* * *
The Christian advance was being seriously hampered by the irregular fire-and-flee tactics of the Moslem archers. During the hours that straddled noon Reynald of Chatillon made eight sorties against them. He emerged unscathed from all but the last, when his horse was brought down with a lance in its flank and he was thrown heavily on to the grass. Heaving himself to his feet, he retrieved in nomine domini, aware that this was the third time in his life that he had lost his grip on the sword. He stayed where he was beside the stricken horse, waiting for the Saracens to recognize their most hated enemy.
Before long three horsemen rode at him. They fired five arrows as they spurred in, but their enthusiasm impaired their aim. Two of the arrows flew above his head and the other three fell short. Exchanging their bows for scimitars they closed in on him. He chose the nearest rider – one who had moved well ahead of his companions – and lumbered to the left, swinging the great sword. At the final instant the Moslem saw that Reynald had timed the swing to perfection. He jerked the reins, but he was too late to pull cleart of the near-five-foot-blade. His own scimitar was more than a foot and a half from Reynald’s red-bearded face when in nomine domini cut him in half at the waist. The Arab stallion carried its rider past, then ran off, toppling the torso. Reynald was knocked flat by the impact of the blow. He twisted away from the sound of hoofbeats and glimpsed the other two riders as they thundered by. Astonished that they had not killed him, he dragged himself to his knees.
Having seen what the Red Wolf of the Desert had done to their companion, the pair had banished all thought of a sword fight. Instead, they determined to trample him beneath their horses’ hooves. In his mind, each had decided to say later that he had used an animal to kill an animal.
They brought their mounts in line again and charged. Reynald’s left wrist was broken – perhaps when his destrier had thrown him, perhaps when he had slashed his first Moslem – so he stayed on one knee, jammed the hilt of the sword against his hip and let the blade rest on his raised left arm. In nomine domini angled up like a lance. He realised that if he jerked aside in time the first horse would take the blade in the chest and stumble on, clear of him. But if he was too slow, the hilt would be driven back, smashing his hip bone. He gave no thought to what the second horseman might accomplish.
He snarled at them as they came toward him. ‘Come on, pigs, come on, come on—’
Then suddenly there were three horses.
The Saracens were less than twenty feet away when the third horse slammed into them. There was a flurry of bodies, one bearing the Templar cross, and the Saracens were hurled aside, their horses crashing down on them. The heavy Norman destrier staggered and recovered, and Gerard of Ridefort reached down, yelling, ‘With me, Prince! With me!’
Reynald jammed his sword into his belt, missing the sheath so that the blade cut deep into the leather, then snatched at Gerard’s arm and hauled himself up behind the saddle. The two Moslems lay crushed under their mounts. Gerard spat at them and took his friend back to the column.
Reynald’s wrist was swollen, so Garrison Captain Azo bound it with wet leather. When the leather dried it would shrink and hold the wrist firm. The Lord of Kerak would be in constant pain, but he would be able to wield in nomine domini.
* * *
Ernoul was put to work winding crossbows. Both Balian and Fostus were accomplished shots, so the young squire worked without respite. His fingers bled, and when he had loaded and reloaded a hundred times or more he threw aside the arbalest and begged for a cloth to wrap round his hands. It was Balian’s weapon that he had failed to prepare, so it was Balian who dealt with him.
‘Pick it up! What are you, some sulky girl? Pick it up, and hurry about it.’
‘My hands—’
‘Damn your hands! Men are dying here. Look! Knights and soldiers fall by the score.’
‘I only want a rag, my lord.’
In a voice Ernoul had never heard, Balian said, ‘Pick-it-up. Wind it, load it, then hand it to me. Now, boy!’
Ernoul stooped and gathered the crossbow. Balian glared at him while he loaded it, then snatched it and strode back to the perimeter. When he had gone Fostus shook his head and growled, ‘You’re lucky, skin-and-bone. In his mind your action bordered on desertion. If he did not hold you special—’
‘Oh, Christ, Fostus, I only wanted to cover my hands.’
‘Wind on, or we’ll have the Saracens among us. Then you won’t have any hands to cover.’ He collected the loaded crossbow, took careful aim and sent a Saracen flopping from his horse. Ernoul opened his mouth to congratulate him, when he saw Balian bringing his arbalest back for reloading. Lowering his gaze and muttering childishly, the young squire reached out to take the weapon from him. Instead, he felt a sharp sting on the palm of his hand and looked up to see a pair of gauntlets draped across it.
‘Wear them,’ Balian said, ‘and let’s have no more nonsense from you.’
‘Yes, sire, thank you. I’ll be able to work much fas — Christ! Down, down, down!’ He threw himself on his face. Balian dropped as though his legs had been cut from him. Fostus had already dived under an arrow cart. Nearby Crusaders heard the warning and took cover, or looked around, or fired one last quarrel. Of those who stayed on their feet, three were instantly immolated by Greek fire, while others were splashed with the ghastly flaming substance. Grass, flesh and armour were set alight, each burning as briskly as the other. Ernoul gagged on the stench, then pulled on the gauntlets, loaded Balian’s bow and yelled, ‘There! Those four on horseback ! They’re filling the slings again!’
Balian did not bother to rise. He grabbed the bow, fell forward on his elbows and fired. The Naffatin threw up his arms and slid sideways from his horse. Working faster than he thought possible, Ernoul tossed Fostus a loaded bow, grabbed Balian’s from him, wound it, rammed in the quarrel and sent it skidding forward across the grass. The Lord and Constable of Nablus fired together. Fostus hit his man before he could light the naphtha ball, but Balian’s target was already swinging his sling when the bolt thudded home. He screamed with pain and lost his hold on the sling. Still containing the flaming naphtha, the sling rose straight in the air, slowed, then fell back beside the fourth man. The horse bearing the last Naffatin sprang aside like a doe, but the rider was less agile and fell into the searing morass.
Ernoul leapt in the air, mindless of the enemy archers. ‘Well shot! Well shot! Those bastards, look how they burn!’
Balian and Fostus glanced at each other. The young scribbler who had complained that his hands were cut had become a vicious animal, thirsty for blood. Like them, he was now just another soldier, fighting for his life.
* * *
The army continued its interrupted advance toward Tiberias. They came down from the hills and skirted the southern edge of the valley of Batuf. The Hospitallers were detailed to remain on the ridge. The Templars took over from the lay contingents commanded by Balian and Reynald, and defended the rear of the column. Neither Military Order could claim they had the more difficult task. The black-and-white men of the Hospital suffered severe casualties clearing the Saracens from the heights. Edouard de Cavanne was killed up there, as were Denys and Thomas the Wanderer and eighteen or twenty more. Then, when the Saracens retreated from the ridge, it was only to harry the army on the floor of the valley. Keeping them from the centre of the column, the Templars Honore the Tiger, Simon FitzNigel and Hubert of Bonneville were slain. Gerard of Ridefort was stabbed in the foot, but so long as he stayed on horseback the wound would not hinder him.
When the army was still two miles from the eastern end of the valley Grand Master Ermengard de Daps appealed to Guy to withdraw the Hospitallers.
‘It is not our way of fighting up there, King, and I am losing too many of my knights. If they are to die it would be better that they did so in the turmoil of a real fight, not swatting flies on the ridge.’
‘Can they see what lies ahead?’
‘Yes. The
ground slopes some way on. Beyond the end of the ridge is a wide plateau. On our side are the two peaks of Hattin. So far as we can tell, the Moslem army is massed on the far side of the plateau and across it’s southern extreme. But no doubt Saladin has sent men behind the peaks to stop us marching straight to the sea.’
‘Which route would you take, Grand Master?’
‘I’d continue on as we are. Whichever way we move we’ll have a fight on our hands, but if we keep in the direction of that low hill ahead, I think it’s called Arbel, we’ll come out above Tiberias.’
‘Then you don’t favour a standing fight on the plateau.’
‘Not if we press on with all speed now. Drive the army forward for the next few hours and we’ll pass straight by most of the Moslem force. On the other hand, they will soon fill the gap between Hattin’s Horns and Arbel. Once that’s done, we’re bottled in the valley.’
Guy nodded. ‘Bring your men from the heights. I’ll weigh your advice until you return.’
Although the losses were heavy, the army moved inexorably toward the sea. If the pace was speeded up, the vanguard would pass north of the Horns of Hattin within an hour. Then they would fight their way south-east and, as Ermengard had said, emerge between the hill of Arbel and the besieged fortress of Tiberias.
Thirst was now acute among the foot soldiers; they had pushed their bodies hard through the hottest hours of the day, and since dawn they had moved under an unbroken pall of dust. Some of them slunk to the sides of the valley, or scrambled up to the heights, seeking clearer air, but finding only certain death from a reed lance or an ostrich-feathered arrow.
Raymond of Tripoli had assessed the reports of his own scouts and rode back from the vanguard to make sure that Guy would not waver at this crucial point in the march. Now that it was too late to turn back, the army must be made to go on, until each man had soaked his feet in the Sea of Galilee.
The King assured his Regent that he had every intention of continuing the advance.
The army had shortened the distance to Tiberias by another mile when Humphrey of Toron galloped to the head of the column to inform Raymond that there had been a change in plan. His face was rimed with dust, his lips cracked and swollen. He looked twice his age, and when he spoke it was with the voice of a juiceless old man.
‘It’s beyond belief, Lord Regent! They took him to the rear to show him the carnage—’
‘Calm yourself. Who took whom? Put some names to these people.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s just unbelievable, that’s all.’
‘So you said. Move aside, let that wagon through. Now start again, slowly.’
‘Gerard and Reynald,’ the young noble rasped. ‘The Templars were being horribly mauled at the rear, so the Grand Master and my damned stepfather went to see the king. Gerard said his men could not go on, that the king should call a halt to the advance.’
‘What?’
‘Yes! And then they made Guy ride back with them to view the extent of the Templar losses. You can imagine what happened. Between them, Gerard and Reynald convinced that bloody weakling to turn on to the plateau. Balian sent me straightway to tell you. Look! Can you see back there? They’re already turning short of the horns.’ He guessed what Raymond was thinking and let his breath out in a dusty sigh. ‘No, Lord Regent, you won’t get him to bend your way again. The army welcomes a halt. We’re set on the plateau now, like it or not.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I know how you feel about me for deserting your council at Nablus. If I had known things would come to this I would have let you make me king. God forgive me, but how was anyone to know?’
Staring at where the dust cloud divided, Raymond said, ‘I don’t feel badly toward you, Lord Humphrey. It was a poor enough idea. Though I must say, both you and I would have stood more firm than that corn stalk we call king. Well, tell Lord Balian that I will bring my men back on to the plateau.’ Shielding his eyes from the sun, he looked along the ridges and peaks of the Hills of Hattin. The skyline was alive with Saracens.
Emir Kukburi’s entire force of six thousand men was moving north between the head of the Christian army and the hill of Arbel. Takedin’s troops clung to the horns and sealed the eastern end of the plateau. Saladin had positioned his six thousand across the plateau so that they formed a human wall, with the village of Lubieh at their backs. In his wildest dreams the Sultan could not have imagined that the entire Christian host would shuffle openmouthed into such a perfect trap. But not in his wildest dreams could he have imagined that the Crusaders would hand such responsibility to a man like Guy of Lusignan…
As the light of 3rd July dimmed above Eastern Galilee, upward of thirty-three thousand men assembled on the plateau and on the Hills of Hattin and on the steep rise to the north-east of the grassy field. This natural barrier was known as the Hill of the Multiplication of Pains.
Chapter Nineteen
Hattin
3rd, 4th July 1187
Some of Joscelin of Courtenay’s men found a well. It was a crude, low-walled structure, probably dug by shepherds and shared by them and their sheep. The soldiers who had spotted it howled with relief and plunged toward it. It was filled with rocks to within six feet of the surface.
So there was no water.
The army made its stand at the farthest point from the enemy archers. The Moslems were ranged along the Tell, or saddle of rock that joined the twin Horns of Hattin. They fired high into the air, but the arrows fell short of the Frankish perimeter. As the light faded, men advanced from both camps, the Crusaders to scout for water, the Moslems to wreak havoc among the forward positions.
Raymond of Tripoli, after so many arduous years as the backbone of the Kingdom, finally gave himself up to the lassitude of total surrender. He rode through the camp, like some bowed, longnosed gargoyle, moaning, ‘Alas, great God, the war is over before it is begun. We are all dead men now. The Kingdom is finished.’
One of the soldiers, who knew nothing of the politics that had brought him there, shouted, ‘Damn you, Regent! If it was not for your wife we would be well clear of this hole!’
Raymond heard him, smiled foolishly and murmured, ‘It is my fault, all mine. I have killed the Kingdom. God have mercy on me, I have killed it.’
Baldwin of Ramleh saw his condition and took pity on him. Riding alongside, he eased the reins gently from Raymond’s grasp and led him, still moaning, to where Balian waited at the western edge of the camp.
‘Here, brother,’ Baldwin said. ‘Our Regent’s mind is broken. Itbe best to put him in one of our tents and get a physician to him. If he rides around like this he’ll bring us all down, or get himself killed.’
‘Killed,’ Raymond murmured, ‘yes, it is killed now. The war is over and we are dead. We are judged by God, all of us, and I above the rest am found wanting. God will slay me now for what I have done.’
Balian wiped a hand over his face and told Baldwin to help lower Raymond to the ground. Then they half-led, half-carried him to the nearest tent and laid him on a sagging, leather-bound cot.
‘Keep this to yourself,’ Balian said. ‘We’d lose half the army if they believed Raymond was finished. God will that he’ll sleep and wake sane again.’
‘It is finished,’ Raymond mumbled. ‘All the Kingdom is gone now, all gone, all gone…’
The barons left the tent and stood listening to the sounds of battle that came from the south and east. Humphrey of Toron appeared with the news that the Grand Masters had at last agreed to cooperate and would combine their Orders in one impressive cavalry unit.
‘Thank God for that,’ Balian said. ‘It comes late in the day, but at least we have one strong fist.’
‘I wouldn’t count on the infantry,’ Humphrey warned. ‘Some of them have already turned themselves over for water.’
‘I never do rely on the infantry. They’re a scrappy lot at the best of times. They have their uses, though they never won or lost a battle yet. It’s the cavalry who must organize.’ Touching h
is brother on the arm, he said, ‘The Grand Masters have given me an idea. What if we extend their alliance and put Reynald with Joscelin and Amalric, while you and young Humphrey and I gather our own knights under one banner? That will give us three fists. Guy’s knights and those of the other barons will make a fourth. Then we’ll charge and charge again until we smash a hole in their line.’
Baldwin rolled his head from side to side. ‘It’s possible, but we’re all boiling in our armour—’
‘It’ll soon grow cooler.’
‘and I’m as thirsty as any man.’
‘Then fight for your drink!’ Balian snapped. ‘Otherwise, we’re here all night and taken in the morning. Now, what do you say?’
‘I’m for it,’ Humphrey assented. ‘I’ll go and put it to my stepfather.’
‘God knows, it’s all we can do,’ Baldwin sighed. ‘But what of Raymond’s knights?’
‘We’ll put them with those of Sidon and Caesarea. It’ll give us a fifth unit.’
They made ready, and the combined weight of Hospitallers and Templars charged out with the last flicker of day. Led by Gerard and Ermengard, they thundered south towards Lubieh. For two hours the Military Orders ploughed into the enemy lines, decimating them in one of the bloodiest contests any of the knights could remember. They advanced to the outskirts of Lubieh, but barred by black stone walls and restricted to the narrow streets, they were forced to retire again. They rode back into the Christian camp, not grinning this time, too weary to bring back trophies or souvenirs.
Reynald, with the Constable and Seneschal of the Kingdom, led the next charge. They were not as successful as the knights of the Military Orders and were halted several hundred yards short of the village. It was now full dark and the horsemen stayed in close formation, not wishing to be separated. The Moslem archers used fire arrows, while the Naffatin continued their deadly work. The night sky was etched with flames, and the knights glimpsed not only the enemy, but many of their own foot soldiers stumbling unarmed toward the Moslem lines.
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