Capernaum had been razed by the retreating Moslems, so the army marched on, in formation again towards the nearby castle and town of Atlit. Here, in the late afternoon, they found the castle deserted, its upperworks demolished, its wooden gates cut down and burned. In the town itself, every house had been reduced to rubble. It seemed that Saracen generosity was exhausted.
The Crusaders did not yet know that Saladin had commanded his brother Saphadin to destroy the cities and fortresses of Jaffa, Ascalon, Ramleh, Beaumont, Mirabel and Gaza. And young Humphrey of Toron did not yet know that his own castle had been added to the list. In fact, the Sultan had decided that everything would be razed, save for Jerusalem and the southernmost link in the coastal chain, the small castle of Darum. This would act as a postern gate for the displaced Moslem civilians. From here they would leave for Egypt or Nubia, where they would remain until the Jihad, the Holy War, was won.
Saladin believed that if the Crusaders could be drawn that far south, whilst all the time being hemmed-in against the shore, the strength would be sapped from them. The Christian army could not advance more than ten miles a day, and would need to make frequent halts to rest and recover. It would therefore take them two weeks or more to descend the hard hundred miles from Acre to Darum. From now on they would be subjected to the ceaseless fire-and-flee tactics of the Saracen archers and, if they were still able to keep up the impetus of their advance, they would find every village uninhabitable, every fortress untenable. And when they reached Darum, the worst would still be ahead – the sixty inland miles through the hills of Judea to Jerusalem.
* * *
The physicians and the astrologers and the priests who had studied medicine had gone. She was alone in her bedchamber, alone with the news she had dreaded. A year ago she would have trembled with happiness, and the room would have dinned with laughter, gentle humour, even a few coarse jokes. But it had not happened a year ago. It had happened now. And now there was no laughter, not even a faint, inward smile.
She lay waiting, heard his footsteps in the passageway, watched the door swing open and looked at him, tall, narrow-shouldered, cadaverous.
He asked, ‘Did they make their diagnosis?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well?’
‘It is as I – as I thought. I am with child.’
He put his head back and nodded at the patterned ceiling. ‘So I was right. I said all along, it was Humphrey who lacked the juice.’
She said, ‘Come closer, my lord.’ Then, when his thin fingers touched the coverlet, Isabella spat in his face.
* * *
By full light the army had forded the Nahr Zerka – called by the Crusaders the Crocodile River, in memory of two Frankish knights who had been dragged under by the loathsome reptiles – and were covering the three open miles to Caesarea. They had repulsed several surprise attacks, and the Templars and Hospitallers had changed position again, giving the black-and-white knights a chance to lick their wounds. One day, they joked, somebody would train palfreys to trot backwards, or perfect a saddle that would enable the members of the rearguard to face the way they’d come. Until then, the end riders would continue to suffer with strained neck muscles and die with an arrow in the back.
King Guy and Constable Amalric took their turn in the van, nearing Caesarea an hour ahead of the main force. They talked with Grand Master Robert of Sablon as they approached the city, then let all conversation lapse and spurred through the open gateway.
Saphadin had followed his brother’s orders to the letter.
The wooden beams that would be lowered in place across the inner side of the gates had been cut through. Naphtha had been hurled against the iron hinges, welding them into useless lumps. Fires raged throughout the city, and part of the massive, square-sided keep had collapsed. Stones had been prised from the long, landward wall, then more naphtha used to bring down sections of the wall-walk. When the riders had made their way between the burning buildings to the western side of the city, they discovered that the unique, circular harbour had been blocked with sunken fishing craft. Smoke hung low in the air, or rose up steeply above the direct heat of the flames.
Caesarea was by no means devoid of its inhabitants, but they stood in silent groups, Moslem craftsman with Christian merchant, too stunned to fight the fires, heedless of the new arrivals. A few hours ago the Saracens had killed their city; what did it matter if the Crusaders now killed them?
Seeing the groups, Amalric snarled, ‘Like gelded rams!’
‘Wethers,’ Guy murmured.
‘What?’
‘Such rams, they’re called—’
His brother made a harsh sound in his throat, then urged his horse across to the nearest group. ‘Stir yourselves,’ he shouted. Fetch some buckets and deal with those fires. You! Let me see you at work!’
The man he had singled out, an elderly Venetian who had lived in Caesarea most of his life, lifted his shoulders and stared along the smoke-filled street. ‘Which part of the city do you want saved, my lord?’
Amalric sensed insolence in his tone and used his horse to separate him from his friends. ‘I want it all saved, old man, all doused with water. Do you understand that?’
The man looked up at him for a moment, studying the narrow, angry face, and the eyes set close behind the nasal of his helmet. Then he jerked his head at the others in the group and led them slowly along the street.
Not sure if he had been obeyed, or insulted, Amalric started after them. Then Guy moved his palfrey across the street, blocking his brother. ‘Leave them be,’ he said. ‘They are not trained to fight fires of this magnitude. Let’s wait—’
‘A city in flames, and you would rather watch it burn. I see.’
‘No, but I would not hound those who have already lost everything. At this stage, a few more moments cannot matter. If we wait for Richard—’
‘If we wait for Richard. The same solution to every problem. And, in the meantime, do nothing.’
Guy looked past his brother. The building behind Amalric seemed ready to collapse. The king opened his mouth to say, move forward, then closed it again. His own silence frightened him. He watched the smoke and flames leak between the timbers, or pour from the unshuttered windows.
Amalric said, ‘Now you resemble them, what did you call them, wethers?’
The building creaked and, somewhere inside, part of the upper floor collapsed.
Can I do it? Can I stand his loss? Amalric gone from my life? God, what a pure, sweet thought. I don’t need him. I never did. He made me believe it, but I never did. With him gone, I can—
Grand Master Robert of Sablon called out, ‘Move forward, Constable. That house looks unsafe.’
Seeming to ignore the warning, Amalric looked hard at Guy, then walked his horse to the centre of the street. A moment later the house fell in a fountain of sparks and splintered wood.
The city continued to burn until Richard and Hugh of Burgundy arrived and organized efficient units of firefighters.
* * *
They spent two days restoring Caesarea. New hinges were wrought and bolted to the main gates. The land wall was shored up at its weakest points, and the wall-walk partially rebuilt. A third of the houses had been gutted, and half the remaining buildings were judged unsafe. But miraculously the city’s central food stores had survived the fire, while the wells and cisterns supplied a meagre but sufficient ration of fresh water.
The Crusaders who had been wounded or injured during the forty-mile march from Acre were left to convalesce. The defence of the city itself was put in the hands of an international garrison, four hundred strong. Then the army continued south towards the next natural obstacle, the Nahr al Mefjir, known as the Dead River.
A mile north of the river, the Frankish force came under attack.
This detachment of the Saracen army was led by one of the great warriors of Islam, the legendary Emir Aias Estoy. The man had been born a freak, but had turned it to his advantage. Now, in the
prime of his life, he measured seven and a half feet in height, weighed as much as two ordinary men, and contained the strength of six. Many of the local barons had heard of the exploits of Emir Estoy, but had dismissed the stories as empty fables. Seeing him for the first time, they thought again.
Even Richard, catching sight of the Moslem as he led a force of Ramieh and Harbieh north from the river, reined-in sharply. Shielding his eyes from the sun, the king squinted at the massive, turbaned figure and at the horse that would have outweighed the sturdiest Norman destrier. ‘Jambes de De,’ he whispered, ‘what region of Hell does he inhabit?’
The Saracens adopted their usual tactics, sweeping across the face of the Christian army, firing as they rode. Sounds from the rear told the commanders that the Knights of the Temple had also come under attack. Richard spurred back, shouting as he had shouted for the past week, ‘Hold your line! Don’t let them draw you! Stay in line!’
When the Moslem archers had inflicted sufficient damage to bring the Christian army to a halt, they retreated to the north bank of the river. Then Emir Estoy issued a challenge – He would meet any Unbeliever in single combat.
Knights from every section sought out Cœur-de-Lion, or Hugh of Burgundy. Both leaders forbade them to leave the column, but the opportunity to bring down the giant proved irresistible – a man would be honoured for life, a hero to every woman in every city of the West – and two knights charged out to meet the challenge.
Armed with a spear twice the thickness of any Crusader lance, and a scimitar that might have been forged from the hoop of a wine cask, Emir Estoy killed each knight in turn. He then dismounted, beheaded them – to remind the Unbelievers of the Moslems who had been massacred at Acre – and took the heads back to his troops.
The Crusaders stared aghast. Fostus muttered something to his master, and Balian nodded and moved forward beside Richard.
‘My lord King. This is no tourney in some damp English field. Given the chance, that monster will hold us here, killing us one by one.’
‘They were told to stay in line, damn them. I won’t answer for them if they disobey.’
‘That’s fair, but the soldiers will lose heart if they see our knights go down. Against that, Estoy’s death would dismay his own troops. My constable, Fostus, believes it can be achieved.’
‘I told you,’ Richard said, ‘if he goes out there, he dies disobedient.’
‘He has another scheme. Will you listen to him, King?’
‘Why not? All I can think of is to crush the brute with a stone from our largest catapult.’ He nodded as Fostus came alongside. ‘Well, you look solid. You might scratch him, I suppose.’
‘I shall not try,’ Fostus said, ‘not alone. My way, we need five proven fighters. We wait until Estoy leads an attack, then the five ride out to deal with him, ignoring all else.’
‘Five to one? Is that honourable?’
Fostus clicked his tongue. ‘Either you intend to cross that river, or you don’t. If Estoy stood a hundred feet high you wouldn’t send one man against him. Well, he stands that high to his people. Set five on him, King, or think of something better.’
Seated within earshot, Robert of Breteuil turned a smile into a cough; Lord Balian’s man is even more direct than I am.
Richard was thinking the same thing, decided to get angry, then changed his mind. ‘I’m not usually spoken to in that way. However. You think five will be enough?’
‘Can we afford to lose more?’
‘And are you one of these five, Constable?’
Fostus did not deign to reply. Richard went on, ‘I’ll join you. That leaves three.’
‘No,’ Balian said. ‘Not you, nor King Guy, nor the French commanders. That would be an irreplaceable loss. You have Fostus and I—’
Robert of Breteuil said, ‘We need two more. Isn’t it time Seneschal Joscelin earned his way?’
They passed the word back and were joined by a reluctant Joscelin and the French champion, William des Barres. There was a strained silence as Richard and William came face to face. Then the king thrust out a hand and William took it, bowing in the saddle. The fight with the Sicilian canes was forgotten, and Messina a world away.
Balian explained what was to be done. The army moved forward a quarter of a mile, hoping to entice the Saracens from the river bank. They came before noon, with Emir Estoy at their head.
Together, risking the flights of ostrich-feathered arrows, Balian, Fostus, Robert, William and Joscelin cantered from the van. When less than fifty yards separated them from the swerving Ramieh, the knights jabbed inwards with their prick spurs and charged the giant.
The Seneschal of the Kingdom, Joscelin of Courtenay, was killed in the first moment of the fight. He took the blade of Estoy’s spear in the throat and crashed back, surprised in death that the Moslem could be so accurate with such an unwieldy weapon.
William des Barres was wrenched from his saddle by another Saracen, though his well-trained destrier halted until the Frenchman had remounted.
Balian approached Estoy’s right side, saw him swing the great scimitar and hurled his shield at the curved blade. The kite-shaped shield spun away, wide of its target, and Balian flung himself to the ground. His prudence saved his life, for his horse stumbled and crashed down, its spine severed at the croup. Had Balian been in the saddle, he would have been cut in half.
Fostus made a wild grab at the flagstaff spear. He realized immediately that Estoy’s grip was stronger than his own, and let his reins drop as he snatched the pole with his other hand. The horse ran on, jerking him against the high cantle of the saddle. He hissed with pain, held on for another instant, felt Estoy’s single-handed grip weaken, and lurched forward, taking the spear with him. Few Crusaders were as strong as Fostus, yet the weapon was almost too heavy to carry.
Unintentionally last, Robert of Breteuil followed in the Constable’s wake. He kicked his feet free of the stirrups, dragged his destrier to the left and rode at full gallop into the Moslem giant. Neither the Norman warhorse, nor the Frankish rider were a match for the Emir. The horse whinnied and fell, its neck broken in the collision. Robert was thrown forward against the incredible bulk of Estoy. Like a child at play with his father, the Crusader wrapped his arms around the Moslem’s neck, then let his body hang free. It took time, an interminable time, but the giant gradually leaned to one side, his right arm twisted in an attempt to stab the leech on his neck. But the leech was no child – rather, a well-built knight in hauberk and helmet – and with a sharp, surprisingly high-pitched cry, Estoy slid sideways, unhorsed.
Already on the ground, Balian stumbled forward. He saw the Emir slash at Robert, saw the scimitar draw blood, saw Richard’s companion roll away, his contribution complete. Then Fostus bored past, pulling his horse at the last moment, so that it took deep, gouging steps across Estoy’s body. The crescent sword wavered and fell, and Fostus let the stolen spear hang vertically before plunging it into the Emir’s chest.
William collected the wounded Robert. Fostus hauled Balian up behind him. Joscelin was left where he had fallen. It was only as they fled back to their own lines that the four survivors noticed the spray of arrows that had lodged in their link-mail hauberks…
Balian had broken two fingers in the fall from his horse. Robert was bleeding badly from the deep scimitar cut on his left leg. Fostus smothered a groan and massaged his spine, William a bruised body and, inexplicably, a swollen eye. It had been an expensive victory.
They had all suffered, but the Saracens had suffered more. Emir Aias Estoy would be immortalized, and the truth coloured by exaggeration. The five Crusaders would become ten, then twenty, and they would be led by Malik Ankiltar – Roi d’Angleterre – Richard Lionheart. But all this would be told in the future. Now Estoy was dead, and the Ramieh collected his body and retreated across the river. But before they left, they directed their fury at the corpse of Seneschal Joscelin. Amalric made no attempt to reclaim the body of the man who had been his faithf
ul echo for so many years. Alive, Joscelin had had his uses. Dead, he was not worth the ride out.
The open ground gave way to irregular hills, covered with high, saw-edged grass. This natural hazard was augmented by man-made traps. Knives had been planted, blade uppermost, in the earth. Pits had been dug, so that the unwary Crusader fell on to upright bamboo spikes. Tripwires were sprung, launching more poisoned blades at the legs of men and animals. And all the while, the arrows rained down.
The Templars continued to act as the rearguard, though they were forced to request more horses, to replace those that had been killed or gone lame. It was the consensus of opinion that, along this stretch of the coast, a man could not take four short paces in any direction without snapping the shaft of an arrow, or tripping over a concealed blade.
They passed a series of ruined villages and stopped halfway between the Dead River and their destination that night, the Nahr Iskanderuneh, the Salt River. When Richard had devoured his meat and bread he climbed one of the low hills and discussed the situation with the Grand Masters of the Temple and the Hospital. Robert of Sablon and Ermengard de Daps had arrived at an uneasy truce, laying aside their rivalry for the sake of the Christian Cause. Even so, the Templar thought Ermengard too cautious for the post he held, while the experienced Hospitaller regarded the newly made Grand Master of the Temple as one of the more fortunate novi homines.
The topic of disucussion was how best to negotiate the next obstacle after the Salt River, an oak forest that stretched from the outskirts of Athabec, three miles to the south, to the walled town of Arsuf, fourteen miles beyond. The Forest of Arsuf was one of the few extensive areas of woodland in Palestine, and it held an obvious attraction for any would-be ambushers. Richard suggested that the entire route be treated as though a stag hunt was in progress, with scouts moving ahead of the army, combing the forest like beaters.
‘We will remain as close to the sea as we can. Tell your men to keep their eyes up as well as down, for the enemy may place their more accurate archers among the high branches. I’ve seen it before. They tie themsel— Aah, Jesus, I’m hit!’
The Kings of Vain Intent Page 15
