‘My Lord, when is Master Garnier going to be flogged for his disobedience?’
Without a moment’s hesitation, the Lionheart’s reply came back.
‘At dawn, just after you!’
Although there was no question of Garnier being flogged, William Marshal was later at pains to point out that the King had intended to attack about thirty minutes after the Hospitallers’ impulsive charge.
Importantly, the Lionheart’s plan had involved a more compact cavalry thrust. His aim had been to cut right through the heart of the Muslim army and attack Saladin’s central command, in the hope of confronting the Sultan face to face.
Whether the King’s plan would have worked was a moot point. But when the casualty figures became known the next day, it was clear that the bulk of the Muslim army remained intact. Over 7,000 bodies were counted, including more than 30 emirs; it was a large number, but wise judges in our ranks suggested that Saladin’s force still outnumbered ours by a third.
Muslim morale had been dented: their route to the sea had been cut and Saladin’s reputation sullied. But the road to Jerusalem was still blocked by a huge army. And the Holy City’s walls were still amongst the most steadfast in the world.
21. Return to the Colours
After the calamity of Arsuf, Saladin realized how prodigious his enemy was and adopted different tactics to thwart the Lionheart. He had already destroyed the citadel at Jaffa and immediately set about dismantling Ramla and Lydda, both on our route to Jerusalem. He also continued his policy of ridding the land of anything useful to us on our path to the Holy City and thus putting us at the mercy of the unforgiving heat and dust and dependent entirely on our own lines of supply.
We reached Jaffa on 10 September 1191, an arrival that prompted great celebration, despite our weariness. After a night of much revelry, there was more good news for the army. With one of the Holy Land’s most important ports at our backs, and its ships plying us with supplies from Acre, Genoa and Pisa, the Lionheart ordered that we make camp among the olive groves so that we could rest and recuperate for some time.
The King had allowed only ‘elderly’ laundresses to accompany the army as camp followers on the march from Acre, so the men were starved of female company. This was an irritation he now rectified by sending ships to Acre to bring the younger camp followers south, a cause for yet more celebration – especially after he also issued a bonus to his men in gratitude for their exploits.
The Lionheart used this time to begin the rebuilding of Jaffa’s citadel and to re-equip his baggage train for the assault on Jerusalem. To the horror of the Grand Quintet and his senior commanders, he also went hunting – despite the obvious dangers, and against vociferous advice – and frequently joined patrols deep into Muslim territory.
I decided that the King’s forays might give me the opportunity to be reconciled with him, and sought William Marshal’s advice.
‘Yes, it’s possible; he’s in a good mood at the moment. We’re going hawking on Sunday, with Mercadier. You can join my retinue; but keep your face obscured until I break the ice.’
When Sunday came, it arrived with an autumnal wind, which blew the dry sand of the summer into clouds of dust, making hunting unpleasant and unrewarding. Undeterred, the Lionheart changed his plan and announced that we would ride to Emmaus, on the road to Jerusalem. It was a journey of over twenty miles and into the hills close to the Holy City, from where he could see the disposition of Saladin’s forces. Both Marshal and Mercadier were adamant that it was too dangerous without two conrois of bodyguards. The Lionheart would not hear of it, so we rode out in a group of just twelve men.
We cantered through olive and citrus groves at a distance of about a mile from the old Roman road to Jerusalem and saw along it many groups of Saladin’s men making their way back and forth. The dust was excessive, so I was able to keep the ventail of my maille coif tied across my face without attracting any attention.
By early afternoon, the Lionheart had seen all he wanted to see. We had eaten a good lunch of cold meat and wine, in the shade of a picturesque grove of lemon trees. I thought about Alun; he would have cherished the setting and would certainly have wondered whether Christ might have relaxed amidst groves like these, perhaps even in this very one.
Marshal decided the time was right to announce my return to the fold. However, the sound of horses approaching through the grove startled us. The King’s response was predictable.
‘To your horses; there is game afoot!’
Not for him a cautious retreat. He leapt on to Fauvel in one bound and, as the blond stallion reared, urged us on.
‘Quickly! They will be upon us before we can get up a gallop.’
Then he was gone.
By the time we caught up with him, through the trees, he had already taken one of the Muslim faris off his horse with his lance and had deflected a blow with his shield from the heavy bronze latt of another. It was difficult to know how many opponents we faced. But there were at least a couple of dozen visible through the trees, and no doubt more men we could not see. I was thankful that Mercadier, Marshal and their elite bodyguards were with us; our situation was precarious. Our foes were Turcomans, from Anatolia, brothers-in-arms to the Seljuk Turks who had fought so hard against the early crusaders and were noted for their horsemanship and ferocity.
The King seemed oblivious to the danger and made no attempt to find refuge, even when he was surrounded by adversaries. Mercadier beckoned to us to form a cordon around the Lionheart, which was easier said than done; it was as difficult to keep him within it as it was to keep the Muslims outside.
We were beginning to be overwhelmed, as more and more enemy riders burst through the trees. Marshal bellowed at us to retreat, but the King pulled Fauvel round towards the Turcomans rather than away from them. Marshal looked at me anxiously.
‘Grab the King’s bridle. Pull him away!’
I hesitated for a moment, knowing that the Lionheart would be furious and just as likely to strike me down as an assailant. But I knew Marshal was right; the Muslims had recognized ‘Melek-Ric’, as they called him, and were desperate to claim him as a prize, dead or alive.
I sheathed my sword, took a firm hold of Fauvel’s bridle and yanked his head round. As I did so, a Turc to my left, fewer than ten paces away, hurled his lance directly at the King. Fortunately for the Lionheart, I managed to raise my shield just in time so that it took the blow, rather than the King’s chest. However, I was not so fortunate; the lance cut through my shield and deep into my arm, just above the wrist.
The pain was excruciating, but I managed to keep hold of Fauvel’s bridle. Luckily, Mercadier and his standard-bearer were close at hand and helped me pull the King away at a gallop. My left arm was of no use to me and fell limply at my side. My shield was still held around my shoulder by its leather guige, with the offending lance trailing along the ground behind me. The King, still at a gallop, saw my predicament. Leaning far out from his saddle, he cut the guige with his seax and, with an almighty tug, pulled the lance from my arm.
After three or four miles, and when we were sure we were not being pursued, the King called a halt and jumped from Fauvel. He was unharmed, but we had lost three men and had come very close to losing him.
With Mercadier and Marshal’s help, the Lionheart pulled me from my horse and the three of them laid me on the ground. Marshal ordered the rest of the men to ride out and keep watch for danger. I had no feeling in my arm below the elbow. The King looked at the wound and made explicit what I feared.
‘You’re lucky it’s your left arm, soldier; your wrist is shattered. You’re going to lose your hand.’ Turning to Mercadier, he instructed, ‘Take the man’s weapons, we need his belt as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.’
My face was still obscured. But as the Lionheart began to twist the tourniquet, he started to untie my ventail.
‘What’s your name, soldier?’
Before I could answer and before my face was reve
aled, Marshal spoke up.
‘You know this man. Stay your temper, sire, it’s Ranulf of Lancaster.’
The King pulled back my mask of maille and looked at me scornfully.
‘What in God’s name are you doing here? I thought you would be in England by now.’
‘It’s a long story, sire.’
‘It had better be a good one! I should have you flogged. But as you’ve just saved my life and you’re about to lose your arm, I suppose that might be harsh.’
The Lionheart gave a final and powerful twist to the leather band around my arm. To my relief, I could see that the bleeding had stopped.
‘Let’s get him to the surgeons. Put him in the hands of Peter of Bologna; he will make a neat job of it.’
I had heard of Peter of Bologna. It was said that he had learned his skills from Arab physicians and their texts. He was renowned for his use of opium, hemlock and mandrake to ease the pain of surgery. But many said his painkillers were just as likely to kill you as his cutting, and that it was better to drink a flagon of wine and bite on a piece of leather. Either way, I was terrified of what was to come.
They had let my arm bleed every half an hour as we rode back to Jaffa; each time, the blood flowed like a fountain. They said it was to stop my flesh rotting. By the time we reached the camp, I had lost a lot of blood and was feeling very light-headed.
When Peter of Bologna appeared, he was far from reassuring.
‘Yes, I must amputate, just above the wrist – otherwise, it will never heal. It will hurt, young man; we have no dwale, and our opium and mandrake are finished. We have only hemlock, but on its own, it will kill you. You will be held, of course, but the amputation is the easy part; it’s the cauterization that hurts the most.’
‘Thank you for your words of comfort. What are my chances?’
‘About one in four survives my amputations – twice the average of other surgeons. The Templars and the Hospitallers undergo it without alcohol or dwale. What is your choice?’
‘I’ll have as much alcohol as I can drink.’
I was given a few minutes to gulp mouthfuls of a foul but strong local brew called Araq which, for reasons all too obvious to anyone who has tasted it, means ‘dog’s sweat’ in Arabic. Despite its flavour, it soon made my head reel. But not as much as the pain that I was about to endure.
My terrors were well founded. Despite the weight and strength of four large men, I fought like an injured bull as Peter of Bologna did his work. He cut quickly and, thankfully, his blade was sharp, but the blood spurted like a man peeing as he neared the bone. And when he brought down his butcher’s cleaver to finish the job, I spat out the leather strop they had put in my mouth and howled like a wolf in a trap.
Peter of Bologna was also right about which part was the worst. I had barely taken a breath after the fall of the cleaver, when a red-hot blade burned into my stump like the fires of Hell. The pain reached into every part of my body and made me convulse like a rabid animal. My teeth ached as if every one of them had been pulled out, my head hurt as if it had been struck by a blacksmith’s hammer, my guts knotted as if they were being wrung out like a tub of washing, and my chest felt as if it would burst open and spew its contents into the air. Fortunately, after a few moments, my body had had enough and I descended into oblivion.
When I awoke a few hours later, the pain was still there; it was dull rather than sharp, but no less difficult to bear. It was a challenge to focus my eyes and get my bearings, and for the next two days I felt like I was suffering in Hell. My only comfort was the thought that it might possibly be a purgatory rather than an eternity.
The infirmarers kept pouring hot soup down my throat and, after about a week, declared that I had not got the canker and that my stump was healing well. They bathed it in salt every day, then made me sit in the sun to let it dry. I was fortunate, because most of the men around me had the smell of foul meat about them and had to have the canker maggots applied to their wounds to eat the rotting flesh. It was a humbling experience to see them die in agony; almost every day a corpse was taken away for burial in a shallow grave.
By the time the Lionheart came to see me, I was able to walk down to the sea to swim and had regained my strength. Most of the pain had gone, although I suffered sudden sharp jolts, just to remind me of what had happened. It was also odd not to have a limb that my mind still assumed was there. I would reach for things with my left hand, or try to scratch an itch, only to realize a moment later that where my hand had been was now thin air.
Accompanied by all five of the Grand Quintet, the King arrived at the infirmary with his usual charm, an aura that so endeared him to his men. He slapped them on the back as if they were old friends and asked them about their recovery and the well-being of their wives and families. Most importantly, if a man was in a bad way, or in need of financial or personal support, he would do what he could to help him, often giving the infirmarers specific orders to help in a particular way, or summoning his stewards to dispense pieces of silver.
He was particularly effusive when he came to my hammock.
‘It is good to see you so well, Ranulf.’
‘Thank you, sire; Peter of Bologna did a fine job, but it’s not an experience I would like to repeat.’
‘Nor will you. There are not many men to whom I owe my life. In fact, most of them are here now. I have reinstated you to my command, but not in a combat role; you will act as a military adviser and be close to me at all times.’
‘Thank you, sire, but I like to think I can still fight.’
William Marshal then seized the chance to scold the King.
‘I’m sure you’ll have to, if you stay close to the King and he continues his ridiculous forays into Saladin’s territory.’
The Lionheart ignored the barb.
‘I don’t doubt you will be able to fight, but not as effectively. I don’t want to lose you, so you will not command a conroi but will help me with tactics and organization. I will send my best cordwainer and carpenter; I’m sure they can fashion you a new arm from leather and ash that will allow you to hold a shield.’
‘That is very kind of you, my Lord King. If I am to serve you, I would like to be able to defend you and myself.’
‘Of course; you will also be issued with new clothes, arms and armour and will have the pick of the stables for a mount. When we return to England, I will find some more land for you.’
‘You are too kind, sire. I am humbled.’
‘Not at all, I am in your debt. When I saw the Turc’s lance, I thought the Devil had come for me.’
Marshal seized another chance to chide the King.
‘Count your blessings. He’ll come for us all soon enough, if you don’t listen to those who know better.’
There was a sudden look of annoyance on the Lionheart’s face. He stood up and placed his hand on Marshal’s shoulder. Marshal was a giant of a man, but the King was just as tall.
‘William, you’re the only man in the world who I will allow to talk to me like that…’
He then paused. We waited, and a grin broke across his face.
‘And I love you for it.’
The two men embraced.
‘Marshal tells me that we have lost the good Abbot Alun and your men, trying to get the two Cypriot princesses to Constantinople. I’m sorry to hear that. Alun was one of the wisest men I have ever met; I would have given him Canterbury one day.’
I told the Lionheart the story of our fateful expedition, about which he was very sympathetic.
‘I’m sad to hear the girls met such an awful fate. They were very beautiful.’
I was desperate to tell him just how beautiful they were, and how much I missed Anna. But my sense of honour persuaded me not to.
‘I’m glad you came back. When I saw you again, I was reminded of the things that Earl Harold said to me at his estate in the Lot, when I asked him about my grandmother. I remember it well; he said that Father Alun would tell me all I nee
ded to know when I became King. He said he would also tell me about England, and why it’s so precious to all of us. Sadly, he never did.’
‘He didn’t think the Holy Land was the right place, sire. He also wanted to give you some precious items that you will cherish. All but one of them are in a casket in the Vatican Vaults.’
‘And the other?’
‘I have it, my Lord, but it does not mean anything without the casket.’
The Lionheart smiled.
‘So, it will remain a mystery still? Are you going to adopt Alun’s mantle as the mysterious sage?’
‘If only I could. You should know, sire, that Alun was very badly hurt and in great pain. But he stayed alive by sheer willpower so that he could tell me what I needed to know. That’s why I came back, so that his promise to Earl Harold and to England could be fulfilled.’
‘Thank you for telling me. When we return to England, I will create a foundation in his name. But for now, get your new arm fitted. We leave for Ascalon soon.’
The King turned to leave. But before he had gone more than a couple of yards, he stopped and turned.
‘Ranulf, I want you to know something about Acre. Those Muslim warriors died very honourably, like soldiers should. I was responsible for their deaths, a truth that bears down on me every day. Saladin also carries his share of responsibility. I hope he thinks about it as I do. I did what I had to do, as you did what you had to do. I respect you for that.’
He then left before I had time to respond.
Over the next week, I was given splendid new clothes, maille and weapons by the King’s seamstress and armourer. I chose the new colours that I had promised myself for my pennon and shield – the legendary gules, sable and gold of Hereward of Bourne. However, the fitting of my new arm was painful.
The carpenter had carved a new lower arm for me. It had an iron hook instead of a hand and was attached to a cylinder of leather, like a heavy belt, which I could strap tightly to my forearm. Most importantly, he had made two dowelled joints with supporting straps that allowed me to fix my new arm to my new shield. Apart from the soreness it brought, it worked well.
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