* * *
Richard watched them go, one group on the heels of the other. His first thought – his only thought – was to stop them before it was too late. If they went like this, thirty and forty at a time, they would be encircled and cut down. In less time than it would take to list them, the military elite of every Western nation would have fallen under the crescent swords of Islam. It had to be prevented. They had to be recalled.
Then, having exhausted himself in his efforts to keep the Crusaders in line, he realized that they could not be called back. Where some commanders would have hesitated, Richard did not hesitate. Where some would have clung tenaciously to their original, correct decision, Cœur-de-Lion performed a complete volte-face and drew fresh energy from the reversal. If he could not stop the breakaway, he would make the best of it, and let the army have its head.
He rode close to one of the weapons’ carts, snatched his massive, double-headed axe from the pile, and summoned a waiting trumpeter. ‘Catch your wind and sound the attack. Keep sounding it. Let everybody hear it. Blare it out, man!’ Then he balanced the five-foot axe shaft and charged forward, yelling at the foot soldiers to stand aside. The sight of him and the sound of the trumpets brought knights from this quarter and that – Angevins and Normans, Danes and Sicilians, the English who had not already followed Robert of Breteuil, and a further group of Frenchmen led by William des Barres.
The Crusaders now saw Richard of England spring to life from their dreams. This was how he looked in the stories and poems, the pale eyes half closed against the dust, the mouth wide, roaring ‘God and the Sepulchre!’ the great axe that seemed like a toy in his hands, the crested helmet leaking ginger-red hair around his neck and ears, the leopards that snarled from his shield and clawed their way across his tattered surcoat. This was the man with a lion’s heart. This was the Christian giant carving his way through the Holy Land. This was Richard as Richard!
Takedin’s Bedouin and Nubian infantry were routed. The Hospitallers pursued them as far as the forest, and the English archers went on to shoot them among the trees. Others fled to the coast, but the cliffs there reared eighty feet above the Great Sea. The Saracens stood with their backs to the water, while the purposeful Crusaders exchanged their crossbows for iron-studded clubs…
Takedin eluded capture.
Of the seven thousand Moslems who had earlier outflanked the Christian army, less than two thousand responded to his call. The Frankish counter-attack had achieved what he, himself, had set out to achieve. But whereas he had failed to splinter the Christian force, the Hospitallers and the other mounted knights had cut through the Moslem lines, then cut through them again and again. Takedin’s troops were now dispersed over the entire plain, leaving him to salvage those he could and retreat southward. He reached the open ground beyond the forest, saw that Saladin’s tent had been moved nearer the river, and made an unsuccessful attempt to join up with the Sultan’s harassed Mamlukes. Everywhere he turned he faced the Frankish invaders. With each fresh onslaught the knights gained more ground. He realized that it was only a matter of time before the Saracens were forced to abandon the field.
He continued to send regular reports to the Sultan. In return he heard that Saphadin had ordered his men to withdraw along the north bank of the Jaffa River. Saladin had positioned his Mamlukes so that they could cover the withdrawal, and he advised his nephew to take advantage of it. The mournful clarions were sounded, and in the early afternoon the remnants of the Moslem army melted away among the gullies and defiles of the Samarian hills.
* * *
The Crusaders moved about the plain, killing the wounded Saracens, collecting weapons and horses, pocketing coins and jewellery. They had lost eight hundred of their own men, though James d’Avennes was the only notable martyr. In exchange, those soldiers who could count scoured the plain, then assembled before King Richard to give him their estimate of enemy losses. There was some dispute, but they finally arrived at a satisfactory figure. At least seven thousand Saracens had been killed – there were no wounded now – and among them lay thirty-two who wore the trappings of Emir.
It had been an incomplete victory, though it proved that when the Crusaders were well led, they were more than a match for the soldiers of Islam. The black pigs would be in no hurry to meet them again in pitched battle.
The army was in jubilant mood that September afternoon. Acre and Caesarea had been recaptured. Arsuf would be in Christian hands by nightfall – as Richard had predicted. The enemy had been hounded from the plain and from the banks of the Jaffa River. They were no longer masters of the Great Sea, nor of the coast. Christ! They would be hounded from the foothills, then from the rocky spine of Samaria, then from Jerusalem itself. And after that, from every cave and castle in the land. The Holy Land.
* * *
Arsuf was taken with the loss of only seventeen Crusaders, and the Bishop of Beauvais set about arranging mass for the souls of the dead. The body of James d’Avennes was carried on a shield to the Church of Our Lady, Queen of Heaven, where the Kings of England and Jerusalem assisted in the conduct of the service. Then Henry of Troyes, Hugh of Burgundy, Balian of Ibelin and Robert of Breteuil carried the body from the church and lowered it into the freshly dug grave.
Richard and Guy stood at the grave head, gazing down at the cocooned shape that no longer resembled a man. Then Richard murmured, ‘I saw nothing of you during the fight.’ Guy supposed that his overlord was addressing the dead knight, and offered, ‘He was found with fifteen Moslem corpses—’
‘Not d’Avennes. You.’
‘I was there.’
‘Were you? You sustained no wounds.’
Thoroughly alarmed, Guy retorted, ‘Nor did you!’
‘Where is your brother?’
‘In the city, somewhere.’
‘On the subject, I did not see him either.’
‘Well, he was – about.’
‘Though not wounded.’
‘King, why do you press me? I was on the field. I am always on the field. It is not my fault if I go unnoticed. I do all I can.’ Richard sighed and put a hand on Guy’s arm. An onlooker would find it appealing; a king comforting a king above the grave of a champion. He said, ‘We must do something with you, for it becomes increasingly difficult to prop up your throne. I may give you Cyprus. Would you welcome an island kingdom?’
‘And would Conrad of Montferrat then govern here?’
‘Can it be avoided?’
Guy turned to him. Speaking quietly, he said, ‘I know I do not have much credit in my purse, but I have always been ready to take advice – no, I delude myself – I have always followed my brother’s instructions. But with Joscelin dead, Amalric has lost his one unquestioning supporter. I believe I can stand up to him now, but—’
‘Get to it,’ Richard prompted. ‘Are you asking me to remove Amalric from office?’
‘Yes, lord King. So that I may keep my throne here, and thus deny it to Conrad. God, even I can do more for this country than that ruthless Italian.’
‘But I thought you went in fear of him.’
‘I did. I still do. But if you displace Amalric, I will take care of Regent Conrad.’
Richard smiled at his unhappy vassal. ‘You? How will you do that, Lusignan?’
Guy gazed down at the body of James d’Avennes. Then he ran his tongue over his dry lips and said, ‘I have been giving it some thought. I will go to Tyre and order him to report to the army and if he refuses I will kill him.’
Richard bowed forward and filled the grave with raucous laughter.
* * *
Humphrey’s dreams continued. They always centred around the green lake and the drowning princess, the market and the mitre and Regent Conrad’s blood-stained chamber. The young Lord of Toron repeated them to Balian and Ernoul, but neither could make any sense of them.
Chapter Thirteen
The Coast
September, October 1191
By the end of Septembe
r the Christian troops had grown fat. They had crossed the Jaffa River and descended on the coastal town to find that all, save a few of the landward streets, had been razed to the ground. The Crusaders had pitched camp in a vast fruit and olive orchard, while the fleet had off-loaded supplies, then sailed north to bring fresh meat, horses and equipment from Acre.
Queen Berengaria, Queen Joanna and Queen Maria arrived on the first ship. Richard was not at all pleased to see his wife, or his sister. The camp was no place for women, and there was nothing they could contribute to a military campaign. Before they had left Acre, Maria had advised them to exchange their gowns for armour, and to have their hair cut short, so that it might be washed and dried without fuss.
‘At least it will show the king that you are in earnest, and prepared to make sacrifices for his sake.’
‘That’s too much of a sacrifice,’ Joanna complained. ‘I’m proud of my hair. It is as distinctive as Richard’s. And you overlook an important truth, Maria. When we arrive there, the three of us, dressed as befits a queen, it will encourage the army. Men like to see a beautiful lady. It spurs them to greater effort.’
‘I still say you would be better received in a casque and a hauberk.’
‘And I say there’s nothing to be gained by masquerading as a man.’
So Maria had arrived in boots and link-mail, Berengaria and Joanna in gowns and fur-trimmed pelissons, with their hair in braids. A glance at Richard’s expression told Maria she had been right.
During September other women arrived at Jaffa. Several hundred prostitutes and camp followers had taken the land route. It was a long way from Acre, but their efforts earned them a full-blooded and immediately profitable welcome. They dispersed among the trees, pleased to be doing business in such attractive surroundings. Most of them were town girls, so, while the soldiers sought satisfaction in them, they took an innocent delight in the unharvested crop of grapes, olives, pomegranates, plums of Damascus, figs and almonds.
Balian was reunited with his wife, Ernoul and Fostus with their lady. She told them she had heard nothing from Isabella, though it was rumoured that her daughter was two months with child. She asked Balian’s advice, and agreed with him when he said they would keep the rumour from Humphrey.
‘He’s plagued by bad dreams as it is. Don’t be startled when you see him. We have witnessed a gradual process, but you will find him wasted to nothing.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind. What did you do to your fingers, husband?’
Aided by Fostus, Balian recounted the fight with Emir Estoy. When they had finished, Maria observed, ‘It’s a pity Conrad of Montferrat was not raised to believe in Mohammed.’
Ernoul glanced at her, then looked away before she noticed. This is an advance, he thought, Maria so openly desirous of Conrad’s death. I must tell Humphrey. We may be nearing the time to strike.
* * *
Richard wrote to the court in England:
‘Richard, by the Grace of God, King of England, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and Earl of Anjou – Greetings.
‘Know you that, after the recapture of St Jean d’Acre, and the departure of the King of France, who, in defiance of the Will of God and to the eternal shame of his kingdom, failed in his vow, we marched down to Jaffa.
‘As we were nearing Arsuf, Saladin came upon us. But, by God’s Mercy, we lost no man of importance, save James d’Avennes, a knight dearly loved by the whole army, and rightly so.
‘Thence, by God’s Will and the leadership of His servant, we reached Jaffa, which we are fortifying with ditches and walls, in our attempt to do all within our power to strengthen the Christian Cause.
‘Some days before Saladin’s utter defeat at Arsuf, we were ourselves wounded with a spear in the side, but thanks to God and our own natural strength, we are fully recovered.
‘Know you also that by twenty days after Christmas, we hope, through God’s Grace, to accept the surrender of the Holy City of Jerusalem, and to deliver thanks to the Lord in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, after which we shall return home.
Witness: Myself at Jaffa.’
* * *
King Guy’s failure to stand out at the battle of Arsuf dragged him still lower in the esteem of the troops. Apart from the short span of popularity at Acre, when Richard had first arrived, Guy had been unable to impress himself upon the army, and they unable to accept as their king such an irresolute man, such a pastel man. They knew that it was really Constable Amalric – formerly abetted by Seneschal Joscelin – who listened with Guy’s ears and spoke with his tongue. But there were occasions, such as the battle, when each man had to make his own way. If King Guy had done so, they had not seen it. Looking at him, it was easier to believe that he had spent the battle crouched under a laundry cart.
The test came during October. The soft life at Jaffa had sapped the army’s enthusiasm. Some men had been under arms for more than two years, since King Guy had first laid siege to Acre. Now the leaders were closeted in conference, or with their wives, or with other women, and the soldiers became bored and restless. Those who had served the longest claimed they had fulfilled their vows and left for Acre, or Tyre. Within a few weeks, eight hundred Crusaders had departed the orchard camp. Richard could not dispute their right to leave the army, but he urged King Guy to follow them and bring them back.
‘I’ll need money.’
Richard was immediately defensive. Money was something that came to him in taxes, as booty, as ransom. It was not something to be paid out, not until every other way had been tried.
‘There isn’t any money,’ he snapped. ‘You go and offer them the real prize – Jerusalem. They must know we will retake it before long. Tell them they will have their money then, when we have opened the Moslem coffers.’
‘They may set some limit on their time.’
‘Two months. Tell them I ask two months of them. Say Richard Lionheart has need of them. Then they’ll come.’
‘They might, if you were to say it. But lately I have not been noted for the respect I command.’
‘That, Lusignan, is because you never issue a command. God’s legs, you are the king! More directly their king than I. If you wish to retain your throne, you must be a sight more possessive of it. Perhaps you should take Amalric with you—’
‘No! No, King, I would rather you kept my brother by you, here.’
‘As you wish.’
‘If I do bring the men back in any number – If I do, will you displace him for me?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘You could appoint whoever you wished as Constable. I would offer the post of Seneschal to Lord Balian of Ibelin—’
‘Bring them back, King Guy, then we’ll see.’
* * *
Accompanied by thirty knights and eight minor barons, the King of Jerusalem sailed for Acre. The weather was still hot, the sea calm, so he could not attribute his feelings of light-headedness to the motion of the ship. He knew what caused it, but it took him some time to declare it. Joscelin of Courtenay was dead. Dead. Expunged from the world. His body was mouldering somewhere north of the Nahr al Mefjir, the aptly named Dead River. Or, more likely, the grey wolves had dined on it…
And Amalric. Held back under Richard’s watchful eye. Soon to be deposed, offered some small fief, and shipped back to Europe. Amalric, powerless in the depths of a damp French valley…
That was why he felt light-headed. He was free of his puppeteers for the first time in twelve years. Now be would show them, King Richard, his brother, the French nobles, the local barons, the soldiers and the people of Palestine, that he worked better alone. Left to his own devices, the King of Jerusalem would get along very well.
At Acre he was subjected to the most humiliating treatment of his life.
As soon as the soldiers realized that he had left both Richard and Amalric at Jaffa, they dropped all pretence of obedience. The senior Crusaders ignored his invitations to the palace, while the men-at-arms jostled him like a common
merchant. He made several courageous visits to the port area, where he found the majority of the soldiers wedged between whores and wine barrels, but they treated the nervous Poitevin like a jester who has told his jokes too many times before. He was once hit in the face with a bladder of wine, and twice challenged by drunken soldiers who wished to be crowned King of Jerusalem.
He retreated both times and wandered weeping about the empty palace.
He endured a week of it, then summoned his escort.
They delivered the most damaging blow so far. They told him that fourteen mercenaries were prepared to re-enlist. But five of the eight barons who had accompanied him from Jaffa had decided to remain at Acre. And of the thirty knights, ten chose to await passage to Europe.
He did not dare return to camp. The news would get there – there was no way of preventing that – but he could not appear in person until he had somehow erased the insult. He sent the trio of barons and the twenty knights back to Jaffa. The fourteen mercenaries found it vastly amusing; they had never before enjoyed such a splendid escort. Then Guy turned in the other direction, and rode north to Tyre.
He had decided on a course of action. It might bring him into favour with King Richard. It might result in civil war. There was no way of knowing what would ensue after he had killed Conrad of Montferrat.
* * *
He reached Alexander’s Causeway and looked up at the new wooden watchtower. It had been erected at the landward end of the causeway, serving as a barbican gate to the city. There were still traces of the refugee camp, though its only inhabitants now were madmen and stray dogs. Apart from the watchtower, little had changed. The blue water still curled against the narrow spine of land. The wind still lifted sand from the beach and continued building its own humped fortifications. Regent Conrad’s banners still fluttered above the city.
The Kings of Vain Intent Page 17
