Holy War

by Hight, Jack

Yusuf rubbed his beard. ‘I will think on it.’

  ‘Shukran Allah. Now come, Brother. I am staying in the town. I have prepared refreshments in my home.’

  When they had crossed the bridge there were shouts of alarm from amongst Selim’s men, who began to pour forth from behind the barricade. Yusuf turned to see the gates of Kerak swing open. His hand fell to his sword hilt. But this was no attack. Two stooped old men in tunics came out. Each carried a platter heaped with food. Yusuf motioned for the troops to stay back. ‘Saqr, search them.’

  Saqr met the men on the far side of the bridge, and they submitted to his search. ‘They bear no weapons, Malik.’

  Yusuf waved them forward. One man carried a platter with a whole roast suckling pig. Selim paled at the sight of it. The other carried a pitcher of wine and a haunch of lamb, dripping with bloody juices. It was clearly not halal.

  Yusuf gestured to the food. ‘What is this?’ he asked in Frankish.

  ‘From our lord,’ the man with the pig said. He pointed back to the wall. Squinting, Yusuf could just make out Reynald.

  ‘Saladin!’ the lord of Kerak shouted. ‘You honour me by your presence at the marriage of my son. I have sent you these dishes so that you may take part in the feast!’

  ‘The insolent dog,’ Selim spat. He knocked the platters to the ground. The wine from the pitcher soaked quickly into the sandy soil.

  ‘Your master has our answer,’ Yusuf told the old men. He turned his back to them and strode through the barricade to where the catapults stood. ‘Resume your work,’ he told the men. ‘Chase that faithless dog from the wall.’

  Rain pitter-pattered off the hood of Yusuf’s cloak, and the muddy ground sucked at his boots as he and Saqr trudged towards the walls of Kerak for Yusuf’s daily inspection. At this distance, the walls appeared as only a vague shape looming through the curtain of rain. Frequent showers had plagued them throughout the first month of the siege, leaving the bowstrings of his men slack and making it impossible to roll a ram through the mud to the citadel gate. Yusuf had never known such a wet autumn. As he passed the catapults, one of them swung into action. Its basket had filled with rain, and it hurled a shower of water along with its stone. Yusuf lost track of the projectile against the cloudy sky, but he heard the loud crack as it struck the walls. At the barricade, the mamluks were huddled under their cloaks. They straightened as Yusuf approached.

  ‘What did he send today?’ Every day, Reynald sent Yusuf a new dish. None was halal. They were both an insult and a message: the citadel had plenty of food and could hold out for weeks to come.

  ‘Some foul thing,’ one of the guards replied. ‘I have never seen the like.’ He signalled to another man, who brought forth a basket. It held sausages that were almost black, with just a faint reddish sheen. ‘They smell of blood.’

  ‘Put them with the rest.’ After that first day, Yusuf had begun setting the dishes aside. When Kerak fell, he planned to shove them down Reynald’s throat. He stepped through the barricade and strode across the bridge. The rain was heavy, and he had to get close to clearly see the walls. The ground before them was a sea of churned-up mud littered with the debris left by half a dozen assaults. Yusuf had to pick his way carefully in order to avoid the broken arrow shafts and the occasional blade buried in the mud. He stopped within thirty yards of the castle – well within crossbow range on a dry day, but the rain would have played havoc with the crossbow strings, as with his men’s bows. Besides, the wall was empty save for the impaled heads of a dozen of Yusuf’s men, who had fallen in battle, and two guards, who were hunched under their cloaks, paying him little mind. He turned his attention to the lower wall. A network of cracks ran across its face and pieces of the battlement had been knocked away, but the wall looked no closer to falling than it had a week before. Yusuf frowned. He was running out of time. The Frankish army was on its way. And his scouts told him that it was not Raymond or Guy who led it, but King Baldwin himself and a priest: John.

  Yusuf heard squelching footsteps approach from behind. It was Selim. ‘The scouts have returned,’ Yusuf’s brother said as he splashed to his side. ‘The Franks are only two days off, less if the rain stops.’

  Yusuf nodded. He continued to examine the wall. He looked again to the guards huddled under their cloaks. A week ago, Yusuf had sent a dozen men under cover of darkness to scale the wall and open the gates. They had failed, but perhaps if he tried again, during heavy rain . . .

  Selim guessed what he was thinking. ‘We have done what we can here, Brother. Another attack will only waste lives.’

  ‘We need Reynald dead.’

  ‘The Franks march with a thousand knights and nearly ten thousand sergeants. If we are caught between their army and Kerak, they will grind us to dust against its walls. Even if we take Kerak, we will only find ourselves besieged in turn.’

  It was all true. And yet . . . ‘Our family comes from nothing, Selim. We are Kurds, son of a provincial governor in Tikrit. My authority rests on one thing and one thing alone: the defence of Islam against the Franks. Reynald raided to the very doorstep of Mecca and Medina. He must be brought to account.’

  ‘You wrong yourself, Brother. Your people love you. Your men love you. Where you lead, they will follow.’ Selim put his hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘We will be back, Yusuf. Once we have Mosul, the Franks will not have enough men to resist us. Reynald will then be punished. Let me go to Aleppo and prepare the attack on Mosul.’

  Yusuf’s gut was burning again. Defeat was a bitter draught to swallow. But he did miss Shamsa and his children. He had been too long gone from them. He was sure his men missed their homes as well. ‘Very well, Brother. Go north and gather gold and supplies for a campaign. Inform Ubadah that he is to rule in Cairo.’

  ‘Yes, Brother.’

  Yusuf remained before the walls while the tents were taken down and stowed and the baggage packed. The catapults were too heavy to carry along the muddy roads to Damascus and Cairo, so they were broken down and the wood hacked to pieces. The stones that had been collected as ammunition were rolled off the spur to fall to the plain below. The rain had stopped when Yusuf saw a new figure emerge on the wall. Reynald.

  ‘Saladin!’ the Frankish lord shouted. ‘I am sad to see you go. I enjoyed watching your men die before my walls.’ He gestured to the impaled heads. ‘I was hoping to add you to my little collection.’

  Yusuf made no reply.

  ‘Allow me to make you one last gift before you go.’ Reynald signalled and two men-at-arms dragged forth a man to stand beside him. The man was clearly a Muslim, with olive skin and a long black beard. He must have been captured during one of the assaults on the wall. He was naked and shivering in the cold. Reynald produced a knife. ‘I know how dearly you love cock, Saladin. Here—’ The mamluk cried out in pain as Reynald sliced off his member. He threw it from the wall towards Yusuf. The mamluk was sobbing. ‘He sounds like a woman, does he not?’ Reynald demanded. ‘Pitiful. I will shut him up.’ The mamluk shrieked in pain as Reynald carved out his tongue.

  Yusuf turned away, his jaw clenched. ‘Saqr, have the village set on fire. Tear down what will not burn. And send raiders to ravage Reynald’s lands. Leave no crops in the valleys. Leave him nothing.’

  ‘Yes, Malik.’

  Yusuf strode away from the wall. He would return once Mosul was his. Reynald would pay, and the Kingdom with him.

  ‘What is happening, John?’ Baldwin asked. The king wore mail, but he would not be riding into battle. He could not see, nor could he walk. He sat in a chair mounted on poles and carried by four men. Leprosy had ravaged his face during his long illness, and he now wore a mask of silver in which only his sightless eyes moved. It created an unnerving impression.

  ‘The Saracen army is gone,’ John reported from where he sat on horseback beside the king. The rain had stopped the day before, but the ground was still soft, and the Saracen retreat had turned the plain below Kerak into a muddy expanse dotted with the remains of cooking fi
res.

  ‘Good.’ Baldwin’s voice took on a hard edge. ‘Now we will deal with Reynald. John—’

  The king was interrupted by a fit of coughing. His health was still fragile. Within a week of regaining consciousness, he had named John commander of the army and set out for Kerak. They had left the constable Amalric confined in the palace under Joscelin’s guard. Raymond had been sent to Ascalon to fetch Guy and Sibylla back to Jerusalem.

  Baldwin wiped his mouth with a silk handkerchief as the coughing fit past. The king quickly tucked the handkerchief back into his robes, but not before John noticed that it was spotted with blood. When Baldwin spoke again, his voice was raspy. ‘Take control of the citadel. Disarm Reynald’s men, but do them no harm. When the citadel is in hand, I will come for Reynald. I want him brought before me in chains. Alive.’

  John frowned. Chains were not what he had in mind. He had come to Kerak to kill Reynald. Now that Baldwin had recovered, Guy did not matter. The regent was only a fool. Reynald was dangerous; too dangerous to live. ‘If he resists, Your Grace, I may have to use force.’

  Baldwin turned his blind eyes towards John. ‘We are not here for vengeance, John.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  John rode a short distance to where Balian of Ibelin sat astride a magnificent roan of easily sixteen hands. Balian wore a new coat of mail, and over it a shining steel breastplate emblazoned with his arms, a red cross on a field of gold. With his long dark hair and handsome features, he looked the part of a king more than Baldwin ever would.

  ‘We are to seize control of the citadel,’ John told him. ‘A thousand sergeants should be more than sufficient. When we enter, you will take charge of the gates and lower court. I will take the upper court and the keep. Tell the sergeants I want three spearmen beside every one of Reynald’s men.’

  ‘And what of Reynald?’ Balian asked.

  ‘Leave him to me. Aestan!’ The Saxon was at his side at once. ‘Fetch a pair of shackles. Be certain they are heavy.’

  While Balian gathered the men, John checked his armour. He wore a mail hauberk with long sleeves under a surcoat blazoned with the cross of Mount Sion. He took leather mittens backed with mail from his saddlebag and pulled them on, and then took his buckler from where it hung on his saddle. The buckler was a circular shield that John gripped in his fist. It was much smaller than the kite-shaped shields knights usually carried, but John would be facing no arrows or lances. He preferred the buckler for hand-to-hand combat.

  Balian had formed the men into a column ten wide. John rode to their head and raised his voice. ‘The King has declared Reynald a prisoner of the Crown. We are here to take him, not to fight his men! Keep your swords sheathed and your spears on your shoulder unless you are told otherwise. If so much as one of Reynald’s men is injured or killed without provocation, I will see the man who did it hang.’

  ‘A stirring speech,’ Balian said with a wry smile.

  ‘I do not want them stirred.’

  John turned his horse and urged it to a walk. Balian fell in beside him. Aestan took his place in the front row of the column, beside the man carrying the standard of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. They crossed muddy ground dotted with puddles and the charred remains of campfires. At the foot of the plateau, they took a zigzagging trail up to the town of Kerak. A few of the inhabitants had already left the fortress to return to their homes, but there was nothing to return to. The village of Kerak had been reduced to tumbled stone and broken timber. Some stood dejected, staring glassy-eyed at the remains of their homes. Others wept quietly. One old man ran to Balian and bowed.

  ‘My lord!’ he cried, mistaking him for the king. ‘Help us, Your Grace! The sand devils took everything. Everything!’

  John could not help the man. He rode on through the town and out on to the spur. The Saracens had built a barricade across it. John passed through and could now see men lining the walls ahead. They began to cheer as John crossed the bridge leading to the castle. The gates swung open, and a fleshy, sunburnt man in mail hurried forward to meet them.

  ‘Thank God you have come, Your Grace!’ He knelt before Balian.

  ‘Stand up,’ John told him as he dismounted. ‘He is not the King. Where is your lord?’

  ‘He awaits you in the upper court,’ the sunburnt man said.

  John turned to Balian. ‘You know what to do.’

  Balian’s men spread out around the lower court. John headed up the ramp to the upper court, his sergeants trooping after him. Around a hundred of Reynald’s men lined the walls. John paused once he was through the gate in order to allow his own men to spread out. His grip tightened around the handle of his mace. On the far side of the courtyard, Reynald stood near the entrance to the keep. He was dressed in mail, a sword at his side. Beside him stood his wife, his son-in-law Humphrey, and the boy’s new wife Isabella. She was no more than a girl, still flat-chested and narrow-hipped. She gripped the hand of Reynald’s wife Stephanie as if it were a lifeline.

  When John’s men were in place, he strode forward. Reynald’s expression darkened when he recognized John. ‘Where is Guy?’ he demanded.

  ‘In Ascalon. It is Baldwin who leads the army. He has sent me to take charge of the castle.’

  ‘Take charge? Kerak is mine.’ Reynald’s hand dropped to his sword.

  Good. Draw that sword, and I will kill you. John raised his voice so that Reynald’s men could hear. ‘The King has declared Reynald of Chatillon a prisoner of the Crown. Throw down your arms, and there will be no bloodshed.’

  Each of Reynald’s men found himself confronted with three spear tips. One man drew his sword and was impaled through the chest. The others began to drop their weapons.

  Reynald’s face purpled with rage. ‘How dare you! I held Kerak against the Saracens for over a month. The King should be thanking me.’

  John gestured to Aestan, who held a pair of heavy iron manacles. ‘Step inside, Reynald,’ John said quietly, ‘unless you wish to be manacled before your family and your men.’

  ‘Deceitful bastard,’ Reynald growled. ‘I should have killed you when I had the chance.’ He spat at John’s feet, then turned and strode towards the keep. Aestan and three other sergeants fell in around him.

  John followed them inside. ‘This way.’ He turned into a long hall dimly lit by light filtering in through the loopholes on the right-hand wall. ‘Leave us,’ John told his men.

  ‘But domne!’ Aestan protested.

  ‘Go! And see that we are not disturbed.’ The men trooped out and Aestan closed the door behind him. John took his mace from his belt as he turned to Reynald. ‘You wish to kill me, Reynald? Now is your chance.’

  Reynald’s eyes narrowed. ‘What trick is this, Saxon?’

  ‘No trick.’ John adopted a fighting stance: legs wide, mace raised, his body turned so that his buckler was towards his foe. Reynald drew his sword and held it with both hands. John met his eyes. ‘I have waited a long time for this. You betrayed me when I first came to the Holy Land. You sent men to kill me. You—’

  ‘Enough talk.’ Reynald stepped forward and took a two-handed cut at John’s throat. John blocked with his buckler, and Reynald brought his blade slicing back towards John’s gut. John jumped back out of the way and swung his mace for his opponent’s head. Reynald knocked the mace aside and charged. He planted his shoulder in John’s gut, lifting him from the ground and slamming him down. The two men skidded a few feet on the stone floor. John dropped his shield and managed to push Reynald off him. He rolled away just before Reynald’s sword struck where his head had been.

  John was breathing hard as he scrambled to his feet. He was still not fully recovered from his time in prison, and Reynald was bigger and stronger. He backed away and circled to Reynald’s left. John saw Reynald’s knuckles whiten around his sword hilt a moment before he charged. John was already moving. He sprang to the right, avoiding the thrust, and brought his mace down on Reynald’s shoulder.

  Reynald roared wit
h pain as he spun to face John. His left arm now hung limp at his side. ‘I’ll gut you, Saxon!’

  ‘Come and try.’

  Reynald advanced more cautiously this time. He lunged, and John skipped back out of the way. Reynald followed with a backhanded slash towards John’s face. John knelt, and the sword flashed over his head. He slammed his mace into the side of Reynald’s knee. Reynald dropped his sword and collapsed, clutching his leg. John knelt on his chest and raised his mace.

  Reynald spat in his face. ‘Come on, you faithless dog. Do it!’

  John’s grip tightened on the mace.

  ‘John! Stop!’

  John looked up to see the king. Baldwin’s chair had been set down just inside the door. Reynald’s wife Stephanie was beside the chair, whispering urgently to the king. Baldwin raised a hand to silence her. ‘I have not come for Reynald’s life,’ he declared. ‘I have come to dispense justice.’

  John moved aside and Reynald pushed himself to his feet. He leaned heavily on his sword. ‘Justice, Your Grace? What sort of justice is it that strikes a loyal servant of the King? I have fought at the head of your armies. I have fought when others cowered behind unholy treaties with the infidel. Now, you send this Saxon dog to my castle with orders to put me in chains? I am a lord. I demand to be judged by my peers.’

  ‘You will be judged, Reynald. Never fear. Chain him and bring him before me.’

  A dozen sergeants with spears surrounded Reynald. Aestan came forward with the manacles. John took Reynald’s sword and closed one of the manacles around his left hand.

  ‘You are enjoying this, aren’t you, Saxon?’ Reynald snarled.

  John ignored him as he manacled the other hand. He tugged on the chain lead, and Reynald limped forward to stand before the king. Baldwin’s silver mask glinted in the light streaming through the loopholes.

  Reynald bowed with some difficulty. ‘Tell me my so-called crimes, Your Grace. I am ready to answer for them.’

  ‘You conspired with Guy to remove me from the throne. A dozen men attest that you called him king. I am not dead yet, Reynald.’