The Kings of Vain Intent

by The Kings of Vain Intent (retail) (epub)

  In England, Richard Cœur-de-Lion had been crowned king, following the death of his father, Henry II. It was said that the thirty-two year old Lionheart was milking the land dry in his attempts to raise money for a Crusade.

  In France, Philip Augustus was also busy recruiting his countrymen. He did not share Richard’s enthusiasm for a campaign in the East, but he was not anxious to see the arrogant Angevin come swaggering home, the all-conquering hero. So he assembled his army, determined to be ready when Richard was ready.

  The Emperor Frederick Barbarossa had been unable to keep his promise of a November arrival in Palestine. The German Crusade was reported to be on the banks of the Bosphorus, mired down by the harsh winter.

  So the Crusaders at Acre waited and prayed that the Kings of the West would reach them before they were squeezed flat in the Saracen vice.

  Chapter Four

  Cilicia, Acre

  June 1190

  On 9th June, 1190, Ernoul and Fostus made contact with the German Crusade.

  Hemmed in at Acre, they had heard strange and terrible rumours concerning Frederick’s army. Some accounts claimed that the entire German host was lost among the mountains of Asia Minor; that plague had struck the ranks; that the terrain had defeated them and they had returned home; that the Saracens had ventured north and trapped them in a valley, where they were now starving to death. Throughout the winter and spring a flock of rumours winged about the Christian camp, until neither Guy nor Conrad could stand it any longer. For the first time they met in conference, the nervous Poitevin and the ambitious Italian, and agreed to send some reliable envoys in search of the German army. The King and Marquis each put up names, and eventually chose Balian of Ibelin, as one of the more trustworthy and dispassionate warlords. He agreed to arrange the mission, though he would not go himself. He sensed that it needed only one or two noblemen to leave the camp for the encircled Crusaders to believe they were being deserted by their leaders. So he stayed, and sent his constable and squire, together with one man from each of the main contingents.

  During a May thunderstorm the motley group slipped through the Saracen net. They made their way north, past Tyre and Tripoli, through the Principality of Antioch and into the mountainous wilderness of Cilicia. Twice they were spotted by patrolling Ramieh, but each time they managed to elude capture. Fostus set a murderous pace, and three of the group turned away, preferring to take their chances with the enemy, rather than with the hard-driving constable.

  Ernoul, the youngest and lightest of the riders, stayed close to Fostus. He had found, many times in the past, that it was the best place to be. He drew strength from the squat, hirsute warrior, reminding himself that this was the man who, for thirty years, had ridden at Lord Balian’s side. The Constable had been born in the West of England, the son of a Cornish girl and a Welsh mercenary. His father had been killed at Lincoln in 1141, without having troubled to marry the boy’s mother. At the age of nineteen, Fostus had set out for Palestine, where he had entered the service of the House of Ibelin. Since then he had been Balian’s man. He was fifty now, eight years older than the Lord of Nablus. At fifty, he was one of the most thoroughly professional warriors in the Kingdom.

  Ernoul glanced at him, saw a seamed face framed by shaggy black hair, cut into a crude fringe above his forehead. As usual, his impassive expression gave no hint of his thoughts; one might as well have studied a rock wall for guidance.

  The twenty horsemen rode on through a narrow defile in the mountains. They were aware that the search might end in an hour, or occupy them for another month. One hundred thousand soldiers – the figure that had been put upon the German Crusade – would be as hard to find among the Cilician Mountains as a flea on a ridgeback goat.

  Then, four days later, they did find them. The Germans were ten miles north of the fast-flowing Salef River. They bore little resemblance to the men Frederick had described in his letter to Saladin. These Crusaders were now wan and pinched, prey to tumours and dysentery, too weak to do more than place one rag-bound foot in front of the other. The riders watched as the endless column of exhausted men and spavined animals inched their way toward the Salef.

  Ernoul was the first to see Barbarossa. The Emperor carried his age well, for, although he did not look younger than his seventy years, his back remained unbowed, and there was still more red than grey in his beard. The hair on his head was the colour of rust mixed with wood-ash; Ernoul was surprised at the length of it – it was almost as long as Marquis Conrad’s – and he guessed that Frederick had let it grow to combat the cold of the mountains.

  The men from Acre presented themselves to the same group of noblemen who had visited Conrad at Tyre. The Germans spoke of the rigours of the march, and of the dreadful losses they had sustained. More than one fourth of their number had succumbed to disease, or been struck down by Cilician bandits. Others had drowned in the mountain torrents, frozen to death on the high passes, or simply turned for home. The situation was as grave as the rumours had suggested; the army that had started so confidently from Mainz thirteen months earlier was now reduced to a shivering shadow. They had not yet seen the enemy, yet they looked as though they had fought a dozen battles, and lost them all.

  They showed little interest in the Constable’s party. The riders had brought no spare food or medicine, nor the news that Saladin was dead, or Acre taken. Ernoul busied himself counting heads, while Fostus attempted to estimate the speed of advance. He decided that, even though the country to the south was less inhospitable, the Germans would not arrive at Acre before September.

  Next day they reached the Salef River.

  Ever open to attack, a detachment of archers waded across and scaled the southern bank. When they were in position, the sumpter horses and baggage mules were led across the single, narrow ford. The army sank to the ground and waited. The crossing would take the better part of the day. It was an ideal opportunity to rest and bandage open sores.

  * * *

  The previous night, at Acre, the Frankish leaders had decided to take the war into the enemy camp. Convinced that Saladin would soon launch a major attack on Mount Turon, they decided to attack first. As the dawn light settled like poured honey on the summit of the hill, the men and knights of the royal army made their way down the southern and western slopes. They assembled along the north bank of the Belus, then waited for the other contingents to join them. The Hospitallers were the first to arrive, then a large body of Norsemen, then the Templars, then a force of Tyrians and individual volunteers under the command of Marquis Conrad. Balian and Humphrey sat nearby, studying the mass of infantry.

  The foot soldiers stood silent, row upon row, bristling with spears, spiked clubs, pikes and scythes. Some of them carried kite-shaped shields, some circular wooden bucklers, some cauldron lids or leather-wrapped plates. Humphrey noticed one man with a frying pan slung across his back, grinned to himself, then immediately wiped the grin away. Maybe the ridiculous utensil would save the man’s life. If so, God be praised. But it was indicative of the situation that a Crusader who wished to strike a blow for the Kingdom must first raid the kitchen.

  He turned to Balian, indicated the infantryman and commented, ‘If Philip would make his move, he or Richard of England, these men would be provided with better equipment. This is a homemade army. Look at that one: one boot and one sandal. That cuts his chances.’

  Balian nodded absently, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of the coming battle. He saw King Guy riding along the line towards Marquis Conrad. Please God, he mused, don’t let them start a dispute in front of the army. He grunted as they exchanged some unheard remarks and a brief handclasp.

  All was now ready. Guy raised his mailed hand. Amalric, Joscelin, Conrad, Balian and the other leaders raised theirs. The infantry splashed forward across the shallow river. The horsemen followed.

  The assembly of Frankish troops had been noted by the Saracens, and the Sultan’s army was also in battle array. Saladin himself commanded th
e centre. To the right of his own thousand-strong bodyguard of Mamlukes were soldiers from Mosul and Nineveh on the Tigris, and from Mardin and Diabekr in Northern Mesopotamia. The right flank was commanded by Saladin’s nephew, the famous general Takedin. To the left of the Mamlukes were troops from Sinjar and Aleppo, and, on the left flank, warriors who had proved themselves victorious in Egypt and Syria.

  Both armies conformed to traditional tactics. The Frankish infantry moved forward in an extended line, with the knights bunched behind, ready to charge through the quickly parting centre. The Saracens approached in tight groups, the archers ranged behind the infantry, the cavalry out on the flanks. Each side sensed what the other would do. The Saracens would pretend to retreat, in an attempt to draw the enemy. The Christian knights would charge en masse, leaving the foot soldiers to fend for themselves. These things would be done, for they were always done. Yet today, the simple, established manoeuvres would lead to confusion and wild misjudgement.

  Some two hours after he had left his scarlet tent and descended from the summit of Mount Turon, King Guy waved to his leaders to take independent command of their sections. Framed by the Great Sea on one side and the southward bend of the Belus on the other, the Christian army advanced toward the Infidel.

  When the open ground between them had shrunk to less than three hundred yards, the leaders ordered the archers to open fire. Crossbowmen and Harbieh exchanged shots, and the hiss of quarrels and black-feathered arrows was followed by the screams of men and horses. Now every cane-bow and arbalest was in use; within a few moments the shortage of equipment had become a surplus as the living snatched what they needed from the dead. The Saracens fired faster, but the crossbow bolts inflicted greater damage, and the Moslem right appeared to weaken and give ground.

  The Grand Master of the Temple, Gerard of Ridefort, was the first to notice that Takedin’s men were edging away from the main force. This apparent isolation of the right flank was enough for the headstrong Templar. Bellowing at Amalric to assist him, he led his forty red-cross knights in the direction of the river. Constable Amalric followed with his own horsemen, and these were quickly supported by Seneschal Joscelin and two hundred lay knights. King Guy watched from the centre, while Conrad, Balian and Humphrey continued to hold the Christian right.

  So far, both sides had adopted their usual tactics. But this time, incredibly, it was Saladin himself who mistook pretence for reality. Perhaps he had already given the responsibility for a feigned retreat to the men of Sinjar, or the veterans of Egypt. Or perhaps no such ruse had been arranged. But whatever the reason – if there was reason at all – the Sultan believed that Takedin’s section was withdrawing in earnest. As a result, Saladin detached the entire Mesopotamian contingent and sent it to aid his nephew. By doing so, he dangerously weakened the centre.

  Guy saw his chance. The royal knights, together with the black-and-white Hospitallers charged the Mamlukes.

  Meanwhile, the more impetuous Crusaders had crossed the Belus, broken through Takedin’s lines, and were streaming toward the Moslem tents on Tell Keisan.

  The battle was now waged on three fronts. Amalric, Joscelin and Gerard were east of the river, bent on the destruction of the Saracen camp. Guy’s troops and the men of the Hospital were engaged in savage combat with Saladin’s thousand Mamlukes, while Marquis Conrad and the Lords of Nablus and Toron held firm near the sea. Between sixty-five and seventy thousand men were fighting for God or Allah, Christ or Mohammed. The Belus – known to the Moslems as Nahr-il-Halw, the sweet-water river – was clogged with bloody corpses. Dust rose high on both sides of the river, then parted to reveal a troop of horsemen, a lone Saracen struggling to mend his broken bow, a single Crusader sword implanted in the churned earth. The sounds of battle might well have risen through fissures from the bowels of Hell. No one could say who was winning; only that he, himself, was alive, or was dying of his wounds.

  * * *

  Chilled by the mountain wind, their legs and groins numbed by the racing current, the German Crusaders waded, two and three abreast, across the Salef River. Ernoul was eager to start back for Acre, but Fostus ordered his twenty horsemen to wait. A river crossing was always dangerous, and he wanted to be sure that the main bulk of Crusaders would go through with it. Lord Balian and the others would derive small comfort from being told, ‘When we left they’d started across’, only to learn later that most of the Germans had turned short of the bank. So the Constable made his riders stay and watch, while the squire continued to count heads. The wind pierced their armour and slapped their faces. Ernoul sniffed; damn it, I’m catching cold.

  * * *

  Of all the Christian contingents, the Knights of the Temple were in the best position to claim a victory. Having outdistanced their lay companions, they had reached the thinly guarded slopes of Tell Keisan and burst into the Saracen camp. The smaller tents were ridden flat, the pavilion ropes cut through, flaming torches hurled against the embroidered walls. His porcine features smeared with blood and soot, Gerard of Ridefort howled in triumph. Then he tied a scarf around his neck to staunch an arrow wound and waited for Amalric and Joscelin to bring their five hundred knights up the hill.

  They never arrived.

  They had intended to follow, but had reckoned without the intervention of a new force, one they had dared to ignore in their efforts to destroy Saladin’s army on the plain. Facing south, and solely occupied with what they could see, they had given no thought to the garrison at Acre. As a result, eleven thousand of the garrison had broken out of the city, skirted the battle on the plain and circled Mount Turon.

  So, while the Templars were trampling the tents on Tell Keisan, a dozen lay knights drew Joscelin of Courtenay’s attention to the dust cloud that rolled from behind the Christian hill. He realized immediately that his men could not continue south, in Gerard’s wake. If they did, the enemy would move between them and Mount Turon, then herd them deep into Saracen territory. He sent a warning message to Amalric. Without hesitation, the Constable and Seneschal wheeled their destriers, leaving Gerard and his forty Templars isolated on Tell Keisan.

  But it was not so easy to return, for by now Takedin’s troops had re-formed. They, too, saw the approaching dust cloud, identified the men beneath it and raced north along the banks of the Belus. They managed to stay ahead of Amalric and Joscelin, and halted opposite the force from Acre. The five hundred Crusader knights sensed what would happen, but were unable to avoid it. Charging north towards Mount Turon, they were pinched between Takedin’s finger and the garrison’s thumb. Joscelin lost seventy men, Amalric more than a hundred. It was the most galling kind of defeat – destruction in retreat – and it was made more bitter because it was witnessed by the camp guards on Mount Turon.

  Takedin left the Frankish survivors to drag themselves up the hill, then led the heavily reinforced right flank back to the main battleground. Had he pursued the lay knights he would have destroyed them and captured the royal camp. Instead, he chose to ignore them for the present, and so made the most fortunate decision of his life.

  By the time he had crossed the river and engaged the fringe of the Christian centre, less than ninety of Saladin’s thousand Mamlukes were still alive. Even now, King Guy was directing his knights to follow him in a final charge. Unable to make himself heard above the din of battle Guy gesticulated wildly, indicating that they were to ride close and crush the remaining Mamlukes with the superior weight of their Norman destriers. Then he spurred forward, praying that he, and he alone, would slay the Sultan. If he did, he would allow brother Amalric to be the first to kiss his feet…

  Men-at-arms and crossbowmen leapt aside as the horsemen thundered towards the surviving Mamlukes. The riders heard shouts from their left – ‘La ilaha il’Allah! There is no god but God!’ Then ostrich-feathered arrows and cane spears rained down on them. They had been met unexpectedly by Takedin’s contingent and the garrison from Acre. As horses plunged and fell, causing havoc among the tightly grouped k
nights, the iron-tipped missiles were replaced by bladders of Greek Fire. The acrid stench of burning flesh mingled with the stirred dust, while hardened Crusaders gagged at the sight of men and horses wrapped in a cloak of flame. Animals collided, splashing the ghastly liquid; riders threw themselves from the saddle in a frenzied effort to avoid contact with their burning comrades.

  Guy’s horse took an arrow in the neck and stumbled close to a pool of naphtha. The animal reared, its forelegs kicking above the white heat. Guy arched back, lost his hold and crashed to the ground. Freed of its rider, the destrier ran into the smoke. The Poitevin lay face up in the dirt, part of the reins in his left hand. Now he was prey to arrow and scimitar, flame and rock, driving hoof and falling carcass. He shouted, ‘Aid me! I am the king!’ Then he snapped his teeth together, aware that by naming himself he halved his chance of survival.

  Self-preservation uppermost in his mind, he heaved himself into a sitting position and removed his helmet. A plain iron coronet was welded to the acorn-shaped casque; sufficient identification for friend and foe alike. He hurled the helmet into the nearest dust cloud.

  A moment later, two knights galloped through a curtain of smoke and reined-in a few feet from him. He recognized the Count of Brienne and his younger brother Andrew. Rising to his knees, he yelled, ‘Brienne! Make room for me! I am Guy of Lusignan, King of Jerusalem!’

  Andrew heard him, saw a dust-covered figure without helmet or sword, and marked him as some minor knight desperate enough to take the king’s name in vain. Well, God help him, for he and his brother were too busy. They spurred away, while, close to tears, Guy called after them, ‘Christ curse you, I am the king!’

  * * *

  Ernoul turned, holding up pen and paper. ‘Which of you can count? My head’s choked with chills and figures.’ He watched as the line of riders shrugged, or shook their heads.