‘Are you the leader here, sir knight?’
Gerard glanced quickly at Roger, who watched him, expressionless. Then he nodded, ‘Yes. I’m the Grand Master of the Temple, Gerard of Ridefort. Who on God’s earth are you?’
‘I am Lovel, the brother of Anselm, Constable of Tiberias. Praise heaven you have so many of your men safe here with you.’
‘What nonsense are you spouting?’
‘My Lord Raymond of Tripoli has sent me out to contact the garrisons of La Feve, Nazareth and Sepphoria. I’m to warn you that during the daylight hours tomorrow there will be a Moslem hunting party abroad in Galilee. They have Lord Raymond’s permission to catch some wild goats, and they have given their word that they will not’
‘Where are they now?’
‘At Gadara. They’ll cross the Jordan at dawn and probably hunt in the valleys between Tiberias and Nazareth. My Lord Raymond—’
‘Yes, well, thank our Lord Raymond for his timely warning.’ Roger growled, ‘Finish what you were saying, Lovel.’
‘He is finished,’ Gerard said. ‘What more?’
Lovel blinked his gratitude at Roger and went on, ‘My Lord Raymond wishes it to be made clear that the hunting party is not to be molested—’
‘That will do,’ Gerard murmured.
‘and that it would be better if no patrols were sent into that area—’
‘I said that will do.’
‘for fear they should antagonize the Moslems.’
‘You talk, but you don’t listen! I said it would do! You’ve given your message. Now get on to wherever it is. Get on!’
Lovel bowed briefly and hurried out.
Roger inquired, ‘Why this boiling over, brother Gerard?’
‘Shush! I’m thinking.’
‘And I know the route your thoughts take. You would like to descend on the goat hunters.’
Gerard hunched forward over the small, central table. His round face was bathed in a sweat of pure excitement. He was no politician, but he had worked out something that would, that would—
‘Listen!’ he hissed. ‘Why not descend on them? If we do so it will be as though Raymond himself had attacked them. God’s eyes, don’t you see it? It will break the treaty and force the Regent to side with us. We will kill fifty Moslems and bring all Galilee back into the Kingdom!’
‘There may be more than fifty.’
‘Fifty, a hundred, two hundred, what matter? Saladin will never trust Raymond again.’
‘I am against it.’
‘Aah, you are against every lifted finger. You are made more bulky, but in every other way you are like our tardy Lord Balian.’
‘And you stand comparison with Reynald of Chatillon. With him it was a caravan raid to break the truce. With you some goat hunters.’
Gerard smiled. ‘Do you think you insult me? Not so. I’ll stand comparison with Prince Reynald any day. He is the only one who fights on for Christ.’
‘You mean for his coffers. But we’re straying from the point. I say we must wait for Lord Balian.’
‘No.’
‘You will not hear reason?’
‘I have just expounded it. We have reason for this venture. If you wish to keep your black-and-white men huddled in here—’
‘You know that won’t do.’
‘Then why the dispute? If you want Regent Raymond within our ranks again’ He shrugged. It was clear to him, so it should be clear to Roger. He stood up, called for silence and gave the news to the one hundred and thirty assembled knights.
Later, they learned that the Marshal of the Temple, Jakelin de Mailly, and a detachment of Templars and lay knights were in the area. These were summoned to La Feve and arrived in the early hours of the morning, 1st May.
Roger of Les Moulins sent five Hospitallers south across the Plain of Jizreel to see if there was any sign of Lord Balian. There was not.
* * *
He remembered the question he should have put.
Anselm woke the Lord of Tiberias at dawn and pulled him by the arm towards the window of his bedchamber. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘The hunting party.’
For a long time Raymond stared down at the road that ran below the south wall of the castle. As he watched, the blood drained from his face and his knuckles whitened under the taut skin. He whispered, ‘Oh, my God, Anselm. Oh, my God.’
* * *
Gerard had not yet finished recruiting men. It was his avowed intention that not one member of the hunting party should escape. Whether they were fifty or five hundred he wanted them wiped out, so that the Moslems at Gadara would spend anxious hours wondering at their disappearance. As the first light of May flooded the Plain of Jizreel, the Grand Masters led their knights from La Feve, trotting northward toward Nazareth.
Gerard and Jakelin commanded one hundred Templars and rather more than sixty lay knights, while Roger rode at the head of a further sixty Hospitallers. Among these were the Commander of Knights, Sir Conrad, Cesarini the Italian and Matthew of Dorset, the three who had been with the Lord of Nablus at the Dead Sea four years earlier, and who had ridden from Jerusalem to warn Regent Raymond that the crown would go to Sibylla.
The garrison of La Feve was reduced to just two men, both lying jaundiced in the infirmary.
Of these two hundred and twenty mounted knights, the most impressive was Jakelin de Mailly. He was a tall, vain man, with yellow hair that he had allowed to grow unnaturally long in defiance of the precepts of his Order. Furthermore, he rode a white destrier and wore a polished silver hauberk. On several occasions in the past the Saracens had fled from him, convinced that he was St George of Cappadocia, the slayer of dragons and the personification of Christian chivalry. Jakelin was aware of his reputation and had pursued every reference to St George.
The expedition reached Nazareth in good order. Further recruiting took place and another forty lay knights, together with some foot soldiers and a mob of mercenaries were added to the column. The Archbishop of Tyre, who had kept to himself since leaving Nablus, chose to stay at Nazareth until the fighting was over. Gerard was not sorry to be rid of him; Josias would certainly have bewailed the Grand Master’s intended ruthlessness.
Anticipating the direction in which the hunting party would move, Gerard of Ridefort led the column, now swelled by the few hundred infantry, toward the crest of the hill above Nazareth. He guessed that the Moslems would be somewhere in the narrow valley beyond the grassy ridge. The leaders rode abreast, Gerard of Ridefort, Roger of Les Moulins, Jakelin of Mailly, Sir Conrad and five or six others. The hunting party was where the Grand Master of the Temple had thought it would be. But what Raymond of Tripoli and all the mounted knights had failed to ascertain was the true strength of the Moslem incursion.
Shocked and slack-featured, they gaped into the valley.
Later, independent Arabic and Frankish calculation would reveal that the Moslem hunting party, led by Kukburi, Emir of Harran, was composed of seven thousand battle-hardened warriors, the regular soldiers called Mamlukes…
* * *
Balian entered La Feve. From some distance back he had sensed that the castle was deserted, and he was now astonished to discover that the great main gates were not even closed. Dogs ran barking about the empty yard and kites circled lazily above the towers. Fostus and Ernoul drew up on either side of him and the three men sat, squinting up at the windows, their ears tuned to any human sound, a step, a cough, anything.
‘Hell in hell,’ Balian breathed. ‘Where have they all gone?’
Ernoul turned in his saddle, earning a frown from the others as the leather creaked. He said, ‘There’s no one on the walls. Shall I look inside?’
‘Yes, do that. Search those buildings over there. Fostus, see to the keep. I’ll make a circuit of the castle. This is beyond belief. And for members of the Military Orders to have left it thus.’ He shook his head, gestured quickly at the keep and the out-buildings, indicating that his companions were to start the search, then rode out thr
ough the gate and alongside the wall.
He found nothing.
Fostus found the smoking remains of a fire, but nothing more.
Ernoul moved through empty galleries and dormitories, up and down stairways, along echoing corridors and passageways until, starting nervously, he heard a weak voice call, ‘Almighty Christ! Bring us some water.’
He found the two jaundiced Crusaders in the infirmary, fetched a deep basin of water for them and asked them where the garrison had gone, and why, and how long ago. They told him what they knew, that word had come of a Saracen invasion of Galilee and that every able man had gone to do battle near Nazareth.
‘But they wouldn’t!’ Ernoul exclaimed. ‘They are not given to breaking treaties.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, lad. A Saracen is a Saracen, and a stain on Christ’s Kingdom.’
The young squire would have stayed to argue, but he heard Balian call from the yard. He placed the basin where both men could reach it and ran down the nearest staircase, emerging at the same moment as Fostus.
‘They’ve gone to Nazareth!’ he shouted. ‘They heard that the Saracens had invaded Galilee. It doesn’t seem possible.’
‘Mount up,’ Balian ordered. ‘God will we are not too late.’
* * *
An incredible scene was being enacted on the ridge above Nazareth. The Moslem host had noticed the line of Christian leaders, but, as yet, they were content to improve their position in the valley.
When the size of the enemy force had impressed itself upon their stunned minds, the Crusaders voiced their conflicting opinions.
Roger of Les Moulins and Sir Conrad proposed an immediate withdrawal to Nazareth, from where detachments would be sent to regarrison La Feve and to strengthen the nearby castles at Burie and Mount Tabor.
Gerard, true to his character, advocated a straight charge down the hill.
The three who had spoken then turned toward Jakelin de Mailly.
‘I say we should retreat. We are outnumbered ten or twenty to one. That is no band of goat hunters down there. I say retreat, and quickly.’
Gerard gazed down into the seething valley. Without glancing at Jakelin he said, ‘The thing is, you love your blond hair too much to risk losing it.’
For an instant Jakelin did not realise he was being addressed. When he did, he roared, ‘When I lose it, it will be in battle, and when I die it will be like a brave man! It’s you, I think, who will flee like a coward!’ Without another word he wheeled his horse, rode back to where the Templars waited in a mass and yelled, ‘With me! Deus vult! For St George!’
Gerard howled with pleasure, dragged his horse in a tight circle and led a second mass of knights over the ridge.
Suddenly, it had gone too far to be stopped. Templars, Hospitallers and the rest were sweeping up to the ridge and over it into the valley. None of them had had seen what lay below. By the time they saw the enemy they were among them. The Grand Master of the Hospital and his Commander of Knights found themselves at the rear of their own men. They had no choice but to follow. The foot soldiers scrambled after the cavalry and within moments the ridge was devoid of Crusaders.
Roger of Les Moulins was killed in the fight.
Jakelin of Mailly was killed, and his weapons, clothes and armour taken for souvenirs of St George.
Sir Conrad of the Hospital was killed, and with him Cesarini the Italian and Matthew of Dorset.
Every Templar and Hospitaller who was not killed in battle was executed on the spot.
The lay knights who survived were taken prisoner and dispatched to Damascus.
Every foot soldier was murdered out of hand.
Of the two hundred and sixty knights, two hundred and fifty-seven were killed or captured. Of the three who escaped, one was Gerard of Ridefort.
Chapter Sixteen
Nazareth, Jerusalem, Palestine
May, June 1187
His face was lacerated, his hands thrust into crimson gauntlets woven from his own blood. One of his companions had been hacked so deeply above the left wrist that it was clear he would lose the hand. The third rider clutched the shaft of an arrow that had entered one side of his neck and emerged on the other. The wooden shaft blocked his air pipe and each breath required a greater effort. The three horses were webbed with cuts, though none had been hamstrung or pierced by arrows. Slowly, favouring their injuries, they carried their riders round the base of the hill and on to a road that led back to Nazareth.
Balian saw them from the crest of the ridge. He also saw the carnage in the valley, the stripped bodies of the dead Crusaders, the ruined horses and the milling host of Saracens, while here and there stood the taller figures of their few Frankish prisoners. In turn, the Mamlukes saw Balian and Fostus and Ernoul but, as before, they made no attempt to storm the hill. A few moments passed, and then, as though responding to an order, the Saracens started eastward along the valley, and Balian turned west to intercept the three Christian survivors.
Gerard heard the horses approach and peered in agony toward the sound. He recognized the Lord of Nablus, raised a bloody hand and flapped it – leave me be, leave me be. But Balian was already level with him.
‘You bastard!’ he roared. ‘You foul iniquity! This is your doing! I know you! Oh, God, you have had your way with us. You have maimed us now, and I am going to kill you for it. Aah, Gerard, you bastard!’ He twisted clumsily in his saddle and unsheathed his sword.
Gerard flapped his hand. ‘Leave me be,’ he croaked. ‘You stayed away, so you can’t know how it was.’
‘I know, filth, and I am going to kill you.’ He jerked his horse round to keep its head clear of the blade, then swung the sword. There was a clash of steel. The weapon shuddered in his hand. He looked to his right and saw that Fostus had drawn his own sword and parried the blow.
‘No, lord, or it makes you like him. I could kill him ten times over—’
‘Move back, Constable.’
‘No, sire. You would favour him to kill him—’
‘For the last time, because I love you. Move back!’
Quick, Ernoul told himself, say something. Christ, they will cut each other. Say something. Oh, Jesus, quick.
‘That man dies,’ he gabbled. ‘Over there, the one with the arrow. Look, he’s going.’
It was true. The Crusader slid from his horse and fell head first, snapping the arrow as he landed. Terrified beyond thought, Ernoul forced his way between Balian and Fostus. It was an instinctive movement and he sat, his eyes closed tight, waiting to be cut from right or left. All the while Gerard flapped his hand and mumbled, ‘Leave me be. You can’t know the way of it. Leave me be.’
Fostus waited, scarcely aware of the shivering obstacle hunched in his path. Lord Balian must decide how it would go.
Balian held his position, then suddenly reversed his sword and sheathed it. ‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘It’s as you say. It would make me like him. Looking up sharply he asked, ‘Would you have cut me?’
‘I would have disarmed you, sire.’
‘You think so? You think you could have done it?’
‘I could.’
Balian grinned, his fury dissipated. ‘I think so, too. Hey, Ernoul, you can stop playing the barrier now.’ He leaned across and touched him on the shoulder.
Fostus growled, ‘That’s the way to get your head lopped off, fool.’
‘I know,’ Ernoul said, ‘but you wouldn’t have done it.’ Then, still trembling, ‘Would you?’
Fostus chose not to answer. The three men accompanied Gerard and his remaining companion to Nazareth, and left them in the care of local physicians. Then they collected Archbishop Josias and, unescorted, set out to complete their ill-fated mission. Now it seemed certain that King Guy and Regent Raymond would be reconciled.
* * *
The Lord of Tiberias had already heard the news and reached the same conclusion. Ironically, al-Afdal had kept his promise, as he had said, abiding by every letter of e
very word. The hunting party had entered Galilee with the light and would be back at Gadara before nightfall. Not a house had been fired, nor a wheatfield razed. The fact that the Moslem prince had not specified the size of the party did not mark him as a liar, though the result of the day’s work made a mockery of the treaty.
Without hesitation, Raymond disowned all allegiance with Saladin and, leaving his wife Eschiva to organize the defence of Tiberias, he rode with Balian and the others to Jerusalem.
He was, in many respects, a broken man. His desire for the throne had been thwarted, his attempt to have Humphrey of Toron made king had proved abortive, and his treaty with the Sultan had been short-lived. He despised himself for having failed to discover the size of Emir Kukburi’s hunting party, and the ride south was a dismal, uncommunicative affair. He was now prepared to do whatever King Guy commanded, and to take whatever punishment the monarch meted out. At one stage of the journey he did speak, but it was only to remark that the Kingdom of Jerusalem was no place for a man of good intentions.
Later, addressing no one in particular, he mused, ‘I have always believed in the rightness of my actions. And in the future of the Christ’s Holy Land. Perhaps, if I had been born a Joscelin of Courtenay, or a Reynald of Chatillon, I might have served the Kingdom better. Not as them, but with some of their cunning.’
Riding next to him, Balian said, ‘Nobody may condemn you for following your beliefs. It’s not cunning we lack. God knows, we have some fine practitioners of that. It’s unity. We have never faced the same way long enough to see the truth. Now, if God wills it and the King is not too vengeful, we may at last all stand together.’
‘I hope so, Balian. One more single mistake and we are all lost, you know that. By the way, do you think Gerard will die?’
‘If Fostus here had not baulked me, our Grand Master would already be meat for the worms. As it is, I don’t know. The Templar looks like a pig, but he has the strength of a wild boar. I would not bury him too soon.’
The Knights of Dark Renown Page 25
