He did so, and for the next hour they took turns to play fast, inattentive chess. While they played, they discussed the situation at Tyre, the character of Conrad, the foolishness of King Guy. Humphrey spoke of the quandary in which both he and Balian found themselves. They still acknowledged Guy as their king, yet could not sanction his move against Acre. They disliked Marquis Conrad, abhorred his harsh rejection of the refugees, but were forced to admit that they were, as he had claimed, in his city. The Tyrians regarded Conrad as their saviour, and supported his every move. Or rather, they agreed with his policy of no movement at all. Let King Guy try his luck at Acre. Let him, if he wished, march against Jerusalem itself. Let him do as he liked, except gain entry to Tyre. This was Conrad’s city, and would remain so until Frederick of Germany, or Philip of France, decided otherwise. They were real monarchs, as well as being his cousins, whereas Guy of Lusignan was no more than a face and figure painted on a fence.
Losing his game with Isabella, Ernoul said, ‘I will give you one thought I have about Conrad. He will not be content to remain Governor of this city for ever. When help does reach us from Europe, the Marquis will make a bid to have Guy ousted and himself made king.’
‘Then he won’t get far,’ Humphrey told him. ‘He has no claim by lineage. Guy, on the other hand, is married to Princess Sibylla—’
‘And you,’ Ernoul interjected, ‘to Princess Isabella. So your claim is stronger than Conrad’s.’
‘Can you see me as King of Jerusalem?’
‘If you wanted it, yes. You’d make a good king.’
Humphrey shook his head. ‘Not in a thousand days. Lord Balian would do the job well, but not I. I am neither sufficiently ambitious, nor, in all honesty, sufficiently dedicated. I am eager to regain Toron, and my lands there, and live in peace with the Moslems. But, as you well know, the crown holds no interest for me.’
With a grimace of distaste, Ernoul said, ‘I can see into Conrad’s dreams. He imagines himself married to Princess Sibylla—’
‘Or to me?’ Isabella asked.
‘Or to you, why not? You are the only women who could lead him to the throne.’
The young warlord objected, ‘That’s unpleasant talk.’
‘It’s just his dream.’
‘And so it’ll remain. Sibylla dotes on Guy, and even though they are a pathetic pair, they won’t let a creature like Conrad come between them.’
‘Which leaves us,’ Isabella murmured. ‘Do you think he will attempt to prise us apart?’
She gazed at Humphrey, then at Ernoul. They, in turn, looked at each other. For an instant, none of them could do more than summon a nervous smile. Then Ernoul moved his ivory Queen without thinking, and Isabella took it with a chipped, olivewood Bishop. The game deteriorated, and conversation flagged. Humphrey glared angrily at his friend. He thought, why don’t you just stick to your poems?
* * *
The first attack on Acre was a fiasco. Rain clouds drifted in above the Great Sea, then dispersed soon after dawn, presenting the Crusaders with a cool, bright morning, ideal conditions for an assault on the walls. Eager to come to grips with the enemy – as yet they had no idea that the garrison outnumbered them four to one – the royal army skirted the Belus River and moved westward towards the city. They possessed some siege machines, but these were abandoned one by one, as the speed of advance increased. The troop commanders were in sympathy with their men; it would take days to make an impression on the walls with the few, hastily constructed perriers, mangonels and catapults, so the artillery was left standing like grotesque monuments on the plain. The majority of the Crusaders believed that, when the Moslem garrison saw the ten thousand in battle array, they would be tempted to sue for peace. Bolstered by this naive optimism, they closed in on the city, diminishing as the walls grew higher.
The Saracens loosed thousands of bone-tipped arrows, reed spears, and worse, leather bladders filled with the ghastly, inextinguishable liquid known as Greek Fire. For many years both sides had made use of this – the most terrible weapon known to man. Formed from a combination of boiled sulphur, wine dregs, petroleum, crystallized salt and gum of Persia, Greek Fire immolated anything it touched, cracking stones and softening iron. It could not be brushed away, or smothered, or doused, except with vinegar, and Guy’s men had brought no vinegar with them.
The naphtha was not only launched from catapults, but, in smaller quantities, from slings whirled by the Moslem firemen, called Naffatin. They stood upright on the walls, scornful of the Christian crossbow bolts, and hurled the flaming skins on to the congested plain. As the naphtha arched through the air it emitted a white, phosphorescent light, intense even at midday.
The Crusaders faltered. Some managed to set scaling-ladders against the walls, while others flattened themselves against the recessed city gates. But without their own siege machines they could not drive the garrison from the towers and battlements, and so escape the hail of missiles. The precious horses that were always in short supply milled about on the plain, ineffective until a gate was forced open. But again, the battering-rams had been left behind.
Guy witnessed the mounting carnage and screamed at his brother to sanction the withdrawal of the army. ‘For pity’s sake, look! Look there! That man is alight! Oh, Christ, we are being killed off—’ He twisted in his saddle as a group of riders thundered up to him. They glanced at the king, then looked past to where Amalric and Joscelin controlled their own nervous destriers.
‘My Lord Constable. The rearguard report that Saladin and some fifty thousand are on the far side of the plain. If they reach Mount Turon—’
‘We’ll be boxed-in,’ Amalric concluded. ‘Very well, brother, let’s get back there.’
The mournful sequence of notes sounded across the open ground and the Christian army streamed away from the city. It was essential now to regain Mount Turon and form a strong defensive perimeter. The dead were left. The wounded crawled or stumbled in the wake of the retreating force, an easy target for the archers and Naffatin.
It was left to the Templars and Hospitallers to snatch the ropes of the siege machines and haul them back to the hill. Those mangonels that had sunk to their axles in the swampy ground, or toppled on their side, were abandoned and, in the heat of the moment, no one thought to collect the rocks and massive bolts that lay scattered on the plain.
The sun was halfway to its zenith as the Crusaders scrambled up the slopes of Mount Turon. They were greeted with surprise by the servants and washer-women who accompanied the army, and with anxiety by the skeleton force that had remained to guard the camp. While Joscelin accompanied the Grand Masters of the Temple and the Hospital round the hill to the eastern slope, Guy and Amalric made their way to the summit. Messengers hurried back and forth between the leaders and anybody who could provide them with information. But by the time the soldiers had taken up a defensive stance, ringing the hill with armour, it was clear that they had reacted to a false alarm. True, Saladin had reached the plain. The rearguard had watched him approach from the north-east, ride to within a few hundred yards of the hill, then turn south beside the Nazareth road. So far as they could see, he seemed intent on pitching camp on a second hill, named Tell Keisan, five miles from Mount Turon. But with regard to the supposed fifty thousand, Guy could find nobody who would estimate the Saracen party at more than five hundred.
He sank into a chair, lifted his helmet by its nasal bar and tossed it on to his narrow camp cot. ‘There we have it,’ he groaned. ‘It takes the devil at our shoulder to save us from the devil at our face.’
Eager to extract some profit from the fiasco, the Grand Master of the Temple demanded to be allowed to pursue the Sultan. Seneschal Joscelin sided with him, but for once Constable Amalric demurred.
‘We must first entrench ourselves here and reclaim the machines. Our prior aim is to recapture Acre—’
‘We can do both,’ the Templar insisted. ‘Give me one third of the army and let me go after the Moslem. You k
eep the rest and use them to strengthen the hill. By my arse, I wish I’d been here when that pig rode by.’
Guy said, ‘It will take you until noon to reach their camp, if they are indeed bound for Tell Keisan. We can’t say they are. We’ve been wrong about everything else.’ The comment earned him a hard look from the Grand Master, but he continued, ‘Meanwhile, you will be strung out across the plain.’
‘What of it?’
‘Just that a force of five hundred can be no more than an advance guard. What if the main Moslem army appears beside you?’ He sensed Amalric stir and was relieved to see his brother nod assent. Joscelin also saw it, and shamelessly changed sides.
‘The king reminds us of a real danger. Perhaps it would be better—’ He flinched as the Templar shouldered past him and left the tent.
Amalric chuckled to himself. ‘We had better find that red-cross knight a real battle before long, or he will be blunting his sword on sun-burned Christians.’
That red-cross knight was Grand Master Gerard of Ridefort. He had once led two hundred and sixty Crusaders against seven thousand Mamlukes, the finest warriors in Islam. Having roared at his knights to attack, or be branded cowards, Gerard was one of the three survivors. He had been at Hattin, where, because be was the Grand Master of his Order, his life had been spared. So his head had not gone to Damascus with those of his brother Templars.
There were some who thought Gerard of Ridefort the exemplar knight. Others, who had witnessed his total disregard for life, were not so fulsome with their praise. Given three more Gerards, they said, we would be devoid of men within a month.
* * *
A few weeks after the near-disaster at Acre, Conrad of Montferrat received a deputation of German nobles in the palace at Tyre. Balian and Humphrey attended the meeting, at which the Germans greeted Conrad as the true leader of the Christian cause in Palestine, and delivered a message of goodwill from his cousin, Emperor Frederick Barbarossa. The Marquis returned courtesy with courtesy, then asked why Frederick’s most esteemed commanders should be so far in advance of the army. ‘Or is it within marching distance of us, having arrived by some secret route?’
‘Alas, no, Marquis. As you say, we are far in advance of the main force. We were sent ahead to urge you to secure a favourable site for the Emperor’s troops.’
‘It is already done,’ Conrad smiled. ‘I have held this city since the day I landed. Guy of Lusignan made some feeble effort to dispute my right to it, but that’s in the past. The instant my beloved cousin sets foot inside the city, it will belong to him.’
Balian wondered if Conrad meant to evict the civilian population to make room for the German Crusaders. Humphrey speculated as to how Conrad could keep his promise to Frederick if his other cousin, Philip of France, arrived first.
The deputation responded, ‘The Emperor is aware of what you have done, and loves you for it. But he does not speak of Tyre.’
‘No? Where else is there. Tripoli is too far north, and the Saracens hold every other sizeable station. Where would he have me reserve a site, if not here?’
‘Where the main battle will be joined. At Acre.’
Conrad did nothing to conceal the shock. He brushed his long hair angrily from his face and snapped, ‘Frederick knows how it is between Guy and myself! His sense of politics is well enough developed for him also to know that the so-called King of Jerusalem would like nothing better than for me to desert this city. Acre? With that rabble?’
‘He does know, Marquis. But the situation is changing rapidly. Our spies tell us that the king – I mean, that Guy of Lusignan, whilst besieging Acre, is himself in danger of being besieged. Saladin has upward of thirty thousand men around the hill they call Tell Keisan, with an equal number inside the city. Guy’s force has crept up to fifteen thousand or so, no more. You are needed at Acre, Marquis, if not for Lusignan’s sake, then for the sake of the Kingdom.’ Exerting a little pressure, the spokesman added, ‘And because it would fulfil the Emperor’s wishes.’
Conrad stayed silent for a moment, his eyes on the table. Then he raised his head slowly and said, ‘I will have nothing to do with the Poitevin, is that understood? I will not speak with him, nor risk my men on his behalf. And if I believe that he intends to reassert his claim to Tyre, I will return here forthwith.’
Knowing that they had won, and that Conrad would obey Frederick’s instructions, they were ready to accede to his vanities. They assured him that he might make camp wherever he chose, and reminded him that there were many in Guy’s retinue who would welcome the chance to join the Marquis of Montferrat.
‘We’ll see. Personally, I am more interested to know when my cousin will join me. So far we have heard scant news of Philip, or the English leaders. When does Frederick expect to reach us?’
‘For certain before November.’
‘Three months. Good. Then I will make a bed for him at Acre. And my lords of Germany?’
‘Marquis?’
‘You say your spies tell you this and that. But I would be put out if I suspected that you were spying on me.’
‘God, no!’ they exclaimed. ‘Cousin does not keep watch on cousin.’
He studied his visitors, bulky in their extravagant European armour, then smiled without feeling. Of course there are German spies in Tyre. And why not, when I have my own men at Antioch and Tripoli and in the camp at Acre? Spies are woven into the fabric, and planted around every battle tent. One denies knowledge of them – how else can a spy operate? – but they are there, ears stretched wide. God, no, they say, cousin does not keep watch on cousin. God, yes, and twin on twin.
* * *
With the lords rode the ladies. Neither Maria nor Isabella would be dissuaded from accompanying their husbands, and to show their determination each produced a link-mail hauberk and a basilard, a dagger with a double-edged triangular blade. The hauberks did not fit well, for they had been procured from the city armoury on the pretext that they were reserve suits for Lord Balian and Lord Humphrey. Ernoul and Fostus had masterminded the scheme, then steered clear of the warlords for a while.
The young, soft-spoken Lord of Toron put up a token resistance, leading his wife aside to ask her, ‘Do you know how you will be treated if the Saracens catch you dressed as a soldier?’
‘Like a Princess of Jerusalem, how else? They were civil enough when I surrendered our castle to them.’
‘And how will they identify you in the garb of a fighting man?’
‘They have eyes. Sweet Humphrey—’
‘But they are not hawks, and they will not make such a fine judgement at half an arrow’s range. To the Ramieh you will be just another Crusader, to be brought low with a shaft, or a spear, or cut down—’
‘Are you out to terrify me?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘exactly so. To terrify some sense into you. Lord Balian’s party will ride ahead of the Tyrian column, and I will be with him. But you and Maria must remain where you can be afforded the greatest protection—’ He stopped short, realising that he had given Isabella permission to accompany him. ‘Damn it, this is ridiculous.’
‘Won’t you defend me?’
‘What a question! Of course.’
‘Then I am safe.’ She smiled at him, a reminder to any onlooker that the Lord and Lady of Toron were still the most envied lovebirds in the Kingdom. ‘I know what you would say,’ she murmured, ‘that I do not treat the situation with the gravity it deserves. But you know, too, how I would answer you. I will not say that I am careless about being killed – I am not in love with death – but I cannot face another parting, so soon after your imprisonment.’ She touched her forehead to his chest, then leaned back, cheerful again. ‘The most likely fall I shall take is from the weight of this iron tent. And to think that some of you now wear breastplates and leg-shields. If you add any more, we will have an army of statues.’
By early December the Christian army formed an unbroken arc around the city. Conrad would not present himself to Guy,
and set his standard between a contingent of Norsemen and the Templars. There were in all some twenty separate contingents, but whether they were mercenaries, native-born barons, or volunteers from Europe and Asia, they all owed allegiance to one man. Unfortunately, some of them regarded that one man as Guy of Lusignan, King of Jerusalem, while others looked to the Defender of Tyre, Marquis Conrad of Montferrat.
Among some of the more bizarre elements of the Frankish force were the ‘Baker Crusaders’ – a group of freelance Germans who had constructed a giant mill for the purpose of grinding their own corn. Saracen scouts discovered the existence of the mill, viewed it with some alarm, then reported that the enemy had built a new style siege machine, its winding mechanism driven by six mules.
There were also the ‘Soldiers with High Voices’ – not eunuchs, but women who had lost their men in battle and had chosen to avenge them on the field. These blood-thirsty widows and daughters wore hauberks and ankle bracelets, and spent their time torturing and mutilating captured Saracens. They were despised by both Moslem and Christian, and were kept well away from the Frankish lines.
Now that news of the German Crusade had reached the farthest corners of the West, a steady stream of Crusaders found their way to Acre. The Italians and French immediately sided with Conrad, the English and Welsh with Guy, the others with whom they saw fit. But this influx of Christian soldiery was more than matched by the arrival at Tell Keisan of Moslems from Jezira and Irak, from Egypt and Morocco, from Arabia and Mesopotamia, from Nubia and Abyssinia. They made obeisance to Saladin, then fanned out across the plain, overlapping like the scales of a fish. They outflanked the Christian arc and turned westward towards the sea. During the last days of the year they cut the road between Tyre and Acre. The besieging army of Christ was now, in turn, besieged by the army of Allah.
The Kings of Vain Intent Page 4
