Holy Warrior

by David Pilling

  While they grappled, Mamluk riders swept past, screeching in triumph as they demolished the Tartar flank. Samaghar’s warriors went down like skittles, to be ridden over or speared in the dust. Horns blew wildly, mingled with the panicked yells of Tartar officers as they tried to rally their men.

  Hugh started to choke. The Tartar’s arm was like a vice, squeezing his windpipe. Purple stars wheeled before his eyes. Sheer rage lent him a fresh burst of strength. He dropped his sword, seized the arm with both hands and managed to loosen its iron grip for a second.

  This was all he needed. Hugh jerked his head backwards and smashed the rim of his kettle hat against the Tartar’s face. The other man grunted in pain and released him. Gasping at the pain in his throat, Hugh twisted in the saddle, whipped out his knife and rammed it into the Tartar’s open mouth, up into the brain. Hugh tore his knife free and cut himself free of the dying man’s reins. At the same time he frantically looked for any way out of the chaos.

  There was none. He was hemmed in on all sides by horsemen, Mamluks and Tartars, howling war-cries as they cut and jabbed at each other. Their horses kicked up a great swirl of dust, making it almost impossible to see for more than a few yards.

  Hugh mouthed a curse and heeled Flight into a gallop. He rode straight ahead, hoping to cut his way through the melee and break through to open country. Perhaps he could take cover in one of the ancient ruins scattered about the landscape. Come the morning, he would set out alone on the long journey to Acre.

  The random eddies of battle threw a knot of horsemen in his path. Hugh cut down the nearest man – Tartar or Mamluk, he cared little – and tried to barge his way through the rest. Screaming faces rose before him, bearded and contorted, eyes wild, teeth bared.

  A Tartar, blood bubbling from his mouth, fell heavily against Hugh and almost pushed him from the saddle. Hugh shoved the man clear. An arrow thumped into the breast of his aketon; fortunately, the force of the shot was spent and it failed to penetrate the padded leather.

  Dust blew into Hugh’s face. He winced and spat it out, wiped his eyes. Three Mamluks came rushing at him, one lancer and two swordsmen. More by instinct than skill, Hugh dodged the thrust of the lance. He smashed the hilt of his falchion into the Tartar’s face as he streaked past, bowling him clean from the saddle.

  His comrades closed, roaring. Their curved blades glittered in the murk. Hugh caught one on his blade; the other rang sharply against the rim of his helm. He opened his mouth in a silent gasp as pain blossomed in his skull.

  Dazed, Hugh urged Flight towards the nearest man and threw his arms about him. The Mamluk screamed unintelligible oaths in Hugh’s ear. He ignored them and held on tight, even as more blows rained down on his head and shoulders. His helm and aketon saved him from being cut to pieces, but Hugh’s sight was fading.

  Another hammer blow clanged against the back of his head. Hugh heard rather than felt it. The sound was muffled, as if Hugh’s ears were covered in thick gauze.

  Soon he felt or heard nothing at all, and plunged into darkness.

  12.

  Edward wrinkled his nose at the foul stench of his guest.

  “Keep your distance,” he growled. “Are you hermits so holy you must avoid water?”

  The other man bowed low, filthy hands clasped over his chest, and retreated a few steps.

  “Apologies, O prince,” he replied huskily. He spoke in a barely audible whisper, so Edward and his consort, Eleanor, had to lean forward to hear.

  The hermit was filthy. He wore a ragged brown smock, tied at the waist with a bit of string, and went barefoot. His lean hairy thighs were visible through holes in the smock. His arms were bare, his head round and with no neck to speak of. Stooped and round-shouldered, only a small part of the hermit’s face was visible under his tangled grey mane of hair and beard. He stank like an overfull privy in high summer.

  For all that, the hermit held himself with a certain dignity. He refused to bow, even before a prince. His brown eyes under their tufted brows were full of calm intelligence and met Edward’s gaze head-on.

  He was one of the Suliani, a sect of Christian hermits who chose to dwell among Saracens or in the wilderness, far away from their fellow man. Edward had heard of the sect, but never set eyes on one of its members until the hermit came to Acre. He had presented himself before the gates of the palace and politely requested an audience with the prince; the guards would have flogged any other man for such insolence, but something about the hermit’s strange charisma persuaded them otherwise.

  “Now,” said Edward when the smell in the audience chamber was a mite less unbearable. “Tell me your name, and why you came here.”

  The hermit placed a dirty hand flat over his heart. “I am called Pain, O prince. I came to advise you of a great opportunity.”

  “And where do you come from, Pain?” Edward asked with interest. Pain was a good Norman name.

  The hermit ignored the question. “Two days from now,” he declared, “the people of Qaqun have their holiday. Once a year, they issue forth from the town to enjoy themselves in the open country. They pitch their tents in the open air and hold a festival.”

  He crossed himself. “I will not, for love of our Lord Jesus, describe the pagan rites that are observed on that day.”

  Edward sat back in his high chair. His wife placed her hand gently on his. As ever, he was comforted by her touch.

  “What is this to me?” he demanded. Qaqun was a small Muslim town guarded by a watchtower, roughly halfway between Acre and Jerusalem. The fortified tower was one of several that guarded the approaches to the Holy City.

  “It is much,” replied Pain, “if you choose to make much of it. The people of Qaqun will be vulnerable, the town open to attack. If you were to march in force from Acre and travel swiftly by night, in stages, you might fall upon them and seize the place. Put the infidels to the sword, drive them like sheep, and butcher the garrison.”

  He raised his hands, palms turned outwards. “Do so, O glorious prince of the English,” the hermit cried, his voice suddenly full of rapture, “and the way to Jerusalem will lie open!”

  Edward’s mind turned over the suggestion. Loath as he was to take military advice from smelly hermits, it was a better plan than anything the prince or his advisors had come up with. He had spent the hot months of summer making plans and leading attacks on Saracen territory. These were little more than raids and did nothing to threaten the power of his great rival, Baibars.

  At the end of July Edward had led his men east into the land of St. George da La Beyne. Once held by the Teutonic knights, Baibars had conquered it earlier in the summer. Edward wanted to show the sultan that he was not afraid to attack the Mamluks on their own turf. He and his knights plundered the town of St. George, destroyed crops and houses and put to the sword as many Saracens as they could find.

  He smiled at the memory. Afterwards they had pushed a few miles east and burned out more farms and villages. Before them lay the mighty hilltop fortress of Zefat, once a crusader stronghold, now garrisoned by Baibars’ men. Edward had briefly considered trying to storm it.

  What a victory that would have been, he thought bitterly. I came here to recover castles and cities from the infidel, not merely show my face.

  Then disaster struck. His footsoldiers had gorged themselves on raisins, fruit and honey and other rich foods. Their stomachs, used to a staple diet of rye bread, revolted against this unfamiliar fare. They also suffered from the roasting heat of the Holy Land in high summer – not a good time to wear a mail shirt.

  Once he saw his men dropping like flies from heatstroke and explosive dysentery, Edward had no choice but to order the retreat. Some of his men died on the road, while others were carried back to spend weeks in a sanatorium.

  Now the autumn had come, and with it cooler weather. Edward’s envoys had only just returned from their mission to the Tartars, or at least some of them had. Two of the three Dominicans were missing, as well as Hugh Longswo
rd. Edward regretted the loss of Hugh, a useful if headstrong servant. With luck, Abaqa would keep his word and release the hostages in good time.

  Edward was enraged by the behaviour of John de Montfort at Tyre, who had apparently slain or imprisoned Father Rossel. He ought to have known better than to trust a member of the accursed Montfort clan. For the moment there was nothing he could do about it. Even now the Tartars must be pouring over the border into northern Syria. Edward had to strike, and strike hard, while Baibars was distracted by the Tartar invasion.

  The question was where to strike. He looked to Edmund, one of the handful of close advisors summoned to hear what the hermit had to say. His brother was loyal and dependable, but not overly bright. The same applied to most of Edward’s followers. None of them had any original ideas to offer, beyond riding out and killing as many Saracens as possible.

  “Well?” Edward demanded. “What do we make of Pain’s suggestion? Advise me.”

  Three of the four other men present – Edmund, William de Valence, Othon de Grandson – looked uncertain. The fourth, Thomas Bérard, Grand Master of the Templars, glared at the hermit with open hostility.

  “This man is a filthy apostate,” he snarled, “like all his sect. The Suliani live openly among the Saracens – share bread with them, converse with them, treat them with the respect due to fellow Christians. It is said the Suliani spit on the crucifix, and secretly worship the false god of Islam.”

  Pain regarded the Templar with scorn. “Said by whom, brother?” he asked courteously. “Bring these accusers before me. I shall cast their lies in their teeth.”

  Bérard went red and clapped a hand to his sword. “Enough!” cried Edward. “I’ll have no bloodshed here. Grand Master, I asked for your opinion on the hermit’s advice, not that you hack him to pieces.”

  The Templar was a tall, gaunt figure, his thin features those of a self-denying ascetic. “I have none to offer,” he replied stiffly. “Except to say this man is a liar and a heretic and should be flogged out of the city. Better still, hand him over to me for interrogation. My inquisitors will soon cut the pride out of him.”

  As head of the Templars, Bérard was too powerful a man to offend. Edward masked his irritation and looked expectantly at the rest of his council.

  Othon piped up. “An attack on Qaqun, so close to the Holy City, would be a risk,” he said. “Yet much is risked in war.”

  “We could ride north,” said Valence, “and join up with the Tartars. Our combined strength would match Baibars in the field.”

  “Sheer folly,” snapped Bérard. “Samaghar is at least two hundred miles to the north, and we have no idea of the route he means to take. There is also the small matter of the entire Mamluk host between us and him.”

  Valence flushed with anger at the Templar’s scornful tone but had no counter-argument. Obnoxious as he was, Bérard spoke sense. Any attempt to link up with the Tartars was likely to end with the little crusader army cut to pieces in the desert. Edward hadn’t come all this way, at enormous risk and expense, in search of martyrdom.

  Eleanor touched his sleeve. “Credit the Suliani,” she said. “He is a holy man, even if his sect chooses to dwell among the infidel.”

  Edward looked gratefully at his consort. She was his rock, his weakness, the one true light of his existence. He was enthralled by her, and they both knew it.

  He also knew it was damaging to accept a woman’s advice over that of his councillors, even if she was destined to be a queen. Edward loved Eleanor to distraction but had his reputation to think of.

  To hell with my reputation. I trust her judgement. She has more brains than the lot of them put together.

  “We will march on Qaqun,” he announced.

  Edward glared at the other men in the chamber, daring them to make something of it. None met his eye, though the Grand Master – a misogynist if ever there was one – looked disgusted. Satisfied, the prince relaxed slightly.

  “God has granted you wisdom, lord,” said Pain, with some apology for a bow.

  Edward thought he detected a hint of mockery in the hermit’s voice but let it pass. He had made his decision and would stick to it.

  *

  On a cool day in late November, the crusader army set out from Acre. It was a proper army this time, no mere raiding party. Edward rode at the head of over seven thousand men; knights of Cyprus and England, the Templars and Hospitallers and mounted soldiers of Acre. Citizens lined the streets or gathered on the walls above to watch them go. The crusaders were showered with petals as they rode through the gates, ushered on their way by the sound of plainchant.

  Qaqun lay some forty miles to the south. On the hermit’s advice, Edward sacrificed haste for caution. The land ahead was thickly planted with Mamluk garrisons, all on alert for any signs of life from Acre. He had to keep his movements secret, no easy task for such a large number of men.

  Less than an hour from Acre, Edward halted his men on the verges of a wooded ravine.

  “We will camp in these trees,” he informed his captains, “lie up until nightfall, then move on. Our scouts know the way.”

  Several of his knights looked unhappy with this decision. “You mean to sneak up on the infidel?” his brother later asked Edmund in private. “This is not the glory I dreamed of, Ned, when I left home to join you.”

  “Nor I,” Edward replied irritably. “But needs must. We are outnumbered, brother.”

  He glanced around for prying ears. The princes sat alone in a darkened glade, well away from their companions. To remain concealed, Edward had ordered no fires to be lit. He and his men ate a cold supper of bread, cheese and dried meat, while the ravine was lit only by starlight and the spectral glow of a nearly full moon.

  Edward lowered his voice. “Outnumbered, and outmatched. I saw the Mamluk host gathered on the plain before Acre. You did not. The power of the sultan, Edmund…it is hard to describe. For every one of our knights, Baibars has ten. His archers, I am told, can have a dozen arrows in the air while our crossbowmen labour to reload. He is relentless and without mercy. He has never suffered a defeat in battle.”

  “We knew all this in England,” said Edmund. “Baibars is a formidable foe, right enough. But he’s just a man, flesh and blood like the rest of us. No man is unbeatable.”

  “Of course,” Edward replied hurriedly. “Otherwise there would no point being here, would there? We might as well give it up and go home.”

  He smothered his doubt and thanked God there was only Edmund to witness it. If his men saw him falter, their already fragile morale might collapse.

  “To defeat Baibars,” he went on, “we must be every bit as ruthless. For now, he is too powerful to engage in open battle. I will not risk the only Christian army in Outremer. Do you understand?”

  Edmund gave a slow nod. “Good,” said Edward. “Then you know what must be done. Until the Tartars arrive, we move with caution. Night marches, sudden ambushes, swift raids. Burn villages and crops, kill or drive away the peasants. Avoid battles. Unlike Baibars, we cannot afford to lose men.”

  The other man rested his eating knife flat against his palm, and slowly ran a thumb across the blade.

  “God help the Saracens!” he exclaimed with a grin.

  The crusaders woke early, before first light, and led their horses out of the wood. They mounted in silence and moved off after Edward’s scouts, who guided them across the stark and dusty plains towards Qaqun.

  Sunlight was just breaking across the land when Edward spotted the tower. A square block of stone, some five or six storeys high, surrounded by a square wall and fortified gate. The little fortress was surrounded by a ditch, filled with water. Nearby stood the town, also defended by a ditch and wooden palisade.

  Pain the Sulian, who rode with the expedition on a palfrey, steered the crusaders away from Qaqun. “The people lie some way distant,” he explained. Edward let him guide his men over a hillside, a little way west of the town.

  There, spread o
ut below them on a low-lying meadow crammed between two hills, the people of Qaqun had set up camp, several hundred tents of rough hide, scattered about in no order. About two score white canvas tents were pitched separately in neat rows, presumably by the men of the garrison. In the quiet stillness of pre-dawn, all was quiet as the grave. A few supper fires glimmered here and there. The only sound came from the lowing of a few score goats and cattle, herded into a corral outside the camp.

  “Prepare slaughter for his sons because of the guilt of their fathers,” Pain murmured, crossing himself. “Lest they rise and possess the earth, and fill the face of the earth with their cities.”

  Edward drew his sword. He glanced right and left at his men. They crowded and jostled each other, eager to slay the enemies of the faith of Christ. Men, women, children. It mattered not. They had to die.

  “Charge!”

  The prince’s voice sounded like a trumpet. Thousands of men spurred down the flank of the hillside. They surged into a gallop, roaring war-cries. One cry sounded above all.

  “DEUS VULT!”

  The crusaders tore into the camp. They rode straight over the flimsy tents and the sleeping bodies inside, then set about the survivors who broke loose, screaming in terror. Edward’s knights gave chase and butchered the helpless wretches with lances, swords, axes and iron-shod maces.

  In the midst of the chaos Edward picked out Robert de Bruce, lord of Annandale. “Kill the soldiers!” he shouted, pointing at the rows of white tents. Saracen warriors were already pouring out of them, frantically buckling on helms and shields. Somewhere a drum was beating the alarm.

  The big Scottish knight saluted and led his knights and men-at-arms towards the tents. Edward watched with grim satisfaction as the Scots charged into the bewildered Saracen footsoldiers. An unequal battle erupted on the plain, as the infantry were cut down or herded like frightened sheep into the heart of the camp. Here they were attacked by the Hospitallers and Cypriot knights led by Hugh Lusignan, King of Cyprus. Not a single Saracen escaped the trap.