by Hight, Jack
‘You see ill omens in everything.’
‘Of late, I am usually right.’
‘It is just a bird,’ Yusuf said, though in truth, he was ill at ease. Crows followed armies and always seemed to know when a battle was in the offing.
‘The flags are coming down.’ Al-Afdal pointed to the citadel.
The three lions of Richard fluttered in the breeze as his standard was lowered. Next came the flag of Jerusalem – a gold cross, surrounded by four smaller crosses. Yusuf raised his voice. ‘Prepare to ride, men!’
A horn sounded over his last words. Aah-hoo! Aah-hoo!
Qaraqush frowned. ‘That did not come from the citadel.’
‘There!’ Saqr pointed out to sea.
More ships had appeared north of the city. There were ten of them. Yusuf squinted. No, fifteen – shallow-drafted longships, each packed with men. The closest were surging towards the shore, their oars beating at the waves. Over each boat flew a flag: three golden lions on a field of scarlet. Richard.
Yusuf turned to Saqr. ‘Sound the call to arms. We will hold the light cavalry in reserve. Al-Afdal, you will lead the mamluks. No bows; close with sword and lance. We will ride them down before they reach the shore.’
‘Yes, Malik!’
Al-Afdal galloped away as Saqr sounded his horn. Behind Yusuf, the camp sprang to life, men grabbing their weapons and running for their horses. As was his custom, Yusuf had ordered his men to pitch their tents in order of the line of battle, so that they could form up at a moment’s notice. The Frankish ships were still well out to sea when the line formed, the mamluks in the fore with spears in hand. The four hundred men who were to have formed the citadel’s garrison joined them, with the Bedouin and Turkmen cavalry gathered behind. Al-Afdal waved his sword overhead as he cantered down the line of mamluks. He turned back and stopped at the centre of the line. He shouted something, and the men roared back: ‘For Islam! For Saladin!’ Four thousand strong, the mamluks headed north at a trot, riding for where the Frankish ships would come ashore.
‘With me, men!’ Yusuf called to the troops gathered around him. They rode after the mamluks at a slower pace, and the light cavalry fell in behind them. Yusuf counted twenty-four enemy ships now. At something like a hundred fighting men per ship, that meant approximately twenty-five hundred Franks against his more than seven thousand. Yusuf raised a fist and reined to a stop on the sandy dunes overlooking the beach.
Below them, the line of mamluks had accelerated to a gallop and was thundering across the sand. The first longship was nearing the shore, moving faster now as it surged forward on the waves, their crests foaming at its sides. The mamluks splashed into the water, their mount’s hooves kicking up clouds of spray. Yusuf looked back to the ship. The men crowded in the prow did not hold swords or spears. Crossbows. Yusuf recognized the weapons just as they released a volley into the charging mamluks. The effect was devastating. Dozens of horses went down, and their riders were thrown under the waves. Frankish warriors poured from the ship, led by Richard himself. The king towered over the others. He set about him with his double-bladed battle-axe, cutting down the fallen mamluks as they rose from the sea.
More ships surged towards the coast, the crossbowmen in the prows releasing volleys of quarrels. Horses fell by the dozen. The beasts thrashed and kicked in the surf, reducing the advancing mamluk line to chaos. Spears in hand, the Frankish men-at-arms were vaulting from their ships into water, which came up to their waists. They were met by mamluks, many of them now on foot. The wind picked up, carrying to Yusuf the injured beasts’ loud whinnies, the men’s shouts of pain and anger and the ring of steel upon steel. He saw a spray of blood as a mamluk slashed through an enemy’s throat.
‘Selim!’ Yusuf called. ‘Lead in the light cavalry. Have them stop on the beach and shoot at the crossbowmen in the boats.’
Selim galloped away, and Yusuf turned back towards the fighting. He could not find Al-Afdal amidst the chaos. Richard was clearly visible, driving forward into a knot of half a dozen mamluks. The king’s battle-axe flashed in the sun, and Yusuf saw an arm go flying. Another man had his head nearly cut off . Three of the mamluks fled, and the remaining man took a blow to the chest and disappeared beneath the waves.
‘The bastard is brave,’ Qaraqush noted.
‘A brave fool. We outnumber them four to one.’
The Turkmen and Bedouin cavalry had reached the beach and began arcing arrows over the mamluks. Yusuf saw one of the crossbowmen take an arrow in the gut and tumble from his ship into the water. Several more were hit, and the rest took shelter. The hail of crossbow bolts slackened, allowing the mamluks to press forward. Their numbers soon began to tell. The Franks were pushed back into deeper water, first up to their waists, and then to their chests. Only Richard and two dozen of his knights remained in the shallower water. A hundred mamluks swarmed around them.
‘For Christ! For the Kingdom!’
A loud cry came from Yusuf’s left. He looked over to see that the citadel gates had opened, and two hundred Frankish spearmen were pouring out to strike his men in the flank. They cut into the light cavalry on the beach, spearing them from their horses. Yusuf’s men began to panic. A few retreated, and then more and more fled. As the rain of arrows from the light cavalry ceased, the Frankish crossbowmen began to shoot once more. At the same time, the spearmen veered into the sea to strike the mamluks from behind. The Frankish men-at-arms led by Richard pushed forward again.
‘Stand your ground, men!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘Stand your ground!’
‘It is no use, Malik,’ Qaraqush urged. ‘They fear the Lionheart.’
‘Then we must kill him. If we strike down Richard, the battle is ours.’ Yusuf drew his sword and held it aloft. ‘With me, men! For Islam!’ He spurred his horse down from the dunes and on to the beach. His guard came close behind. They streamed past the fleeing Bedouin and Turkmen and splashed into the water, heading straight for Richard. A Frankish spearman lunged at him, and Yusuf knocked aside the spear point and slashed down. The Frank blocked the blow with his shield, but Saqr came close behind and finished him. Yusuf rode another spearman down from behind, and slashed across the face of a third Frank. His mount had slowed. The waves were crashing against its chest now. Richard was only ten yards away when Yusuf’s horse whinnied and stumbled. Yusuf saw a crossbow quarrel protruding from the beast’s neck, and then it fell.
Yusuf managed to get free of his stirrups just before he splashed under the waves. His helmet came off, and he slammed into the sandy sea floor. He opened his eyes, but quickly shut them; the briny water stung, and it was too churned up and murky for him to see. He began to rise when someone kneed him in the side of the head. He fell back to his knees. He stabbed up blindly and felt his sword strike home. Yusuf rose from the waves, blinking water from his eyes. A wide-eyed Frank with blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth was impaled on the end of his sword. A wave hit Yusuf in the chest. He stumbled backwards, and the Frank slid off his blade to disappear beneath the water.
Yusuf looked about, trying to locate Richard. There. The king had moved about twenty yards further away. He was hacking down a mamluk, while Saqr rode up behind him, unseen. Saqr brought his sword down hard; Richard moved at the last second, and the blade glanced off his conical helm. With a roar, the Lionheart spun and sank his axe into the neck of Saqr’s horse. A spray of blood spattered the king as he pulled his weapon free. The horse collapsed, and Saqr vanished beneath the waves. He came up swinging. Richard deflected the blow with his axe.
Yusuf waded towards the two men through waist-deep water. A Frank appeared from his left and lunged at his chest. Yusuf lurched sideways to avoid the blow and hacked down, catching the Frank on the wrist. The man fell to his knees, screaming and clutching his nearly severed sword hand. Ahead, Saqr and Richard were trading blows. Lean and compact, Saqr looked like a child next to the towering king, but he was quicker. He landed a blow against Richard’s side, and red showed on the king’s surcoat. Saqr
pressed his attack and struck the king’s left arm above the elbow. Richard grunted in pain, and his guard came down. Saqr slashed at the king’s face, but the Lionheart brought his axe up, knocking Saqr’s blade up above his head. Richard brought his axe back down in a vicious blow. The blade caught Saqr where the neck and shoulder meet. It sliced through flesh and bone, cutting him to the navel.
Yusuf’s mouth stretched open in a scream, but he heard nothing. All sound had drained from the world, all but the pounding of blood in his ears. Richard turned towards him, and their eyes met. Yusuf raised his sword. He took a step towards the king, but someone came between them. Yusuf slashed angrily, but his sword was parried.
‘Yusuf!’
He swung again, and again his blade was knocked aside.
‘Yusuf!’
This time, the shout penetrated the fog of anger that had enveloped him. Yusuf took a step back. ‘John?’ His friend was dressed in mail. John spread his hands in a gesture of peace and lowered his mace beneath the waves. ‘Stand aside!’ Yusuf shouted at him.
‘I will not let you fight him.’
And I thought you were my friend. Yusuf’s lips curled back in a snarl. He lunged, but John’s mace rose from the water to deflect the blow. John took a step back and again lowered his weapon.
‘I am not protecting him, Yusuf. I am protecting you.’
Yusuf swung again. This time, his sword caught in the grooves of the mace, and the two weapons locked together, bringing the two men close. They struggled against one another, but John was the stronger. Yusuf was shoved back just as a wave struck him. He lost his balance and went down beneath the water. He slashed beneath the waves and felt his sword make contact. He rose to see that John was clutching his right leg and struggling to stand. The water around him was turning crimson. A wave hit him, and John fell to his knees, so that his chin was just above the water. He dropped his mace.
‘He will kill you, Yusuf, and if you fall, your army will scatter. There will be no peace. Richard will take Jerusalem, and the war between our people will never end. You must not fight him.’
Yusuf scowled. ‘I am not afraid to die.’
‘I know. You are the bravest man I have ever known. That is why you will retreat, because you do not fear the jeers of your enemy, because you know that the lives of your people matter more than glory, more even than your honour.’
Yusuf hesitated. Richard was still fifteen yards away. Man after man waded forward to try for the glory of striking down the king. Richard hacked off a mamluk’s hand. He nearly cleaved a warrior’s head from his body. He stove in the next man’s helm.
‘This is Richard’s last chance, Yusuf,’ John said. ‘All you have to do is survive, and you will win.’
John was right. Richard was younger and stronger, and he fought with a ferocity that Yusuf could not match. If he faced the king, Yusuf would die in these waters. All he had fought for would be lost. He lowered his sword, and reached out to pull John to his feet.
John gripped his shoulder. ‘I knew you were no Richard.’
‘Thanks to you, friend.’ Yusuf took a step back, then turned and moved toward the beach. ‘Retreat!’ he shouted. ‘Fall back, men! Back!’
Chapter 27
August 1192: Ramlah
Richard hacked up a gob of greenish-brown phlegm and spat it on the floor of his tent. It landed just beside John’s foot. ‘We will march!’ the king declared, and then he was overcome with a fit of coughing that left him red-faced. ‘I will not squander our victory at Jaffa.’
After driving off Yusuf’s army, Richard had established his camp outside the citadel of Jaffa. The Saracens had attacked again five days later, and though Richard had only fifty-four knights and several hundred men-at-arms, his two thousand Pisan crossbowmen had made the difference. Volley after volley of crossbow bolts had shredded the enemy charge and sent the Saracens running. The victory had inspired Richard, and here they were in Ramlah once more, on the road to Jerusalem. No one but Richard believed they could take the Holy City. It was a tribute to the king’s hold on his men that they had marched at all. John and the other lords had spent the march urging him to turn back, but in vain. Now it looked as if camp fever might accomplish what their words could not. Richard had taken ill shortly after the battle in the waves, and his sickness had grown worse with each passing day.
‘But my lord,’ Blanchemains protested, ‘you are too ill to ride.’
‘I am well enough,’ Richard grumbled and struggled up from his folding chair. He took a few steps and then leaned heavily on the tent post. His face had turned pale.
His doctor – a skeletal man in monk’s robes, his nose peeling from sunburn – stepped forward. ‘Please, Your Grace. I beg you to lie down. You must rest.’
‘I will rest—’ Richard blew bright yellow snot from his nose. ‘I will rest when Jerusalem is in Christian hands once more.’
‘You won a battle at Jaffa, Your Grace, not the war,’ John cautioned. ‘Saladin still lives. His army is intact. Jerusalem is as difficult a prize as ever.’
‘And I am still the Lionheart! I tell you, I will have Jerusalem.’
‘At what cost, Your Grace?’ Bishop Walter put in. ‘Is Jerusalem worth losing England? Worth losing Aquitaine? Longchamp writes that your brother John has claimed you are dead and that he has seized the throne for himself. And King Philip has taken advantage of your absence to take land in France. If we do not return soon, you will have no kingdom to go home to.’
‘Fie!’ Richard pushed off from the tent pole. ‘Fie on all of you!’ He stumbled from the tent, his court following. ‘My horse!’ he shouted. ‘Bring my horse! Where is my armour?’ The two young squires glanced at one another, and then looked to Blanchemains. ‘What are you looking at him for?’ Richard roared. ‘I am your king. Bring my armour, dullards!’
The squires retrieved the king’s padded vest, his mail hauberk and coif, mail leggings and mail mittens. As he dressed, Richard glared at his councillors, daring them to speak. He was breathing heavily by the time he pulled on his conical helmet.
‘Your Grace—’ John began.
Richard rounded on him. ‘Peace? You wish me to make peace, yes? I will not have it, John. I will have Jerusalem!’
Richard went to where de Preaux held the reins of his horse. He pulled himself into the saddle and swayed for a moment before grabbing the pommel to steady himself. ‘What are you standing there for?’ he demanded. ‘Break camp and form ranks!’ He urged his horse forward. ‘Break camp, men! We march for Jerusalem, to give the devil Saracens a taste of our steel! Break—’
Richard’s eyes rolled back in his head. He tilted to the side and fell from the saddle to land with a crash. The doctor rushed to his side and felt his head and neck. He put his cheek close to the king’s mouth. ‘I do not believe he is injured, but he is grievously ill. He must rest.’
Blanchemains gestured to the men-at-arms who stood guard outside Richard’s tent. ‘Take the King inside.’
‘What do we do now?’ de Preaux asked as Richard was carried away.
‘We make peace,’ John said.
‘Against the King’s will?’
Blanchemains nodded. ‘I am high steward. With the King ill, command falls to me, and I say this war is over. It has been over for some time.’
August 1192: Acre
‘Five years,’ Humphrey said.
‘Two years and eight months,’ Selim replied.
They sat across the table from one another in the chancellery of the palace at Acre. John sat beside Humphrey, quill in hand. With Richard ill – drifting in and out of consciousness – peace negotiations had proceeded quickly. Now after two weeks, they had agreed to the treaty’s major provisions. The Franks would keep most of what they held: the coastal strips from Jaff a to Caesarea and from Acre to Tyre, along with Antioch and Tripoli. Ascalon would be surrendered to Yusuf, on the condition that he tear down the walls and leave the city unfortified. Free travel would be allow
ed between the two kingdoms. The Franks would be able to make pilgrimage to Jerusalem. All that remained was to decide upon the length of the truce.
‘Two years and eight months?’ Humphrey raised an eyebrow. ‘Eight months?’
John whispered to him. ‘A peace of that length would expire in May, at the start of campaign season.’
Humphrey scowled. ‘We make peace, and you are already planning for war, Selim.’
‘My brother wants only peace,’ Selim assured him. ‘John, you know my people. After nearly driving the Franks from our lands, this peace will taste like defeat to them. But the prospect of revenge will sweeten the dish. It will win their acceptance of the treaty.’
‘Two years and eight months is not long enough,’ Humphrey said.
Selim rose and went to the window. ‘What will you do once peace is made, Humphrey?’
Humphrey glared at him. This was a tactic that Selim employed frequently. Rather than butting heads over an issue, he would change the subject to something entirely different.
‘I shall return to Aleppo,’ Selim mused. ‘Perhaps I shall retire from public life. I could spend my days with my family. Or perhaps become a holy man like you, John.’
John laughed. ‘I am a priest, not a holy man. Four years, Selim.’
‘Three years, eight months.’
Humphrey rubbed his chin. He nodded. ‘Very well.’
John began to write down the details, his quill scratching on the parchment while Selim looked over his shoulder. Finally, he set the quill down. ‘It is done.’
‘Alhumdillah.’
‘Our lords must still approve,’ Humphrey cautioned.
‘Saladin will agree.’
‘As will King Henry,’ John said. ‘Richard—’
The king’s name was still hanging in the air when the door opened. Blanchemains entered. There was an ugly bruise forming on the high steward’s cheek. ‘Richard is awake,’ he declared. ‘He wishes to speak with you, priest.’
It was a short walk to the king’s chambers. As he approached, John could hear loud cursing from beyond the door. One of the guards outside nodded to him. ‘God save you, father.’ He pulled the door open.