“Tell us what happened! Where are the Templars? Count Raymond?”
“Cut to pieces,” the bleeding knight gasped. “We ran right into them, had no warning. No time to form battle lines ere they were upon us. . . .”
The second knight continued on, calling over his shoulder that he could not afford a ransom and did not want to end up in the Cairo slave markets. The injured man paused long enough to plead with Baldwin, “Save yourselves whilst you still can. It is too late for the others. . . .” And with that, he, too, was gone.
By now they could see dust rising to the south, kicked up by hundreds of horses. Baldwin’s expression was anguished, yet he did not hesitate, for he was responsible for the lives of these men. He gave the command to retreat and they wheeled their horses, galloping after the two fleeing knights.
Balian was no less anguished, but like Baldwin, he could not give in to his emotions. No matter what had befallen his brother and Jakelin, he had ninety-five knights under his command. This was not terrain that was kind to horses, with rock-strewn ridges, hollows, and defiles, the earth cracked and dry after years of drought. But if they could reach the more level ground in the Marj Ayyun plain, they ought to be able to find safety at Beaufort Castle. They were greatly relieved, therefore, when they saw the distant shimmer of the Litani River.
It was then that the attack came. Suddenly they found themselves under assault by Saracen archers, and as horses swerved in fear and men raised their shields to deflect the hail of arrows, Farrukh-Shāh and his men swept down from the hills to take the offensive.
“To me! To me!” Balian shouted to his knights, for their only chance was to fight as a unit; one-on-one, they’d be surrounded and slain. There was little room to maneuver, and their Saracen foes had the advantage in such close-quarter fighting, for their horses were much nimbler and more agile than the heavier Frankish destriers. Balian’s knights were able to rally to him, and when they launched an attack, the Saracens gave way. Unable to withstand a charge, they sheered off, hoping to surge back before the knights could regroup. Their retreat gave Balian a chance to survey the battlefield. Joscelin’s men had taken the brunt of the assault. But Baldwin’s banner still flew, for his knights would fight to the death to protect him.
“To the king!” As his men joined Baldwin’s knights, Balian thought they would be able to fight their way free. It was then that the army of Salāh al-Dīn arrived on the scene.
Balian had learned that battles had tides, ebbing and flowing. Now they found themselves engulfed in a wave too powerful to resist. Faced with a choice of dying, surrendering, or fleeing, the Franks chose flight and scattered.
Balian sought in vain for a glimpse of Baldwin amid the seething mass of men and horses that the battlefield had become. Turning, he confronted a Kurd wielding a sword with a wickedly curved blade. Khamsin swerved and the sword found only air. Balian slammed another attacker with his shield, then narrowly avoided a Saracen knight on a screaming black stallion. For a moment, he wished he was astride Demon, who turned into a killing machine in combat. Then Khamsin spun away from a Mamluk clad in the sultan’s saffron and Balian decided that speed mattered more now than ferocity. With half a dozen Saracens in pursuit, he sent Khamsin flying up the slope of a barren hillock. But not even Khamsin could outrun an arrow and one struck Balian in the leg just as he reached the summit of the hill, slicing through the mail greaves to lodge in his calf. He felt the impact of the blow but there was no pain, not yet. Giving Khamsin his head, Balian rode for his life.
* * *
The Saracens did not abandon the chase, for they had the advantage in numbers and need not fear an ambush by the men they were hunting. Many of the fleeing Franks were overtaken and slain, or made prisoner if they looked as if they’d be worth ransoming. Others were luckier and outraced their pursuers. Some splashed across the river and headed for Sidon and Tyre. But most of them sought closer refuge in the stone stronghold more than nine hundred feet above the west bank of the Litani—Beaufort Castle.
* * *
Balian caught up with some of his knights once they reached the Marj Ayyun plain. They gratefully banded together and urged their spent stallions on, for there were five more miles to Beaufort Castle. As their horses scrambled up the narrow path leading to the citadel’s southern gatehouse, they paused occasionally to gaze at the plain and hills far below them. Each one of them still clung to the forlorn hope that they would see Baldwin’s banner streaming aloft as he and his knights galloped toward the fortress. All they saw were Saracen riders swarming over the countryside like bees from an overturned hive, searching for Frankish fugitives. None dared to speak it aloud, yet the same thought was in every man’s mind: Where is the king?
* * *
Baldwin hit the ground with such force that he lay stunned for a time. As his wits cleared, he opened his eyes. All around him was a scene of desolation: the bodies of men and horses, the moans of the wounded, blood seeping into the arid earth and splattering the crumpled banner of the kingdom. Beside him, Charcoal lay still, a Saracen spear protruding from his chest. It came as a shock to Baldwin to realize that he was alone on a field with the dead and dying.
His sword lay a few feet away and he reached for it before struggling to his feet, swaying like a sapling in a high wind. He dared not stay here. His men—those who’d not been slain or captured—would soon be searching for him. The Saracens would come first, though, to recover their wounded and their dead and to strip the bodies of the Franks. Several loose horses remained on the battlefield and Baldwin eyed them yearningly. Yet he made no attempt to catch one, for he knew he could not get into the saddle on his own. They were in a ravine and boulders higher up on the slopes might offer hiding places. Could he get there ere the Saracens returned?
Squaring his aching shoulders, he began to limp across the field, detouring around bodies and averting his gaze from the blind stares of the slain. He faltered when he recognized one of his own knights, his face swarming with flies, his intestines spilling out in a puddle of clotted dark blood. It was then that he heard a horse snort, heard the thud of hooves on the hard, sunbaked soil. Dropping to the ground, Baldwin lay still, scarcely breathing.
It was a lone rider. The man was out of Baldwin’s line of vision and he could not risk shifting his position. Time seemed to have stopped and then he heard a cry of despair—in French. Sitting up, he saw the rider had dismounted to recover their trampled banner and was holding it to his chest as if it were a precious relic. With an effort, Baldwin managed to regain his feet just as the soldier turned in his direction. Recognition was instantaneous and mutual.
“Anselm!” Baldwin stumbled toward him as his squire flung himself forward. Then they were embracing, holding each other like drowning men trying to stay afloat.
“I’ve been searching for so long. . . .” Anselm’s weathered face was smeared with dirt and tear tracks. “I feared you were dead, sire!”
“You are lucky that you are not,” Baldwin said with a shaky smile, realizing what a great risk Anselm had taken, venturing alone into the midst of the victorious Saracen army. Looking abashed by the praise, the older man whistled to his mount. He was saying that his horse could carry them both when the wind brought to them the sound of voices.
With seconds to spare, they flattened themselves on the ground as riders came into view. Pressing his cheek against the dirt, Baldwin listened as his enemies joked and laughed; though he spoke no Arabic, the language of victory needed no translation. Through his lashes, he saw one of them discover his banner, flaunting it with a triumphant cry. Anselm’s courser was quickly claimed, as were the other loose horses. He knew they’d soon dismount, eager to rob the bodies of the slain knights. They would recognize him, of course, his youth and paralyzed arm offering irrefutable testimony to his identity. He did not doubt that he’d be treated with respect; they’d know the worth of their royal hostage. But would they see An
selm’s life as valuable, too?
Beside him, Anselm had inhaled dust and was trying not to sneeze as they waited to be discovered. It did not happen. Instead, another Saracen rider galloped into view, one of Saladin’s Mamluks. After he shouted, the other men turned their horses and followed him. A command from the sultan? Had they flushed more fugitives from the battle? Baldwin and Anselm knew only that they’d gotten a brief reprieve and they’d not be likely to get another one.
As soon as the Saracen soldiers were out of sight, they got to their feet. Anselm agreed with Baldwin that their best chance was to climb the rocky incline rising to the west. But they soon realized that Baldwin was not going to be able to scramble up that steep slope.
“Lean on me, sire,” Anselm insisted, and Baldwin had no choice but to abandon pride and accept the older man’s support. They continued to struggle, though, for Anselm was only of average height and well past the prime of youth. Both were soon winded, having to pause often to catch their breath, all the while listening for the return of the Saracens. Several times they slid on the loose gravel and almost fell. After the last stumble, they were suddenly peppered with more gravel, this time coming from above them. Squinting into the sun, they saw the figure of a man at the top of the ridge.
“Wait there,” he called, and started down. He was young and agile and made his descent look easy. After reaching them, he actually started to kneel before Baldwin stopped him. His sunburned, freckled face looked vaguely familiar and when he identified himself as Sir Thomas de Caymont, Baldwin recognized him as one of his uncle’s household knights. He did not appear to be injured and seemed embarrassed by that, for his account of being thrown when his horse shattered a foreleg sounded almost apologetic.
“I found a cave up there,” he said, gesturing toward the hilltop, “and meant to hide till the Saracens were no longer hunting for us. We must hurry, though, for I saw more dust clouds off to the south. If you’ll permit me, sire . . . ?” Reaching out, he grasped Baldwin’s left arm and gestured for Anselm to take up position on Baldwin’s other side.
They made more progress with Thomas to help, but as they climbed higher, the going became more treacherous. By now, Baldwin was so exhausted that he dangled limply between them, his feet dragging on the ground. Thomas soon stopped. “This is not going to work.” His forehead furrowed as he considered their options. Dropping to his knees, he asked Baldwin to put his arm around his neck, reaching down to clamp Baldwin’s legs around his waist. He staggered as he sought to regain his feet, then slowly straightened up with a triumphant grin. With Baldwin clinging to his back and Anselm following closely in case Thomas stumbled, they made their way up the slope, one cautious step at a time.
Thomas did not stop once they finally reached the top, lurching forward until they were sheltered by the boulders. After bending down so Baldwin could dismount, he flopped on the ground with another grin. “You’re heavier than you look, my liege,” he panted.
Baldwin could only look at him in wonderment. Torn between mortification at his own helplessness and deep gratitude, he hesitated. But he had to ask, “Were you not afraid?”
Thomas did not pretend to misunderstand. “I’d be lying if I said no, sire. I told myself that leprosy cannot be so easy to catch, else Anselm there would have been stricken long ago. Still . . .” He shrugged, a wordless admission that fear was not rooted in logic or even common sense. “But how could I not have come to your aid? You are my king.”
Baldwin found the semblance of a smile for the young knight and then turned his head away so they’d not see the tears glimmering behind his lashes.
* * *
The Saracens were soon back for their dead, leaving the stripped enemy corpses at the mercy of the vultures. They were still searching for fugitives, but the sharp incline of the ridge discouraged the few who glanced speculatively in its direction, and eventually they departed. Emerging from the damp, musty cave, Baldwin and his two companions watched as the sun sank below the horizon and the night stole in, mercifully cloaking the battlefield below. With darkness, the temperature dropped sharply, and they returned to the dubious shelter of the cave, huddling together to pass what promised to be a very long night. They had no food, only two half-filled waterskins, which Thomas and Anselm tried to give to Baldwin and which he firmly refused, insisting that they share equally. First Thomas and then Anselm fell asleep. Baldwin stayed awake, alone with his regrets.
At first light, Thomas volunteered to go in search of help and bounded down the slope with the resiliency of the young and healthy. Within the hour, he was back, astride a borrowed bay gelding, accompanied by a dozen armed knights. Sir Simon de Garnier was in the lead. Unable to wait as Baldwin and Anselm began their slow descent, he clambered up to meet them. He was grinning from ear to ear, and Baldwin realized that they’d given him up for dead.
From Simon, Baldwin learned that his uncle and Balian d’Ibelin had been able to reach Beaufort Castle with most of their knights, and men were continuing to show up. It seemed almost miraculous that the Holy Cross had not fallen into infidel hands. But when Baldwin asked him about the missing lords and Templars, Simon could only shake his head.
* * *
The light was fading by the time Balian and his men slowly rode up the winding path that led to Beaufort Castle’s gatehouse, exhausted and numbed by the events of the past two days. They’d found a few men still living amid the dead, found a few more in hiding. But they were overwhelmed by their losses and haunted by the fate of their missing.
Dismounting in the bailey, they assisted the wounded from their saddles and turned their horses over to their squires. As Balian limped into the hall, he came to a halt and then smiled for the first time since they’d looked down from the heights upon the peaceful meadows of Marj Ayyun. Baldwin refused to let him kneel and insisted that he take a seat on the dais. Ignoring Joscelin’s baleful glare, he sank down into a chair next to the king, but neither one spoke, for there were no words to describe the catastrophe that had befallen them and their kingdom.
Soon after dark, they were surprised by the arrival of Baldwin’s stepfather. Beaufort was his and the castellan had immediately dispatched a messenger to Sidon. Denys had already learned of the defeat, though. Leading an armed force to join Baldwin at Marj Ayyun, having received word that they’d not waited at Tiberias, he’d encountered men fleeing the battle, and their stories were so harrowing that he’d turned around and returned to Sidon, assuming there was nothing more to be done. Now that he realized he might have saved some of the fugitives from capture had he only continued on, he was deeply shaken.
Baldwin refused his apologies. “I doubt that you could have changed the outcome, Denys,” he said in the flat, toneless voice of one still in shock. “It was already too late.”
* * *
Sleep proved elusive for many at Beaufort Castle that night. Balian finally gave up and rose to dress hours before dawn would disperse the darkness. He was trying to take hope from his failure to find either his brother’s body or Jakelin’s, trying to convince himself that they could still be out there, awaiting their chance to make their way to safety. Yet he knew the likelihood was that they were dead or captured. Ransom was usually possible for a man taken prisoner by the Saracens. But not always. And how likely was Saladin to ransom a Templar?
In this way, Balian tormented himself in the solitude, silence, and darkness that proved to be fertile soil for despairing and desperate thoughts. He was preparing to go out with another search party when a rider arrived with a message from the Count of Tripoli. Raymond had managed to escape the battle and, with a few companions, had been able to reach safety in Tyre. But his messenger had no word of the fate of those still missing, for the battle had quickly turned into a rout. Balian rode out again to look for his brother and his friend.
It was another futile quest, made dangerous by several near encounters with Saracens out hunting, too,
for Franks. His knights were so obviously drained and his leg was aching so badly that he ended the search before darkness had fallen. It was only upon his return to the castle that he finally learned what had happened to his brother.
Another survivor of the battle had been found, Baldwin told him, so somberly that he knew the news would be not be good. The wounded man was a Templar, struck down and left for dead by the Saracens. But he’d not died and now he gave Balian an eyewitness account of the end of the battle—when those still alive realized they must either yield or fight to the death. Nigh on three hundred knights and lords had been taken prisoner by the infidels, he whispered, amongst them the Templar grand master, Lord Baudouin of Ramlah, and the Count of Tripoli’s stepson Hugues of Galilee.
CHAPTER 23
July 1179
Tell al-Qādī, Syria
The day was hot, the air so still that the red and gold d’Ibelin banner and the white flag of truce drooped like willow leaves. Balian could see the tension on his men’s faces as they came in sight of the sultan’s camp. He’d taken only a few of his knights, those whom he could trust to remain calm no matter the provocation. Beside him, his dragoman, Yūnus, shifted awkwardly in his saddle, then offered Balian a strained smile. “With your permission, my lord, I wish to be called by the French version of my name whilst we meet with the sultan.”
“Of course—Jonah.” Balian understood the older man’s unease. As Arabic was their native tongue, Syrian Christians often took the Arabic form of their given names. But Muslims viewed apostasy as a sin deserving of death and Yūnus did not want any of the Saracens to doubt that he was Christian by birth, not by converting.
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