Mamluk

by J. K. Swift

  “Then we must destroy these machines before they are built,” the prince said.

  “Exactly my thought, Your Grace,” Grandison said. “With your permission, I would like to put this before all here, to see if we can come up with a feasible plan of action.”

  A few murmurs shot through the room. “We should train our own catapults on the engines,” a voice said. The idea was quickly dismissed by the Grand Master of the Templars. “Impossible. They are too far out of range.” He strode forward to take center stage, ignoring the dark look from Prince Amalric’s adviser, who had to abandon all vestiges of grace and practically leap out of the knight’s path. “The only feasible way of destroying those engines is with a well-timed cavalry raid.”

  Several gasps cut through the air and open protests followed.

  “That would mean charging directly into enemy lines. It would be a death sentence,” Marshal Levesque said.

  “Not if it was done at night,” Grand Master Beaujeu said. “A small force of men could steal out of one of the northernmost gates under cover of darkness and be on the first engine in moments. The machine would be in flames before the enemy even knew they were under attack.”

  “A bold plan,” said the Grand Master of the Teutonics. “But who do you propose leads this attack?”

  “Me, of course,” Grand Master Beaujeu said. “I would trust no one else but Templar Knights with a mission of this magnitude.”

  Foulques heard the marshal next to him murmur under his breath. “William, you arse, there are two trebuchets.”

  As if echoing his thoughts, Grandison spoke up. “And what of the second engine, Master Beaujeu? With the first in flames, you will have attracted the wrath of the entire Mamluk army. You will have no hope of ever reaching the second one.”

  Marshal Clermont was on the verge of stepping forward when Grand Master Villiers’s thick hand shot out and grasped him by the forearm. “I forbid it,” he said. “You will be needed on the wall, Mathieu,” he added in a less harsh tone.

  Grandison was right, Foulques thought. It was a good plan.

  “The Hospitallers shall target the second engine,” Foulques announced, stepping toward the front of the room. “And I shall lead our men, if there are no objections.”

  Grand Master Beaujeu’s eyes widened. “You will hear no objections from me. I have seen you tip a lance, Brother Villaret, and you do a fine enough job of it. For an admiral.” This brought some chuckles from the crowd, and more than a few confused glances.

  Grandison stepped forward and looked at Foulques. “And I will have to join you both with a few of King Edward’s men, for I fear if he were to hear how I missed the opportunity to go on a midnight ride with both the Templars and the Hospitallers, Longshanks would have my head.” He bowed to the prince. “That is, of course, if we have Your Grace’s permission.”

  The prince paused long enough to give the impression that he was actually weighing the pros and cons of the plan. Foulques knew, however, that it did not matter what he said, for neither the Hospitallers nor the Templars were his to command. And from what he knew of Grandison, the Savoyard knight would do whatever he thought best, as well. But in the end, Amalric simply nodded. He rose and magnanimously made the sign of the cross in front of the three men. “God be with you,” he said.

  As the prince exited the room, Foulques could not help but see the two very dark, and very furious faces of Grand Master Villiers and Marshal Clermont burning him with fire from their eyes hotter than any in all of damnation.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The raid was planned for that evening, a moonless night lit only by the stars. Beaujeu, Foulques, and Grandison each led a contingent of fifty men. The Templars stole out of the northern-most gate in the wall, their target the northern siege engine. Grandison rode out of a gate in the south, his task being to destroy the southern engine. Foulques led his group of fifty men from the same gate as Grandison. He was to ride behind the screens the Mamluks had erected and destroy their sappers’ tunnels.

  Foulques and Grandison stood beside each other, their horses’ reins in hand outside the walls of Acre waiting for the rest of their men to pass through a narrow doorway behind them. The sky in the distance was lit up by the light cast from thousands of small fires scattered over the plain. In front of the two men, however, lay only blackness, a thick curtain that seemed all the darker because of the light beyond.

  “This seemed like a much better idea when we were on the other side of the wall,” Grandison said.

  “I am sure Beaujeu is thinking the exact same thing,” Foulques said.

  Grandison checked over his shoulder. Satisfied that his entire group was out of the city, he turned to Foulques and the two men clasped arms.

  “Remember,” Grandison said. “No one is to mount up until you either see your target or you hear one of us charging our target.”

  “Godspeed,” Foulques said. “It has been an honor fighting alongside you.”

  Grandison cocked his head. “Are you always this morose, Brother Foulques? You talk like this is the last time we are ever going to do something unwise together.” He gave Foulques a grin and led his horse away, a long line of English men-at-arms trailing close behind.

  Since Grandison’s siege engine was further away than Foulques’s target, the Hospitaller counted slowly to one hundred before leading his own men into the darkness.

  Foulques had asked for volunteers from amongst the Hospitaller men-at-arms for this mission. Since the marshal had forbidden him from taking any knights, which was eerily reminiscent of when he was tasked to choose men for his navy. Brother Roderic had been the first man to step forward and surprisingly, Jimmy Goodyear the second. Foulques was ashamed to admit to himself that his first thought when Jimmy had volunteered was that the big man was simply looking for a way to get outside the walls, and once he did, that would be the last anyone saw of the opportunistic tax dodger from Huntingdonshire. But then it occurred to Foulques that if he really wanted to desert the Hospitaller ranks, it would be much easier to stow away on one of the ships coming and going from the harbor than it would be to flee over mile upon mile of open land. Especially when an enemy army blocked most of that route. One that had made it publicly known that no Hospitaller or Templar they took prisoner would keep his head. No, Jimmy the Rogue was many things, but mad he was not. He had a keen sense of self-preservation, but could it be he wanted to do his part in this war and make a difference? Stranger things had happened and Foulques knew from experience that in times of war, the most unlikely of people were capable of the most surprising feats.

  Foulques held up his hand and signaled a stop. He turned behind him and motioned for Jimmy to join him at the front. Jimmy took his time getting there, for he only operated at one speed. Two, if you counted motionlessness.

  To be fair, one of the reasons he was so slow was because he carried a hooded lantern in each hand and a dozen long wicks hung off his neck. Foulques relieved him of one lantern and half of his wicks. Every other man possessed two small ceramic pots of Greek fire.

  “You and I will be the only ones with fire,” Foulques said in a half whisper. “Remember to keep your distance from the others until they have emerged from the shaft and you are certain no one else is inside, then go ahead and lay your fuse.”

  Foulques had no idea how many shafts they would discover once behind the wicker screens. The plan was to burn the timber supports lining the shafts to hold back the earth. Hopefully a cave-in would result, but even if it did not, the noxious fumes given off by the Greek fire would persist in the tunnels. Work crews would have to wait a few days before entering the shafts to make repairs and digging toward the walls could resume. All of this would take time. And with thousands of mouths to feed, time was the true nemesis of every besieging army.

  They proceeded on foot, leading their horses, until Foulques could just make out the ten-foot-tall screens ahead by the way they blocked out the small fires of the enemy’s camp
. Once again he wordlessly commanded his men to halt. They waited.

  From the north came the unmistakable shouts of men and the pounding of hooves. Foulques mounted his horse and put her into a trot toward the southernmost screen. They would start there and work their way north destroying as many shafts as they could. From there, it would be a straight shot back to the Gate of Saint Anthony. A hard gallop would get them there in a couple of minutes.

  As Foulques came around the first screen, he reined his horse in to a walk. He was surprised to see no sign of guards. Surely they would have left someone to watch the shaft entrances? Just then, a bright glow lit up the sky in the north and he could hear the sound of heavy fighting. The Templars must have been successful in lighting up their engine.

  There was no shaft behind the first screen. He commanded his men to stay where they were while he urged his horse forward, carefully picking his route through the shadows to the second screen. Now was not the time to fall into an open shaft and maim his destrier. But there was no shaft behind the second screen. Looking ahead, he did not see any mounds of earth, or other signs of digging, behind the third screen, either.

  They will probably start digging tonight, Grandison had said when they saw the screens first moved into place. That was four nights ago.

  Foulques looked to the north. He saw not one fire, but a half dozen.

  No.

  He whirled his horse around and jammed his heels into her side. The moment he reached his men, fire after fire erupted into the night sky in the south.

  “This is a trap,” Foulques said the moment he reached Brother Jimmy. He raised himself up in his stirrups. He twisted and looked at the fires far to the north. They could go to the aid of either the Templars or Grandison, not both. The Templars were too far away. Their fate would already be decided before Foulques could reach them. He extinguished his lantern and tossed it on the ground. He told Jimmy to do the same.

  He addressed the men over Jimmy’s head. “Wedge formation! We go to the aid of Grandison and his men. Hit them once hard to make an opening and then retreat back to Saint Anthony. Understood?”

  “For God,” came the response from the men, as if from a single breath.

  And then Foulques was charging through the night. He did not look back to see where his men were. He could hear the snorts of the horses just behind him, on his left and right flanks. For the briefest moment he wondered if charging into the midst of a well-planned ambush was a wise course of action. It was, of course, not.

  He could see the marshal’s scowling face. Risking the lives of fifty men to save fifty was an irresponsible act. But it was worse than that. There was very little chance that all of Grandison’s men still lived. Foulques was very well aware that he was taking fifty staunch defenders off the wall of his city. He had made a poor decision, he knew, but that was the difference between him and a commander like the marshal. Foulques was a soldier of God, not God himself. Sometimes a soldier was forced to make decisions, and when those times came, it was most likely in the heat of battle. Foulques knew he should have been riding hard in the opposite direction. But he was afraid. Afraid of what he would see in his dreams if he did not try to help Grandison and his men. It would take a braver man than Foulques to leave the Englishmen to die.

  The sounds of fighting grew louder, and the smell of smoke strong as they came upon the battlefield. The area was well-lit by a long line of at least a dozen fires, built high and thin for the sole purpose of casting light. In front of the fires, hundreds of enemy silhouettes streamed toward a small group of men formed up in a square and already locked in combat with dozens of men coming at them from all sides. The ground was strewn with the bodies of horses. Some of them dead, others writhing in agony from fractures in one or more legs that left the whites of bones sparkling like stars when hit by the firelight. Foulques could see thin cordage, almost invisible in the low light, wrapped around some of the horses’ legs and dangling off short stakes sticking out of the ground. It had been a trap all right, but there was no time for Foulques to slow down and carefully pick his way through. He had to hope Grandison’s force had taken out most of the trip hazards. He raised his arms at his sides, signaling his men to fan out. The wedge became a line, and then they were amongst the enemy.

  Foulques allowed his destrier to halt her momentum by knocking a Saracen to the ground and crushing his spine with her iron-shod hooves. He drew his sword as she whirled in a tight circle. He directed her forward as he slashed and cut on either side of him. A Mamluk fighting one of the Englishmen sensed something amiss and he turned just in time to avoid Foulques’s blow. He was not so lucky with Brother Jimmy’s hammer. With a loud cry Jimmy brought his weapon arcing down over the Mamluk’s head until it bounced off the top of his spine, shattering the prominent bones between his shoulders. The Mamluk crumpled to the ground like an empty tunic dropped from a drying line. Foulques slashed a nearby man’s face and when he dropped, Foulques realized they had reached the English line.

  Somewhere to his left, Foulques heard Grandison’s voice call out. “Now! Off with your hobbles, lads. Back to the wall!”

  The English slid between the Hospitallers’ horses and began a mad run for the walls.

  “Buy them some time,” Foulques shouted.

  The Hospitallers broke away from the main enemy group and began galloping back and forth behind the Englishmen, slashing or running down any Saracen that crossed their path. But they could not do this for long, for hundreds of spear men would soon be upon them.

  No sooner had the thought entered Foulques’s mind than a soft whistle cut through the air a hand width from his face. He looked up and saw a group of horsemen coming on fast from the ridge. With the fires at their backs, he could see each man held a bow, and in the same hand, a dozen arrows fanned out.

  Foulques looked to where the English were running. There were about thirty men, some limping and beginning to fall behind. Others recognized their plight and were on their way back to help. Grandison had already spotted the horse archers, for he and two other men stood with longbows in hand.

  “Horse archers!” Foulques called out to his men. “To the wall. Double up with the English!”

  He held back for a moment to make sure everyone had heard him, and then he set off after his sergeants. Grandison and his two fellow archers loosed volley after volley over the Hospitallers’ heads into the ranks of the horse archers somewhere behind in the distance. The fearsome English weapons had the advantage of range over the horse archers for the moment, but that would not last long. Foulques did not look back, but he bent low over his saddle and rode with a constant cringing sensation in his neck as he felt the Mamluk arrows getting closer and closer.

  Roderic and Jimmy had stopped where Grandison and his two men were making their stand. Jimmy was waving his arms at one of the bowmen, a short, thin man who seemed to be doing his best to ignore the brother-sergeant.

  Foulques saw Grandison toss his bow aside and say something to the man on his left. The archer reached out a hand and Roderic pulled him onto his horse.

  Arrows began to rain down amongst the men when Foulques was only a few strides away. He barely slowed as he reached out his arm and Grandison hooked on. The old knight swung up behind the Hospitaller so easily, and settled into the horse’s rhythm so quickly, Foulques twisted his head behind him to make sure Grandison had not fallen off. As he did he heard Brother Jimmy cursing at the last archer.

  “Now will you go, you stubborn Welshman? Before we are so full of holes we can no longer hold our wine! Do you even understand a thing I am trying to…”

  Jimmy’s words faded away until they were completely drowned out by the sound of horse hooves pummeling the hard ground. Finally, Foulques heard the satisfying clicks of crossbows from the wall of Acre.

  When he pulled his horse up outside Saint Anthony’s Gate, he saw the horse archers retreating back toward the Mamluk army and Brother Jimmy trotting toward him. He carried a squirming l
ittle Welshman in his arms, like he was holding an infant in the midst of a tantrum.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After the failed raid, Foulques returned his horse to the Hospitaller compound’s stables. He took the time to wash his face and hands in a trough, and then set out for Montmusart.

  He should have been at the wall. Instead, he stood outside a small hut with two beehives flanking the entrance. It was late, and still dark, but he could see candlelight glowing round the outside of the door. Suddenly, it flew open, and a form came rushing out to greet him.

  “Foulques!” She threw her arms around his neck. He held her for a moment longer than he should have. It was always that way with Najya.

  “Have you heard the noise of the catapults? Have you been to the walls and looked outside? I have tried but the soldiers will not let anyone up top. I…” Her eyes caught at something on Foulques’s chest and he thought, at first, she was merely surprised to see him in his battle reds. He followed her eyes to where she was looking and saw that the white cross on his chest was half covered with blood.

  Fool, he thought. He could have covered it before coming, or removed his tunic entirely.

  “I see you have been on top the walls.” She looked at him differently, then. She seemed a little more reserved, more guarded. He made a feeble attempt to turn the bloodied portion of his tunic away from her.

  “Is it as bad as people say?” she asked.

  Foulques nodded. “Worse. That is why I have come. You must leave the city. I will not take no for an answer, Najya.” His voice was quiet, but firm. He held his emotion in check, but he knew she could sense he struggled with it.