His horse dug its hooves into the churned ground and advanced another ten yards up the hill. Cold water blew in his face and flattened his linen surcoat against the ringmail tunic. All around him the men of Poitou fought for a foothold, or threw themselves out of the path of skidding wagons and nervous destriers. Farther down the incline, drivers thrashed the baggage mules to make them move. Some did move, but others stumbled, spilling their loads, or kicked out at their torturers. Guy spat water and mouthed obscenities at the louring sky. It was not enough that Amalric and his fellow barons had made him play Regent and general; now he was supposed to shoulder the added responsibility of baggage-master. One way and another, he groaned, his brother had a lot to answer for.
* * *
During the last two days the Saracens had attacked the Greek monastery on Mount Tabor, destroyed the surrounding villages and undermined the walls of the castle at Forbelet. They had threatened the cities of Beisan and La Feve, and ridden within arrow-shot of the great Hospitaller fortress of Belvoir. Unimpressed by the speed with which the Christian army had assembled at Sepphoria, the lightly armed Moslem cavalry had pounded through the twisting valleys of Lower Galilee, driving off thousands of sheep and cattle, firing houses and barns and spreading panic among the scattered population. They rode in groups that ranged in size from fifty to five hundred, pinning their faith on horses that could turn on a cloak.
Now, as Arnold of Toroga led his Templars down the southern slope of the hill of Nazareth and on to the floor of the valley, two such groups swept westward from the shadow of Mount Tabor and attacked the head of the column. Each group contained between two and three hundred horsemen, armed only with iron-tipped reed spears, light bows and either maces or extravagantly decorated scimitars. Some wore the curved swords at the waist; others carried them in a shoulder sling. Spurning Western-style armour, the bearded horsemen contented themselves with small circular or heart-shaped shields and with leather caps that they wore concealed under their turbans. What use was armour, they gibed, against an enemy that was too ponderous to catch them?
One group turned to engage the Templars, while the second streamed across the face of the vanguard, then wheeled sharply and charged Amalric’s contingent.
The leaders of the van had expected an attack somewhere en route. But the incessant wash of rain had made them at first irritable, then sullen, so that they were moving with heads bowed and shields slung when the Saracens struck. The Templars had reached flat ground and were advancing in good order, but Amalric’s hundred foot soldiers were strung out along the contours of the hill. They did not see the Saracens until it was too late. A hundred at a time, the black-feathered arrows thudded into the line. Amalric screamed at his knights to skirt the bewildered infantry and get between them and the Moslem archers. The Crusader captains heard his orders, then interpreted them in their own way. Their desire to retaliate overcame any concern they may have felt for the brutish men-at-arms, and they led the knights straight down the hill, smashing through their own lines to reach the enemy.
Within a matter of moments they had inflicted more unintentional damage on their pedestrian companions than the Saracens had achieved with their murderous volleys. More than sixty men lay dead or wounded on the lower slopes. The cries of the wounded were flattened by the rain, their bodies crushed into the mud. Those who were too badly injured to move suffocated in the mire, or lay facing the sky, waiting for the torrents of water to block their nostrils and fill their lungs.
The impetus of the charge carried the weighty Norman horses away from the base of the hill. The Moslems held their ground until a clash seemed inevitable, then turned and fled, luring the Crusaders after them. Amalric’s captains made a desperate attempt to re-group the men, but the temptation to give chase was irresistible. Roaring ‘Saint George!’ and ‘Holy Sepulchre!’ the hotheads thundered on into the overcast.
Few returned. The Saracens had seized the initiative and the opportunity to prove once more that they were adept at cutting broken formations into even smaller pieces. Hidden by the drifting curtains of water, they out-rode and out-manoeuvred the Frankish horsemen, vanishing in one direction, only to appear an instant later from another. Of the two hundred knights who spurred down the southern face of the hill, almost half allowed themselves to be drawn into the valley. Of these, nine were slain, a further twenty wounded, and thirty or so unhorsed and taken prisoner. Given the choice, a Moslem preferred to capture rather than kill his mounted adversary. A living knight could be held to ransom, whereas a corpse could only be stripped of his armour and mutilated. There was some emotional satisfaction to be gained from the latter, though every Moslem soldier knew that Balian of Ibelin’s brother, Baldwin of Ramleh, had once been ransomed for 150,000 dinars. On another occasion, the Hospitallers had promised 80,000 dinars for the safe return of their friend Raymond of Tripoli. The fact that the Hospitallers had broken their word and sent Raymond’s captors less than 60,000 dinars did not deter other hopeful bounty hunters. When an Egyptian horse soldier earned the equivalent of three dinars a month whilst on active service, he would not complain if the Christians short-changed him.
* * *
While Constable Amalric’s lay knights were being cut down in the open valley, the Templars, aided by Reynald of Chatillon, were acquitting themselves well on the left flank. They had learned to resist the taunts and temptations of the enemy and to ignore the crooked finger that beckoned them into a trap. They closed ranks, charged together, reformed, then charged again. The Saracens were unable to break the iron line and, although they killed three Templars and wounded eight or nine more, they withdrew in earnest, leaving forty slashed bodies on the field.
A round-faced knight named Edouard became the object of attention when he approached Arnold of Toroga, grinned and indicated the seven ostrich-feathered arrows that had lodged in his mail tunic and boiled leather boots. Such a sight was not uncommon, and one of his brother Templars was quick to recollect that, a few years earlier, at the battle of Montgisard, he had seen a horseman wearing ten arrows, plus the broken shaft of a reed lance. This tactless comparison angered Edouard. By the devil’s arse, he raged, what did he care about Montgisard? He was showing them seven arrows, here, now, not reminiscing about past wonders. But then, the sour-tongued Sir Ranulf could always be relied upon to belittle a hero.
Fearing that the men would come to blows, the Grand Master interposed, ‘We have all witnessed others, Sir Ranulf, but there is no question that Sir Edouard rode deepest into this fight.’ He rested a hand on Edouard’s arm and ignored Ranuif’s muttered aside about fat men making easy targets. Somewhat mollified, Edouard called to his friends and they rode over to pluck the souvenirs from his armour.
A few moments later they heard that Amalric’s men had charged through their own lines and been broken apart in the valley. The Templars sneered at the news, united again in their disdain for the Constable’s imitation warriors. God knew, the Hospitallers were a tiresome enough Order, though they at least would close ranks in battle. But these others – who made few vows and kept none of them – they were worse than useless. With the exception of Reynald of Chatillon and Joscelin of Courtenay and one or two more, the lay knights were a sorry crew. It was the Templars, and though they would not admit it, the Hospitallers, who, time and again had turned the tide of battle and staved off disaster. And if the recent skirmish was any indication of the way things would go, the salvation of the kingdom rested firmly in the mailed fists of the Temple and the Hospital.
* * *
The army continued south.
Amalric’s decimated contingent was withdrawn from the van and replaced by a force of Italian and Sicilian mercenaries. Guy and his Poitevins retained the second position, followed by a rambling, ill-disciplined group of volunteers from the coastal towns under the competitive command of a dozen minor nobles.
Balian of Ibelin took charge of the centre, assisted by his impetuous brother Baldwin and two of their allies,
Reginald of Sidon and Walter of Caesarea.
The rearguard comprised one hundred and fifty Hospitallers led by their Grand Master, Roger of Les Moulins, plus a powerful detachment from Galilee and Tiberias, responsible to Raymond of Tripoli.
The rain pursued the army as far as La Feve, then lifted as the Crusaders advanced on to the Plain of Jizreel. There were no more surprise attacks, though the patrols reported that the Saracens were encamped between Tubanie and Beisan. The Frankish scouts suffered from their usual inability to estimate numbers, so that some swore they had counted less than five thousand heads, while others insisted that they had seen at least seventy-five thousand, may God blind them if they lied. Since the invaders had pitched their tents in a wide arc across the plain the higher estimates were the most popular. The encampment looked impressive, so the estimates were made to match. The Christian army was apparently out-numbered by as many as ten to one. Torn by indecision, Guy of Lusignan called on his leaders for advice.
They responded quickly, each eager to make his voice heard. Balian and his brother rode back to consult with Raymond of Tripoli and the Grand Master of the Hospital, then accompanied them to where Guy’s scarlet tent had been hastily erected. From the head of the column came Reynald, Joscelin, Amalric and the Grand Master of the Temple. The two groups gathered at opposite sides of the tent, eyeing each other. The air smelled of wet leather, sweat-soaked wool and scoured metal. Amalric and Baldwin had bad teeth. Arnold of Toroga suffered from heat sores that would not heal. The Lords of Sidon and Caesarea arrived, and Reynald immediately sent for two of the more vociferous Italians to redress the balance. They hurried in, and, six a side, they turned to their irresolute Regent.
From the comments and estimates that had passed between the assembled barons it was clear that there was already a divergence of opinion. Guy had feared as much and glared angrily at his brother. Ah, Amalric, he groaned to himself, did you have to uproot me from France to bring me here for this? In truth, brother, what am I in the scheme of things but a palisade to be torn down, first from one side, then the other?
He shook his head and murmured, ‘God save us, nobles, if the fate of the kingdom must rest on my strategies and my brother’s ambitions.’
Standing near him, the tall, sallow Joscelin of Courtenay asked, ‘Did you speak, Lord Guy?’
‘What? No, I – Yes, I asked for your views on the reports. If the enemy are indeed in such strength, we must avoid a direct, man-to-man—’
‘What strength?’ Reynald bored. ‘My horse has a better head for figures than these rabbit-hearted scouts. You could show them an empty city and because they saw streets and houses they’d tell you fifty thousand armed men were hidden within. Spit of the serpent, I reject their reports. What did they really see? I’ll tell you: rows of tents. That’s all, just long rows of tents. And another thing. How many of them returned wounded, or failed to come back at all? None. Which shows you how close they ventured to the enemy. Aah, the black pigs have no strength.’
Guy mumbled, ‘Well, we cannot assess the strength of an army on its tents, I grant you that. But, on the other hand—’ He glanced at Raymond of Tripoli, praying that the dour, former Regent would fill the other hand.
Raymond said, ‘My Lord Guy. We know the Saracens have entered Beisan and Galilee. The vanguard itself came under attack a few hours ago. I therefore suggest we take a defensive position and hold it until we have made a more accurate appraisal of their strength and intentions. Time is on our side, since the—’
‘Oh, he goes on!’ Joscelin complained. ‘Accurate appraisal. Strength and intention. Eh, Balian? You have a squire who writes don’t you? You should sit him with our Lord of Tiberias here; they could write a book on military strategy for us. Meanwhile, we will ride on unhindered to fight the battles!’ He roared with angry laughter. His supporters joined him, while Guy struggled:
‘I don’t know about a defensive – I mean, we’re not sure what they will do.’
‘Exactly!’ Raymond snapped. ‘We are sure of nothing, so what good can come of advancing blindly toward a waiting enemy? There may only be five thousand of them’
‘If that,’ Reynald commented.
‘But there may be ten times that number. Great God, we cannot fight a battle on guesswork! I repeat, we must first defend ourselves, then test their strength.’ He stared at Guy, but the despondent Regent had already foundered.
Balian said, ‘Lord Raymond makes more sense than all of you. Constable Amalric, would you care to tell us once more how your knights fared when they rode off into the blindness of the rain?’
‘Say what you like,’ Amalric glowered, ‘we drove them off.’
‘At what loss?’
‘We drove them off, that’s enough.’
‘So are we now to chase them from Beisan and lose the entire army in the process?’
Guy shook his head again. He wanted to scream, why do you argue, why do you argue? Even now the army was waiting, leaderless, because its generals could agree on nothing. And what if this very tent was the object of a sudden Saracen attack. What if five hundred Moslem horsemen were, at this moment, pounding toward the scarlet cone? Every man inside would be trampled and crushed, hacked down, stripped and – and—’
‘Stop!’ he shouted, his thin voice rising. ‘I will not have you arguing around me. I want a decision from you. Discuss it if you must, but you are my commanders and I – I demand an answer. Yes, I demand it.’
Reynald glanced at Amalric as if to say, your brother is more woman than man; we must stop before he weeps and stamps his foot. The Constable shrugged, and the two groups turned in on themselves, leaving the handsome young Frenchman isolated and frightened.
While he waited, a messenger was admitted to the tent. The man edged between the huddled groups and whispered something to Guy. He jerked forward, gripped the man by the sleeve of his damp hauberk and made him repeat it. Then he nodded once and the messenger ducked out beneath the sagging canopy.
Reynald noticed the intrusion and the wan expression on Guy’s face. He inquired brusquely, ‘Are you ill, Lord Regent? If you need rest, we can be safely left to decide this policy for ourselves. We’ll tell you the orders when we’ve—’
‘No, I’m not ill.’ The barons turned to face him again as he continued:
‘Lord Reynald, is it true that you were expecting your stepson to join you at Tubanie with men from Kerak and Shaubak?’
‘I still expect it. What of it?’
‘Then there must be some truth in the report. I have just heard that he was ambushed somewhere along the eastern slope of Mount Gilboa. His force sustained heavy casualties, though happily Humphrey escaped and is on his way—’
Reynald instinctively disputed the report. Speaking more to himself than to the Regent he said, ‘It’s not possible. He has Azo with him, and Aegelric, and twenty as capable. He couldn’t have led them – they wouldn’t allow him such latitude.’ Then he caught sight of Amalric and acknowledged that the Constable’s decimated contingent had also been composed of capable men.
‘Damn him!’ he railed. ‘I hope the enemy catch up with him yet and cut his manhood, if they can find it. Damn him! Damn Humphrey for a delicate—’
‘I’m sorry,’ Guy offered. ‘It’s a severe blow to you, to all of us.’
‘Sorry? I don’t want sorrow! I want men. Those fancy, waving hands, I should never – I should have set him knitting with the women. Damn his soul!’
‘We are all sorry,’ Raymond of Tripoli commented, earning a weak smile of gratitude from Guy. ‘However, it supports our case. We dare not move now. If we venture farther east we risk being cut off by those Saracens who surprised us near Mount Tabor, and by the others who will be moving north from Gilboa. And without the force from Moab to protect our right flank’
‘You speak out of turn!’ Amalric snapped, grasping his opportunity. ‘They were my men who engaged the enemy below Tabor—’ He looked at Reynald and grunted as his friend c
aught the drift of the argument.
‘And mine at Gilboa,’ the Lord of Kerak concluded. ‘We have a greater debt to settle now. I say we must move quickly to Tubanie.’ He had adopted a belligerent, hunched forward posture, and found it easy to substitute Humphrey for the malleable Regent. They were too much alike, these paltry girl-men. If one was not available the other would serve.
‘I say we go without further delay. I say we move now.’
‘I understand your feelings, Lord Reynald. Any man who has lost—’
‘My men are unbloodied,’ Joscelin inserted, ‘yet I agree with the Constable and the Lord of Kerak. I, too, say we advance.’
‘And I,’ from Arnold of Toroga.
‘Yes, we strike them hard, before long,’ from Reynald’s Italian allies. ‘If not, we take our men against them, alone.’
Raymond, Balian and others started to protest, but Guy had had enough.
‘We’ll go on,’ he piped. ‘We are too vulnerable, stuck here. We’ll go on in formation as far as the springs at Tubanie. Then we’ll see. That is all. Thank you. Assemble your men.’
* * *
On 3rd October, the Christian army reached Tubanie. Having agreed to come this far, Guy hesitated, then refused to go farther. He had managed to please, and so displease both factions. Reynald and his supporters hammered away at him, while Balian and Raymond presented him with reliable reports, in which the Moslem forces were estimated at between twelve and twenty thousand. They did not press the scouts for greater exactitude, but merely reminded Guy that, if it were twelve or twenty, Saladin would be forced to withdraw within a few days. His army could not live indefinitely off the countryside, whereas the Crusaders could keep open several supply lines to the coast. And, so long as they stayed where they were, within reach of water, they blocked the plain and prevented the Moslems moving westward.
The Knights of Dark Renown Page 7
