Saladin had entrusted his bravest and most resourceful commander – the Atabeg, Baha al-Din Qaragush – with the defence of Acre, and his garrison was full of quality troops. He sent out elite butescarls who slipped into the harbour to sabotage Christian ships; they would risk the depths of the water in the middle of the night with a sack of silver strapped to their backs to pay the soldiers. They also used small dhows to run the Christian blockade of the harbour to try to get food and ammunition into the city.
Qaragush used homing pigeons to carry messages to Saladin, and hurled missiles and incendiaries at his Christian besiegers at all hours using a range of improvised ballista. He sent skirmishers out from his walls, sometimes in the glare of the middle of the day, to wreak havoc in the Christian camp. Even though they were almost always suicide missions, they kept coming.
As the hot days of June passed, Qaragush’s position worsened. Not only had the Lionheart’s troops tightened the noose around the Muslim lines of supply and increased the frequency and scale of projectiles raining down on them, but more Latin troops were arriving all the time.
Henry of Champagne, the grandson of Queen Eleanor from her first marriage to the King of France, arrived with 1,000 knights and 10,000 infantry. He was also accompanied by several dignitaries, including Hubert Walter, Bishop of Salisbury, who brought a gold dish from Glastonbury, which he claimed was the Holy Grail mentioned in the Romances of Chrétien de Troyes, a book from which every troubadour in Europe was quoting.
Large contingents of Danes, Frisians, Flems and North Saxons appeared, as did new recruits for the Hospitallers and the Templars. And finally, at the end of June, the 5,000 survivors of the huge army that had left Germany with the Emperor Barbarossa arrived under the command of Leopold V, Duke of Austria.
Our mighty Christian army of the Third Great Crusade against the infidel was complete. I tried to count our numbers, but it was almost impossible; the pennons were so numerous they merged into a sea of colour and extended as far as the eye could see. Mercadier guessed that we numbered 50,000; William Marshal said closer to 75,000 if we included all the non-combatants. Most significantly, we had over 12,000 knights, each with at least one of the heavy destriers the Muslim faris feared so much.
But Saladin’s army was also being reinforced. Saladin had renewed his call for Jihad and sent messengers to every corner of the Muslim world. One of the messengers had been captured and the King had the message he carried read out to him.
The Latins have spared no effort and withheld not a dinar. Now their mightiest kings are here. We must cast off our lethargy; all believers who have blood in their veins must answer this call. As long as the seas bring reinforcements to the enemy our country will continue to bring suffering to our land and our hearts will bleed. I call on the honour of all Muslims, the pride of the believers, the zeal of the faithful!
The Lionheart was moved by the Sultan’s rallying cry and immediately sent an emissary to ask for a meeting with him, accompanied only by interpreters. But the request was politely refused with a thoughtful comment.
It is not customary for kings to meet, unless they have previously laid the foundations of a treaty. For, after they have spoken together and given one another gifts, it is not seemly for them to return to making war on one another.
The King was impressed by the message.
‘I like this man; he is a worthy opponent.’
Saladin’s impassioned plea to the Muslim diaspora was soon answered. Devout warriors armed to the teeth came in droves. To the east, they came from Mesopotamia and from beyond the Tigris, as far away as India. To the west, they came from Muslim Spain – European crusaders, but for the Muslim cause. And from North Africa, they came from the furthest reaches of the Sahara, from Mauretania and the Kingdom of Mali, the realms of the Black Men.
Everyone in our camp saw the battles to come as the final Holy War between Christians and Muslims, lending credence to what Joachim of Fiore had said in Sicily. Even Alun, who had dismissed Joachim’s prophecies as pure theatre, admitted that the outcome could shape the future for generations to come. He spent long hours in prayer, and even persuaded the Lionheart to join him on occasion.
After Saladin’s rejection of his offer to meet, King Richard threw himself into the capture of Acre like a man possessed. He ordered the construction of two dozen ballista and three large canopies that he christened ‘moles’. They would allow his sappers to dig under Acre’s massive walls. While his catapults and archers bombarded the defenders, his ‘moles’ were wheeled into position. Made from heavy timbers and covered with hides soaked in vinegar to counteract Greek fire, they provided cover for the sappers to dig into the soft ground beneath the foundations of the walls. They worked night and day. When they opened a large enough space beneath the stones, they supported their work with wooden props until they had created a chasm large enough to undermine the wall above.
After an immense effort, one of the holes was ready. On the morning of 5 July, the King ordered the army to stand by. The sappers packed kindling and logs around their props and drenched everything in oil before igniting their handiwork. The timbers burned for over an hour before groans and cracks heralded the imminent collapse of a large section of Acre’s walls. When it came, a thunderous roar and a cloud of choking dust signalled the vital breakthrough. We all waited for the King’s order to attack, but it never came. The dust settled and an eerie silence replaced the deafening noise. A warm wind from the sea caressed our faces; men stood or sat on their mounts in quiet contemplation; pennons snapped in the breeze. I looked at the Lionheart; he was staring intently at the slowly dispersing cloud of debris where the wall had been. As if on cue, a figure appeared bathed in the glow of the morning sun behind us.
In a loud voice that echoed across the ranks of our army, he spoke in perfect Norman French.
‘I am Baha al-Din Qaragush, Atabeg of Acre. I will parlay with the King, the one called “Lionheart”.’
Without any bodyguards, the Atabeg of Acre then stepped over the ruins of his city’s walls and began to stride towards us. The Lionheart immediately jumped from his horse and went to greet him. The Muslim leader bowed deeply to the King, who returned the compliment with a short bow of his own.
Atabeg Qaragush was given a seat in the Lionheart’s tent where, with Philip Augustus, Henry of Champagne and the Duke of Austria in attendance, the King dictated his terms.
‘All Christian captives held by the Sultan Saladin must be released unharmed. A geld of 200,000 bezants is to be paid by the Sultan. Two thousand Muslim soldiers will be taken into my captivity. One hundred of the noblest citizens of the city, including you, my Lord, will be held as hostage. Finally, the True Cross is to be returned to us. All of the above must happen before the next new moon.’
The Atabeg blanched at the severity of the terms, as did everyone present. Qaragush stood and took a deep breath.
‘You are called “Lionheart”. But your heart is not that of a beast, but of stone!’
‘Those are our terms.’
The forlorn man looked around the tent appealingly, hoping for sympathy. He saw only unyielding faces, except for Abbot Alun’s. Disconcerted by the harshness of the demands, he turned his eyes downwards.
‘Your terms are agreed. But remember this, noble Christian kings, although you may not think so, Muslims and Christians worship the same God. I hope He forgives you for what you do today.’
The next day, the King ordered the army to form up on either side of the road out of Acre as a guard of honour for its surrendering garrison and citizens. Despite the months of hardship, they streamed out with dignity; their weapons, armour and clothing were immaculate, and their heads were held high. In all, 2,700 members of the garrison were immediately taken into captivity, while the civilians began their long trek to the safety of Saladin’s camp.
We thronged into Acre amidst scenes of jubilation; it was the most secure bridgehead we could have hoped for in Palestine. The Lionheart, Bérengère and Quee
n Joan occupied the royal chambers in the citadel, while King Philip took charge of the Templars’ Palace in the north-east corner of the city.
That evening, Blondel unpacked his lute and sang the chansons of victory, including the ‘Ballad of Robyn of Hode’, said to be about Hereward of Bourne and his family, which was one of my favourites and hugely popular with the army. It was a memorable evening, one that lasted long into the night, with some revellers still celebrating at sunrise. Sadly, in the days ahead, there would be less cause for celebration.
Despite several visits by the Lionheart’s envoys to Saladin’s camp to demand the release of his prisoners, the payment of the gold and the return of the Holy Cross, none of these undertakings was fulfilled by the deadline of the next new moon. The King was furious and summoned Alun and myself to the Palace. When we arrived, he was pacing the room, with the Grand Quintet gathered around him and looking pensive.
‘I thought he was a man of honour!’
As usual, there was reluctance to challenge the King when his ire was rising, but William Marshal tried to soothe him.
‘The sum of 200,000 is a lot of gold; he has probably had to ask the Grand Caliph of Damascus for most of it. Also, if the rumours are true, the Holy Cross has been embedded in the steps of the mosque of the city, and the Caliph will need to give his permission for it to be removed.’
‘Damn it, William, I think he’s testing my mettle. I’ll tell him I’ll execute the prisoners if he doesn’t deliver on the terms within a week.’
Alun immediately intervened.
‘Sire, remember, Saladin was not privy to the terms and can only have heard of them after we had entered the city. He’s probably furious that Qaragush agreed to them and that he’s been presented with a fait accompli.’
‘That’s as may be, Alun, but a fait accompli is what it is. He must deliver.’
‘I agree, but think carefully; if you threaten to kill the prisoners and he calls your bluff, you will have no choice but to carry out your threat.’
‘I understand that; that’s why he must know it’s not a bluff.’
With that ominous thought, the Lionheart brushed aside all further entreaties, threw his goblet of wine into the empty fireplace and left the room.
I looked at Abbot Alun, who was as sombre as I had seen him.
‘Let’s pray that Saladin can raise the money and find the Holy Rood.’
Two days later, Alun persuaded the King to send one final demand to Saladin. But when no answer came back, he summoned me to see him. When I arrived in his quarters, he was standing in the window, looking out to sea. He did not turn round, and spoke in an unusually subdued voice.
‘Have the prisoners rounded up and tied together. They are to be taken on to the flat plain between our army and Saladin’s, close enough so that the Sultan can see what’s happening, and lined up in rows of a hundred men. Choose a squadron of sergeants as executioners, men who have the stomach for it; I want the Muslims beheaded a hundred at a time. See to it.’
I stood rooted to the spot. I knew instantly that I had to refuse, but did not know how to.
The King turned to stare at me.
‘Well?’
‘Sire, you must relieve me of this task; I can’t obey your order.’
The volcanic response did not happen as I felt sure it would; he just spoke in the same calm voice.
‘Very well, send for Mercadier.’
When I left the Lionheart’s quarters, I was shaking with anxiety. I knew I had done the right thing. But at what price?
I sought out Abbot Alun, but he was nowhere to be found.
Two hours later, led by Mercadier and accompanied by several conrois of the King’s bodyguard, men of my own command, a long line of Muslim troops snaked its way on to the flat, fertile ground to our east. As they did so, William Marshal came into my chamber. He looked at me uncompromisingly.
‘You are relieved of your command and all your responsibilities to the King, here and at home. You may retain your status as a knight of the realm and your lands in England, to which you must return forthwith. You may take your men with you.’ He then turned and left, but as he reached the doorway, he added, ‘I’m sorry.’
My fate was inevitable as soon as I refused to accept the King’s order. I tried to convince myself that I had done the right thing, which I knew to be true, but living with my virtue was not going to be easy. I found the Little Quintet and told them what had happened. For them, good pay, a secure future and the acclaim of being a crusader was at an end. They were kind enough to say that they respected my decision, but it was as big a body blow for them as it was for me. When I found Abbot Alun, he was standing on the walls of Acre looking eastwards. His head was bowed in prayer.
The executions had begun; they could be seen in the distance. Lines of men, 100 abreast in almost 30 rows, were all kneeling in their immaculate dark-blue qaba tunics, waiting stoically for the executioner’s blade. One hundred Christian sergeants struck in unison, rendering the kneeling figures into distorted shapes on the ground. Heads rolled away, some with their pink silk turbans still attached; blood spilled on to the ground. It would have had a dance-like symmetry had all the strikes been clean, but some heads had to be hacked off with several blows, making the spectacle even more horrific.
The city was quiet and there was a stillness in the air; the birds seemed not to sing, the crickets not to chirp. We were too far away to hear the swish of the blades, but it was as if we could.
Alun looked up.
‘I’m sorry to hear your news. You did a noble thing, my friend. I’m only sorry our King does not possess the same nobility. When do you leave?’
‘This evening. We need to get past the Muslim lines before morning.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘North, I think. I want to go home overland and see Constantinople and Venice. If the Germans can make it, then so can I. I might even go and see Negu in Rupertsberg, to see if she has become a nun.’
‘May I come with you? I cannot stay after this.’
‘But what of your promise to Earl Harold?’
‘I’ve done all I can. I have accepted that the Lionheart has a temper and is ruthless. But this is too much.’
‘Very well, we are leaving by the North Gate at dusk. There will be just seven of us; we will travel light, and quickly.’
About an hour before dusk, as we were preparing our horses, Alun appeared. He was out of breath – not a state in which he was often seen.
‘The princesses, Anna and Theodora, have heard of our departure. They have begged the King to let them accompany us to Margat to see their father.’
‘That’s out of the question; it’s over a hundred and fifty miles away, across the Muslim lines.’
‘The King has given them a galley and a conroi of men.’
‘Then what happens after Margat?’
‘The galley and the men must return. We can continue our journey.’
‘And the princesses?’
‘It is of little concern to the King. Once they reach Margat, they become responsible for themselves, or they throw themselves on the mercy of the Hospitallers.’
Although I did not relish the responsibility of protecting two princesses, Margat Castle was only a mile or so from the sea. And the journey by sea in the galley supplied by the King was far less perilous than the prospect of the journey overland through Muslim territory. Besides which, the princesses were both very beautiful – especially Anna, who had captivated me on Cyprus.
‘When do we sail?’
‘Tomorrow morning, at dawn. We have been given a good captain and the weather is set fair.’
18. Margat
By mid-morning the next day, we were making rapid progress along the coast of Palestine. The princesses had come on board bleary-eyed and sullen, with only a handmaiden each, a modest chest of belongings and a small casket of silver. I felt sorry for them; only a few weeks ago, they were princesses of a beautiful island r
ealm, surrounded by all the trappings of wealth and without a care in the world. Now, all but alone, they had voluntarily relinquished the lifeline of a place at the court of Queen Bérengère to go to a father imprisoned in a remote Hospitaller enclave, in the midst of a relentless enemy.
The galley put us ashore in a small horseshoe-shaped sandy bay. The King’s conroi escorted us to the barbican of Margat, before it returned to board the ship and sail back to Acre. It was strange to be in a small group of eleven after so many months in the company of an army of thousands, especially as we appeared to be so small beneath the colossal walls of Margat.
It was a forbidding sight, a towering edifice of black rock, high on a hill, looming over a countryside dotted only with small farms and hamlets. The land was patterned with olive groves and vineyards, as it had been for centuries, but was now dominated by this new Christian sentinel. Amidst the sweltering heat of summer, the castle’s only redeeming feature was its cool interior. Otherwise, it was an austere place with none of the trappings of a regal palace. The Hospitallers lived spartan lives; even Gerard, the Castellan of Margat, a tall and gaunt Burgundian, lived frugally, with only two chairs and a prayer desk in a room without decorations or luxuries of any kind, except the Bible that sat on the desk.
Margat was home to over 1,000 men: almost 400 knights and their attendants, plus other non-combatants. The Hospitallers presented a menacing image in their long black cappas, especially when in large groups early in the mornings, with their hoods up against the cool of the dawn air. In the half-light, with their soft leather shoes making no sound on the castle’s sett stones, they looked like spectres of long-dead knights killed in battle centuries before.
Anna and Theodora’s father was free to move around the castle’s rooms and bailey, but not beyond its walls. He had just one steward to attend to him and lived in a chamber as austere as the knights’ quarters. When he greeted us, he looked weary and despondent, but he was thrilled to see his daughters.
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