Holy War

by Hight, Jack

  ‘I am the rightful king of Jerusalem. My wife Isabella is queen. None can dispute her claim.’

  Hugh of Burgundy sniggered. ‘How many wives do you have, sir? I hear Isabella is your second. Or is she your third?’

  ‘I’ll have your tongue for that!’

  ‘You can try. I—’

  He stopped short as Conrad came around the table and rushed him. Hugh got off a punch, but Conrad knocked it aside with his left arm before delivering a straight right to the Frenchman’s jaw. Hugh went reeling back into Henry of Champagne. Blanchemains and Bishop Walter grabbed Conrad to hold him back. Reginald shoved Walter away from Conrad, and the bishop turned and swung. John was ready and caught his arm. Then Guy slammed into John from the side, sending him sprawling on the floor.

  ‘Enough!’ Richard slammed his fist against the table. ‘Out! All of you!’

  The men exchanged angry glances as they trooped out. John rose to follow.

  ‘You stay, John.’ Richard poured himself a cup of wine and drained it while the last men filed out. ‘A bunch of prattling fools,’ he muttered. ‘But Blanchemains has the right of it. We cannot stay here. I have already lost the Germans and the bulk of the French. Three more weeks and I will have no army.’

  And you will have only yourself to blame, Your Grace. Richard had driven his allies away. Leopold, the duke of Austria, had taken command of the Germans after Frederick of Swabia died of camp fever. During the negotiations with the Saracen garrison, Leopold had insisted that the Germans deserved a full third of the ransom. ‘We fought and suffered for months before you arrived,’ he had told Richard and Philip. ‘We earned that gold with our blood.’

  Richard had mocked his claims. ‘You fought for months and what did you accomplish? It was our arrival that settled the matter. You accomplished nothing, and you will have nothing.’

  When the city was taken from the Saracens, Leopold had sought to stake his claim by running his flag up on the wall. Richard had torn it down and pissed on it. Leopold and his men set sail six days later.

  Philip had followed within two weeks. Ostensibly, the King of France had left to settle the disputed inheritance of Flanders, but it was no secret that he and Richard were on poor terms. The split between them that began with Richard’s marriage to Berengaria had widened after the fall of Acre. Philip felt that his trebuchets and tunnelling had brought Acre to its knees, and Richard had only delivered the final blow. Yet the men hailed Richard as the conqueror of Acre. Philip’s parting words had been, ‘Let us see how much my cousin conquers without me.’

  Richard poured more wine. He took a sip as he studied the map of the Holy Land laid on the table before him. ‘We must go now,’ he repeated. ‘The men need a goal to unite them. This infighting will cease once we face a common enemy.’ He pointed to a city on the map. ‘Jaffa. It is the closest port to Jerusalem. Once it is in our hands, we can ship the siege equipment from Acre by sea. From there, we will head inland for the Holy City.’

  ‘A bold plan, Your Grace, but a hazardous one,’ John cautioned. ‘You propose to march sixty miles over rough country, with multiple river crossings, in the height of the summer and with a larger Saracen army still in the field. Such an undertaking would be difficult in the best of circumstances. With the Muslim hostages in tow, it will be impossible. And with Philip and Leopold’s men gone, we do not have enough troops to safely leave three thousand Saracens prisoners behind in Acre.’

  ‘You are right, John.’ Richard drained the cup. ‘The hostages must die.’

  John blinked. He had seen women raped and men beheaded. He had watched armies starve to death. He had seen sons kill their fathers, and priests who cared more for gold than the lives of their flocks. He had seen Richard himself in all his savage glory on Cyprus. He had thought there was nothing left in this world that could shock him. He had been wrong. ‘But Your Grace, you gave your word they would be spared.’

  Richard only shrugged and poured himself more wine.

  ‘You will stain your soul forever, Your Grace.’

  ‘You will absolve me, priest.’

  ‘I cannot, my lord, not from this.’

  ‘Bishop Walter, then. I will have my men fast for me.’

  ‘Your Grace, the penance for the murder of three thousand hostages would be more than twenty thousand years of fasting. You do not have enough men or coin for the absolution. The blood of those you kill will follow you to the grave.’

  Richard lowered his head. His knuckles showed white as he clenched the edge of the table. Finally, he looked up and met John’s eyes. ‘No, it will follow me only to Jerusalem. When I take the Holy City, God will forgive my sins.’

  The first light of dawn filtered through the windows high above as John knelt before the altar in the small church near the palace of Acre. His head was bowed and his hands clasped in prayer. The church was empty. Most of the Christians were headed outside the walls to watch the slaughter of the Muslim prisoners, while the Muslim citizens were holed up in their homes, afraid they might suffer a similar fate. ‘Lord God forgive me,’ John murmured, not for the first time. He had advised Richard, fought at his side and saved his life. Now thousands of defenceless men would die because of his efforts.

  The door to the church creaked open, and John heard the slap of sandals on stone. He kept his head bowed. The newcomer stopped beside him. ‘John? I had thought you would be at the execution.’

  John looked to see Joan kneeling beside him. She wore a hooded grey cloak that blended with the stone of the church. ‘I want no part of it,’ he said.

  ‘You have no stomach for blood?’

  ‘For murder, no.’

  ‘Does that mean you come to pray for our enemy? How charitable of you.’

  ‘What do you pray for, my lady? You do not strike me as the religious sort.’

  She gave him a pointed look. ‘Prayer is all I have, though it is but a poor substitute for a willing man. I had hoped that with time, you might have come to reconsider.’

  ‘If you have come to offer to be my whore again, the answer is still no.’

  Joan flushed. ‘No, John. I was wrong to offer myself to you, but, God forgive me, I have grown accustomed to dealing with men of a baser sort. You are a man of honour. That is why I believe you will help me. Take me to Saladin. What better time than now, when the entire city is distracted.’

  ‘I have given you my decision.’

  ‘And my brother swore to spare the Saracen prisoners. Yet today they will die.’ John winced, and Joan took note. ‘You despise my brother, don’t you? You should, John. He is an animal.’ Her clear blue eyes met his. ‘Will you leave my fate in his hands?’

  ‘Richard is my king.’

  ‘He is a murderer. You said it yourself.’

  John bowed his head and closed his eyes, as much to block out Joan’s searching gaze as to gather his thoughts. She had voiced his doubts. He felt her touch on his arm.

  ‘Your prayers will not help the Saracens,’ Joan said softly. ‘You should go to Richard. Perhaps you can still stop him.’

  ‘What of you, my lady?’

  She shrugged. ‘I am not heartless, John. You should not concern yourself with me when thousands of men are facing their death.’

  Were her words only a ploy to win him to her side? John searched her face, but found no answer. Perhaps he was wrong to distrust Joan. He would not have wanted his fate to hinge on Richard’s whim. ‘I will do what I may to help you, my lady. If you truly wish to marry amongst the Saracens, I will speak of it to Richard.’

  ‘Thank you, father. Now go.’

  The streets of the city were empty at first, but they grew crowded as John approached the land gate. A long line of Saracen prisoners was filing out, walking into the light of the rising sun. Beside each man walked a Christian soldier. The captives’ hands were tied behind their backs, and they were roped together at the neck in chains of ten, making it impossible to resist. Those few who tried to run or to strike ou
t at their captors soon found themselves on the ground, tangled up with their fellow prisoners. Their captors would kick at them and slap them with the flat of their swords until they got to their feet. All they won for their bravery were bruises and bloodied lips.

  John strode past the line of men and out the gate. The prisoners were being lined up atop the far barricade of the Christian siege camp. There was no sign of Richard’s standard. John turned to one of the guards at the gate. ‘Have you seen the King?’

  The guard shrugged. ‘Probably in the palace waiting until these sand devils are all lined up for their trip to hell.’

  John would wait for Richard. He took up a position just inside the gate. In the meantime, he would do what he could to ease the Saracens’ passage from this life to the next. ‘Today you will gain paradise,’ he murmured in Arabic as a hostage trudged past. ‘Today you will gain paradise,’ he repeated to the next man, who nodded in thanks. John knew that his words offered little solace, but they were all he had to give. Unless Richard changed his mind.

  The hostages continued to file past. The sun had risen to burn away the morning cool, and heat was rising in waves from the plain beyond the gate by the time the last man filed through. ‘Today you will gain paradise,’ John told him.

  Richard came close behind the last hostage. The king was on horseback, followed by his lords. John stepped in front of his horse, forcing him to stop. ‘Please, my lord. Do not do this.’

  ‘It must be done.’

  ‘If you make martyrs of the garrison, the Saracens will never surrender. This slaughter will only inspire them.’

  ‘I think not, John. Who will garrison Saladin’s cities now, knowing that death awaits them? The infidels will howl and cry and swear vengeance when they see their fellows die, but in their hearts, they will know fear.’

  ‘You damn yourself, Your Grace.’ John removed his mace and tossed it on the ground. ‘I will serve you no more.’

  Richard’s expression blackened. ‘You too swore an oath, priest, and I mean to hold you to it.’ The king drew his sword and pointed to the mace. ‘Pick it up, or you can join your heathen friends.’

  John glared at the king and picked up his mace. Dying would be a grand gesture, but it would serve no purpose. Alive, he could help Joan and maybe stop Richard before he laid waste to the lands John loved. Dead, he was no good to anybody.

  ‘Wise decision.’ The king urged his horse forward but then reined in and looked back. ‘I saw you speaking to the Saracens, John. What did you say?’

  ‘The Muslims believe like us that those who are martyred in defence of the faith are sanctified. I told them that today they would gain paradise.’

  ‘Hmph. They are infidels, John,’ Richard said as he rode on through the gate. ‘They will burn in hell.’

  And you, Your Grace, will join them.

  Numbers swam before his eyes as Yusuf squinted at a list of figures. He blinked. The numbers came into focus, but they still did not add up. ‘We are twenty thousand dinars short of the full ransom.’

  ‘If we tax the markets . . .’ Imad ad-Din mused out loud.

  ‘No. My people are tired after years of war. If I raise taxes not sanctioned by the Koran, there will be rebellions. I cannot fight my own people and the Franks.’

  Yusuf’s secretary spread his ink-stained hands. ‘Then I do not know where to find more gold. The treasuries of Cairo, Damascus and Aleppo are empty. We have reduced your mamluks to quarter pay. If you squeeze any more from them, they will rebel.’

  ‘Four emirs have left for home despite my orders to the contrary. Sell their lands to the highest bidder.’

  ‘That will raise the coin we need, but you will create dangerous enemies, Malik.’

  ‘Do it.’

  Yusuf’s eldest son, Al-Afdal, rushed into the tent. ‘Father! Come quickly! The Franks have marched the hostages from Acre. I think they mean to execute them.’

  Yusuf rose at once and hurried outside. ‘My horse!’ He turned to Al-Afdal. ‘Gather the men and ride as soon as you are able!’ Yusuf swung into the saddle and spurred for Acre. Fifty members of his khaskiya rode after him.

  Yusuf had moved his camp further from the city to protect it against Frankish sorties and to block the path to the rich lands of the Jezreel Valley. It was a two-mile ride to Acre. He galloped along a dusty path, and the walls of the city slowly rose before him. He reined in atop the hill where his tent had once stood.

  The hostages had been brought out of the city and lined up atop the old Frankish ramparts. The three thousand mamluks stretched the length of the barricade, from the Belus River to the sea. Behind each man stood a Frank with a sword in hand.

  Yusuf looked behind him. He could see the dust thrown up by the mamluks riding from the camp. They were still more than a mile away. Too far. He turned towards Acre. The hostages had been pushed to their knees. They were chanting in unison, and their voices carried to Yusuf. They were reciting the first chapter of the Koran, which opened all Muslim prayer.

  ‘. . . In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. All praises to Allah, Lord of the Universe . . .’

  The Franks raised their swords. Thousands of blades flashed in the sun.

  ‘. . . The Most Gracious, the Most Merciful, sovereign of the day of judgement. You alone we worship, and You alone—’

  The swords fell, and the chanting ceased. Sprays of crimson filled the air. A few mamluks lay screaming in agony. It took several more blows to kill them, and then there was silence, broken only by the harsh cries of the gulls wheeling overhead and the distant crash of the surf. Yusuf felt dizzy, and he gripped the pommel to stop himself sliding from the saddle. He heard approaching hoofbeats and straightened before turning to see Al-Afdal and his emirs, Qaraqush, Nu’man and Muhammad, arrive at the head of over a thousand men.

  Al-Afdal rode up beside him. ‘I cannot believe it,’ Yusuf’s son murmured.

  ‘Signal the charge, Malik,’ Nu’man urged. The short man brandished his battle-axe. ‘I’ll make those bastards pay!’

  ‘No,’ Yusuf told him.

  Muhammad rode forward. His immaculately trimmed beard had gone silver since Yusuf first met him, and his soft hands had been hardened by years of war. ‘Such an outrage cannot go unanswered, Malik!’

  ‘Charging their fortifications will only cost more lives – ours, not theirs. I have seen enough of my men’s blood spilled this morning. We will avenge our men, but when the time is right, not now.’

  There were scowls and black looks. For a moment, Yusuf thought they might disobey his order. At last, Muhammad spoke.

  ‘If you will not let us charge, then there are other Franks to be killed.’

  Nu’man nodded. ‘The prisoners.’

  Yusuf grimaced. ‘No. The Franks are savages, but we—’

  ‘The prisoners!’ Nu’man shouted. ‘I will have blood!’

  ‘No, wait!’ Yusuf cried, but his words were lost among the shouts of his men.

  ‘The prisoners! Kill the prisoners!’

  Nu’man wheeled his horse about and galloped back towards camp, followed by the mamluks. Only Qaraqush, Al-Afdal and his khaskiya remained with Yusuf. He shook his head. ‘More blood will not bring back our dead. It will only make the Franks less likely to surrender when we face them in battle.’

  ‘A price worth paying, Malik,’ Qaraqush said. ‘Those were my men who were slaughtered. They deserve revenge.’ He, too, rode for camp.

  Yusuf looked to Al-Afdal. ‘They are only Franks, Father,’ his son said. ‘Whether we kill them now or later in war, dead is dead. You have told me so yourself.’

  ‘I was wrong.’

  Yusuf turned his horse to face Acre. When he had taken Jerusalem, he had thought it would be the beginning of an era of peace. Instead, it had only brought more bloodshed. It had brought Richard. Yusuf located Richard’s flag, flying over a cluster of knights who had come out to watch the slaughter. He thought he spotted the king amongst them. Lion
heart, they called him, but no lion was ever so savage. If this war were to end, then Richard must die.

  Chapter 22

  September 1191: Near Arsuf

  John’s aching back woke him before sunrise. He sat up and felt another stab of pain. He had spent the last sixteen days in the saddle as the army crept south from Acre. The Saracens had harassed them constantly, shooting arrows into the column before peeling away. Their attacks forced the foot-soldiers to shuffle along in close formation. Richard was content to cover only a few miles a day. The army marched only in the morning before the day grew hot, and they stopped whenever they reached fresh water. Each afternoon, they set up a stockade before bedding down for the night.

  John had not spent so much time in the saddle since he was a much younger man, and he was suffering for it. Sleeping on the hard ground had done nothing to help. He reached back to massage the tense muscles for a moment. Then he rose and went outside. The air was cool, which was a refreshing change from the past weeks. The autumn rains would come soon. The camp was silent and the tents around him barely visible in the dim light. As he made his way towards the river, the cicadas started up, filling the air with their song. The guard at the gate yawned as he waved John through.

  John stripped off his caftan and waded into the stream just outside the stockade. He scooped up a double handful of the cold water. It was brackish this close to the sea, but still drinkable. On the far side of the stream, trees were appearing out of the darkness as the sky brightened. They were massive oaks, some of their canopies spreading so wide that two hundred men could have gathered beneath them. Yesterday, the army had marched through those woods, accompanied by the pungent odour of the acorns they ground to dust beneath their feet.

  John dunked his head and came up shivering. He bathed every morning, even on cold days. It was a habit he had learned years ago in the household of Yusuf’s father. John found his thoughts returning to that time more and more often. He had been a slave, yet those had been some of the sweetest years of his life. He had spent his days studying and teaching Yusuf to fight, and his nights with Zimat. Closing his eyes now, he could still see her long black hair, her dark eyes, her skin the golden colour of desert sands. She had asked him to take her away with him, and he had refused. He had spoken to her of duty and honour. He had been a fool.