by Jack Ludlow
‘Trust a de Hauteville to know all about arrogance,’ Raymond of Toulouse cawed.
That got him a jaundiced look from Godfrey de Bouillon, now, even to Raymond’s own knights, the undisputed commander of the host. So telling was that glance that the Count of Toulouse had no more to contribute.
‘Let us attack him, instead of waiting for him to attack us.’
Flanders demurred. ‘Defensive battle suits us.’
‘Which al-Afdal well knows. He will anticipate that we will pick a good field on which to fight him and dispose his troops accordingly.’
‘And we should do what?’ Godfrey asked, his eyes ranging around the pavilion; no one but Tancred responded.
‘Attack him at first light.’
It took an age for Godfrey to make a decision, but when he did the words were prophetic. ‘May the Good Lord preserve and protect us.’
Marching out in darkness, the host found that in al-Afdal they had an adversary so full of confidence that he had not thought to set out piquets on the outskirts of Ascalon to warn of any hostile approach. Unhindered, the Crusaders fell upon his encampment while many of his men were barely aroused from their night’s slumber, their arms stacked still by their campfires and slow to be employed. In a situation where mercy, never in good supply, would have been folly, the slaughter was immense.
Raymond of Toulouse on the right flank, for all his faults a good general, having ridden right through the camp, in the process stealing the Vizier’s personal standard, drove the only troops that held their formation, the Egyptian cavalry, into the sea, where men and horses drowned. Godfrey attacking on the left drove his enemies towards the gates of Ascalon, too narrow to permit mass entry and soon closed so that those inside could save themselves. The remainder were butchered on the outside.
Tancred and Robert of Flanders, attacking in the centre, routed the men they faced, many of whom sought to hide in trees and bushes to escape their fate, which was useless: all they became was sport for lance and bow, while those who prostrated themselves and begged were slaughtered like beasts. When the Crusade departed the field they left only corpses on which the carrion could feed. In their train they carried immeasurable wealth, the treasures and possessions of one of the richest rulers in the world.
Under their banner and their holy relics, Godfrey de Bouillon led them in triumph back through the gates of Jerusalem, at his right hand Tancred de Hauteville under his own red flag with its blue and white chequer, now truly, to all who spoke of him, the martial equal of his blood relative Bohemund. To Godfrey’s other side rode Raymond of Toulouse, Robert of Normandy and his namesake of Flanders. In their wake came carts laden with such treasure it would not have disgraced a Roman triumph of old.
The Crusade called by Pope Urban at Clermont had fought its last battle and they had won: Jerusalem, the holiest city in the Christian world, was in the hands of men who could now claim, without being challenged, to be the most puissant warriors in the world.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-f4822f-74cb-2846-baa3-f42c-c3f3-a4a640
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 02.08.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.39, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Jack Ludlow
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