‘Come on, somebody, it’s only for a while. I’ll take over again.’
One or two of them said, ‘I regret,’ or ‘I wish I’d been schooled,’ but it was evident that he would not be relieved. He fidgeted in the saddle, added fifty for those who had descended the bank, then continued his census as the German Crusaders forded the river.
* * *
The only section of the Christian army that had held firm throughout the morning was the right, under Conrad, Baiian and Humphrey. But, with the intervention of the garrison from Acre, plus the reorganization of Takedin’s Mesopotamian contingent, even the right showed signs of weakening.
And the leaders themselves had not escaped injury.
Blessed with quick eyes and great good luck, Marquis Conrad was unscathed, save for a bloody nose where a stone had struck the nasal bar of his helmet. But Balian had been cut twice; once below the left armpit, when a scimitar had skidded upward, turned by the protective links of his hauberk, and once across the spine. Miraculously, the Saracen who had inflicted the wound had used the back of his scimitar in error. In the heat of battle, such a mistake was common enough; archers cut their own bowstrings with the tips of their arrows, and spears were often hurled butt first. However, even though the cords of his spine remained undamaged, his thighs and buttocks were wet with blood.
Young Humphrey had also been injured, and his right knee was bound with a strip of linen given to him by the practical Isabella. Once, long ago, she had made him a present of a silver brooch. With it she had sent a note, which said, ‘This token is magicked, sweet. I have worn it to mass and in bed, and I have pricked my finger and let blood fall on it.’ At that time she had been eleven years of age, one year away from becoming his wife. Now she was on the threshold of her seventeenth birthday, and brooches had been replaced by bandages.
* * *
Guy was found by a solitary horseman who did not recognize the King of Jerusalem. As the knight was about to haul him up behind the saddle, Guy blurted, ‘Wait! Please, I must find the helmet.’
‘For God’s sake, man!’
‘I threw it – It fell – Somewhere over there—’
‘Mount up, will you! Ah, Jesus, we’ve been sighted!’ Snatching his own helmet from his head, he tossed it to the yellow-haired king. ‘Now do you feel safe?’
Guy caught the battered casque, started to say, ‘This is not the one,’ then saw the dozen Ramieh who were bearing down on them. He turned in desperation, dust flowing from his clothes, and gripped the knight’s outstretched hand.
‘Jump, man, jump! Are you on? Then hold hard. Christ save us, move, you brute!’ The destrier lurched, regained its balance and turned away from the approaching Saracens.
More by luck than judgement, the knight took his passenger across the field to where Marquis Conrad commanded his Tyrian Crusaders. No words were exchanged by the rivals, but as Guy slid from the horse, muttered his thanks and returned his rescuer’s over-large helmet, Conrad’s contemptuous expression read like a book.
* * *
Two miles to the south-east, beyond the Belus River, part of the Saracen contingent from Mosul and Nineveh were nearing Tell Keisan. News had reached Takedin of the occupation of the Moslem camp by the Templars and, when it had become clear that Sultan Saladin was no longer in personal danger, his nephew had detached some eight hundred warriors and sent them to recapture the camp.
From the summit of the tattered hill, the Grand Master and his thirty-three Templars – survivors of the original forty – watched the Saracens spread out below them.
‘You see?’ Gerard crowed. ‘Do you see how many they send against us?’
One of the Templars growled, ‘Maybe they don’t know we’re so few.’
‘They know,’ Gerard insisted. ‘And they know me.’ Quite calm, he loosened and retied the scarf that covered his neck wound. The Templars waited for him to order them down the far slope, from where they would circle wide and rejoin the Christian army. Below them, the first Saracens reached the foot of the hill.
Somebody prompted, ‘Let’s make a start. We still have to get clear of the plain.’
Gerard leaned forward. The action and his uncontrollable temper suffused his face. ‘Do you suggest we take flight?’
‘I said—’ The man stopped, then stared at his porcine leader. ‘Do you suggest we don’t?’
‘We are all Templars.’
‘That’s no answer. Great God, Master, you don’t intend to ride against them!’
‘What else? Surrender? We are all Templars.’
None of those on Tell Keisan had been with Gerard when he had led the suicidal charge at Nazareth, but all of them had heard of it. And now all of them remembered it.
‘What was it then,’ a knight grated, ‘at Nazareth? Two hundred and some against seven thousand?’
‘Close enough,’ Gerard replied. ‘My arse, we gave them a fright.’
‘Not such a fright, if only three of you survived.’
Gerard ignored the truth. Talk was getting them nowhere. The black pigs were already scaling the hill. It was time to deal with them. He stabbed a finger at the advancing horde and shouted, ‘Now, who keeps me company?’ The majority of the Templars roared their response. Those who had questioned him before, hesitated, though they knew they had no choice. As he had said, they were Templars. They nodded, settled their helmets and drew their swords. Grand Master Gerard of Ridefort, resembling nothing so much as a cloaked pig on a horse, a clever diversion at some country fair, led his knights through the ruined Moslem tents and down into the dust. He was not so lucky this time. None of them were.
* * *
The Christian army retreated to Mount Turon and the arc around Acre. By midday the plain was left to the dead, the dying, the trapped, the senseless. Fires of pitch and naphtha still burned, while animals thrashed in the dust, or trotted about, eager to be shed of their empty saddles. Arrows sprouted like black flowers from the ground, and the taller stems of spears and lances gave the impression that there had once been rushes here, now stripped of their leaves. Equipment of all kinds was strewn across the beach and on the plain and along both banks of the Belus River. For several hours the corpses of Franks and Saracens floated lazily past Mount Turon and out into the Great Sea. The onlookers counted five Christians for every Moslem.
Saladin’s force re-established itself on Tell Keisan and in the second, far greater arc that once again encompassed the Frankish lines. The June morning had undoubtedly resulted in a Moslem victory, although the Sultan’s Mamlukes had been decimated, while the troops from Sinjar and Aleppo had suffered heavy casualties. A battle had been won, so it was a victory. But Acre was still besieged, Mount Turon still occupied.
Each of the Crusader contingents had taken an immediate tally of its losses. Some, through vanity, or in an attempt to boost morale, had put its individual total as low as fifty. Others admitted to two or three hundred, while the realists accepted that many contingents had been reduced to a mere handful. When the figures were added together, it was clear that one man in two had been killed or wounded.
Yet death had withheld its hand from most of the leaders.
King Guy was alive, silently bemoaning the loss of his helmet-crown. Before, he had been glad to get rid of it, but now that he was safe, he wanted men to look at him and know that he was king. He pushed back the hood of his hauberk, hoping that the sight of his yellow hair would help.
Amalric of Lusignan and Joscelin of Courtenay were alive, insisting that they had not been routed by Takedin, but had returned to Mount Turon to hold it against the impending Moslem onslaught. They ignored any mention of the Templars, and denied knowing the whereabouts of Gerard of Ridefort.
Balian of Ibelin was alive, his left arm bound tight against his body, the lower half of his leather gambeson stiffened with blood. He moved about the camp with his son-in-law, stopping now and again so that Humphrey could limp level with him. They had already visited the hospital tent
, where Maria and Isabella worked on to save lives and limbs. Neither woman had shown special concern for her wounded husband. That would come later, when the dead had been lifted from the bloodstained tables, and the maimed taken under a flag of truce to some kind of comfort at Tyre. What, beside all that, were sword cuts and a shattered knee?
* * *
Fostus and Ernoul – indeed, the entire column of exhausted Crusaders – were taken completely unawares. Accounts of what happened varied and grew wilder in the telling. Some who witnessed the scene said that Frederick was halfway across when his horse stumbled. Others vowed that the Emperor had first clasped a hand to his chest, as though to tear the heart from beneath his ribs. Still more claimed that the horse beside him balked, then fell against him. The water was icy and fast-flowing, and Frederick Barbarossa was seventy years of age. Perhaps his heart did miss a beat. Perhaps he did lose his balance. But whatever the cause, those on the banks saw him fall sideways, upriver of his horse, his feet free of the stirrups.
His bodyguards plunged forward, two hurling themselves into the water, two driving their mounts towards the point where the Emperor had disappeared. Germans, who, until this moment, had been too weary to walk, dived clumsily into the Salef. They went in all along the bank. Fostus and Ernoul spurred forward, their horses half leaping, half falling into the torrent. Even as the current dragged the men along, they were not sure why they were there. It had happened so fast, as though some demented artist had scratched Frederick from a painting with one sweep of his knife. Had he fallen in? Had they imagined it, then been caught in some collective madness?
But as they gasped for air, as all feeling left their hands and feet, they knew it was true. The Emperor of Germany was being swept away in the Salef River.
They heard voices – ‘There, by that tree! No, leave him, he’s no one! Search farther down! My God, be quick!’ Then, after an age, when they themselves were in danger of being carried into the centre of the river, they heard a concerted cry and glimpsed men lift Frederick from the water.
He was laid on the bank, half buried beneath skins and cloaks. His physicians knelt around him, while behind them hovered his priests, mouthing to God.
The Constable and squire floundered to the bank. Their horses had already come ashore, not at all happy to have made the plunge. Ernoul started in the direction of the swelling group, but Fostus caught him by the arm.
‘There’s nothing to do,’ he growled. ‘Get dried out.’
But they did not move until word reached them that Frederick Barbarossa of Hohenstaufen, Emperor of Germany, was dead.
As his heart was stilled, so were the hearts of his people. A few hundred continued on to Tripoli, a few thousand to Antioch. They took Frederick’s body with them, but the crude preservative could not prevent it from decaying on the way. At Antioch the flesh was boiled from the bones and the skull set aside, to await the day when Jerusalem would be retaken. Then his son, the Duke of Swabia, wrote to the Kings of Jerusalem, France and England, informing them that the greatest leader in Christendom had given his life for the Holy Cause. Did my father give it, he asked them, in vain?
Chapter Five
Jesi, Messina, Acre
September, October 1190
The farmer raised the handles of his plough, forcing the blade deep into the earth. The single, aged ox pulled forward for a moment, then felt the guide reins tighten. The farmer leaned back, bracing himself against the straps around his shoulders. The ox halted. The farmer turned and watched the horsemen approach along the road. Later, it would take some effort to pull the plough blade clear of the soil, but it would be worth it. There was little to see in this part of Southern Italy; even less that he had not seen a thousand times before. So he welcomed the sight of two tall riders on deep-chested horses. He did not know who they were, or why they travelled this country road, or where they were going. But they were something to look at for a while.
The ox stood heavy and placid near the centre of the stony field. The farmer let the guide reins slip down to his waist, then, like the animal, stared unblinking at the riders.
They were, as he had noticed, far taller than the men of Calabria. They both wore calf-length boots – good leather, but too soft for field work – long gambesons, with equally long hauberks, and squirrel-skin cloaks, called pelissons. Foreigners. I’ll tell them I’m a freeman; you can’t take my land. He gripped the plough handles, and scowled as they drew level.
Neither of the riders wore helmets, though one had retained the hood of his hauberk. The farmer’s eyes widened with the realisation that the hauberk was made from silver, not iron. Silver! Then they’re important. Best not be caught staring. Before he lowered his gaze he noticed that the other rider had pale, gingery hair and a small, not quite even moustache. He was, if anything, taller by an inch than his companion.
The horsemen ignored the farmer. They had ridden down from Salerno in Campania, and were on their way to Reggio, the toenail of Italy. They were travelling overland, and so on this quiet country road because the taller of the two – Richard Cœur-de-Lion, King of England – suffered from seasickness.
Born, as some said, with a bad tooth in his mouth, a thorn in his finger, and a boil on each buttock – reason enough to be touchy and irascible – Richard was at his worst at sea. He knew, all Europe knew, that Philip of France hated sea voyages, but Richard had often dreamed of a nautical life. In truth, he liked the sea, but the sea did not like him. So he vomited at the slightest wave motion and retired to port with an ill grace.
Today, however, he was in a good humour, so made life bearable for his friend and companion, Robert of Breteuil. Now Robert said, ‘The next village is called Jesi. After that we turn west for Reggio.’ As he spoke, they reached the crest of a low ridge and saw a cluster of crude, rush-and-mud houses.
Richard asked, ‘Do we have enough food and wine to see out the day?’
‘Hell,’ Robert grunted, ‘I don’t know why you don’t take a packhorse wherever you go. You have a prodigious appetite.’
‘That’s true. As for the packhorse, I’ve got you.’ He laughed. It was a strange performance, for in the way some people find it difficult to move and talk at once, so Richard needed to shake as he laughed. His head rocked up and down, his massive shoulders trembled. Robert, one of the few who dared speak straight to the king, said, ‘There was not that much wit in it.’
They descended the slope and started through the small, poverty-stricken village. Halfway along the single, empty street Richard reined-in sharply and raised a hand for silence. ‘Listen,’ he hissed, ‘what do you hear?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Ssh! Listen.’
As a youth, Richard had been taken hunting and hawking by his father, Henry II, and together they had ranged the royal forests in pursuit of hart and hind. But the young prince had found hawking an even more attractive pastime. He had soon mastered the art of the ‘ostringer’, who flew goshawks in the closely wooded preserves, and the ‘falconer’, who let his birds tour and stoop in more open country. He had witnessed the performance of most kinds of hunting bird, from peregrines and Norwegian sparrowhawks, to the sakers and lanners of Southern France. He had twice captured wild hawks, or haggards, and had taken an active interest in the construction of mews, the lofts in which the hawks were kept during their four-month moulting period. So he had an eye and an ear for such birds.
Again he asked, ‘Well, do you hear it now?’
‘I hear a baby shrieking, that’s all.’
‘You are an idiot, Robert. Where is it, this baby of yours?’
‘That house, at a guess. No, farther along. Three, four, I would say that one.’
Richard fingered his moustache. ‘Yes. And you still say it’s a baby?’
‘Or a cat. I haven’t made a deep study of it.’
His sarcasm was lost on the king. ‘Idiot again,’ Richard said. ‘I’ll wager you, what, twenty marks that it is neither child, nor cat.’
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br /> ‘Oh, money,’ Robert groaned. ‘You’re coin mad. Every hour you want to wager on something. It obsesses you more than food. And, what’s more, you are getting a reputation for it.’ He pointed a warning finger. ‘Do you know, there’s a story about that last year, when you were raising money for the Crusade, you told the Bishop of Winchester that you would sell London itself, if you could find a buyer?’
‘The story’s true,’ Richard grinned, ‘though it wasn’t Bishop Godfrey. Anyway, my pious Robert, I need money, and you’re the only one with me today.’ He clapped his friend heavily on the back of the neck, then kept his hand there as they heard a renewed shriek.
‘Come on. I’ll let you off the wager. But that’s no infant, nor does it have fur on its face.’ He urged his horse along the street. For the first time he was aware of the peasants who peered at them through the cracks in shuttered windows and ill-fitting doors. He thought of shouting something sharp and sudden, to see them jump, but he did not want to disturb his prey.
By the time they had reached the fifth house, Robert of Breteuil was ready to concede that no child could make those cries, unless it had been born of the devil. He shivered at the thought. Then Richard swung to the ground, beckoned him to follow and crossed the street. They approached a low, tarred door, held shut with a wire hook.
The king whispered, ‘If that’s a cat, it’s the first with feathers.’ He lifted the hook and ducked into the house. Robert waited in the street, aware that other doors were opening. He heard a fresh shriek, a whoop of triumph from Richard, and a new sound, the sullen murmur of a dozen men who watched from their doorways. By the time Richard emerged, a vicious-looking gerfalcon on his gloved wrist, the watchers had been joined by several others.
The Kings of Vain Intent Page 6
