When we reached Tripoli, we received one of the Hospitaller scouts from the Krak. He had managed to sneak past the infidel lines and had arrived in the city only hours before us. Colonel Delacorte hastily arranged a briefing, attended by Baron Bernières, Uncle Ramón, Don Fernando, and their deputies, including Andrés and me. We met in the office of the city constable, who doubted the accuracy of Don Lorgne’s report and seemed anxious for our departure.
“Even an army of fifty thousand of Baibars’ finest soldiers,” he said, “could not conquer the Krak. You are wasting your time.”
The constable did not wait for the scout’s news. He said that he had business at the port—a Venetian merchant refusing to pay taxes—and departed hastily.
The scout from the Krak sat in the constable’s chair surrounded by our entourage. Staring down at his clasped hands, he seemed reluctant to face his examiners.
“What is the status of the battle, scout?” the Baron asked.
“Not good, sir,” he responded. “They never stop. They never stop coming.”
“Has the garrison repulsed the infidel attacks?” the Baron asked.
“Yes, sir, I think, sir,” the scout said. “Well, no, sir. We had to retreat inside the inner walls of the castle. The infidel sappers dug underneath the foundations of the outer walls. One of the towers collapsed. Their soldiers rushed into the breach. A good number of our men were caught by surprise and did not have time to escape to the inner enceinte.”
“How many men were caught?” Colonel Delacorte asked.
“A good number, sir,” he answered. “None were taken alive.”
“Can you estimate the size of Baibars’ force?” Don Fernando asked.
“Very large, sir,” he said.
“An elephant is very large,” Don Fernando said. “How many soldiers surround the castle?”
“Four thousand, five thousand,” the scout said. “More soldiers than the eye can count, sir.”
“What is the condition of the inner walls?” Colonel Delacorte asked.
“They were still there when I left, sir, but the Muslims were hauling up their catapults to the top of the outer walls. From that position, their machines will be able to blast away at the inner enceinte until very little is left of the castle.”
“How many Hospitaller knights are defending the castle?” Ramón asked.
“At least sixty-five, sir … when I left. With another two hundred foot soldiers and archers. There are many wounded, some of whom will fight when Baibars storms the castle.”
When Baibars storms the castle …
I looked to Ramón, who seemed not to register the gravity of this prognosis. He had reached his hand forward and was gently touching the dried blood that stained the scout’s tunic.
“An arrow?” Ramón asked.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Your arm,” Ramón said. “Was it an arrow?”
“Yes, sir. That’s why Don Lorgne chose me as messenger. With one arm, I was no good as a fighter. I can still ride, though.”
Ramón nodded.
“Sir,” the scout said, “I am sorry.”
“Perhaps,” Baron Bernières said, “we should reconsider our mission. It is not as if …”
“That will be all, scout,” Ramón said, interrupting the Baron. “My men will dress your wound and provide food for you.”
We did our best to contain the bad news to the small coterie of officers who had listened to the scout’s report. But leaks occurred. When the sun rose the next morning, much of our army had deserted, disappeared into the bustling streets of Tripoli—all the native Christians, most of the squires. The Hospitallers, on a mission to rescue their own brethren, lost half their number. Don Fernando’s army surrendered only a couple of knights. Don Fernando sentenced the two deserters to death. He said he would personally carry out the sentences after repulsing Baibars’ attack at the Krak.
The Calatrava alone were intact. Our devotion to the Cross did not exceed that of our Hospitaller brethren. It was simply a loyalty to Uncle Ramón and my comrades—the men with whom we had lived, slept, eaten, and fought. If death waited for us at the Krak des Chevaliers, then so be it. I would have rather made his acquaintance than suffer the shame of deserting my brothers.
After meeting with Baron Bernières and Don Fernando, Uncle Ramón called his knights into a circle.
“As you already know,” he said, “we have lost some of our Hospitaller friends. They were the weaker of our number. We are better off without them.”
Ramón spoke loudly, perhaps too loudly, as if he could make up in volume what he lacked in conviction. Some of my brothers looked anxiously to Andrés and me, as if Ramón had designated us to hear their appeals. Others were kicking dust or staring off into the hills. Ramón stepped back and surveyed the fifty-eight knights under his command.
“Remember what I told you when you first arrived in Calatrava,” he said, lowering his voice. “A small band of knights, hungry, tired, and ill-equipped, marched down the coast of Syria and conquered Jerusalem in the Year of Our Lord 1099. With God’s grace, we could vanquish an army of demons.”
We headed east into the hills of Syria. In the absence of all but a few squires, we strapped our armor on the backs of our horses. Several of the Hospitallers had spent stints at the Krak, including Colonel Delacorte. They acted as our guides. It was a sixteen-hour trip to the castle from Tripoli. We had planned on making the last stage of our journey in two days. After hearing the scout’s report, the commanders decided we would ride until we reached the fort. We still had a force of two hundred knights.
Through misty valleys, we rode our horses. Untamed hills seduced us into forgetting our destination. We could hear the melodies of crickets and doves, the trickle of a creek. We passed a furtive colony of yellow flowers, stems straining against the cool wind. The stunned eyes of a rabbit glowed through the tall grass. A lithe Arab girl, bent over in the river, washing her clothes. Her long black hair, untied, skimmed the surface of the water. She did not even glance up at the army of knights who passed on the bank. I did not think of the battle that waited at the Krak. I could not imagine it in those placid hills.
Night fell like a soft cloak. Riding side by side with Andrés, I remembered our races in Montcada when he came to visit after Sergio’s death. My brother Sergio. My brother Andrés. I thought of my father, probably competing at some jousting tournament in France or Germany, and of my mother, still in the black of mourning, seven years after Sergio’s death.
An alien and distant noise interrupted my meditations. At first it sounded like rolling thunder. As we approached the castle, I recognized the distinct tenor of artillery.
“It seems,” Ramón said, riding just behind me, “that Baibars intends to keep our brothers at the Krak from sleeping, lest they dream themselves to another place.”
It was not long before we could hear the sound of stone on stone—the projectiles from the catapults smashing into the fortress. The barrage seemed to escalate so that the streams, the crickets, the other animals—nature itself—became silent as if in homage to that great storm or in fear of drawing its ire. We alone continued on that path, toward the center of the tempest—over the protest of our faithful horses, who whinnied uneasily and jerked backward when the earth trembled. My hands tightened around the reins.
As the sounds of battle became fiercer, the commanders rode to the front of our force. Their deputies, including Andrés and me, trailed just behind. Colonel Delacorte spoke to the three men in turn, first the Baron, then Don Fernando and Uncle Ramón. I could not hear their conversations. I watched, though, trying to ascertain information concerning our fate. After listening to the Colonel, Baron Bernières grabbed his deputy’s hand and shook it vigorously. Don Fernando crossed himself, then kissed his closed fist. Ramón looked back toward Andrés and me. I could read nothing in his expression, though.
Perhaps a mile or two from the fortress around a ridge that concealed us from the enem
y, Colonel Delacorte told the men to dismount. When the commanders and their officers had gathered around, Colonel Delacorte instructed the knights to don their armor. Between each other and the several squires that were left, we managed to dress for battle while Colonel Delacorte explained the plan of action. The humming of artillery forced the Colonel to suspend intermittently his discourse, but he continued when the noise abated. The precise, plainspoken nature of Colonel Delacorte’s orders made many of us wonder regretfully how it came to pass that such a man as Baron Bernières was our commander instead of his deputy.
“We will not attack Baibars’ force outside the castle,” Colonel Delacorte said. “There is a secret underground passage one mile from the castle. It leads to the inner enceinte. We have kept the tunnel a secret even from our most trusted soldiers. Only the Grand Master and Hospitaller knights who have been stationed at the castle know of its existence. If you are captured, you must never reveal this knowledge.
“The entrance is marked by a pile of rocks atop a square stone. Baibars is unaware of the tunnel. The rocks remain undisturbed, the secret passage undiscovered.
“The pathway is narrow and will not accommodate our mounts. We will abandon them here. On foot, we will proceed rapidly, daggers drawn, to the entrance of the tunnel. We should reach the opening in ten to fifteen minutes.
“Ramón, I would request that your men deal with any infidel sentries who stumble upon our party.”
“We will do so, Colonel,” Ramón responded.
“Once the last soldier is safe in the passage,” Colonel Delacorte continued, “I myself will pull the stone over the entrance.
“Before dawn we will be in the castle. The infidels will not understand the appearance of fresh soldiers. Baibars will think that God Himself dispatched a band of angels to defend the fort.”
Colonel Delacorte set off immediately, running cautiously toward the ridge. Baron Bernières and the other Hospitaller knights followed in single file. We all fell in line, reluctantly releasing the reins of our horses, abandoning the last vestige of a hope unspoken that somehow our path would bypass the besieged castle.
We came around the ridge noiselessly. It was my first glimpse of the castle. The Krak stood defiant amidst its enemies, deflecting the Muslim artillery in a symphony of sparks and flames that transformed night into day. The gray stone rising from the earth as if it were natural-born of that same rock that covered the landscape in Golgotha. A monument to the martyrs—those who had fallen in her defense and those who would fall. The round towers soared. Each block of stone conspiring to pierce the firmament, groaning under the burden of our righteousness.
I was running instinctively, entranced by the majesty of the castle, when Ramón tapped me from behind. He had grabbed Andrés’ shoulder with his other hand. He pointed to the back of a man, a Muslim sentry, not thirty feet away. The sentry was moving quickly toward the infidel lines. We had been discovered.
Andrés and I sprinted after the man. We gained on him so rapidly it seemed that he was standing still. Andrés tripped him from behind. He was screaming, trying to attract the attention of his comrades. The din of battle drowned his voice. As Andrés held him down, I moved my dagger across his throat. The blade cut smoothly. Drops of blood fell like raindrops on my fingers. Andrés and I perused the area quickly for other sentries, but there were none. We ran back to our company and took our place next to Ramón.
Colonel Delacorte had already reached the passageway. One by one, our comrades disappeared, swallowed by the earth. I was the first of the Calatrava to enter the passage. I jumped into the open hole, my fall cushioned by the soft clay. I was helped forward by one of the Hospitaller deputies. The remaining soldiers soon filled the passageway.
When Colonel Delacorte pulled the tombstone over the opening, darkness enveloped us. The night was total. I was breathing heavily from our exertions and could not catch my breath. The smell of rank clay and damp air was suffocating. That tunnel seemed like a crypt, closing fast around us. I clutched Andrés’ arm.
Two of the Baron’s men lit torches that chased the darkness down the long corridor. My fears subsided gradually as I looked at the steady profile of Uncle Ramón just beside me. The knights leaned against each other, listening to the muffled sounds of the artillery barrage.
“Welcome to the Krak des Chevaliers, men,” Colonel Delacorte said. “Keep your heads down and keep moving forward. We will space a torch every tenth person.”
Led by Colonel Delacorte and the Hospitallers, we began walking down the tunnel. The dimensions of the passage seemed to vary every few steps. At times we could stand straight up. At other times we were forced to kneel and even crawl through the cold stream of water that flowed on the floor of the tunnel. My gaze never left the torch carried by one of Don Fernando’s deputies, exactly five men ahead of me.
As we moved forward, the crush of artillery intensified. When the missiles hit the ground above us, the whole passageway shook. If we were standing, we would be thrown to the ground. Rocks and dirt would rain down from the tunnel’s ceiling, so that we had to stop and cover our heads with our hands or, if we were quick enough, our shields. The pounding became so frequent that we did not bother to stand, even when we were able. We crawled through the mud and clay toward the inner castle of the Krak, toward the roar of combat.
When we reached the end of the tunnel, two of the Hospitaller knights from the castle helped pull us up into a gloomy alcove. My comrades stood uneasily, coughing the clay from their lungs, waiting for directions from our hosts. We had made it into the castle.
Other Hospitaller knights appeared. They seemed neither surprised nor pleased by our arrival, as if they were receiving guests at a funeral. They divided the new arrivals into groups of three men, then escorted us outside the dank compartment.
Andrés and I were grouped with Uncle Ramón. Our chaperon led us up a flight of stairs, through covered tunnels and vaulted passageways, and more stairs. The bombardment was unrelenting. I could not hear my own footsteps. At times the stone missiles landed close to our position, so that rocks and other debris fell just where, an instant before, we had been. The knight who led us seemed unconcerned, though, never altering his pace. We followed close to his side. When we reached the threshold of a large chamber, our escort abandoned us, disappearing into a dark passageway.
We took a step forward. We had entered a chapel, a sturdy fortress unto itself, with heavy vaults girding the lofty ceiling. The noise of battle diminished as we crossed into the sanctuary, a haven from the fighting. The fragrant haze of incense banished the acrid smoke that pervaded the castle city. Torches lit the painted walls—colorful battle scenes—Christian military victories interwoven with images of martyrs and saints. Shields and swords hung amongst the frescoes.
A priest in a hooded robe motioned for us to proceed toward the apse, where a knight was kneeling before a wooden Cross. His head was bowed in prayer.
Our other comrades arrived in groups and quickly filled the church. We gathered silently around the praying man, afraid to disturb his concentration. He stood finally. Brown hair extended down to his shoulders. Long sideburns flanked taut, riven cheeks. The white Cross of the Hospitallers was sewn on his black tunic.
My attention diverted to the chain around his neck, a string of translucent orbs. They resembled seashells, or the wafers of bread given by the priest at Mass. There must have been twenty.
I looked closer at these strange ornaments dangling across his chest. I rubbed my eyes and squinted through the mist of incense.
No earthly sea spawned these trinkets. Nor were they consecrated in any church. Don Lorgne was wearing a necklace of ears. Infidel ears.
When he talked, my comrades closest to him stepped back. Perhaps they were surprised that the savage could speak.
“That shield,” he said, pointing to a place high on the wall, “was used by Sir Geoffroy de Joinville. If you look closely, you can see the arrow marks. One hundred years ago, Sir
Geoffroy commanded a small company of knights that left the castle to collect tribute from a local village. They ran into a full regiment of infidel soldiers that were passing through the territory. Outnumbered and unprepared for battle, Sir Geoffroy chose nevertheless to engage the infidels rather than flee back to the safe confines of the castle. The fighting was ferocious. Sir Geoffroy himself stained his sword with the blood of one hundred infidels. The Muslim soldiers eventually overwhelmed the Krak’s defenders. Sir Geoffroy and his entire company were killed on the battlefield. Out of respect for their worthy adversary, the Muslims left Sir Geoffroy’s body and armor at the entrance to the castle the morning after the battle. His bones lie beneath you.”
His gentle voice betrayed neither hope nor fear. His tone never rose nor lowered.
“I am Nicolas Lorgne, the castellan of the Krak des Chevaliers. For ten years, I have lived within these walls—ten years fighting the infidels. Ten years in the wilderness, defending Christ’s Kingdom against the heathen. I have studied their tactics and learned their strengths and weaknesses.
“Baron Bernières and Colonel Delacorte, Ramón of the Calatrava,” Don Lorgne said, “Jesus Christ will reward the courage of you and your soldiers who have risked their lives to come to our aid. The dire nature of our situation is obvious. You have heard the force of the Muslim barrage. Even with your arrival, their soldiers outnumber us ten to one.
“Baibars demands an unconditional surrender. That would mean death or slavery for every knight in the castle. To avoid this fate, we must convince Baibars that the siege will be too long and costly.
“Supplying his force requires the transportation of food and drink for five thousand mouths to this desert outpost. All the while, he allows his other enemies—both Christian and Muslim—to roam freely in the territories. If we can hold out into the hot summer months, Baibars might decide he cannot afford to continue the siege. God willing, he will withdraw his army.
The Crusader Page 26