Beasts of the Seventh Crusade (The Crusades Book 4)

by Mark Butler

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THE RIVERS ARE THE LIFEBLOOD OF EGYPT. In the vast desert, rivers provide everything humans need to survive. The waters always run to the lowest places, as is the nature of water, and the Seventh Crusade followed the rivers to Cairo. To Francois' sense of direction, the crusaders were moving downhill, deeper into hell; the lowlands of Egypt.

  The fall season had arrived. The heavy rains were gone, and most rivers flooded their banks, pushing the populations back and making crossings over the larger branches of the Nile impossible. The Nile itself was the most treacherous, and a man was guaranteed to drown if he tried to cross that rushing stream of black death. Francois had seen it happen, twice, and he wondered if their deaths had been easy. Their deaths were certainly easier than the Ayyubids who were unfortunate enough to meet Artois in battle: his temper during the march from Damietta was foul and violent.

  "Where are they?" Artois bellowed for, what seemed to Francois and Raul, the thousandth time.

  "They will find a place to make a stand, and we will fight and die, son. Do not rush what may be your final days of life. Youth is wasted on the young," Raul said.

  "I did not come all the way from France to look at ugly rivers and burn my skin! What if they don't even fight, Father? What if we march all the way to Cairo and their sultan is waiting at the gates, bending over and kissing his own arse?" Artois asked. Several nearby soldiers laughed and their steps became lighter; marching with a man like Artois on your side was an incalculable confidence builder.

  The column continued its inexorable march south. The French infantry was the heart of the army, and they marched ten men abreast, more than 50,000 strong, with the king and his commanders in the heart of it. Ten thousand archers were spread throughout the infantry, each man assigned to a different unit of infantry. The cavalry was 2,000 men, the wings of the column, and they rode far and wide, reporting back to King Louis. There was no tail of merchants, whores, and children for this war column. They were expecting battle.

  "I should go back to the medical unit, with the king," Francois said, as the sun began to dip in the sky. Olivia had stayed behind in Damietta, and Francois found himself drawn to Henry in her absence. Mostly, he wanted the doctor's assurance that Olivia was a faithful woman, and would care for herself well while he marched with the crusade.

  "We'll see you soon, Francois," Raul said.

  "Be safe, little brother," Artois rumbled.

  Francois took three steps before a huge roar tore his attention south. Three riders were galloping full speed toward King Louis' position, and it wasn't until they got closer that Francois saw the reason for the commotion. The rider in the middle had six arrows in him, three in the chest, one in the leg and two in the back. His comrades were holding him up on the horse; he likely saw the enemy first, or had vital information for the king.

  Francois didn't know what the scouts told the king, but the trumpets blared, signaling a halt. He went back to Artois and Raul, who looked just as confused as he did.

  "What's happening?"

  On cue, screams and cries of battle came from the front of the column. Every man tensed and suddenly every hand held a weapon, every eye darted to and fro, expecting enemies to spring out of the ground.

  "Easy men, easy!" a veteran scout rode up the column, "There's a river ahead, a big one. Our boys are slaughtering a few Egyptians who were on the wrong side of the water, but there's no battle to be had now."

  The officers swung the column parallel with the river, like a snake nestling against a wall. The veteran scout had not lied. The river was a half-mile wide, muddy and fast. Huge logs, tangles of branches, and bodies floated down the current continuously. With a sinking feeling, Francois realized that King Louis had made a bitter mistake. If the Seventh Crusade had only marched before the rains, in the early summer, it would have never encountered this obstacle.

  The crusaders settled in for a long wait. Maximum arrow range was established, tents were erected, and campfires lit. Oddities washed up from the river: nooks, clothes, bottles, and dishes. Captured Egyptians claimed the river was called, "Ashmoun," and they said it was the place where the Seventh Crusade would end. The Egyptians underwent torture after that, and their pleas for a quick death could be heard across the desert, robbing Francois of sleep.

  "I must walk," he said to himself on the third night. The stars sparkled brilliantly in the dark cloth of the sky, though they were the same stars in France, and Francois was homesick. Francois walked north, to feel closer to Olivia, and his feet soon grew moist. Perplexed, he walked farther and his ankles sank into the dirt. Even in the pale moonlight, Francois could see that the rivers had flooded more, turning the crusader's only retreat path into a soggy nightmare.

  "Nothing is impossible! Nothing! Find me a way across that damned canal or I will have your heads!" Louis shouted at his engineer corps. They were educated men from the four corners of Europe, and they glanced nervously at one another at Louis' threats. He was frustrated, obviously, and was seeing his hopes of a successful crusade crumble in the face of the impassable canal. It was branched off from the Nile, manmade and well-defended. If the waters weren't so high, if they had only marched earlier in the year . . .

  "Does the king have any suggestions?" one of the engineers asked, a stout man from Spain with cold eyes and callused hands.

  "I suggest you do your job! Leave me! Scout east and west, as far as you must, but get me across this canal!" Louis' words scattered the engineers from his tent, and he sat down heavily, head in his hands. This could not be happening! This was the exact same location where the Fifth Crusade failed almost thirty years before, and Louis knew everyone thought he was a fool.

  King Louis IX was a gambling man. If he had to sacrifice 10,000 men to cross the canal, so be it. If he had to build a ford with his own soldiers' corpses, so be it. What he could not do was turn back now, when he had all the momentum, all the confidence, of a victory.

  "My king, there is news from the north," one of his guards said, poking his head in the tent.

  "The north? There is nothing to be done in the north. We captured Damietta. The north is secure."

  The soldier risked his status and his life with his next few words. "A man says that the rivers have flooded behind us, and that there is no retreat to Damietta. He says we are caught between two floods."

  "Who is this man?"

  "He is here now, shall I send him in?"

  "Please, yes, send in a random peasant so that he may advise me on matters of war. My so-called experts don't have anything worth saying; I might as well start listening to goat herders." Louis' sarcasm was lost on the guard, and he opened the flap for Francois to enter. Francois immediately got down on one knee.

  "My king, I am honored to be in your presence."

  "Of course you are. Get up. Who are you?"

  "Francois Coquet of Troyes. I serve in the medical unit and have been under your command since Aigues-Mortes."

  His mention of France soothed something in Louis' countenance, and he pulled a bottle of wine from his personal cask. He snapped his fingers and Francois realized that he was supposed to grab two glasses. He looked frantically about the tent and located the empty glasses next to the hearth. King Louis filled them to the brim and indicated Francois should sit.

  "Aigues-Mortes, you say?"

  "Yes."

  "And what say you of this crusade? Has it been successful?"

  It was a trick question, and Francois knew it. If he said yes, that would mean that they were done, that they had accomplished what they set out to, and that was a lie. If he said no, well, that was a personal insult to King Louis, in his tent, in the middle of his army.

  "Successful thus far, my king."

  "Ah, so you're clever. Tell me; do you miss the green fields and blue skies of France? A handsome lad like yourself, you must have a lass back home, pining for your heroic return."

  Francois couldn't say that her name was Olivia, and th
at he had taken her back from Louis' bed. He just smiled and nodded, instead.

  "If we're not going to discuss lasses, then we must discuss business. What did you see when you found yourself wandering north?"

  "Water, my king. I scarcely went three miles when I couldn't move anymore. My boots sunk into the ground and it was only getting worse. I saw the river in the east was overflowing at its banks, and I fear there may be another river that we missed, likely in the west."

  Louis stared Francois down until he looked away. They both knew his words were true. What kind of man would request a personal audience with the king only to lie to him? The information was galling, surely, because none of Louis' generals or guides thought to scout the retreat path, not with all their attention focused on moving toward Cairo.

  "Thank you, Francois Coquet. I'll remember your name, now leave me," King Louis said. Francois bowed and thanked the king for the wine, and then he left. He was sure that the king believed his words, but if they had an effect on him, he could not tell. The king's eyes had been jaded and suspicious, and Francois feared that Louis would simply redouble his efforts to cross the Ashmoun Canal.

  The Seventh Crusade sat on the banks of the Ashmoun Canal for two months. Arrows were occasionally shot from either side, as bored men made bets with their friends on how close they would get to the river. They always ran out, dodged a few arrows, and then came back, red-faced and laughing. Insults were hurled, in several tongues, across the canal, and Francois even found himself yelling once, saying something about the dirtiness of sand-dwellers.

  "There's a way, Francois, they've found a crossing!" Artois shook Francois out of his bed early one morning. The air was cold and still and he dressed warmly before venturing out. In the soft gloom of false dawn, the entire crusader camp was alive. Tents were being broken down, fires doused out, armor strapped on, and weapons checked and rechecked.

  "What do you mean? Where?" Francois asked.

  "There is a shallow sandbar four miles away! A cavalry officer noticed it yesterday, and he walked across this morning! He took his horse, too, to prove its stability. We are going to launch an artillery attack from here, to distract the Ayyubids, and everyone is ordered to be ready to cross! The time has come!"

  Francois did not share his brother's enthusiasm. Just because they could cross the Ashmoun Canal did not mean the Ayyubids would let them do so peacefully. There would be a violent battle at the crossing point, as soon as the Ayyubids saw what was happening. They were not stupid, no matter what European men thought.

  "Robert, listen to me! You will cross the canal and wait! You will wait! Do not attack, nor provoke, the Ayyubids until we get enough men across to deal with them. Do you understand?" King Louis asked his half brother.

  "Yes, my king," Robert said. He was a burly, young warrior with blonde hair and blue eyes. It was said the women of Paris would faint when he passed by, and he knew his own genetic gifts. They were all for naught, though, if he was a coward. Robert had volunteered to lead the cavalry across the canal, and this was his time to prove his mettle—his chance to write his name in the history books.

  The artillery barrage, catapults and arrows, began. They rained across the canal suddenly, a violent storm that completely surprised the Egyptians. There were a few deaths, but mostly superficial wounds, and return fire started after a brief time. Meanwhile, the cavalry silently rode behind the lines of the Seventh Crusade, on its way to the crossing, four miles northeast.

  When the cavalry crusaders arrived, they could easily see the shallow sandbar they needed to navigate. The cavalry officer who discovered the crossing went first, and Robert followed after him. One soldier, an amateur, accidentally steered his beast's front legs into the water, and they both overturned with a mighty splash. The man was in the water, pinned beneath the horse, whose legs had sunk into the muck of the river. By the time enough soldiers pulled the horse free, the man was a white corpse. They let him go down the river, and the rest of the cavalry crossed without incident.

  "Make way for the king! Make way for the king!"

  The call came from behind Robert's position, and he turned in his saddle, irritated at what he knew was happening: King Louis was crossing the ford with six of his bodyguards. Robert cursed under his breath. He was supposed to be in command of this operation; he was the ranking officer, the one whose name would be remembered through the ages. But now Louis was here, and Robert had no choice but to obey his monarch half-brother. Within a few minutes, Louis reached Robert's position.

  "I must lead from the front, you understand," Louis said. "I must be seen by the men who would risk their lives on my account."

  It was a lame explanation, but Robert was in no position to point that out. He and Louis both knew what was going on, and Louis was too embarrassed to say it outright. He was overruling his brother, taking personal command of the detail that would lead to a crusader victory.

  "I will scout ahead, Louis. We do not want to be ambushed with only our cavalry on this side."

  "Very well," Louis said, waving his hand. He was relieved to have Robert out of his face, staring at him with those shrewd, patricidal eyes.

  Robert took more than half of the cavalry and galloped straight toward Mansura. Louis was going to order him back, to tell him to take only a few men and to be stealthy, but he thought better of it. He had already gone too far in alienating Robert by arriving without warning and effectively taking command. He could not call him back in front of his soldiers and correct him like a child, too.

  Robert felt the wind in his face and the strength in his arms. His horse galloped rhythmically and Robert's body responded, adjusting to the familiar regularity of riding a horse and permitting his mind to roam freely. How could Louis try to steal his glory? It was appalling. Everyone knew Robert was the best cavalry officer in the entire army, and he was on the short list of possible successors to Louis, if he was killed or captured in Egypt. Robert had everything to gain, and Louis knew it.

  "Riders ahead!" one of Robert's lieutenants shouted. Robert squinted his eyes and counted the figures riding toward them. Seven, eight . . . fifteen, sixteen—sixteen men. He had 300.

  "Kill them all and keep one alive!" Robert shouted. "And look out for a stronger force! We are not done scouting, not yet."

  The enemy stopped when they saw the charging Europeans, and they whirled their mounts around and rode away fast. Robert's men loosed a couple of arrows at the retreating, dark-skinned men, but none connected with flesh. Robert's blood rose. He was going to capture a prisoner and make a real contribution to the crusade, not like his prissed-up king, who only gave orders. "Capture them . . . now!" Robert shouted.

  His men whooped in delight and leaned low over their saddles, to go as fast as possible. This was their specialty: chasing down scared men. They had practiced in Paris for years, hunting down animals, rogue Germanic tribes, and escaped convicts. Why should this be any different? Because they were trained Ayyubid warriors? Irrelevant.

  The Ayyubids were fast and agile. They slipped around cacti and soggy spots in the sand like fish in the water, narrowly avoiding every obstacle without sacrificing any speed. Their pursuers were less sure, and several of them fell during the chase, snapping bones and cracking skulls. But the Europeans had the numbers, and each man wanted to be the one to present a bleeding, broken Egyptian to Robert, half brother of Louis.

  The city of Mansura came out of nowhere. It was a massive, dark-red construction with high fences and towers facing every direction. It didn't take a practiced eye to see that the city was prepared for war. Tower guards were doubled or tripled. Unarmed citizens and peasants were nowhere to be seen. The main gate to Mansura was closed, but it opened slightly when the Ayyubid cavalry men approached, with the Europeans hot on their heels.

  "No! Don't go in!" Robert yelled. It was too late. His men charged straight into Mansura, blowing past the gate guards, fixated on their prey. Robert couldn't leave them. He just couldn't. It was
his idea to follow the damn cavalry. He had to see it through.

  Robert ducked his head and entered the city. The change in atmosphere was instantaneous. The suffocating smells of thousands of bodies, human and animal, pressed close together. The outraged yells of the Ayyubid officers, rallying their warriors to handle the Europeans, who still numbered in the hundreds. The ground was different, too, and Robert's horse stumbled on the loose gravel. Robert pulled on the reins and tried to slow the beast, but the animal reacted violently and bucked, throwing Robert through the air.

  He hit the ground in full armor, and his breath went out of him. There was a sharp pain in his ribs; he had likely broken several of them. He tasted blood on his lips and he saw his men, being pulled from their horses by angry Egyptians and stomped to the ground. A few hundred men had no chance inside an enemy stronghold, and Robert felt rough hands hold him down. Something was noosed around his neck, and then all he knew was darkness.

  "Where did he go?" Louis yelled at a grizzled sergeant. It was the fifth time Louis had asked, and the sergeant just shook his head and looked at the ground, aware that they both knew the answer.

  "I don't know, my king."

  "How far is Mansura from here?"

  "Our scouts estimate twelve miles."

  "Would he go there? Was he ambushed by a larger force? These are the things I need to know . . . now!"

  The sergeant wanted to wrap his hands around the king's throat and tell him to forget about Robert. Robert was gone, likely dead or under torture. All he could do now was retreat across the river and bring the main body of his force to the crossing. It had been foolish to let Robert go scouting in the first place. The man was a hothead and would likely attract the attention of the main Ayyubid force.