When I woke before dawn the next morning, I was still distressed by what had happened. But I was also emboldened by the new responsibility I now carried. I began to trudge downhill towards the road between Ereğli and the Cilician Gates. I had no horse, no money and only the clothes I stood up in. But I had my weapons and armour – and with them, by either fair means or foul, I had all I needed to acquire a mount and a handful of silver.
Ereğli was typical of a settlement at a crossroads; it bustled with traders and travellers and people of many nationalities. It was raucous, dusty and had the fetid atmosphere of too many bodies in too small a space. Christian pilgrims were sometimes seen, but most thought it wise to avoid the city. I did the same, but from a distance I glimpsed what I wanted to find. There was a large group of Armenians in the city, sporting their Phrygian caps and Kipchak bows, just as Alun had described them. I was certain they were the ones who had massacred my friends.
I wanted revenge, but my stomach wound was still very tender. And besides, there were at least two dozen of them. My priorities lay elsewhere. All I needed was a horse and enough silver to get me back to the Christian army in Palestine. I decided to bide my time and waylay one of them. I chose a quiet spot above the city, on the road to Tarsus, and waited.
It took a while for the opportunity to arise but, eventually, one of the brigands left the city and rode towards me. It was immediately obvious that he was part of the group responsible for the slaughter, because he was riding Godric’s horse. My anger rose, but I knew I had to remain calm. I used my bow to take him out of his saddle, my arrow hitting him just below his throat. He hit the ground with a thump and did not move.
As I dragged his body to the side of the road, I saw that he was still breathing, so I pulled him up and leaned him against a tree. He opened his eyes but could not speak, as his chest was filling with blood. Then, with great relish and a cruelty I could not resist, I drew his khanjar from its jewelled scabbard and slowly slit his throat. Moments later, he keeled over into a pool of his own blood and I hid his body with leaves. I had never killed a man so heartlessly, but he deserved it. His pouch contained a fistful of the princesses’ silver and one gold bezant. I stole his khanjar, his lance and his quiver of arrows, before retrieving Godric’s destrier and making a rapid escape.
I travelled only at night and avoided all major roads. I ate what I could kill and only occasionally bought some dried fruit or goat’s milk from farms well away from settlements. It was a long and tedious journey, and one during which remorse hung over me like a shroud.
When I reached Antioch, I met a group of German knights who were escorting some maimed and sick comrades to the coast for their journey home to Europe. They told me that after the fall of Acre, there had been many changes to the crusading army. King Philip of France had returned to Europe, leaving only a small contingent of knights and sufficient money to pay them. Leopold, Duke of Austria, had also left, taking most of the Holy Roman Empire’s army with him. Only Richard’s Angevins and Englishmen remained to fight the Christian cause.
Leaving Bérengère and his sister, Joan, in the relative safety of Acre, Richard had marched south after his victory. Using typical tactical acumen, he hugged the coast and advanced in tight formation with his baggage train closest to the sea, his knights in the middle and his archers on the landward side to keep the Muslim bowmen at bay. He ensured that his fleet shadowed him along the coast, keeping the army supplied, and he always camped close to a plentiful supply of fresh water.
The German knights told me that even though he had lost his allies and almost all of their men, the Lionheart remained determined to liberate Jerusalem. I was not in the least surprised; I would not have expected him to do anything else.
Now that I was within the narrow strip of the Palestinian coast that was still in Christian hands, I could travel openly and with much more speed. As I moved south, I could see little other than the devastation of war. What were once villages were now ruins, some still smouldering; barns had been ravaged, crops burned, wells poisoned and every edible creature had either been eaten or killed. September had begun, but it was still hot. The land was parched; it was either hard rock or searing sand. The only comfort was the distant Mediterranean, shimmering to the west.
On the fifth day of September, I saw the rear of the Christian army on the horizon. It manifested itself as a huge column of dust, like an approaching sandstorm. But I knew what it was, because I could feel the rhythm of its tread in the ground and hear the din of its men, horses and weapons drifting on the wind.
When I reached the massed ranks, I worked my way through the tightly packed units until I found William Marshal’s contingent. I had decided he was my best passport back into the King’s army. I also resolved that when I next saw the Lionheart I would be frank with him about my circumstances and my reasons.
Fortunately, his men-at-arms recognized me. Although they looked askance at my sudden reappearance, they let me approach their lord. Marshal also looked surprised to see me.
‘Ah, the man with a conscience. What brings you back?’
‘I have good reasons, my Lord.’
‘The King will not take kindly to seeing you again.’
‘I know, sire. I intend to keep a low profile until I can find a good time.’
‘How will you do that?’
‘Let me join one of your conrois as a man-at-arms?’
‘Where is the Abbot Alun and your men?’
‘All dead, my Lord.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But how?’
‘In Cilicia, ambushed by Armenians. Isaac of Cyprus’s daughters are dead as well.’
‘What in God’s name were you doing with them?’
‘Taking them to their family, in Constantinople.’
‘Through the Cilician Gates? But that’s madness!’
‘I know, sire, but there were compelling reasons; it’s a long story. But at the end of it, in his death throes, Alun extracted a promise from me that I would finish the mission he and I were given by Earl Harold, and so I’ve returned to the service of the Lionheart.’
‘I’ll take your word for that. I respect a man with a conscience; there are too many who are driven only by greed and their sword. I’ll talk to the King for you, but a battle is looming with Saladin; your reconciliation with the Lionheart will have to wait until it’s over. See the Captain of my English conroi, he’s a good man and will fit you in with his men. But whatever you do, stay out of the King’s way.’
I spent the rest of the day, and the next, with my new colleagues, many of whom knew me. They also knew that I had been dismissed by the King, and there was a danger that word would reach him about my return. But I had been reduced to the ranks, which happened often, and most were sympathetic towards me. With a battle in the offing, I did not think the risks too great.
We were thirty miles north of the vital port of Jaffa, close to a Christian fortification called Arsuf. Jaffa was vital to an attack on Jerusalem, because it was one of the main ports from where Saladin could get reserves and supplies from Egypt. The Sultan’s skirmishers had been harassing our army all the way down the coast, but word had spread around the camp that he was about to mount a full-scale attack. It was designed to stop our advance before we reached the port.
On the morning of 7 September 1191, the King’s orders were despatched around the camp. I missed the thrill of being close to the King as he laid his plans, but I had a job to do, like any other cavalryman, and I had to concentrate on doing it.
We advanced as we would on any other morning, but we knew that this one would lead to a major battle. It was a typically clear day and, although only an hour after sunrise, it was already hot with a gentle breeze wafting in from the sea to assuage the heat. Our pennons and gonfalons flapped and cracked, flying proudly in every conceivable colour. The King’s standard, three golden lions passant on a gules shield, which had already become such a potent image, led us from the vanguard.
With him in th
e van were the Knights Templar commanded by Robert de Sable. Then came four of the Grand Quintet and their conrois: Poitevins, Bretons, Angevins. Guy of Lusignan, the absent King of Jerusalem, was there with his local knights, many of whom were third-generation Palestinians.
William Marshal led our contingent, close to the back of the column, in order to stiffen our rear. With us were the Knights Hospitaller led by their Master, Garnier of Nablus, a man whose grandfather had fought with Robert Curthose and Edgar the Atheling in the First Great Crusade. Henry of Champagne commanded a corps of light cavalry, deployed to break ranks if needed, and Hugh of Burgundy led the rump of the French troops left by Philip of France.
I counted our numbers and estimated we were close to 25,000 men and 3,000 knights. Our baggage train and the men of our fleet must have been close to another 4,000. It was a mighty host, by any standards, but we were led by one of the few men who could fashion such a large number into an effective fighting force in such difficult conditions.
As we moved down the coast, through the Forest of Arsuf, Saladin’s army slowly came into view, stretched out along our left flank in huge phalanxes of alternating infantry and cavalry. They were clad even more colourfully than we were, comprising men from many different countries: Seljuks, Armenians, Mamluks, Nubians, Sudanese, Bedouin and Egyptians.
Not only did the Sultan’s forces parade all the colours imaginable, but they were also men of many shapes and hues. Some had faces from the east and had the sturdy build and strange pallor of the yellow races, while others were brown men of the Arab world. There were paler ones from Anatolia, and dark-brown desert people like the Bedou. Some, like the Nubians, were very tall and as black as night.
Their weapons were just as diverse: they were equipped with bows of many designs, wielded by both mounted archers and infantry bowmen; they carried ornately patterned kilij, talwar and shamshir swords; and they held countless styles and sizes of lances, pikes, poles and javelins.
Their qaadis rode out towards us, beyond their lines, to bless their troops and blaspheme ours; their war drums and tabors beat an incessant rhythm, and the cries from their horns and the crashes from their cymbals pierced the air mercilessly. It was difficult to assess their numbers from a distance, but they seemed to be significantly greater than ours.
The two mighty armies and their now legendary leaders were ready to engage in a pitched battle for the first time. There is always acute tension among men before a battle, but we all knew that this one was going to be a day of destiny.
Our orders came down the line every fifteen minutes. They were the same each time.
Hold your formation, don’t break ranks, keep your discipline.
The Lionheart was explicit about the signal to attack: the command would come as six blasts from the trumpets, and the order would come from him and him alone.
Saladin’s tactics were also clear. He launched a constant onslaught of arrows and javelins from his highly mobile cavalry, while small units of infantry made lightning raids on our flanks to try to provoke a crack in our discipline. It was not easy to be a sitting target and resist the temptation to retaliate. But our orders were clear, and we knew we had to obey them. Men fell all around us, unlucky enough to be in the path of a missile falling from the sky. Our arbalests and archers were our most potent defenders – especially the crossbow quarrels, which the Muslim faris feared above anything else.
We waited all morning for the King’s signal to wheel left and attack, but it never came. By early afternoon, the heat of the day and the trauma of hours of Muslim attacks, with no response from us, were taking their toll. The Hospitallers at the rear of the column bore the greatest burden. In order to keep the Muslims at bay, their arbalests were having to load and shoot while walking backwards.
It was a game of chess. Saladin knew that an army of 25,000 disciplined men, with the sea as a bulwark to one flank, was impregnable. He had no other recourse but to use his knights to taunt, tease or terrify our human castle and make us attack him. On the other hand, the Lionheart knew that, sooner or later, he would have to commit his knights, followed by the massed ranks of the infantry, who were his pawns; it was just a matter of when to strike for the end game.
Garnier of Nablus rode at a gallop from the back of the column to reach the King’s position, accompanied by two of his Hospitallers. We assumed it was to seek permission to launch an attack. When he rode back and no attack ensued, it was clear his request had been refused. Another hour passed and on we marched relentlessly. The army was at breaking point; we had lost many horses and dozens of knights, some of whom had lost their mounts and been forced to join the infantry. The horses were difficult to control. Men could drink in the saddle, but the horses could not and were thirsty and exhausted. Disquiet spread and men started to talk openly about the wisdom of the Lionheart’s strategy. The only reassuring fact was that the skirmishing by Saladin’s men was costing many more Muslim lives than Christian; even so, our discipline was being tested to its limit.
The front of our column had reached the citadel of Arsuf, a powerful fortification in an elevated position overlooking the sea, which only added to our defensive strength. Here the King could protect vital elements of our baggage train.
Saladin, realizing that King Richard was playing a game of arithmetic with the lives of his men, rode into the fray to encourage his skirmishers. He was accompanied by his brother, Saphadin, and both came well within range of our arbalests and archers. I looked at William Marshal, who brusquely declined the suggestion by his Captain of Archery to direct the flight of their arrows directly at the Sultan. Saladin’s appearance intensified the attacks on our flanks, and he began to commit more and more men in what were almost suicidal assaults on our tightly packed column.
I looked around at the ranks of the Hospitallers. The neat lines of black mantles were awry, horses were rearing. Suddenly, a knight carrying the great black standard of the Order of Hospitallers, with its white Amalfi cross, was struck square in the chest by a Muslim javelin. He was less than three yards from Garnier of Nablus and was taken right out of his saddle. The distraught Master, without even looking towards the Lionheart’s position, grabbed the fallen standard and ordered his men to charge.
We could hear the cry: ‘For St George! For St George!’
The saint had been our crusader hero ever since it was said he appeared before the Christian army at the Siege of Antioch, ninety years earlier, during the First Great Crusade.
I looked at William Marshal who, in turn, stared at Hugh of Burgundy. Both men looked perplexed, but Henry of Champagne had not hesitated and was already off in pursuit of the Hospitallers. All eyes turned to the Lionheart. He was at least 250 yards away, but we could see him standing high in his stirrups, surveying what had happened.
Moments later, he raised his sword and thrust it in the direction of Saladin. We could not hear his battle cry, but the six strident blasts from the trumpets came immediately. The wave of noise from the mass charge of his vanguard swept over us like a roll of thunder. The rest of the army wheeled left en masse and moved off to the east.
It was an exhilarating sight, a huge tide of men and horses washing over the parched earth. It took the Muslims by complete surprise. Although Master Garnier had flagrantly disobeyed an order, the Lionheart had, within moments, realized what he had to do and had grasped the initiative. It had given us a vital advantage.
After hours of pent-up anguish and anger, our cavalry careered into the Muslim ranks ferociously, our huge destriers creating mayhem. With our blades swinging freely and repeatedly, we cut down the fleeing foot soldiers as if we were reaping a harvest. The ground behind us was littered with bodies, many dead, but those still alive were first trampled by the hooves to the rear of our conrois, then were easy pickings for our infantry. Few, if any, survived.
I looked to my right, to the south, where the King was leading the charge from our vanguard. They were scything through our enemies like a squall of wind
flattening tall grass. The Lionheart was at the apex of the charge, distinctive with his flowing ruddy-blond locks. High in Fauvel’s stirrups, he swung his longsword on both sides of his saddle like a villein cutting hay. To my left, the Hospitallers had charged into the Muslim ranks for over 300 yards and were still pressing on. Saladin and Saphadin were gathered up by the Sultan’s personal bodyguard, and were escorted to the rear. The Muslim army was in full retreat, losing hundreds of men as it fled.
I lost count of the number who fell to my sword. My heart pumped from the thrill of it, an energy that did not abate until both my horse and I came to a stop from sheer exhaustion. Ahead of me was just a wall of dust as the enemy disappeared into the hinterland; behind me, the sun was beginning to fall towards the horizon, making the Mediterranean glisten. The low sun also started to cast long shadows over the battlefield. There were bodies as far as the eye could see. A few were moving; maimed horses limped and stumbled; and one man, with his arm almost severed and blood pouring from a gash across his face, was attempting to kneel, facing east to pray. Another, badly cut across his chest, was staggering from one stricken comrade to another trying to rouse them. It was a pitiful sight.
Then I heard our trumpet horns sounding the recall; the Lionheart wanted us to form up defensively and make camp before nightfall. We collected quivers of arrows, pikes and lances and other useful weapons for our supplies, while some men took swords and daggers and signet rings as souvenirs.
We made camp around the walls of Arsuf, and there were raucous celebrations long into the night.
In the early hours, the Lionheart rode through our section of the camp to thank the men. He was effusive in his praise and generous with everyone. Behind him were carts of food and drink, which his stewards threw to the throng. Flasks of beer and leather sacks of wine, flitches of bacon, legs of lamb and roast birds of all kinds were gratefully received.
There was much banter – especially about the precipitous act by Garnier of Nablus. One burly Breton arbalest shouted out as the King passed.
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