the king was hardly wounded.
Over wine and at table the king had sung my praises ever since, for it was a good story and he told it well. He had me granted land a home that had belonged to a lord who had gone mad with homesickness and returned to Burgundy. My liege lord in Outremer was the King of Jerusalem. King of a city held by the Saracens. But the kingdom included Jaffa and Acre and so I was a man of standing. And my dear, brilliant wife Alice was content. Her children had protection and stability and she had me.
The war was not over. Saladin was beaten but far from broken. The lords and kings pressured the sole remaining leader of the crusade, King Richard, to push on from Jaffa toward Jerusalem. The Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaller told the rest of the Franks that we would never hold Jerusalem. We would be unable to protect the supply line from Jaffa if we took it. But the Hospitallers remained out of favour for their brash charge, even though they had denounced and run out the instigator. And the great lords and the archbishops needled Richard into attacking anyway, convinced that God would give them victory.