“We’d best shut down the taverns. Once they find out what awaits them on the morrow, every man in the army will want to get blind, raving drunk tonight.”
“They’ll not like that,” Baudouin observed dryly. “So, if we close the taverns, we’d better leave the whorehouses open. Unless the men have something to do tonight, they might occupy themselves by plotting a mutiny.”
That evoked some hollow laughter and a disapproving frown from the Bishop of Bethlehem, who said the men might better occupy themselves with prayer. Before the bishop could launch into a lecture about putting their souls at risk, Reynald raised his voice in a demand for quiet. “We are not waiting till the morrow. The less time that men have to dwell upon it, the easier it will be for them. We march as soon as the Templars arrive.” Only then did he think to consult Baldwin. But the young king took no offense and quickly backed Reynald up, for slights to his royal dignity mattered little when they’d soon be fighting a battle they were sure to lose.
* * *
The stronghold at Gaza was only eight miles from Ascalon, so Baldwin was hoping for a quick response from the Templar grand master. He got one: Odo de St. Amand led his eighty knights into Ascalon in midmorning. Odo was notorious for his fiery temper and arrogance, traits that had not always served him well in the past, but they were ideally suited for a desperate last stand with their very survival at stake. Baldwin was heartened by the grand master’s enthusiastic embrace of their plan. He was acutely aware that the lives of more than four thousand men were the stakes in the gamble he was about to take. Yet what choice did he have? It was better to die in the defense of their homeland than to watch helplessly as Outremer went up in flames.
* * *
They took the coastal road in hopes of avoiding Saladin’s scouts and set such a punishing pace that they managed to cover twenty miles, reaching Ibelin well after dark. Even cloaked by night, the sight of the village tore at Balian’s heart. He was thankful that the villagers had found shelter in the castle. But their houses and shops had been put to the torch, their livestock taken, and their future looked as bleak as the burned-out remains of their lives. William had once told Balian that three-quarters of the half-million inhabitants of Outremer were Muslims, the majority poor farmers and peasants who scrabbled out a hard living in a land inhospitable to men of any faith. Remembering that, Balian was reminded of an old folk saying, that when elephants fought, it was the ants who were trampled.
The next day was a Friday, the twenty-fifth of November, the feast day of St. Catherine of Alexandria, martyred for her faith at the age of eighteen, and many of the men were inspired to pray for her aid, believing they faced martyrdom, too. The sky had begun to cloud over and a chilly wind swept in from the sea. Smoke to the north and east spurred them on. Baudouin had asked for the command of the vanguard since they were advancing into his lands; that was a military tradition among the Franks, honoring the man whose lordship was under attack.
They were confident that they were close to the Saracen army by now. This was soon confirmed by one of their scouts, a Christian Syrian who nevertheless used the Arabic form of his name—Ya’qūb, not Jacob—for that was his mother tongue. At the sight of Reynald and Baldwin, he let out an excited shout. “I’ve found them, my lords! They are just a few miles away, southeast of Ramlah, near Montgisard!”
* * *
A break in the cloud cover had allowed Salāh al-Dīn to get a glimpse of the sun and he calculated it was nigh on two hours past noon. They’d been forced to halt when their baggage carts bogged down as they forded a stream, but there were still a few hours of daylight remaining and they ought to be able to reach Latrun by dark. He was sure that the Templar castle at Latrun would be abandoned, for their knights would be with their grand master at Gaza. He and his men would camp there for the night and in the morning, make their final push for al-Quds, which was just twenty miles to the east of Latrun.
When they’d crossed the border into the land of the Franks a week ago, he’d had nothing more ambitious in mind than a razzia, taking advantage of the absence of so many of the kingdom’s defenders. But events had moved so quickly and their successes had been so easy that their razzia had become a triumphal procession. At first, he’d resisted his nephew’s urging to target the city so holy to Christians and Muslims alike, for his army was not equipped for an extended siege, having left their heavy baggage in their border camp at al-‘Arīsh. After the Franks had retreated into Asqalan, he’d been inclined to press north into Samaria, for Nablus and Nazareth were worth plundering and well-nigh defenseless. Taqī al-Dīn persisted, though, and eventually he prevailed, for the temptation was just too great to resist.
Unlike his nephew, the sultan did not expect them to be able to capture al-Quds. For a serious assault, he’d need siege engines and would have to recall the thousands of men he’d set free to pillage the countryside. Soldiers expected booty when they went to war, and this was a rare opportunity to reward them whilst greatly weakening the kingdom of the unbelievers. But by appearing suddenly before the walls of al-Quds, he would strike fear into Frankish hearts, showing them that not even their Holy City was safe, and making them more amenable to another truce when he was ready to move again against the amirs in Aleppo and Mosul.
“Will we reach al-Quds on the morrow?” When Salāh al-Dīn confirmed that to his young kinsman, Khālid responded with a jaunty smile, reminding the sultan how much he resembled his father. Khālid was Taqī al-Dīn’s eldest son, nigh on twenty. Salāh al-Dīn’s own sons were much younger, the oldest only seven, but Taqī al-Dīn’s youth had been a wild one, resulting in fatherhood before he’d reached Khālid’s age.
Ahead lay the hill called Montgisard by the Franks; it was crowned by a small, deserted castle, for its lord was with the leper king in Asqalan. They’d finally freed their baggage carts from the mud, but some of his men were still fording the stream, when the sultan heard shouting. Turning in the saddle, he saw one of Taqī al-Dīn’s scouts racing toward them.
“The Franks! Their army is on the march along the coastal road!”
It was the panic in his voice as much as his message that spun heads in his direction. “Calm yourself!” the sultan said sharply. “Catch your breath, then tell me what you saw.”
The scout was young, no older than Khālid, and very flustered, but he obediently tried to regain his poise. “Forgive me, my lord. The infidels have left Asqalan. I saw them with my own eyes, flying the banners of their king and the accursed Templars.”
Salāh al-Dīn showed none of his inner agitation; he’d long ago mastered that aspect of leadership. But he was horrified by the scout’s revelation, for his army was in disarray, with many of them off looting, others not even wearing their armor, and none mentally or emotionally ready for battle. He well knew that soldiers needed time to prepare themselves for combat; warfare went against the natural human instinct for self-preservation.
“Sound the trumpets to recall our raiding parties. Those of you who need to fetch your weapons and armor from the baggage train, do so at once.” Glancing at the shocked men surrounding him, he sent several of them to find his nephew and his other battle commanders, then ordered others to post extra guards on their Frankish prisoners. His composure steadied them and they hastened to obey.
Khālid was shaken, but eager, too, for he was young enough to be excited at the prospect of proving himself in battle against the infidels. He’d learned enough of war, though, to recognize that they were caught at a disadvantage. “We still greatly outnumber them, do we not?” he asked, and felt some of his tension ease when his great-uncle assured him that even with so many off raiding, their army was much larger than the Franks’.
His father soon appeared and Khālid gave him a relieved smile. His feelings for his sire were complicated—respect and love and a desperate desire to please mingled with a little fear. But above all, he had utter confidence in his father’s b
attlefield prowess and the last of his qualms faded away. They could not be defeated as long as Taqī al-Dīn was on the field.
Taqī al-Dīn, ‘Īsā al-Hakkari, and Jawuli al-Asadi, who’d led the raid on Ramlah, were clustered around Salāh al-Dīn as they hastily drew up battle plans. It was agreed upon that they would anchor their line by the hill. But they ran out of time, then, for they heard the trumpets echoing on the wind, heralding the enemy’s approach.
* * *
The small army of the Franks was already in battle formation, the squadrons led by their individual lords, with the overall command in Reynald’s hands, the Templars fighting under their own black-and-white banner, and the Bishop of Bethlehem riding with the men sworn to protect the True Cross and the cart that flew the standard of the Kingdom of Jerusalem—a gold crusader’s cross on a field of silver, surrounded by four smaller Greek crosses. The foot soldiers and crossbowmen would usually march in front of the knights, trying to shield their horses from hit-and-run attacks by mounted Saracen archers. But today they marched in the rear, for all depended upon the element of surprise. Far behind came the squires of the knights and Templars, for they were not expected to take part in the battle.
They’d turned inland as soon as Ya’qūb located the sultan’s army and were in better spirits thanks to Baudouin’s exhortations. He’d been encouraged to learn that Saladin was near Montgisard, telling all within earshot that the area around the hill was crisscrossed with streams that fed into the Sorek and Ayalon Rivers, and even an ancient aqueduct. Reynald did not have Baudouin’s familiarity with the region, but he saw at once that such a battlefield would not suit the usual tactics of the Saracens, who depended upon the speed and maneuverability of their horses to encircle and isolate their enemies. He quickly added his voice to d’Ibelin’s, and midst the ashes of their extinguished hopes, a few embers began to glow.
It was then that Ya’qūb returned from a final reconnaissance, an arrow protruding from his boot. “They know we’re coming! They were getting into battle formation, but then they started to shift positions. It looked like the left and right wings were switching places so they’d have the hill at their backs. There was a lot of confusion and I tried to get closer to see better—too close.” He gestured toward the arrow with a grimace, saying it was only a flesh wound.
Despite his bitter disappointment that their attack would not be a total surprise, Baldwin still remembered to thank Ya’qūb. Reynald had already forgotten the scout, would not have noticed had he bled to death right before their eyes. “Christ Jesus!” he exclaimed, his face ablaze with sudden excitement. “Given half a chance, the Saracens will always retreat when we attack. Then they surge back ere we can get into formation for another charge.”
Baldwin had no false pride; he truly wanted to learn from experienced warriors like Reynald. But this was so elementary that it was insulting. “I know that, my lord Reynald,” he said coolly. “Even my sister knows that.”
Reynald laughed, and to Baldwin’s astonishment, he sounded genuinely amused. “You still do not see, do you? The scout said their left and right wings were changing places. If we can hit them whilst they are making this maneuver, they cannot retreat. We can cut through their ranks like a hot knife through butter!”
* * *
The Saracens were still struggling to realign their left and right wings when the ground began to tremble, the air rang with hoarse shouts of “St. George!”—the war cry of the Franks—and an avalanche came thundering down upon them. Riding stirrup to stirrup, lances couched under their arms, the armored knights hit their enemies’ line with such force that horses were knocked to their knees and men toppled from their saddles, their lighter armor unable to withstand the thrust of a lance traveling over thirty miles an hour. Confusion was always present on battlefields, but now total chaos reigned.
For a few hectic moments, Balian truly thought they were going to prevail, for their cavalry charge had delivered a staggering blow, dozens of men dying before they could even unsheathe their swords. But their commanders managed to rally some of them and fierce fighting erupted. Balian loosened his hold on the reins, trusting in Demon’s training and temperament. A Saracen soldier was looming on his left, and Balian smashed the man in the face with his shield. He’d fought in close quarters before, yet nothing like this, and he had a bad moment when Demon stumbled over a body. The stallion somehow kept his balance, even reaching out to rake his teeth across the rump of a wild-eyed chestnut, who screamed in rage and nearly threw his rider when he reared, hooves flailing the air. Balian’s lance had shattered when he’d run it under the ribs of a faris, a Saracen knight. A nearby Templar’s lance was still intact, though, and the Templar lunged forward, striking the chestnut stallion in the chest. Like most men of his rank, Balian loved horses and after every battle he lamented those slain or injured. For now, though, his only thought was to stay alive as long as possible. Raising his sword, he urged Demon toward the nearest foe.
Baldwin’s life had just been saved by Asad; he’d nimbly swerved in time to keep the young king from being decapitated. Responding to the pressure of his rider’s knees, Asad now veered to his right, allowing Baldwin to swing his sword at a man on a rawboned bay stallion. The Saracen managed to deflect the blow with his duraqah. Although Baldwin had the same round shield strapped to his right arm, his was a dead weight, like his arm. Sensing he was easy prey, the Saracen moved in for the kill. But Baldwin’s household knights were staying as close to him as they could get, no less protective than Saladin’s elite Mamluk bodyguard. One of them cut the Saracen down in a spray of blood that splattered Baldwin’s leg and Asad’s withers.
The momentum of the knights’ charge had pushed the Saracen right wing into its center and the result was bedlam, with men being unhorsed by their own comrades when they careened into one another. Slashing his way into their midst, Reynald seemed indifferent to his own safety. He was known to some of the Saracens, having earned a grudging respect for his refusal to break during his long captivity, and he was a tempting target; slaying the man they called Prince Arnat would be a sure way to gain battle laurels. But Reynald forged ahead with reckless bravado, inspiring his knights to greater efforts as they struggled to reach his side. At one point, he was surrounded by three Mamluks, yet he was able to hold them off until several of the Templars came to his assistance. One of the Mamluks died; the other two let the tide of battle carry them away, for Templars were famed for their willingness to fight to the death rather than surrender.
The Saracen commanders had been able to send more of their men into the fray. One charge was led by Khālid, who did his father proud by killing the first knight who crossed swords with him. Some of his men were shouting “Allahu akbar!” but Khālid had no breath for that. Although he’d fought in a major battle once before, that was against fellow Muslims outside Aleppo. This was different, for this time they were facing the Franks, who’d dared to claim the holy city of al-Quds. A loss to the infidels would be unthinkable.
Time had no meaning on the battlefield. There was only the here and now, every man’s world reduced to the most basic of needs—survival. Most of them were drenched in sweat, as if it were midsummer and not early winter. Balian’s left leg was throbbing, for he’d taken a blow from a Saracen’s mace. He was already exhausted. But instinct had taken over, drawing upon years of practice at the quintain and in the tiltyard. Training and luck would determine his fate, the fate of all who were fighting with such desperate courage as the afternoon light ebbed away.
Baldwin was taking as many chances as Reynald, for a death on the battlefield held no dread for him. Relying upon Asad’s speed and agility to compensate for the lack of strength in his right arm, he’d so far gotten the better of his adversaries; he had no way of knowing if any of his blows had been lethal ones, but there was blood on his hauberk and sword, none of it his. He was not fighting without fear, though, for he was terrified that they’d
fail and doom the kingdom.
Reynald was one of the few Franks who’d actually believed they could win. Their initial charge had been as devastating as he’d hoped, but the Saracens had fought back and the plain became a killing field, a seething mass of men and horses, hand-to-hand combat as savage as any of them had ever experienced. A Mamluk suddenly bore down upon him and Reynald spurred to meet this new foe, his mouth twisting in what was almost a smile, for the man’s saffron tunic identified him as a member of Saladin’s askar, his personal bodyguard. Reynaud’s fatigue falling away as he realized he must be close to the sultan himself, he took a hit on his shield that rocked him back against the cantle of his saddle. As the Mamluk wheeled his mount to attack again, Reynald struck first, putting all the force of his body behind the blow, and his sword severed the Saracen’s arm at the elbow. It was then that he sensed a change in the tempo of the battle. Slowly at first and then more rapidly, the Saracens were giving ground.
“We have them!” he shouted. “For God and St. George!” Those close enough to hear redoubled their efforts, energized with sudden hope. What had been a trickle became a stream and then a flood tide as exhausted Saracens saw some of their fellow soldiers abandoning the battle and joined them. Once the rout was on, there was no stopping it, and Saladin’s commanders sought in vain to hold their men, eventually forced to flee themselves.
The battlefield was an appalling sight, soaked in blood and strewn with bodies, with entrails, brains, bone, severed limbs, even heads. Everywhere Baldwin looked, he saw the dead and wounded. Riderless horses milled about in panic. Other stallions were down, thrashing about in pain and fear. Now that the noises of combat were stilled, the cries of the injured and dying filled the air, asking for help in several languages. And for the first time, the survivors became aware of the smothering, stomach-churning stench of death.
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 32
