Holy War

by Hight, Jack

‘You know me, Yusuf. I would not lie to you. This war does no one any good. Our armies are bleeding one another to death, but it is the common people who suffer most of all. Thousands have lost their homes, and where will they go? The land is utterly ruined. Famine will soon be upon us. We need peace, both of us.’

  ‘If you had wanted peace, then you would have let Richard ride into my trap at Arsuf. Your king would be dead or on a boat for England, and my kingdom would be at peace.’

  ‘It is not I who turned Richard back, Yusuf.’

  ‘Hmph.’ Yusuf did not believe it. He knew John too well. ‘What of your honour?’

  ‘There are more important things than honour, friend.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Peace.’

  ‘Peace is hard-bought after so much blood.’

  ‘But not impossible. There are three points at issue: Jerusalem, the land, and the Cross. Jerusalem is holy to us, and Richard has sworn to take it. He will not give up that quest so long as he lives. As for the land, he asks for nothing that was not already ours: the territory between the coast and the Jordan. The True Cross is only a piece of wood to you, but to us it has great importance. Return it, give us Jerusalem, and withdraw across the Jordan, and you will have peace.’

  Yusuf’s forehead creased. At length, the corner of his mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile. ‘You are jesting, John.’

  ‘Those are Richard’s terms.’

  ‘Those are not terms; they are insults. Jerusalem is ours as much as it is yours, as sacred to us as it is to you. You say Richard will fight for Jerusalem unto the death. Tell your king that he will find us no less willing to sacrifice our lives for the city. Richard has no claim to the lands west of the Jordan. They were ours first. Your ancestors only took them because we were divided and weak. We are strong now. If Richard wants those lands, then let him try to take them. As for the True Cross, I am well aware of its importance to your faith. It will not be surrendered except in exchange for something of equal value.’

  ‘I told Richard that you would respond thus.’

  ‘Then you must have also told him that there can be no peace between us.’

  ‘If you reject peace, he will march on Jerusalem.’

  ‘Let him come.’

  ‘You are a brave man, Yusuf. I know that. But you are not a fool. You have not beaten Richard yet. You do not know him as I do. He is cruel and fickle, but he is clever, too, and a warrior unlike any I have known. Even you.’

  ‘I know him well enough, John. I know that he will only wipe his arse with any treaty I make with him. He gave his word at Acre, and afterwards he slaughtered my men. I would as soon try to make peace with a lion as with the Lionheart.’

  ‘He is savage, yes, but what has he done that you would not do? You poisoned the waters at Acre. Thousands of men died shitting themselves as a result. You slaughtered the Templar and Hospitaller prisoners after Hattin. Your killed your Frankish prisoners at Acre.’

  Yusuf scowled and rubbed his forehead with his palm. ‘Acre was not my doing. As to the others, I had no choice. I fought for Allah. I did what I did in his name.’

  ‘Richard also fights for God.’

  ‘I am no Richard!’ Yusuf snapped.

  ‘Then make peace. It is the innocent who will suffer if you do not, Yusuf. Your people cannot eat revenge. They cannot eat victory. How many lives are you willing to sacrifice in the name of Allah?’

  There was a fire in Yusuf’s belly. John did not know the worst of it. Yusuf had sacrificed those closest to him: his father, Asimat, Al-Salih and Turan. Even those he spared, he could not save. His message to Ubadah had arrived too late. ‘Your son is dead,’ he murmured.

  John blinked in shock. His face went pale and he was silent for a long time. ‘How?’ he finally managed. ‘When?’

  ‘I received the news three days ago. He took an arrow through the eye while doing battle outside Akhlat . . .’ Yusuf’s voice trailed off. He should never have sent Ubadah away. His nephew had died hating him. Yusuf was tired of war, tired of death. He looked up, his brown eyes meeting John’s blue ones. ‘I want peace as much as you, friend. But how? I’ll not turn over to Richard all that I have fought for these many years.’

  ‘I would never ask that. If you listen to me, there might be a way for both sides to have what they wish.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘A marriage: your brother Selim and Richard’s sister, Joan of Sicily. They would live in Jerusalem and divide the Kingdom between them. The current Frankish possessions would be in her hands, and the Muslim possessions in his. Their marriage would craft a peace that lasted. Their children would be kings of Franks and Saracens alike. They would unite the Holy Land for all time.’

  Yusuf had never even considered such a thing. The Franks were the enemy, to be fought and defeated. Yet what John said made sense. ‘And this Joan will agree? She will marry a Muslim?’

  ‘She will.’

  ‘And Richard?’

  ‘If it means a permanent peace and the freedom of Franks to settle in Jerusalem, then yes. I am sure of it.’ John touched his arm. ‘It is what we dreamed of long ago, Yusuf. There does not have to be war between our peoples. We can make this a land of peace and plenty, where all are welcome.’

  Peace. Could it really be so easy? Yusuf prayed that it was so. ‘Very well.’ He embraced John and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Very well! Tell your king that I agree.’

  November 1191: Ascalon

  The sun was sinking into the Mediterranean when John spied Ascalon on the horizon. ‘There she is.’

  Humphrey nodded. They had talked very little during the two-day journey from Ramlah, where Yusuf’s army had been camped. Humphrey was in a grim mood. His week of meetings with Selim had yielded no compromise. He believed his mission had been a failure. John and Yusuf had agreed to keep their plan secret. Yusuf was unsure of how his men would react. John had the same fears regarding Humphrey. The lord of Toron had been raised in the Holy Land, and though he spoke fluent Arabic, he would never view the Saracens as anything other than the enemy. He would not understand. John would speak to Richard first. If the king approved of his plan, then Humphrey would learn soon enough.

  As they neared the city, John saw hundreds of men at work along the wall. Most were clearing away rubble and stacking the fallen stones. It was backbreaking work. In the areas they had cleared, stonemasons were rebuilding the wall. John spotted Blanchemains standing in the shade of a canvas and shouting orders. Humphrey guided his horse towards the king’s lord high steward.

  ‘How goes it, Leicester?’ Humphrey asked.

  Blanchemains wiped sweat from his brow. ‘Rebuilding the wall is devilish work. Hundreds of men have deserted to Acre. Richard had to go there himself to bring them back. He returned in a foul mood. I hope you bring good news to cheer him.’

  ‘Where is the King?’ John asked.

  ‘In the city. He has taken up residence in the church rectory. You should find it easily enough. It is one of the few buildings still standing.’

  John and Humphrey rode through a gap in the wall. The streets of Ascalon were empty. Only a few stone buildings still stood amongst the wreckage of charred beams and ash. The church loomed over it all. It was in the Roman style, with a colonnaded front framed by twin towers. One of the guards under the colonnade took their horses, and another led them into the dim interior. They passed through the nave and out through the south transept to what had been the rectory before Richard took over. The king’s quarters were upstairs. The door was closed and guarded by two knights, including Henry de Ferriers, the young man that John had fought on his arrival in London. Henry looked down his nose at John.

  ‘The King is occupied.’

  ‘We have urgent business,’ John replied.

  ‘He asked not to be disturbed.’ Henry gestured to a bench along the wall. ‘You can wait if you wish.’

  They sat. A window on the wall opposite looked out over the sea. John watched the s
un disappear into the water and the sky turn black as ink before the door to Richard’s room finally opened. A plump young woman stepped out. She looked to be a native Christian, with curly dark hair and skin the brown of tanned leather. She lowered her gaze and hurried away down the stairs. Richard came after her, tying a silk robe about him. He noticed Humphrey and John. ‘High time the two of you returned. Come.’

  The room they entered was dominated by a table spread with maps and a bed large enough to sleep five. Richard went to a smaller table by the window and poured himself a glass of wine. ‘What does Saladin say to my terms?’

  ‘I met with his brother, Your Grace,’ Humphrey said. ‘Your offer upset him. He rejected it.’

  ‘Hmph. Your negotiations have at least bought us time. The wall is well underway.’

  John stepped forward. ‘I have something more to report, my lord.’ Humphrey’s eyes widened at this.

  ‘Speak,’ Richard told him.

  ‘I would prefer to speak with you alone, Your Grace.’

  Richard nodded. ‘Humphrey, leave us.’ The king waited until the door had closed. ‘Out with it, John.’

  ‘Saladin is willing to make peace.’

  Richard choked on his wine. ‘What?’ he spluttered. ‘He has accepted my terms?’

  ‘The True Cross will be returned, Jerusalem will be Christian, and the lands west of the Jordan will be under a Christian queen.’

  ‘I cannot believe it. You are a miracle worker!’ Richard’s brow creased. ‘A queen, you said? What of Guy? What have you done, priest?’

  ‘I have crafted a peace as you commanded. Saladin’s brother, Saif ad-Din, will marry your sister, and together they will rule as king and queen. Jerusalem will be open to Christians and Muslims alike. Those parts of the Kingdom currently in our power will be ruled by Joan, the rest—’

  Richard slammed his glass of wine down on the table so forcefully that it shattered and wine spilled over the maps, staining the Holy Land red as if with blood. ‘Are you mad, John? Joan cannot marry an infidel. I will not sell her to some desert savage!’

  ‘Speak to her, Your Grace. I believe she will accept the marriage willingly.’

  Richard shook his head. ‘My sister married to a Saracen,’ he grumbled. He went to pour a new glass of wine.

  ‘The marriage will win you everything you seek, my lord. Jerusalem will be in Christian hands.’

  ‘Christian and Muslim.’

  ‘That is the only way it can be held. This is their land, Your Grace. There will always be more Saracens than Christians. Even if you conquer Jerusalem, it will be lost again someday. This marriage will secure it for all time.’

  ‘Hmph.’ Richard sipped more wine. ‘We would have to get the Pope’s blessing. That will take three months at least. In the meantime, I can march on Jerusalem, and if I do not take it . . .’ His eyes took on a far-away look. Finally, he turned to John. ‘Go to my sister. She is in Ascalon, in a home not far from here. If she agrees to this marriage, then I will send a messenger to the Pope. With his approval, Joan will marry this infidel.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ John bowed and left. That had gone better than he could have hoped. For the first time, John dared to hope his plan might actually work. One of the guards outside the church showed him to the home where Joan was staying. It was a stone building and had thus survived the fire, but the door was new and black soot streaked the walls in the entryway. A maid led John to Joan’s chambers. The queen was reading at a window.

  She set her book aside when she saw him. ‘Leave us,’ she told her maid. When the door had closed, Joan fixed him with an appraising gaze. ‘What brings you to me, father? I did not think to see you again.’

  ‘I bring good news, my lady. I have found you a husband amongst the Saracens.’

  Joan’s eyes widened, and her mouth hung open in shock. ‘Who?’

  ‘Saif ad-Din, the brother of Saladin. He is a good man, kind and honest. You and he will rule from Jerusalem as king and queen.’

  ‘And what does my brother say of this marriage?’

  ‘He approves. If you are willing, then all that is needed is the Pope’s blessing.’

  ‘So I am to be a queen again.’ Joan grinned, her eyes crinkling at the corners. For the first time since John had met her, she looked like the young woman she was. She stood and embraced him. ‘You have my thanks.’ She kissed him on each cheek.

  John could feel himself flushing. ‘I only did my duty, my lady,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘You did what my own family would not. They treated me like a prized mare to be sold for profit. You are more of a brother to me than Richard, more of a father than Henry.’

  Her words made John think of Ubadah. John had abandoned the boy as a child. His own son had hated him. Now he was dead. What sort of a father had he been? ‘I am glad to have been of service,’ he murmured.

  Joan did not notice his sombre tone. ‘I will not forget what you have done,’ she said brightly. ‘When I am queen, you will have an honoured place at my court.’

  Chapter 24

  January 1192: Beit Nuba

  John rode with his head down. Rain pattered off the hood of his cloak and dripped through the fabric to wet his hair and trickle down his back. He rode past foot-soldiers marching under heavy packs through ankle-deep mud. Hills rose on either side, and the water ran in rivulets down their slopes. John looked ahead. They were nearly to the village of Beit Nuba, which sat only twelve miles from Jerusalem, but all he could see was a curtain of rain.

  His horse lurched suddenly as it slipped in the mud, and it scrambled for a footing. John felt himself falling backwards and grabbed for the stallion’s mane. He just managed to stay in the saddle, and the horse recovered.

  ‘Careful, priest!’ Richard called as he cantered up alongside. The king wore armour but no helmet, and his long, reddish-blond hair had been matted by the rain. ‘If this rain keeps up, I’ll need another miracle from you to dry things out.’

  Richard moved on before John could respond. The king stopped here and there to jest with the men or shout encouragement. The men responded in kind. They were in good spirits despite the cold rain, for the goal that had brought them from all over Europe was within their reach. Richard had not been content to wait for the Pope’s reply regarding Joan’s marriage. ‘Peace is well and good,’ he had told John, ‘but I’ll try my hand at victory, first.’ He had moved the army to Ramlah at the end of November. Now, after more than a month spent gathering supplies and men, they were on the road to Jerusalem. John had never been much inclined towards prayer, even after he became a priest, but he was praying now. He knew what had happened the last time the Franks took Jerusalem, and he knew Richard. He prayed that God would spare the city. It was as close to a home as any place he knew.

  ‘Hellfire!’

  The shout came from John’s left. He looked and saw a sergeant sitting in the mud, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Something buzzed just beyond John’s head. He pushed back his hood. He could hear arrows hissing all around him now. One embedded in the pommel of his saddle. Bright blue feathers decorated the end of the shaft.

  John took his mace from his belt. ‘Form up, men! Shields out!’

  Richard came galloping back down the line. ‘Tighten ranks! Get those shields up before they make pincushions of you all!’ he roared as he passed.

  The foot-soldiers quickly unslung their shields from their backs and closed ranks, forming a moving wall on either side of the cavalry. John found himself riding beside Humphrey and Guy.

  An arrow struck Guy in the chest. ‘Strewth!’ he cursed as he snapped off the shaft. ‘I told Richard not to march in winter. Nothing but mud and rain.’

  John peered to either side. The slopes were still lost in the rain. There was no sign of the enemy. Richard galloped up the line once more and reined in near them. He looked like a porcupine, with more than a dozen arrows protruding from his armour. His surcoat and horse were spattered with mud. Yet he wa
s grinning fiercely. ‘They think to make target practice of us, but we will give those sons of whores a taste of our steel. At the sound of my horn, the infantry will part and the knights will charge the hills.’

  ‘But Your Grace—!’ Guy protested. It was no use. Richard was already galloping away. ‘He acts as if I must jump at his every command. I am a king, too.’

  Humphrey was squinting as he tried to see through the curtain of rain. ‘How are we supposed to charge an enemy that we cannot see?’

  Guy nodded. ‘We will become lost in those hills. This is madness, I tell you.’

  ‘Better that than sit here and let them feather our arses,’ John replied.

  The horn sounded, its wailing call muffled by the rain. All down the line, the infantry split, opening up gaps for the knights to ride through. John tightened his grip on his mace and dug his spurs into his horse. ‘Yalla!’ he cried as he galloped out past the foot-soldiers. He could hear other knights charging after him. Their horses’ hooves did not thunder; they squelched and splattered through the mud. John’s mount reached the slope and began to struggle up it. The beast was knee deep in mud. John could see nothing ahead but rain and more mud. The next moment, shapes emerged: men with bows. One of them drew back and aimed straight at him. The archer let fly from no more than ten yards away. John felt a blow, as if he had been punched in the breast. The arrowhead cut through his mail and the padded vest beneath to lodge in the left side of his chest. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he raised his mace. He was on the archer before he could nock another arrow. John’s mace caught him on the top of the head, crushing his helmet. John was past before he saw the man fall. He swung at another Saracen. The archer had raised his bow in a vain effort to protect himself. John’s mace splintered it and went on to make a bloody mess of the man’s face.

  John reined to a halt atop the slope. Most of the Saracens were fleeing now, slipping and sliding as they sprinted down the far side of the hill. To his right, John saw Humphrey laying about with his sword. Guy came up alongside him and hacked down an archer. John caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his horse just in time to avoid a blow. The Saracen’s blade missed him and glanced off his horse’s flank. The beast whinnied and bolted down the far slope. The pain in his chest forgotten, John struggled to stay in the saddle. Then his horse lost its footing and fell, throwing him. He landed on his back and began to slide down the slick slope. On the way down, he took the legs out from under one fleeing archer, and then another. All three men careered on together in a tangle of arms and legs, before coming to a stop just short of where the Saracen horses waited. John tried to get to his feet but slipped and went to one knee just before a sword sliced over his head. He slammed his mace into his attacker’s knee. The Saracen screamed as he crumpled to the ground.