Holy War

by Hight, Jack

  But the ranks of men ahead grew thicker and thicker. Spear after spear shattered against John’s shield. One dug into his left shoulder, penetrating the mail just enough to send a wave of agony down his arm. A sword glanced off his right side. Another flashed towards his face. He ducked, and the blade struck the crown of his helmet, setting it to ringing. The men facing him now wore the saffron-yellow surcoats of Yusuf’s private guard. John spurred his mount, trying to hack his way through, but the Saracens were pushing back. The charge stalled, and John found himself fighting for his life. He swung his sword in wide arcs, trying to keep the enemy at bay. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a mamluk raise his sword to strike, but suddenly the man fell, impaled from behind. It was Reynald. Ten more knights joined them, driving back the Saracens.

  ‘Are these men all that remain?’ John shouted over the cries of combatants and the clash of steel.

  Reynald grunted in affirmation. ‘Where is that bastard Saladin?’

  John looked beyond the sea of men before him and spotted Yusuf only twenty yards away, waving his sword to rally his men. ‘There! With me, men! For Christ! For the Kingdom!’

  John spurred forward, driving into the enemy ranks. The knights came after him, hacking their way through the mamluks. John could clearly see Yusuf’s face now. He was only ten yards away. His eyes widened as he recognized John. Then John heard shouting from behind.

  ‘This way, men!’ Reynald roared. ‘With me if you want to live!’

  John looked back to see that Reynald had veered away from Saladin and towards a weak point in the Saracen line. The knights were following. They burst through the mamluk ranks and out on to the plain. Reynald galloped away without looking back.

  ‘Bastard!’ John growled. He gave a final glance in Yusuf’s direction, turned and galloped after Reynald. He followed him north across a field of brown grass and towards a wadi that led into low hills. Arrows began to fall around him, and he looked back to see hundreds of mamluks giving chase. John’s mount was lathered and tiring, its breath coming in laboured bursts. ‘Yalla! Yalla!’ he shouted, flicking the reins and urging one last effort from the beast. It surged forward and John pulled alongside Reynald.

  ‘We must turn back!’ he shouted. ‘We must strike Saladin!’

  Reynald ignored him. John slashed backhanded and his blade caught Reynald in the chest, tearing his surcoat but not penetrating the mail beneath. Reynald countered, and his sword slammed into John’s forearm. John felt his arm go numb, and his sword dropped from his hand. He turned his horse into Reynald’s and grabbed him, pulling Reynald from the saddle. John fell with him. He hit the ground and rolled several times before coming to a stop. His lower back felt as if a sword had been plunged into it, and each breath brought a stab of pain in his chest. He pushed the pain from his mind and climbed to his feet. He was facing the northern Horn. The king’s tent had fallen. John turned to see the other knights galloping on without them. A few feet away, Reynald was on his hands and knees, crawling towards his sword. He grasped it and rose.

  ‘You traitorous shit!’ he roared as he staggered towards John.

  John looked about for a weapon, but there was only knee-high brown grass. He backed away.

  ‘Come here, Saxon,’ Reynald growled. ‘I’ll kill you before I die.’ He lifted his sword over his head and charged, then stopped short as an arrow struck him in the wrist, the arrowhead bursting out the far side. Reynald cried out and dropped his sword. Three more arrows slammed into his chest, and he staggered backwards.

  John turned to see hundreds of mamluks galloping towards them. An arrow struck John in the stomach and lodged in his mail. He turned away and crouched low to make himself a smaller target.

  Reynald had fallen to his knees and was cradling his wrist. ‘Fool!’ he snarled at John. ‘We could have escaped. You have killed us both.’

  John began to smile, but then winced in pain; he had split his lip. ‘So long as I see you die first, I shall die happy.’

  Chapter 11

  July 1187: The Horns of Hattin

  Crows flapped among the bodies that littered the slope of the northern Horn, pecking out eyes and tearing at the soft flesh of faces. Yusuf kicked at one, and it cawed in protest as it flapped away. He continued up the slope, striding past dead knights, their mail armour stained reddish-brown with dried blood, their swords sill clutched in their hands. He passed a big Frankish destrier with arrows protruding from all over its body. Its eyes were rolled back in its head and the poor beast had bitten through its tongue. The horse had struggled as it died, thrashing and kicking up chunks of earth all around it. Beyond the horse, Yusuf came upon a dozen dead mamluks, fallen almost one atop the other. They had been facing a single man. The Frank lay dead, his surcoat so stained with blood that it was impossible to make out the arms he wore. His great helm hid his face. Yusuf felt a sudden stab of pain in his gut as he thought of John. He knelt beside the knight and removed his helmet. The dead man had white hair and green eyes that stared sightless into the heavens.

  ‘Malik,’ a voice croaked from behind. Yusuf turned. One of the mamluks he had thought dead moved, propping himself up amongst the dead. ‘Malik!’

  Yusuf went to him. The mamluk was a young man, not much older than Al-Afdal. An ugly gash on his thigh went to the bone. It was oozing blood, but too little. The young man was bled out. He would die soon. Yet when he clutched Yusuf’s arm, his grip was surprisingly strong.

  ‘Have we won, Malik?’

  ‘We have.’

  The mamluk smiled. His teeth were red with blood. ‘I shall boast of our victory in paradise.’ His eyes fluttered and then closed. A moment later, his grip on Yusuf’s arm relaxed.

  Yusuf blinked back tears as he rose. The boy’s death had moved him in a way the rest of the carnage had not. He turned to Saqr, his shadow, always by his side. Al-Afdal stood a short distance away, watching as some Bedouin stripped a fallen knight of his armour and boots.

  ‘Remember this, my son,’ Yusuf called. He pointed to the body at his feet. ‘The scribes will write of this as a day of glory. Never forget its true nature. Never forget the cost of victory.’

  Yusuf continued up the hill. The slope grew steeper, and the muscles in his thighs were burning when he finally reached the top. The bodies were thicker here, mamluks and Franks fallen one on top of the other. He had to pick his way so as to avoid trampling on the dead. Ahead, a ring of mamluks stood guard around the surviving knights. Only two hundred remained – two hundred knights out of more than a thousand. Several hundred had escaped with Raymond, but the rest lay on the field. The survivors before Yusuf looked more dead than alive. They sat slumped on the ground, their heads hanging. Not one of them looked up when Yusuf stepped into the circle.

  Yusuf addressed them in French. ‘Where is your king?’

  At the centre of the knights, a man rose wearily to his feet. He was broad-shouldered and tall, with long blond hair and a turned-up nose that gave him a piggish appearance. His face was smeared with blood that had dried almost black. ‘I am Guy, King of Jerusalem.’

  ‘Come here.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, Guy started towards Yusuf. His men moved aside to let him pass.

  ‘Your men are dead or captured, your army destroyed,’ Yusuf told him. ‘Do you yield?’

  Guy’s voice was hollow. ‘I yield. I am your prisoner.’

  ‘Where is the Wolf, the one you call Reynald?’

  ‘The last I saw, he was charging your lines. He meant to kill you.’

  Yusuf turned to Saqr and spoke in Arabic. ‘Find him, dead or alive, and bring him to me. Have the King taken to a tent, one befitting his status, and kept under guard. The noble lords will be kept together until they can be sent to Damascus to await their ransom. The other knights, sergeants and camp followers will be sold.’

  ‘What of the Crossed, Father?’ Many of the survivors wore the hated red or black crosses of the Templars and Hospitallers. They were the most imp
lacable of Yusuf’s foes, fanatics who fought without regard for their lives.

  ‘Their kind do not take prisoners, nor shall we. Execute them.’

  Yusuf turned and started back down the slope. He had not got far when a rider galloped up. ‘We have found the Wolf, Malik!’ the mamluk cried as he slid from the saddle.

  ‘He lives?’

  The mamluk nodded. ‘He was captured along with one of their priests.’

  The sword blade flashed, lit gold by the light of the setting sun, and descended in a blur to connect with the Templar’s bare shoulder with a sickening thwack. The Templar fell forward on his hands and knees, screaming in agony as his blood gushed forth, turning the dusty ground to mud. Yusuf grimaced and looked away.

  So many had clamoured for the honour of killing one of the hated Templars or Hospitallers that Yusuf had had them draw lots. This executioner was one of the imams who travelled with the army and he handled his heavy sword clumsily. He swung again, striking the templar in the back and knocking him flat. It took him two more blows to kill the man, and three more after that to sever his head. It was impaled on a spear, joining the others that framed the entrance to Yusuf’s tent.

  ‘Fifty-three,’ Imad ad-Din murmured as he recorded the number on a piece of parchment. ‘Thank Allah that is done with.’ The scribe’s cheeks had taken on a greenish tinge.

  ‘It was necessary,’ Yusuf told him. ‘We shall carry the heads before us in battle as a warning to the enemies of Islam.’ He rose and turned to his emirs. ‘Ubadah, bring King Guy to my tent. Saqr, fetch Reynald.’

  Yusuf went inside and poured a cup of water. The executions had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He rinsed and spat, but the foul taste remained. Perhaps it was due to the smell of corruption already coming from the thousands of corpses lying in the hot sun. His men were busy digging graves for their fallen comrades, but Yusuf had decreed that the bodies of the Christians be left. He took another drink and sat.

  Guy entered a moment later, escorted by Ubadah and two guards. The king’s eyes were wide after passing between the rows of impaled heads, and his legs were shaking.

  ‘You are tired,’ Yusuf told him. ‘Please, sit.’ He gestured to a camp-stool and then raised his voice. ‘Bring food and cool water for the King.’

  As Guy slumped on to the stool, two servants entered with a platter of fresh bread and goat’s cheese and a glass of water chilled with ice from Yusuf’s private stores. Beads of water had formed on the outside of the cup. The king took a long drink and sighed. The servant refilled the cup and he drained it again. ‘You have my thanks, Saladin.’

  The king was taking another drink when Saqr led Reynald inside. The Wolf of Kerak was clutching his right hand, which was bandaged with a bloody cloth. He glared at Yusuf and sat without being asked. Guy handed him the cup. He drank greedily. Reynald wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘What do you mean to do with us?’ he demanded.

  Yusuf met his eyes. ‘To kill you, Reynald.’

  Reynald held up the cup and smirked. ‘Do your own laws mean nothing to you? You have given me drink. That makes me a guest in your tent.’

  ‘Your king gave you drink, not I.’ Yusuf stood and drew his sword.

  Reynald paled. ‘You cannot do this.’

  ‘Guards!

  Saqr and another mamluk grabbed Reynald by the arms and lifted him from the stool. ‘Do not be a fool!’ he cried. ‘I am the lord of Oultrejourdain. My ransom will be worth a fortune!’

  ‘No amount of gold would be as precious to me as your death. You have made vows and broken them. You have slaughtered innocents and sought to profane the holy places. You have sworn peace only to attack the moment our backs are turned.’

  Reynald straightened. ‘I am a ruler. I did what I must.’

  Yusuf stepped closer, so that his face was only inches from Reynald’s. ‘You killed my sister,’ he hissed. He stepped back and nodded to the guards, who forced Reynald to his knees. Saqr placed a leather strap around Reynald’s neck and pulled his head down on to one of the stools. Yusuf raised his sword.

  ‘You cock-sucking pig!’ Reynald snarled. ‘Shit-faced—’

  Yusuf brought his sword down. The first blow killed Reynald and spattered Guy with blood. The second severed Reynald’s head. It landed on the floor and rolled to the feet of Guy.

  The king blanched. He slid off the stool and went to his knees, his hands clasped before him. ‘Please, great king, spare me! It was Reynald who broke the treaty! I will give you gold. I—’

  Yusuf raised a hand. ‘Your life is safe. A king does not kill a king. You will be ransomed, but first you must swear to never again take up arms against Islam.’

  ‘I swear it.’

  ‘On your cross.’

  ‘On the True Cross and by the blood of the Saviour, I swear it.’

  ‘I will hold you to that oath.’ Yusuf pointed to Reynald’s corpse. ‘Remember the fate of those who betray their word. Guards, take the King to his tent.’

  When Guy had been led out, Ubadah turned to Yusuf. ‘I have something to ask of you, Uncle.’

  ‘You fought well today, Nephew. Ask, and if it is in my power, you shall receive it.’

  ‘We captured the priest, John of Tatewic. Let me kill him.’

  Yusuf’s brow knit. ‘Were it not for John, the Wolf would have escaped. I mean to spare him.’

  ‘You cannot. He betrayed you to serve the Franks, Uncle.’

  ‘He saved my life.’

  ‘And he took that of my father!’ Ubadah shouted. ‘I was only a child, but I remember. He killed Khaldun.’

  ‘Khaldun died in the great earthquake.’

  ‘He died trying to defend my mother’s honour.’ Ubadah went to his knees. ‘Please, Uncle. I beg you.’ He gestured to Reynald’s headless body. ‘You have had your vengeance. Give me mine!’

  ‘You do not know what you are asking, Nephew. I cannot let you kill him.’

  Ubadah stood. His knuckles whitened around his sword hilt. ‘You cannot stop me.’

  ‘I am your king!’ Yusuf snapped. ‘You will do as I say.’

  ‘Not in this. Do to me what you will. I swore to Allah I would kill John, and I mean to fulfil my oath.’ Ubadah started for the tent flap.

  ‘Wait! John did not kill your father, Nephew.’

  Ubadah stopped with his hand on the tent flap. He turned and met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He – John is your father.’

  ‘You lie!’

  ‘Look in a mirror, Nephew, then tell me if I lie.’

  Ubadah’s hand fell from his sword and his shoulders slumped. ‘You . . .’ he began, but faltered. ‘I will never forgive you.’ He spat at Yusuf’s feet and left the tent.

  Yusuf felt suddenly weary. He went to his stool and sat slumped forward, staring at Reynald’s body. He had wanted the Wolf dead for so long, yet he could take no joy in it. He had promised his sister to never tell Ubadah the truth. But Zimat would have understood that he had to protect John. She had loved him, too. Yusuf straightened and looked to Saqr. ‘Bring me John, before Ubadah does something foolish.’ He gestured to Reynald’s body. ‘And have this mess removed.’

  Reynald’s body was being dragged out as John entered the tent. He grimaced, but then noticed the head still sitting on the carpet. He met Yusuf’s gaze. ‘Shukran, Yusuf.’

  ‘It is I who owe you thanks. My men told me what you did. Reynald would have escaped were it not for you. Sit. Drink.’

  John winced in pain as he lowered himself on to one of the stools. He took a long drink of water. ‘What now?’

  ‘I told Ubadah the truth.’

  John’s eyes widened. ‘Why?’

  ‘He would have killed you otherwise. He may try to kill you still.’

  John’s forehead creased. ‘You mean to let me live?’

  ‘You delivered my greatest enemy to me. For that, I grant you your freedom. You should leave the East, John.’

  ‘My duty
lies here.’

  ‘Your death, you mean. The army of Jerusalem has been shattered, John. There is no one left to defend your lands. I will take every last town from the Christians. I will drive them into the sea, and you with them, if you remain.’

  John shrugged. ‘If that is my fate, so be it.’ He took another drink. ‘I saw the Templars and Hospitallers. The Yusuf I knew would not have done that.’

  ‘The man you knew would not have won this victory.’

  ‘You won, yes, but at what cost? You told me once that a great king must lead a holy life.’

  The pain in Yusuf’s gut was back. He looked away from John’s blue eyes. ‘I do not wish to be great, John. I am a servant of Allah, nothing more.’

  ‘Evil done in the name of God is still evil, friend. I know that all too well. Smell the air. Does that smell like virtue to you?’

  ‘Enough. It is time you were gone. I cannot guarantee your safety so long as you remain in my camp. You shall have a horse and supplies for three days.’

  ‘Again, shukran.’ John moved to leave, but stopped at the tent flap. ‘You have it in you to be better than this. I shall pray for you, friend.’ And with that, he was gone.

  Chapter 12

  September 1187: Jerusalem

  ‘Too many people on this road,’ John observed to no one in particular. He wished, not for the first time, that he had someone with whom he could share his worries. But Aestan had died at Hattin, and Raymond had succumbed to a lingering wound not long after John reached Tripoli. Reginald of Sidon was a prisoner of Saladin, along with Guy and most of the other great lords. ‘Too many mouths to feed,’ he muttered, ‘and not enough swords.’