Mamluk

by J. K. Swift

  “Crossbowmen, hold your bolts!” Foulques heard the marshal’s voice rise up over the deafening shouts and jeers of the army below. Very little noise came from the defenders themselves.

  “Hold firm. Do not waste your bolts on the shield bearers,” the marshal said.

  With a new series of shouts and cheers, another wave of infantry broke away from the main group and sprinted toward the shield lines. Many of them clutched wickedly curved Saracen bows in one hand, while bags of arrows hung from their opposite shoulders. When the archers arrived, the shield men began their shuffling approach toward the walls. As they closed the distance the archers began loosing arrows at the defenders, but the marshal still would not allow his crossbowmen to launch their own volleys.

  Like the others around him, Foulques pushed himself up against the wall for protection as arrows shot from powerful horn bows thudded against stone and brick, or whistled over the wall to harmlessly hit the second set of walls behind him.

  From his position, Foulques could see Marshal Clermont hunched behind a crenellation, constantly leaning out to take stock of the enemies’ actions. Foulques risked a glance around the wall. Thousands more men were sprinting toward them in groups of twenty or thirty. Some were archers, but most of them carried long, lightweight ladders and grappling ropes.

  “Now!” the marshal commanded. “Train your bolts on the ladder men. Loose at will!”

  The wall erupted in a series of clicks and grunts as men shot and reloaded crossbows. Aside from the occasional curse as someone missed his mark, the wall was surprisingly quiet. But Foulques had been atop enough walls to know this relative peace would not last. He had seen thousands of ladders, far too many for the number of crossbowmen. Even if they had every Genoese crossbowman alive in the world today, it would not be enough.

  The intensity of enemy arrows flying over the wall increased, as did the curses spewing forth from the defenders. Then, Foulques began hearing grunts of pain as men began to take wounds from enemy arrows.

  “Ladders on the south!” came a shout. Foulques heard the marshal bark out a series of commands to the men around him and a small group of Schwyzers, crouching low, made their way to where the grand master, Foulques, and Grandison crouched near the tower. The giant lad, Pirmin, was there, and in his hands he held a long, wooden pole with a forked end.

  “The marshal said we are to report to you,” said another Schwyzer to the grand master. The young man had small eyes and straight, black hair. It was Gissler, and though he was exceedingly thin, Foulques knew him to be more than a fair hand with a sword. In fact, he was one of the marshal’s favorites because of that skill.

  “Good lads,” the grand master said. He pointed to Pirmin and two of the other Schwyzers. You three will be on the pole. The rest stay close to me or Brother Foulques. If you lose track of us for any reason, do whatever Sir Grandison requests.”

  Foulques was grateful the grand master did not refer to him as “Admiral.” Perhaps it was a slip, or maybe it was on purpose. At the moment, that title held no meaning for Foulques, here on the wall. It belonged in a different world, to a different man, even. He flexed the fingers around his sword hilt and felt them relax into position. Everything was as it should be. Despite the escalating sounds of a charging army and the nervous energy all around him, Foulques felt more at peace than he had for a very long time. He looked one crenellation over at Grandison, who had his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned his back against the wall. He had not yet drawn his sword. The older warrior looked at Foulques and winked. Foulques was immediately reminded of a certain mariner who swore he would not be caught within a hundred leagues of Acre anytime soon.

  Grandison drew his sword and Foulques saw the tips of the first ladder arc through the air and bounce against the wall not five feet from where he stood. He stayed in cover and waited for the head of the first enemy to appear. However, with a loud cry, Pirmin charged forward and caught one of the ladder’s upper rungs with his forked pole. He continued to run forward and with a mighty heave sent it toppling straight back. Another appeared, and he attempted to repeat the process, but there were already too many men hanging off it. Two other Schwyzers latched onto Pirmin and together they tried to tip it back, but it was no use. Then Grandison appeared beside them.

  “Do not push them straight back!” he said. “Slide them to the side and it will take others with it.” Together they pushed the ladder sideways and it toppled over, spilling the men on it to the ground. “And watch out for ropes on the upper parts of the ladders. They will try to steady them from below.”

  Foulques was still waiting for a head to appear over the wall when, to his surprise, a fully armored Saracen arose on the walkway six strides away. When another appeared behind him, Foulques recognized the source of their ascent: a grapple, with a thick rope attached, was wedged against the far side of the walkway. They drew their curved blades and Foulques charged. He was too late to stop the first man from slicing open the back of a brother-sergeant bent over loading a crossbow. But before the sergeant had fallen, Foulques plunged his sword through the Saracen’s face. The second Saracen was struck down from behind by another brother. Foulques kicked the grapple to dislodge it, but it was stuck firm. The rope was taut and moving gently, hinting at a weight on its other end. Foulques drew his knife, not his dagger, and sawed at the rope until its last strand broke away. The thick hemp slithered across the walkway and disappeared.

  Several ladders had made it to the wall and more of the enemy were leaping onto the walkway or stepping between the crenellations. Many crossbowmen were forced to drop their weapons and do battle with swords and daggers. The fighting was close and fierce, and Foulques, Grandison, and even the grand master himself were in the thick of it. There was no room for honorable knightly duels or one-on-one challenges. The Saracens who had gained the wall were the undesirables of the enemy army, the first wave of sacrificial conscripts and mercenaries. Most of them had never expected to get this far, but now that they stood on the wall, they held onto a glimmer of hope that they could take it, and live to see another day. They fought like madmen.

  Foulques turned aside an attacker’s blade with his own and swept his leg out from under him with his right foot. Then, holding his sword in both hands, he plunged his weapon straight down through the man’s chest. He withdrew his bloodied blade only when he felt it come up against stone. He turned and his sword found the back of another assailant who was hacking at a young brother-sergeant trying to fight from his knees. The youth had a nasty wound on the side of his neck, and he collapsed at almost the same time as his dead attacker.

  Foulques felt someone bump up against his back and he whirled with his blade in a high guard. Otto de Grandison stared back at him from a similar position. With no words spoken, they both turned away again, keeping their backs near enough to touch, and fought on.

  Men were pouring onto the walkway from a new ladder while one of their number stood in front, slashing left and right with his scimitar to give his comrades time to make the wall. Foulques was about to engage the man when, seemingly out of nowhere, Pirmin came charging across the rampart with his pole leveled in front of him. The giant youth’s forked stick caught the Saracen standing guard just above his hips. Pirmin lifted him into the air and continued running forward, eventually slamming the man into another as he climbed the ladder. Pirmin let loose a terrifying battle cry as he hooked the ladder and sent it toppling sideways with a dozen men screaming as they fell to their deaths.

  Foulques began to hear horns sounding in the distance. At first he thought they were a signal from his own forces. Perhaps someone requesting assistance. Had part of the wall been overrun? He risked a glance north along the wall toward the Templars’ Tower and then south. The horns belonged to the Mamluks. They were calling a retreat!

  Saracens were scrambling away from the base of the wall, leaving ladders standing against the ramparts and the dead where they lay. Cheers went up all along the wall
. Several men shot crossbows at the fleeing enemy, until the hoarse voice of Marshal Clermont ordered them to stop. It was quiet one moment, and then, when the reality of the situation had sunk in, everyone talked at once. Men slapped each other on the back and laughed. Others stood staring at the dead on the wall and shook their heads. Others worked in pairs to throw the bodies of the enemy off the battlements.

  Foulques searched the faces around him until he saw the grand master. He was talking to a small group of knights and looked unharmed. Foulques sheathed his sword and found himself suddenly weary. Weary, but overjoyed. He offered a quick thank you to God and admonished himself for doubting the ability of the Christian forces to hold the city. This was Acre, the last of God’s fortresses in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Of course He would not let it fall.

  As he stood there at the wall, looking out over the stragglers of the attacking force as they returned to the main army, Foulques felt his enthusiasm wane. They had attacked with only a pittance of their full strength. The bulk of the army still stood by. Watching, waiting. Then Foulques began to notice changes in the enemy positions that had occurred during the attack. The siege engines had moved closer and there was now a long line of ten-foot-tall screens directly in front of their position. Someone came to stand next to him.

  “The battle has begun,” Grandison said. “They are done feeling us out. How long do you think it will take before those are operational?”

  He pointed toward the middle of the line of siege engines and Foulques suddenly realized what he was looking at. In the midst of all those mangonels and catapults, was a collection of timbers, ropes, and pulleys the size of which Foulques had never seen before. When he looked closer, even at this range, he could see the timbers were already carved and squared. They were gigantic. There were no wheels, because whatever they were building would be far too large to move. When assembled, the machines, for there were enough parts for more than one, would be five times the size of any engine currently on the battlefield.

  Foulques had to still his heart before he could speak. “Have you ever seen an engine that large, Sir Grandison?”

  Grandison shook his head. “No, but as worrisome as that might be, our real problem is over there.” He pointed at the screens two hundred yards away.

  “Sappers?” Foulques asked.

  Grandison nodded. He looked up at the clear sky. “I imagine they will start digging tonight. I would.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  On the inner wall, there was a large armory located in the base of the tower looming a short distance south of the Gate of Saint Anthony. Normally overflowing with spears, swords, and axes, the room now contained nothing save row upon row of empty weapon racks pushed against the walls to make space for the group of men gathered in its center.

  Foulques followed the grand master and marshal inside the tower. No sooner had he set foot in the hastily created strategy room, then a gravelly voice called out.

  “What is he doing here, Mathieu?” William de Beaujeu, the Grand Master of the Templars said, leveling a thick finger at Foulques. “The prince said this was to be a meeting of commanders only.”

  Unlike Marshal Clermont and Grand Master Villiers, Grand Master Beaujeu’s beard was short and neat, like his hair, and less streaked with gray than either of the two Hospitallers, though all three men were probably similar in age.

  “Foulques has recently been promoted to admiral. As such, he has every right to be here,” Marshal Clermont said, walking straight up to Beaujeu and staring him down.

  “Admiral?” Beaujeu looked right past Clermont at Foulques. “And how many ships in this new fleet of yours, Admiral?”

  “Say nothing, Admiral Foulques!” Clermont said. “For that information could be too easily traded for gold.”

  Beaujeu laughed, but the sound was dry and humorless. He took a step toward Clermont. “Be careful who you accuse of being a spy, Mathieu.”

  “Spies sell information to the enemy,” Clermont said. “You, however, will sell anything to anyone. Is there a word for that?”

  “I believe it is called a Hospitaller,” Beaujeu said, crossing his arms and taking a step forward.

  Grand Master Villiers put a hand on Marshal Clermont’s shoulder and the Templar marshal also took a step forward. Whether he was going to attempt to rein in his grand master, or join in the fray himself, Foulques would never know, for in just that moment, a shout went up near the doorway.

  “Make way for the prince! Clear a path!”

  There were fifteen or twenty men in the room. Grudgingly, Clermont and Beaujeu backed away from each other to make space at the doorway.

  Two fully armed Cypriot knights moved slowly into the room followed by Prince Amalric, a young man barely out of his teens. Behind him trailed two of his advisers. Foulques immediately saw the resemblance between the prince and King Henry, his slightly older brother. Amalric was a fleshed out, more fully realized version of his older brother. Where Henry’s eyes were sunken and his skin pale, Amalric bore all the signs of a man who spent a good deal of time in the outdoors. He was still a thin man, but his skin was browned by the sun and his eyes bright and quick as they took in the men surrounding his little entourage. So similar was he in looks to his older brother, it was as though God had made Henry first, who had proved disappointing, so He then went ahead and created Amalric.

  The prince was unarmored, opting instead for blue hose and a matching velvet tunic, but he did have a sword belted at his hip. A sword, Foulques noted, that was too long and heavy for someone of his stature. Not that it mattered, for he was sure the prince had not once released it from its scabbard.

  The Cypriot knights led their lord to the front of the room, toward the only chair. As the commanders in the room parted to make a path, Foulques saw Grandison and Sir Grailly standing beside each other at the front of the room. Also present were representatives of the Venetians, the Pisans, and the Genoans, although they were all at different sides of the room. The Master of the leper knights, the Order of the Knights of Saint Lazarus, was present, and though he himself did not have leprosy, he may as well have for how much space the others in the room gave him. Foulques saw a man he did not recognize wearing the black cross of the Teutonic Knights. He assumed it to be their newly appointed grand master. Apparently, the previous head of the Order had resigned and taken ship only days before the Mamluk army had appeared.

  As the prince’s advisers made a show out of dusting off the chair with scowling faces to ready it for their lord to sit, Marshal Clermont grunted and shook his head.

  “Look at the boy. Thinks he is king already.”

  “He has been put in a difficult position for one so young,” Grand Master Villiers said. “We should give him a chance.”

  “You forget,” the marshal said, “that I was at Tripoli with him. Look at his face. He does not want to be here. I watched a lot of good men die in Tripoli and mark my words, he will let the same thing happen here.”

  “Then we had best advise him well,” the grand master said. He narrowed his eyes and gave the marshal one of his stern looks that said, ‘I have heard enough on this topic, so do not say any more.’ Though generally known to be a calm, level-headed leader, Grand Master Villiers had an unnerving ability to sense what men needed to hear to keep them in place, and to make the best use of their abilities. There was a reason he had been their leader for so many years, Foulques thought. Even so, he could tell by the emotion in his voice, that the siege was beginning to have an effect on even the grand master’s steel nerves.

  One of the prince’s advisers, a tall, elegant man wearing a yellow robe with voluminous sleeves, called for order in the room. He waited, staring out over the room with the stern look of a tutor waiting for his pupils to quieten down. When it was silent, he bowed to the prince and backed away.

  “Marshal Levesque. Your report on the city’s defenses,” the prince said.

  Marshal Levesque was the commander of the city’s guard and
militia. Foulques knew him well, for he was an elderly man and had been a presence on the city walls for as long as Foulques could remember.

  “The Templars hold the wall in the north, the Hospitallers a long section in the middle, near the main gate. South of them are the Knights of Saint Lazarus and the Teutonics, and then the English and the French. Mercenaries and the city guard are stationed at the gates.”

  “Very well,” the prince said. “How long can you hold the walls?”

  The silence grew uncomfortable as the captain pondered how best to answer the question. “That is for God to decide,” Levesque said, finally.

  “We have enough men to man the walls completely?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. I estimate our forces to be slightly over eleven thousand men.”

  “Good. Keep a reserve of the city militia back and on alert in the event they need to be sent to assist somewhere.”

  He nodded and stood up, apparently satisfied with his decision.

  “Your Grace,” came a voice from the front of the room. “Might I say a few words?” The speaker was none other than Otto de Grandison.

  Amalric turned ever so slowly toward the voice, looking every bit a thief who had just been told his person was about to be searched.

  “Of course, Sir Grandison.”

  Like the two men were joined by the same puppeteer’s stick, Grandison stepped forward and the prince sat back down. Grandison angled himself so he addressed the prince but also the assembly of commanders. “My Lords, I have spoken with the Pisan engineers, and they reassure me that our walls are thick enough to resist the missile attacks from our enemy’s siege engines for months. However, work is underway on two trebuchets the size of which neither the engineers, nor myself, have ever seen. If they are completed, and prove functional, the Pisans say our walls will crumble like dry cheese.”