On the day that King Philip sailed from Tyre, the Saracens freed the first few hundred of the promised 2,500 Christian captives, and paid one third of the ransom. Richard demanded to know why the high-born prisoners had not been released first, as was the custom. The Saracen envoys explained that it would take time, for the captives were scattered throughout the Moslem world.
‘That excuse has gone lame,’ Richard told them. ‘You must have records, you must know where they are. Your garrison will stay here until you produce them. And you have two weeks in which to do so.’
In mid-August, the Saracens released a further two hundred prisoners of nondescript rank, and scraped together some 15,000 talents. This was a paltry sum in comparison with their first payment, and the Frankish leaders still failed to recognize any of their friends among the prisoners.
Saladin again asked that some of the Moslem garrison be turned loose, and Richard again refused. He wanted the Saracens to feel the pain of such a ransom; they had had their own way long enough. But Saladin found the situation too one-sided. He had parted with some 85,000 talents, and between six and seven hundred Christians. He now demanded that the king allow some of the garrison to leave the city.
Richard complied a week later.
This had been his first direct confrontation with the leader of Islam, and it was the first chance he had had to show the Crusaders and Saracens that he was in deadly earnest. Frederick Barbarossa had failed to reach the Holy Land. Philip Augustus had come and gone. But Richard Cœur-de-Lion was here to stay. It was an opportune moment in which to impress himself upon the army of Christ and the forces of Allah.
He commanded that two thousand seven hundred members of the Moslem garrison be assembled on the plain between Mount Turon and Tell Keisan. Then, with the Christian army arrayed outside the east wall of the city, he addressed them from one of the gate towers.
‘We have been duped, brother soldiers! You have all heard of the ransom that was to be paid. But more than half is still owing. You have all heard of the prisoners who were to be. Hardly a quarter have been returned to us, and of those, none are high-born. Saladin is playing some devious game. His mistake is to play it with me.’
He moved his right arm across his chest and pointed over his shoulder.
‘I would remind you of the price you have paid for this city. No accurate accounts have been kept, but the planted crosses and the size of the common graves tell us that more than twenty thousand of your friends and countrymen have died here, in battle, or of disease, or of slow starvation. Twenty thousand – of that we can be sure. But God alone knows how many have really perished. Perhaps twice that number. Perhaps more. A high price, wouldn’t you say?’
Yes, they responded, a high price indeed.
‘And now, whereas Christendom gave lives, Islam runs short of coins, or pretends to. They must think us very gullible. Even now they are there, on Tell Keisan, laughing at us. But we will cut that laughter short. We are here to reclaim Christ’s Holy Land. I am here to lead you in that Cause. And to warn off all the Moslem brood. We will start with those, there on the plain. Behead them.’
The stunned silence slowly gave way to a murmur of comprehension, then a growing roar of approval. The Crusaders drew their knives, hefted their axes, lifted their spears and halberks in the warm air. Then, with a last glance at Richard, to make sure they had not misheard him, they charged the lines of roped men.
There was no hunting to be done, since the garrison was already tethered, and the only real danger came from other, overzealous Crusaders. While they worked, the soldiers were sustained in the knowledge that, in Christ’s name, they were ridding the earth of demons.
It took them an hour to massacre the prisoners. Then they re-formed to repel the waves of crazed Saracens who swept down from Tell Keisan. But by nightfall the Crusaders were back in their own lines, singing loudly, so that they drowned the buzz of flies on the plain.
Now they felt washed clean, though a few of the younger ones had crept away to vomit or pray. Many had not participated in the execution, either because they felt weighed down with conscience, or because they had failed to break through the seething ring of soldiers. But all of them were now ready to leave Acre and commence the reconquest of the Holy Land.
Chapter Eleven
The Coast
August, September 1191
From the western slope of Mount Turon, Ernoul watched the Christian army strike camp. Behind him the summit of the hill was littered with the debris of departure. King Guy’s scarlet tent had been taken down and loaded on to his baggage wagon, along with his bed and furniture and various roped chests. Constable Amalric’s tent was also down, though the shortage of carts made it necessary for him to divide his possessions between his brother’s wagon and one commandeered by Seneschal Joscelin. The perimeter of the camp was marked with piles of burning rubbish, and the smoke from these fires wreathed across the plain.
The young squire let his gaze wander over the lines of men who waited to ford the Belus River. He guessed that there were fifty thousand or more in the open and, from what he had seen of the city that morning, a further twenty thousand still inside Acre.
The columns of smoke joined for a moment, curtaining the river, and he concentrated on the scene directly below the hill, aware that what was happening there was being repeated throughout the camp. He recognized the new Grand Master of the Temple, Robert of Sablon. Since the porcine Gerard of Ridefort had ridden to his death on Tell Keisan, the only Templars to be seen were those who had arrived from Europe. Their numbers had gradually increased, until, with the advent of the French and English Crusaders, they were again considered a formidable force. Robert of Sablon was the eleventh Grand Master of the Military Order, less hot-headed than Gerard, but every bit as determined. True to the competitive nature of the two great Orders, Robert had made no overtures of friendship towards the Grand Master of the Hospital, Ermengard de Daps. Nor had Ermengard done more than note Robert’s election.
Ernoul watched the Templars load the last of their wagons, separate their palfreys from the heavier war-horses, then tether the destriers to the end posts of the baggage carts. Their own fires were burning briskly, and there was a sudden flurry of activity as the knights dragged an armour-laden cart clear of the flying sparks. He listened to the myriad sounds: the shouts of command in a dozen languages, the neigh of horses, the clank and clatter of preparation. The curtain of smoke parted again and he saw men fording the Belus, the cavalry heedless of the foot soldiers. Someone shouted his name and he felt a stab of guilt as Fostus spurred up the slope.
‘What’s the game? Have you left Lord Balian’s service?’
With faltering indignation Ernoul retorted, ‘I have his permission. I told him I wanted to see the army break camp.’
The Constable glared down at him. He had more affection for the young squire than for any man save Lord Balian. He had taught Ernoul many things of value, some of which had saved his life, yet he had never understood the squire’s desire to look and dream. To Ernoul it was imagination, or material for the history he would one day write. To Fostus it was the way to avoid hard work.
Now he said, ‘I know what you told him. I was there. But that was three hours ago.’
‘So long?’
‘Don’t annoy me, bone-bag. There’s a day’s work to be done, and half the morning to do it, so get down from your perch and set to.’ He wheeled his mount and rode back down the hill. Ernoul made a vulgar gesture behind his back, then ran to his horse. He thought, the greatest Christian army ever assembled in this country, on the move at last, and Fostus does not give it a sideways glance. But then he would not spare a look for the Gates of Heaven.
On the plain there was already dissension among the leaders. The French commanders, Henry of Troyes and Hugh of Burgundy, claimed that King Richard had given the order to march without having first consulted them. As a result, they were dragging their feet. Richard did not bother to argue. If
the French wished to lag behind and risk being cut off by the Saracens, that was their affair – this, at least, was the opinion he put about. In fact, he would not have dared to split the army had he not believed that the French would reconsider and hurry after the main force. He underestimated the stubbornness of his allies.
Less than two thousand men were left to garrison Acre. This was a calculated risk, heightened since the palace now housed Queen Berengaria, Queen Joanna, and Balian’s wife, Queen Maria. If the Saracens outflanked the Christian army and breached the city – well, the women could always be taken aboard one of the thirty galleys that lay at anchor around the harbour entrance. The bulk of the fleet would accompany the army, moving parallel with it along the coast. The warships formed an outer ring, while, inside, the cogs and busses carried food for the troops and stocks of missiles for the catapults.
There was no sign of Regent Conrad, though King Guy still worked and slept in full armour…
The army – without the French – covered five miles that day, and camped for the night near Tell Keisan. The Saracen hill was deserted, and the Frankish scouts returned bewildered to report – nothing.
‘They have vanished, lord King. We ventured halfway to Haifa, then came back among the foothills. We did not even engage any of their patrols.’
‘They’re about,’ Richard said. ‘Circling behind us, at a guess. Troyes and Burgundy had better sleep with their eyes open tonight.’
As the army settled down beneath the bare hill, heralds strode from one contingent to the next, leading the Crusaders in the thrice-cried prayer, Sanctum Sepulchrum Adjuva! – Assist us, Holy Sepulchre!
* * *
The three queens made the best of their sojourn at Acre. They got along tolerably well together, though each acknowledged that the others were waiting for an individual sound, a personal call that would affect only one of the three.
Joanna was attending her brother’s instructions – whatever they might be. Perhaps Richard would reinstate her as Queen of Sicily; perhaps he would marry her to one of the Crusading nobles; perhaps he would send her to England, to be with her mother. For the moment she was content to wait and see.
Berengaria was equally philosophical. Her problem was simple; she was waiting to be called to Richard’s side – in bed and out. She hoped the call would come soon, for she had almost exhausted the excuses as to why the roaring, ginger-haired giant delayed the consummation of their marriage.
Maria did not rely upon Richard’s word or whim. She waited for Balian to return to her – unharmed, please God, – as a thousand ladies waited for their lords. She also listened for news of Isabella, and watched for the letter that never came. Ernoul had successfully delivered that single missive from mother to daughter, but two months had passed and there was still no reply. Joanna and Berengaria were sympathetic, as Maria sympathized with them. But there was little they could do for each other. They were merely regal travellers, staying at the same inn.
* * *
The mornings were the worst, for she twisted over, crawled to the edge of the bed and retched ineffectually into a deep silver basin. At first she believed the action was brought on by the disgust she felt for him, an afterward rejection of his thin body, his clawing fingers, his lank black hair. She wanted to believe it, for she could not yet face the alternative…
* * *
The army was under way again, moving south towards Haifa and Mount Carmel. Richard had lost all patience with the French, who were still north of the Belus River. He sent a terse message to Henry of Troyes and Hugh of Burgundy – ‘We no longer count upon your support; do not, therefore, count upon ours’ – and dismissed them from his mind.
Shortly after midday, a sudden summer storm masked the sun and dragged veils of water across the coastal plain. The rain brought the Saracens from the ground like magicked crops. Mounted archers and fleet-footed Nubian and Bedouin infantry caught the French as they were fording the Belus. The Crusaders suffered heavy losses, though the sheer weight of the French knights enabled them to drive the Moslems from the river banks. Two hours later the chastened army was hurrying to catch up with the main Frankish force.
* * *
As they rode, Humphrey and Ernoul plotted the death of Regent Conrad. It was a clandestine exercise, for they knew Balian would not support them – not yet, anyway – and if he discovered what they were about, he would do everything in his power to stop them. But they were young men, close friends, and, as they saw it, obliged to save Isabella from the monster of Montferrat. He had possessed her now for nine months, during which time neither her mother, nor her stepfather had set eyes on her. Nor had Humphrey seen her, though he maintained that her beauty was etched for ever on his inner eye. He remembered the message Ernoul had brought back from Tyre – ‘Tell Humphrey he has my heart. He will always have it.’ – and the words kept him from frenzy or despair.
However, the determination of baron and squire had taken on a romantic colouring. This was their personal Crusade, to ride to the rescue of the Princess of Jerusalem, to fight their way into the palace at Tyre and to strike down the vile Regent. They discounted the Tyrians who manned the gates, ducked and ran in their imagination, evading the palace guards, found Conrad where they dreamed of finding him, killed him with two quick sword thrusts, first Humphrey, then Ernoul, snatched Isabella and escaped, in disguise, in a hay cart, by ship, on stolen horses, it did not matter. It could be done. At least, whispering together, passing encouragement between them like a shared loaf, they believed it could be done.
But it could not be done yet, not until they had helped drive the Saracens from the coast and from Jerusalem. Conrad was the sweetmeat with which to end the meal.
* * *
The army reached Haifa to find the city razed to the ground. A man need not now enter by the main gate; he could simply step over the demolished wall. Many of the houses had been left standing; a generous omission by the Moslems, and one for which the dazed inhabitants were mutely grateful. Those who had overcome the shock of being in a city without walls informed the Frankish leaders that the Saracens had looked fit and confident.
The Crusaders struck camp two days later, having reorganized the order of march, overhauled the equipment and allowed the wounded Frenchmen a brief respite. They continued south, with the Templars in the van, and the Hospitallers forming the vulnerable rearguard. The army advanced in three columns, the main bulk of infantry on the left, the knights and mounted archers in the centre, the weapons’ and baggage carts on the right, near the beach. Keeping pace with the land troops were the French and English fleets, plus galleys from Germany, Italy, Denmark and a dozen other Christian nations.
There was no rain today, and no wind; just the pitiless summer sun and the salt air and the sand stirred by the baggage train. At sea men fell prostrate on the decks, or crashed from the wooden castles. On land they shed their armour, then staggered from the column and sank to the ground, their eyes upturned under fluttering lids. Progress was agonisingly slow, and would have been slow even without the hammer blows of heat, for the Crusaders were now forced to hack their way through a forest of head-high thorn bushes. As though this was not enough, the bushes themselves were draped with briars, while the ground turned soft underfoot. The mounted knights shielded their horses with skins and blankets, but the foot soldiers could not afford such protection and dabbed at their torn faces with torn hands. The army abandoned its formation and spread a mile inland in search of a path through the thorns. The baggage carts were driven along the beach, where they bogged down every few yards. The air was filled with curses and roars of pain, while the mile-wide wave ebbed and flowed against the spiky barrier.
From time to time a shout would go up from one of the leading sections, and a number of archers would let fly at something in the brush. More often than not the arrows and crossbow quarrels would be wasted, though occasionally one of the archers would reach down and lift a small, transfixed bundle in the air.
> Riding alongside his king, Robert of Breteuil asked, ‘What are they doing, ahead?’
Richard licked salt from his moustache. Remembering the falcon at Jesi, he said, ‘You have no talent for spotting birds and animals. They’re after jerboas.’
‘They look like rats.’
‘They’re akin, though jerboas have long black legs and – Look! They leap like that.’
Robert glanced along the wavering line, east towards the slopes of Mount Carmel, west towards the beach and the limp sails of the fleet. He could see the long sweeps angling down from the sides of the galleys and thought, there’s not much to choose between us: tearing a path through the thorns, or sweltering over the oars. He turned to Richard again.
‘Another question. If the Saracens are only a day or two ahead of us, why is there no sign of their passage? Do you think they went around the far side of Mount Carmel?’
‘No, this side, but close in among the foothills. I should have had this stretch scouted out before committing the army.’ He saw his companion’s expression and grinned at him. ‘You hardly believe your ears, eh, Robert? Richard of England aware of his own mistakes?’
‘It’s refreshing,’ Robert admitted, ‘though I doubt if it’ll become a habit.’
‘It won’t, for I won’t make this mistake again.’
They emerged from the thorn forest near Capernaum and stopped to bathe their lacerated faces. The jerboas were skinned and gutted, then shared between the man who had first seen the animal and the archer who had shot it. This arrangement gave rise to disputes and fist fights. As a result, the section commanders forbade hunting, and the soldiers fell back on their diet of bread and dried horsemeat.
The Kings of Vain Intent Page 14
