Knight of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  The rain had kept the knights and squires indoors. Roger, his soft leather ankle books soaked through, squelched his way across the hall, weaving between the clusters of men playing dice, polishing their weapons, or just talking. They cast him irritated glances as he dripped on them, but they recognized a man with a purpose and let him through.

  Roger found Balian with the King and several other lords at the high table. Balian and the King were playing chess, with the King verbally identifying which piece to move where, and Balian moving the pieces for both of them. It was apparently a close game, because the others at the table appeared to be watching intently, and Daniel and Dawit hovered behind the players with pitchers ready to refill the goblets on the table.

  “Your grace!” Roger bowed stiffly to his young King.

  Baldwin looked over, surprised, but it was Balian who answered. “What is it, Master Shoreham?”

  “My lord, your grace,” he bowed again to the King, obviously discomfited by the presence of royalty. “The Saracen cavalry is gone.”

  “What?” The King sat up straighter, instantly alert.

  “All the horses, they’re gone, and—as best I can see—so is Salah-ad-Din’s tent and maybe half the army.”

  Baldwin sprang to his feet, attracting the attention of the other men in the hall. “Are you sure?”

  “No, I’m not sure,” Roger admitted honestly, but Balian stepped in. “Sergeant Shoreham would not have come to us on a whim, your grace.”

  Baldwin looked at Balian, but his expression suggested he still did not want to believe it. Turning sharply to one of the knights who had been following their game, he ordered, “Sir Tancred! Go with this man and see what he is talking about!”

  “I’ll go myself,” Balian offered, but Sir Tancred was not so easily put off. Together they went with Roger to look out from the Jaffa Gate and then walked back along the landward side of the wall, trying to measure the depth of the ranks facing them, before reporting back to the King.

  “My guess is that Salah-ad-Din has left no more than a third of his army here, your grace,” Sir Tancred reported and Balian concurred, adding, “That’s still about ten thousand men, but no cavalry.”

  “He’s making for Jerusalem, Baldwin,” Edessa declared in alarm. “I warned you this could happen if you denuded Jerusalem of defenses!”

  Balian heard the echoes of what must have been a stormy argument before the King’s departure for Ascalon. Meanwhile, more and more knights were crowding around the high table, trying to hear what was happening. Some of the bolder men called out, demanding to know what was going on.

  Balian and Tancred told them what they had seen, and soon the discussion was swirling around the hall. Men started to argue with one another, while others went out to see for themselves. In the midst of it all, Baldwin sat as if lamed, unmoving and silent, while Edessa harangued him with increasing virulence, until Balian felt compelled to intervene with a sharp, “That’s enough, my lord!”

  “Well enough for you to say!” Edessa flung back at him, jealously. “For your sake, the King left Jerusalem defenseless!”

  “Hardly!” Balian countered. “There’s a garrison there, too, and many able-bodied pilgrims capable of bearing arms. Furthermore, the Marshal of Jerusalem can call up the rest of the feudal levies—”

  “Which will now be short more than 350 knights!”

  “What good is Ascalon if Jerusalem falls?” another knight took up the complaint.

  “You have thrown away your crown, your grace! For a foolish display of bravado, you have exposed the Holy Sepulchre to ravishment by the Saracen!”

  “Christ’s teeth! Hold your tongue, fool!” Reginald de Sidon bellowed even before Balian could come to the King’s defense. “Do you think He would give up His city so easily?”

  “He depends on us to defend Jerusalem—and we’re trapped here in Ascalon like so many rabbits in a hutch!”

  “Why?” The question came from the King, who lifted his head and spoke with ringing clarity.

  The men around him were stunned into silence, and the silence spread as others sensed the tension at the high table.

  “Why are we trapped? Did we not discuss a sortie just yesterday? What goal could be more appropriate than Jerusalem itself?”

  “There are ten thousand men drawn up around this city, your grace! You can’t just ride out of here!”

  “Armed and with couched lances, we can ride out of here,” the King insisted.

  “To your death, your grace! Even if we could cut through the siege force, the rest of Salah-ad-Din’s army now lies between us and Jerusalem.”

  “But they won’t expect us to attack them from the rear,” the King countered.

  That brought more than one snort and even a laugh from the men in the hall—all of whom, however, now attentively watched their King.

  “Even with surprise—and God—on our side, we can’t attack twenty thousand men with 370.”

  “The Templars have three hundred knights and that many sergeants again at Gaza,” Baldwin answered.

  Men glanced at one another and shifted uneasily. A thousand knights against twenty thousand might sound ridiculous, but these were fighting men—men who preferred the prospect of a battle to being trapped and helpless. Furthermore, the bulk of those twenty thousand enemy were foot soldiers, and the knights could dismiss them with impunity. Salah-ad-Din had between eight and nine thousand cavalry with him—which meant that, with the Templars, the odds were at worst ten to one. Not good, but if the alternative was to risk the loss of Jerusalem, it was worth considering.

  “And how do you propose to get word to the Templars that you expect them to sortie? How can you tell them where and when to join forces with us?” Edessa asked into the stillness.

  Baldwin looked up at his uncle and declared with great dignity, “We will find a volunteer willing to cross the enemy lines.” Then, before anyone could protest, he turned to Balian and added, “My lord, would you be so kind as to bring me to your chapel? I wish to pray.”

  This ignited a new wave of agitated debate across the hall, but Balian led the King out the back exit and up a narrow spiral stairway to his chamber on the floor above. As he started to lead out of the chamber, Baldwin stopped him. “I don’t need a chapel, Balian—just to speak to you alone.”

  Balian waited.

  “Tell me the truth: is a sortie madness?”

  “Not if we can coordinate it with the Templars.” Balian hesitated, then asked with trepidation, “Do you want me try to reach them?”

  “No! Of course not! I was thinking of Abdul.”

  “Your groom?”

  “Yes. He can pass among the enemy without arousing any suspicion. He is one of them.”

  Balian did not answer.

  “You are not enthusiastic,” Baldwin noted with a twisted smile of disappointment.

  “Your grace—”

  “Don’t call me that in private, Balian. I want your advice as my friend.”

  “As I said below in the hall, there are other feudal levies, a large garrison, and many armed pilgrims that still stand between Salah-ad-Din and Jerusalem. Although the Hospitallers are engaged with Philip of Flanders, the Templars can be expected to reinforce Jerusalem from the castles within a fifty-mile perimeter, or even more. There is no reason to assume that Salah-ad-Din will be successful in taking Jerusalem before word can be sent to Flanders, Tripoli, and Antioch to break off their assault on Hama and come to Jerusalem’s relief.”

  “I do not assume that Salah-ad-Din will capture Jerusalem, but I do not intend to just stay here and watch while my capital—my Kingdom—is threatened, either. I will sortie out of here, Balian, and I will send word to the Templars ordering them to rendezvous with us at a set place and time. It is only a question of whom to send. Do you have a better suggestion than Abdul?”

  Balian wished he did, because he did not trust slaves—or not ones like Abdul, who had been a fighting man before his capture. “Let
us talk to him,” he equivocated.

  The King nodded, and let Balian lead him down to the ground floor again and across the back courtyard. Neither man found anything odd about going to the stables together, because they had done it so often before, but members of Balian’s household nearly jumped out of their skins to find the King among them. At the stables the King called out: “Abdul! Come here! I want to speak to you!”

  A moment later the slave emerged out of the shadows and bowed deeply. “Abdul,” the King started without preamble. “We are trapped here in Ascalon, while the Sultan Salah-ad-Din has taken the bulk of his army onward to attack Jerusalem.”

  Abdul bowed deeply again.

  “I wish to give you a message to carry through the Sultan’s army to the Knights Templar at Gaza. Would you do that for me?”

  “You are my master; you can command me as you wish.”

  “If you do this for me, Abdul, I will set you free—but only on your return.”

  “If I do not return, master, I will also be free,” Abdul replied, and Baldwin caught his breath, but Balian thanked God for the slave’s honesty. It would have been so much easier for him to swear anything, and then take the King’s message straight to the enemy.

  “I will go, my lord,” Mathewos declared, coming out of the shadows.

  The King started and asked sharply, “Who are you?”

  “He is my head groom—and a Christian,” Balian answered for him, adding, “He can be trusted, and the Templars are more likely to believe him—but are you sure you can get through the enemy lines, Mathewos?”

  “Only God can know if I will be successful, my lord, but I am all but invisible in the night, and I speak the kind of Arabic they expect of a slave. Most of the men out there are Nubians, while the officers are Arabs. The Arabs look down on their own troops, and will take no note of me because to them I am like their men—worthless.”

  “If you are successful, you will know a king’s gratitude,” Baldwin promised warmly. “Balian, find me a scribe that I may write my message.”

  As Constable of Ascalon, Balian had not expected to take part in the sortie. The King had other ideas. “You are my knight,” he told Balian simply. “You pledged yourself to me first, before all the barons of the realm. You fought for me at Homs. If I am to ride out of Ascalon to face an army at least twenty times as large as ours, then I want you to bear my lance—since I cannot bear it myself.”

  There is no way to say “no” to such an appeal. Balian bowed his head and went to inform Daniel and Dawit to prepare his armor and Gladiator. The youths were in a state of such excessive excitement that Dawit was making Gladiator nervous and Daniel kept dropping things. Daniel could not take the suspense very long and blurted out, “Which of us are you taking with you?”

  “Neither of you,” Balian shattered their hopes. “The King has four body squires, and one of them will look after me.” He was confident of this because the squires were nominal in any case; their fear of contagion kept them from actually helping Baldwin bathe or dress, services still performed by the loyal Ibrahim.

  Balian paused in his own thoughts to note that he considered Ibrahim loyal, despite being a slave and a Muslim, but he would not have entrusted even him with a message to the Templars. Some kinds of temptation are simply too great.

  Now as night fell, the knights from Jerusalem, and Balian with them, attended Mass at St. Paul’s Cathedral, while their squires groomed and tacked the horses. From beyond the walls the muezzin called the Faithful to prayer, competing with the bells of Vespers, and the watch chased people into their homes to clear the streets—while the garrison pretended to watch the enemy, while instead watching the activities in the streets behind them.

  They went from Mass to a stand-up evening meal, washed down with large quantities of watered wine. Then, under orders to maintain silence, they started to mount up. Roger Shoreham paced along beside Balian, taking his final instructions. “Do not—I repeat—do not open the gates to let anyone back in. If we don’t break out and are forced back to the walls of Ascalon, it is God’s will, and we will die there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Roger answered smartly, but they both knew he was lying. He would, when the time came, make his own call about the risks involved.

  Balian grabbed his shoulder. “I promise we will do our best not to test your resolve.”

  Balian turned, gathered up the chain reins clothed in leather, and put his toe in the triangular stirrup. He pulled himself up into the saddle, took a lance from Daniel, and then guided Gladiator through the press of milling knights to the King’s side.

  Unable to couch a lance, Baldwin agreed that he would not lead the sortie, but rather ride in the very center, surrounded by his knights. It had also been agreed that they would issue forth from the Gaza Gate—the one where the besiegers would least expect it. The idea was to open the gate as quietly as possible and slip out two at time, the knights leading and the squires bringing up the rear. It would take roughly twenty-five minutes for the knights and their squires to slip out at this rate, and no one really expected that they would all make it out before the enemy discovered what was happening and took counter-measures. The plan, therefore, was to fling the gate wide open and allow any remaining knights and squires to ride out as rapidly as possible as soon as the enemy sounded the alarm. Meanwhile the leading knights would form up just beyond the bridge over the surrounding dry ditch. When the last squire of the sortie party was out of Ascalon, the gate would slam shut and the barbican bell would ring, signaling the leading knights to put spurs to their horses and charge.

  Success depended on a series of factors: not being seen until enough knights had managed to slip out of the gate to defend the bridgehead beyond the dry moat; maintaining close formation when they started their charge; the absence of walls, ditches, or other barricades to break their charge once they started; and then being able to outrun their pursuers far enough to circle around again to the north and head for the place designated for the rendezvous with the Templars.

  They still did not know if the Templars had received their message—or if they would obey the King’s orders. Mathewos might have been captured or killed by the Saracens. Or he might have made it through enemy lines only to fall victim to some other form of accident. He might have reached the Templar Castle at Gaza, yet failed to convince the Templars he was not a spy. Or, the worst but most likely scenario, in Balian’s opinion: the Templars might read the King’s message, but only shrug and choose to pursue a different strategy. The Templars were not vassals of the Kings of Jerusalem, and they had far too often underlined this fact by pursuing independent policies in the past. For all Balian knew, the Templars had intentionally let Salah-ad-Din pass by Gaza, or even made a separate truce that entailed a promise not to attack.

  A nervous rustle went through the ranks of horsemen as the gate creaked open. Horses fretted, throwing up their heads, sidling, or backing, kicking and lashing out with their teeth because the nervousness of their riders unsettled them. Like water through a narrow sluice, the mass of horseflesh slowly began to ooze forward at the front, but clogged outside the barbican. Still, no one spoke, and they all wore their helmets with nosepieces or full visors covering their faces.

  Balian, at the King’s side, was almost to the entrance of the barbican, and there was still no indication that the enemy had spotted the open gate. Poor watch, he noted mentally as he and the King entered the darkened barbican, the sound of scores of hooves echoing overhead. Ahead of them a horse whinnied, and then someone cursed.

  As they emerged from the barbican, the night was alive with shouting and waving torches. “Form up! Form up!” Reginald de Sidon shouted; he commanded the van and was on the far side of the dry ditch. Since the alarm had been raised, there was no longer any reason to maintain silence.

  The men around Balian and the King started trotting and then cantering, hurrying to cross the bridge and get on firm land before the enemy could launch an attack. Balian was
relieved when the hollow clunking of wood beneath his horse’s hooves gave way to the higher-pitched chinking of iron horseshoes on packed sand. The horses, pressed together as more and more riders followed them off the bridge, were getting more agitated than ever, and some started to rear up as they tried to break free but were held back.

  A shouted warning was followed by the distinctive sound of arrows burying themselves in shields. The King, of course, could no more carry a shield than he could a lance, but Sir Tancred was on his left and charged with his protection. Balian could only pray that no arrow would find its way through the surrounding wall of men.

  A moment later, the barbican bell started ringing wildly—joyously almost. The last of the sortie party was out of Ascalon; the gates closed again. Sidon shouted, “Jerusalem!” and the horses at the front of the pack sprang forward. The riders immediately behind were caught a little by surprise, but soon put spurs to their horses and started forward. Balian, with the King beside him, had no need of spurs. The herd instinct of the horses had taken over, and their mounts started charging with the rest.

  Balian focused on keeping beside the King, checking Gladiator just enough not to outdistance the less powerful Misty. He heard shouting around them, and the thudding of arrows still accompanied them, but mostly he was aware of the night being increasingly lit up. The Saracens were lighting fires to enable them to shoot better or to try to frighten the horses—or both—but the King’s conroi of heavy armor was increasing in speed and had become all but unstoppable—unless there were spiked ditches ahead of them.

  Balian heard the sounds of fighting—the shouts of men engaging, the unmistakable and familiar sound of a lance shattering, the clang of metal on wood. But these noises were on the periphery. In the center of the charge, the dominant sound was the thundering of hooves, the chink of armor, the panting of men and horses, and within minutes the sky was darkening again as the shouting started to recede. Men began to sit back and slow down their chargers. Balian reined in Gladiator to a controlled canter and then let him fall into a trot, as the King likewise sat back, and Misty dropped his head and snorted as if to say: that’s enough.