The Grand Masters were frozen into immobility. Then the king clutched at Ermengard and fell heavily at his feet. The spear that none of them had seen or heard protruded from his left side, its blade lost in the folds of his surcoat. Robert of Sablon turned to shout for help. Ermengard hissed, ‘Not yet! Hold his head. Get that damned helmet off. Yes, that’s it, cradle his head, while I see how deep – King, can you speak?’
‘Straighten my legs. Don’t fret, Masters, I can’t taste blood. One of you pull it free. Be quick, for it may be poisoned. Our enemies favour pois— aagh!’ He sank back as Ermengard passed the spear to Robert for inspection. The Templar ran his tongue over the leaf-shaped blade, suddenly embarrassed because he was licking the king’s blood. Then he wiped the tip clean and studied it. ‘I think not. There’s no discolouring, and I can only taste – There’s no special bitterness.’
Ermengard grunted. ‘It went between his hip and the rib bones. Give me your gauntlets.’
Even at such a time Robert was tempted to retort, why not use your own? Then he noticed the sweat-marks on the Hospitaller’s gloves and tore the newer pair from his hands. Ermengard tugged at the gash in Richard’s hauberk, enlarging the hole, then wadded the gauntlets against the wound.
The king murmured, ‘It makes a man a fool, to be stood there, pronouncing on ambushes – But, you know, Masters, it was a good throw.’
‘Stay quiet, King. Master Robert, will you bring some of your Templars up here? Or my men, if they’re nearer. Don’t tell them why. We must keep this from the army.’
Robert nodded curtly and strode away down the hill. The Hospitaller cradled Richard’s head in his arms. He thought, is this the turning point? Do we now become like the Germans and the French, a kingless horde, flying fifty banners? They say one never sees the fatal blow.
* * *
But Ermengard de Daps had been too pessimistic. Three days after King Richard had sustained the spear wound, he was on horesback, directing the advance through the Forest of Arsuf. No more than a handful of men – the Grand Masters and a few Templars and one or two section commanders – were even aware that Cœur-de-Lion had been struck down. His dressings were changed at night, in the privacy of his tent, or behind some trees, away from the army.
Balian and Humphrey had taken charge of the scouts, many of them one-time foresters, and fanned out among the trees. Balian’s broken fingers were held firm inside a clay cast. He had been told that he would have to wear the cast for several weeks, but he was already tapping it against the trees, hoping it would crack.
Strangely, the forest was devoid of traps and trip-ropes, and there were no Saracen archers tied to the upper branches. The journey proved uneventful, and the army emerged from the forest before dusk.
They were now on a narrow plain, flanked on the west by low sand dunes and the ragged hem of the Great Sea, and on the east by the wall of oaks. Behind them lay a small river, which they had skirted. Three miles to the south was the coastal town of Arsuf. Richard intended to re-garrison the town, then press on without delay to Jaffa. The only obstacle in their path was the Jaffa River, or so it seemed in the fast-fading light.
Chapter Twelve
Arsuf
September 1191
The narrow passageway was lined with grilled windows. Those in the outer wall overlooked the harbour at Tyre, the town and castle of Toron, the camp at Acre. Through an inner window he could see Isabella, drowning in a lake of green water. She was naked, and lay still, her chin clear of the water. Steam, or was it sulphur fumes, rose from the lake and dampened the girl’s hair…
He shouted at her, ‘Isabella! Isabella!’ then ran to the next inner window.
Conrad of Montferrat was pacing a blood-stained floor. He swung a long cloak around his shoulders, stared at himself in a hammered metal mirror, then reached down to tug at his boot-tops. He seemed unaware of the blood on the floor and on the soles of his boots…
He shouted, Conrad! For God’s sake, save her! She is in there! Conrad, she is in there!’ He fled to another window.
A street market, noisy and colourful. The centrepiece of the market was a steaming lake, empty but for a bishop’s mitre that floated towards the far bank. Conrad appeared, scooped the cleft cap from the water and pressed it under his arm. The crowd fell silent…
He ran back to the first window.
Isabella was still there, floating now, smiling to herself. But blood from Conrad’s room had begun to spread across the tiled floor, a tiled floor around a lake, and was about to drip into the green water…
‘Isabella! Hear me! Please hear me!’
The man said, ‘Be calm, my Lord Humphrey. I hear you.’ He stared at the soldier who stood in the entrance to the tent. ‘I had a bad dream,’ he mouthed. ‘I saw a lake—’
‘There’s no lake hereabouts, sire, just the Jaffa River, an hour’s ride away.’
‘It’s light out.’
‘It’s dawn, my lord. I’m sorry you woke so hard, but I was on my way to fetch you. You’re wanted with the other leaders. There’s something you should see.’
Humphrey shivered with cold and with the fragments of memory, then rubbed a hand across his face and swung his legs from the cot. He reached for his boots – there is no blood on them – and grunted, ‘What is it?’
‘We are not sure.’
‘Hand me the hauberk, will you. Ay! It’s cold.’ He buckled his swordbelt, lifted his helmet from a chair and followed the soldier from the tent. Outside, he straightened and stretched, then went towards the southern perimeter of the camp. He stopped twice on the way to shake his head free of the dream. Then he hunched his shoulders and walked on, yawning.
Amalric and the Grand Master of the Temple were already out, talking with the perimeter guards. They had never supported the Nablus–Toron faction, and did not waste their breath on a greeting. Balian arrived, followed by King Richard and King Guy. Farther along the line Humphrey could see Henry of Troyes and Hugh of Burgundy. The Frenchmen were soon joined by the Grand Master of the Hospital. A few moments later, Robert of Breteuil came through the camp to stand beside Cœur-de-Lion.
The ten senior Crusaders turned their attention to the south. In the dawn light they studied the dust cloud that spread from the shoreline to the wall of oaks. Arsuf was completely hidden by the pall and, even as they watched, the greyish cloud rolled closer, covering the trees. One by one the leaders turned to Richard.
He said, ‘Make a circle,’ then crouched down, pulling grass out by its roots. When he had cleared a patch of ground he drew his dagger and scratched a crude outline in the sandy soil.
‘That’s the forest. The Jaffa River runs across there somewhere. Behind us is that other river; I’ll mark it there. To our right, the beach.’
Robert of Breteuil observed, ‘We’re boxed-in. Trees on one side, water on three.’
Richard balanced the knife, letting the blade nod for him. ‘A box designed as a coffin.’ He erased the map with his hand, then said, ‘Now, give me your attention. The Templars will be in the van. Grand Master?’
Robert of Sablon grunted acknowledgment. Richard cut a small cross in the earth.
‘My Lords of Troyes and Burgundy, will you command the second section, following the Templars with your own countrymen and the Bretons and Angevins?’
They nodded, and he marked their assent.
‘After you, King Guy and Constable Amalric. You’ll take the third section, namely the Poitevins and those mercenaries who already support you. We know the Tyrians won’t travel under your banners, so, in the continued absence of Regent Conrad, they’ll answer to our Lords of Nablus and Toron.’
Balian said, ‘We can make up a section from all the local contingents.’ He turned to Humphrey for confirmation.
Richard cut another cross and went on, ‘I’ll follow you, with the men of England and Normandy. That leaves Master Ermengard. Your Hospitallers will have to take the rear again, Master. I’ll have spare horses set aside fo
r you.’ He rocked back on his heels, winced as his hip and rib bones closed over his wound, then looked up at the ring of helmeted Crusaders.
‘There are two things I would say to you, messires. First, you must hold your men in line. Whatever your condition, however hard the enemy press you, you must not be drawn. You must not, is that clear?’
They gazed down at the man who had secured his dominions in France, subdued Sicily and Cyprus, recaptured Acre, re-garrisoned Caesarea and brought them face to face with Islam. Because of all this, because he had held them together thus far, they said yes, it was clear.
‘Good. Then the second thing. When the time comes to attack, I will send word to the heralds. We’ll station two in King Guy’s section, two in Lord Balian’s, and two in my own. That way, you will all hear the trumpets when they sound. Listen for them, but I stress to you, do not anticipate them.’ He pushed himself to his feet and wiped the blade of his knife on his surcoat. Then he nodded to them and said, ‘God will ride with us, messires, and we will be in Arsuf by nightfall.’ There was no doubt in his voice, for what could the black demons do against the combined skill of God and Cœur-de-Lion?
* * *
The Saracens attacked at first light. The rolling dust cloud concealed the major part of the Moslem army, but they had also infiltrated through the forest, to emerge behind the Christian column. Saladin and his son, al-Afdal, shared command of the southern force with the Sultan’s brother, Saphadin, while Emir Takedin, who had routed Amalric and Joscelin at Acre, led seven thousand Bedouin and Nubian infantry against the Hospitaller rearguard.
These knights were the hardest hit. Amid scenes of wild confusion they found themselves driven forward into the English and Norman ranks. The black-caparisoned horses fell, riddled with arrows, crushing the foot soldiers and hurling the riders to the ground. Grand Master Ermengard was brought down three times in an hour. He lost his sword in the first fall, and moments later his helmet. On each occasion he snatched a replacement from a dead or dying Hospitaller, then stumbled through the mêlée in search of another destrier.
Meanwhile, the Christian army had advanced to within a mile of Arsuf. Richard and Hugh of Burgundy rode back and forth, yelling at the Crusaders to stay in line. This was essential. Nothing could stop the armoured might of Christendom – a vast centipede of war – unless the Crusaders themselves faltered or broke ranks. Yet this tight, anonymous formation went against the Frankish grain.
One of the most widely respected knights, an experienced warrior named James d’Avennes, rounded on Richard as he passed.
‘Are we to go down without striking a single blow?’
‘Stay calm, d’Avennes, we’re making ground.’
But look about you, King! They see us too terrified to strike back.’ Suddenly close to tears, he raged, ‘We are candidates for infamy! This is not our way!’
‘Hold a while longer—’
‘I cannot.’
‘D’Avennes, listen to me—’
‘No, King, but you may hear the words I use.’ He pulled his horse from the line and roared the common battle cry, ‘God and the Sepulchre!’ Then, with the words trailing after him like a lettered banner, he charged the nearest Saracens.
Incredibly, he cut his way through a close-packed group of bowmen, wheeled and came through them again, then turned his horse for another charge. All the while his sword flashed and spun, inflicting terrible damage on the lightly armed archers. He took two arrows in the chest and another above the groin, but his link-mail hauberk stopped the shafts before they entered his body. The Crusaders in that section of the column watched him re-enter a second group, and heard him cry, ‘God and the Sep—’; then there was no more, for he had been dragged from the saddle and stabbed to death.
Hugh of Burgundy gave permission for his body to be reclaimed before the Saracens could mutilate it. The line bulged as the eager Crusaders overran the Moslem archers. When they returned with the corpse they reported that James d’Avennes had been surrounded by fifteen dead Moslems…
* * *
Now every section was under attack. The Templars had been as badly mauled as the rival Hospitallers, and they had lost so many horses that Henry of Troyes, who had taken charge of the baggage wagons, refused all requests that did not come directly from Grand Masters Robert or Ermengard. So the knights in the other sections fought on muleback, or on foot.
And still Richard made them hold the line. Men cursed him openly as he rode past, but this time he did not allow his personal feelings to wrest control. He was still the King of England, yes; still Cœur-de-Lion, but he carried far greater weight today as Commander-in-Chief of a Christian army, an exemplar general doing that which he did best among all things. The army could not have been better led. He knew it, and it was confirmed by sixty thousand soldiers.
Blinded by the dust – a grey cloud that poured out arrows and cane spears and bladders of flaming naphtha – the Crusaders moved ponderously forward, away from the southern fringe of the forest.
* * *
The reports that reached Saladin were contradictory and incomplete. He had heard that his nephew, Takedin, had smashed the black-and-white knights of the Hospital; then that they had regrouped and driven the Nubians back among the trees. His brother, Saphadin, claimed to have inflicted enormous losses on the Christian centre, and in particular among Lord Balian’s local troops. Yet al-Afdal had glimpsed the Lord of Nablus an hour later, supported by a healthy number of knights, and had hurried to his father’s tent to tell him that the Christian centre still held its formation.
‘Nothing seems to bring them forth. Have you ever known them so disciplined? If they’re not soon halted and broken apart, they’ll push us into the river.’
Saladin shook his head. The leader of Islam looked older than his fifty-three years, and his skin had taken on a pallor that had nothing to do with the dust-filled air. There was grey in his beard, though it was still kept clean, still washed twice a day in rose water. But this merely accentuated the poor condition of his skin, the hollow cheeks and the smudges of sleeplessness under his eyes. He had devoted thirty years of his life to his people. He was their father, after Allah; their guide, after Mohammed. He was the politician who had united them, the statesman who had kept the peace for them, the general who now led them in their Jihad. It was not to be expected that he would retain the looks of an indolent youth.
Dressed now in a simple, full-length tunic, tied at the waist and fastened at the throat, he shook his head again and said, ‘No, we will disperse before the invaders reach the river line. Like you, my son, I have never known them to hold their ranks so well. Malik Ankiltar must be a rare creature to control such separate forces.’
‘Do you admire him?’
‘As a soldier to a soldier, though I abhor what he did to our men at Acre. That alone condemns him. Yet if you ask if I admire him today, I do. I know how hard it is to bring rivals under one banner.’ He collected his scimitar, waved al-Afdal ahead and followed him from the tent. They stood for a moment, listening to the sounds of battle that drifted through the grey curtain. Then a lone horseman thundered out of the dust cloud. The Sultan and his son drew their curved swords, lowering them as they saw the small, circular shield, the metal cap partly concealed by a turban, the rider’s tunic of overlapping plates. Even before he reined-in he shouted, ‘Malik! We have drawn them! They are out of line!’
* * *
In fact, the messenger’s claim was somewhat exaggerated. Men had broken away, following the example set by James d’Avennes, but these had been individual sorties, not yet a mass defection from the Frankish column. Richard and Hugh continued to patrol the lines, as each moment brought the army farther into the open and closer to the Saracens.
Arsuf now lay to the right of the vanguard, so the Templars were the first to acknowledge the wisdom of Richard’s strategy. Another few hundred yards, and the walled town would be flanked by the land army and the accompanying fleet. A few hundred
yards more, and the Saracens would be pushed inexorably towards the Jaffa River. If the army held its formation until noon, Arsuf would be surrounded.
But at the rear of the column the decimated Hospitallers took a different view of the situation. They were now clear of the forest, though they could not yet see Arsuf through the dust. The knights rode two-to-a-horse, or shuffled backwards, their shields held high against the rain of arrows. Looking around them, they could not find one of their number who was not bleeding, or nursing some wrenched or broken limb. They had been hard pressed before, but until today they had been encouraged to strike back. This passive progress robbed them of their spirit, their honour, their very lives. They had borne the unequal struggle throughout the morning, but suddenly they could bear it no longer. With a howl of frustration, two of the knights burst from the line and rode at Takedin’s infantry. The Hospitallers recognized one of the pair as the Marshal of their Order. This was enough. The charge was stamped with authority, and the rearguard spurred out in support. They kept, still disciplined in their fury, closing with their tormentors.
* * *
Henry of Troyes saw the Military Order charge out from the column, and assumed that he had not heard the trumpets. Yelling at the nearest infantry sergeants to arrange protection for the baggage wagons, he galloped through his own section, collecting his knights like burrs on a woollen blanket.
* * *
Robert of Breteuil witnessed the French breakout, and led thirty English knights along the shoreline. At the same moment, the Lords of Nablus and Toron swept out to the east, followed by forty of their own contingent. This action inspired Philip of Beauvais and his brother, Robert of Dreux, and another mass of knights erupted from the column.
The Kings of Vain Intent Page 16
