* * *
Raymond sent one of his stepsons back to Guy, urging him to join the vanguard, for he still felt confident that with reinforcements, they could break through the Saracen lines and reach water. The waiting was torture, but when Raoul finally returned, what followed was worse, for he bore a message that killed all hope.
The youth looked devastated. “He said . . . he said the center cannot come, that his men had to go back to help the Templars, who were sorely beset by the Blue Wolf. He said the rearguard is too bloodied and battered to continue on, that they need rest. So he has ordered us all to camp at Maskana for the night.”
There was a stupefied silence, for they could not believe what they’d just heard. How could they last from midafternoon today until dawn without water? How would they be able to march and fight on the morrow after such a night? Struggling to fend off panic, they gathered around Raymond, as if expecting him to conjure up a miracle that would save them. But all the color had drained from his face. “God pity us—we are dead men and the land is lost.”
* * *
Since they’d taken only what they could load onto packhorses, there were a limited number of tents, thus denying the men the shade they so desperately craved. And because Guy had expected that they’d reach Tiberias that day, there was not enough food for so many. At least for now, that presented no problem, for few had any appetite. The men with horses did what little they could for them, lacking what the animals most needed, water and grass for fodder. Most of the men merely collapsed onto the rock-strewn ground, their exhaustion prevailing over comfort. At nightfall, they would finally get some relief from the torrid heat, yet there were still four hours to endure till sunset. And all the while, they’d be envisioning the cold spring water at Kafr Haṭṭīn—just three miles away—with the Saracen army between them and salvation.
* * *
When Ernoul extracted the last of the arrows embedded in Balian’s hauberk, they both sighed with relief. Raising his arms to assist the squire in pulling his hauberk over his head, Balian sank back on the ground once he was freed of its weight. His mail and padded gambeson had kept the arrow heads from penetrating his flesh, but not all of his men had been so lucky.
There were only two wounded knights; the others were serjeants and turcopoles. Balian had ordered the most seriously injured to be brought into his tent and they were displaying commendable fortitude, waiting without complaint to be treated by a Nablus apothecary who’d responded to the arrière-ban and was now pressed into service as a doctor. Several of the stricken men looked to Balian as if they’d not survive the night and he resolved to make sure a priest was on hand even if it meant waylaying one of the clerics protecting the True Cross.
Balian’s squire had peeled off his sweat-soaked gambeson and replaced it with a cotton tunic; Balian had elected to retain his leg chausses in case he had to arm himself again in a hurry, although he did not expect Saladin to launch a surprise attack on their camp. Why should he, when the sun was proving to be such an effective ally? Getting to his feet with an effort, Balian braced himself to leave the heat of the tent for the even more sweltering temperatures outside.
The sight of his stallions caused him to clench his fists and bite his lip, torn between outrage and anguish. Khamsin was pawing half-heartedly at the barren earth, seeking grass in vain, and Demon did not even raise his head at Balian’s approach; never had he seen the high-strung destrier so lethargic. The horses of his knights and serjeants were in even worse shape, their eyes dull, the eyelids wrinkled, their breathing shallow and rapid. As he watched, one of the destriers began to urinate; instead of coming out in a golden stream, it was scant and dark brown in color.
Crossing to Khamsin, Balian stroked the stallion’s neck, rubbed a favorite spot behind the Arabian’s ear, murmured soothingly, all he could do. Lifting the horse’s lip, he pressed his finger to the gum above the upper teeth. The gum turned white when he took his finger away and he waited tensely to see how long it would take for the natural color to return. Too long. “I am sorry, Khamsin,” he said softly, “so sorry. . . .”
When he approached Demon, the stallion barely acknowledged his presence. Nor did he react when Balian reached for the halter to hold his head steady. Normally, Balian would have needed someone to assist him; now Demon did not protest even as his mouth was opened. There was no need to do the finger test, for the destrier’s gums were a dark red.
“My lord.”
Balian turned to see one of their turcopole scouts standing a few feet away. “May I speak with you, my lord?”
“Of course, Ilyas.” Balian knew the scout had dared to venture from camp, gambling that from a distance Saracens might mistake him for one of their own. He did not look as if what he’d learned would be welcome news.
“I wanted to see if it would be possible to retreat to the waters at Tur‘an if we are unable to force our way through to the springs at Kafr Haṭṭīn tomorrow. Tur‘an has been taken by Gökböri’s men, so there is no going back. With Taqī al-Dīn blocking the route to the Haṭṭīn springs and the sultan controlling the main road to Tiberias, there is no going forward, either.”
“So, we are surrounded.” Balian felt no surprise, for that was what he’d expected Saladin to do; it was what he would have done had their positions been reversed. For the moment, he felt oddly detached, almost as if he were watching a catastrophe that was happening to someone else.
Ilyas nodded. “If all goes as I fear it will on the morrow,” he said, very low, “I cannot allow myself to be captured. The Saracens consider turcopoles to be renegades because we share some of their blood. I was raised a Christian, know nothing of the Muslim faith, but that will not save me if I am taken prisoner.”
Balian did not hesitate. “Do what you must, Ilyas, and may God keep you safe.”
* * *
The drums started beating at sundown. So did the triumphant cries of “Allahu akbar!” As the sultan had now moved his camp to Lubiya, just a mile from Maskana, their voices carried clearly to their enemies. So close were the two armies that Saracens could exchange taunts with the Franks who understood their language. Few slept well in either camp, but Salāh al-Dīn’s men were eager for the morrow and the great victory it would bring, while their trapped foes dreaded the coming of the new day. It was Saturday, the fourth of July to the Christians and the twenty-fourth of Rabī al-Thānī to the Muslims, to both peoples a date never to be forgotten.
Two of Balian’s men had died in the night. Several Templar serjeants had been slain during the march and three more of their brethren were dead by dawn. As hasty burials were arranged, camp morale plummeted even lower. Their foreboding briefly yielded to rage when Saracen soldiers boasted that caravans of camels had been bringing water from the lake all night long, proving it by dramatically pouring water onto the parched earth in sight of some of their thirst-maddened foes. But even that flare-up of fury did not last, for anger took energy.
Balian was tightening the peytrail, the breast strap securing Khamsin’s saddle, when he was joined by Joscelin de Courtenay. “Did you hear? It has been decided that the Templars will be riding in the center today to protect the True Cross. So, we’re on our own.”
Balian merely shrugged, so exhausted that the only emotion he could summon up at the moment was indifference. But soon afterward, Denys came over to tell him that he and his knights had volunteered to take the place of the Templars. Unlike most of the men, Denys had somehow managed to hold on to his sense of humor and he explained dryly, “Whilst I am willing to die for God and kingdom, I’ll be damned ere I die alongside Reynald de Chatillon and Gerard de Ridefort. That is asking for one sacrifice too many.”
Balian stared at him and then surprised himself by laughing, laughter as bitter as it was brittle, but laughter nonetheless.
* * *
The Franks left Maskana at dawn. Guy had been urged by several knights who�
��d fought as mercenaries in Saracen armies to launch a surprise attack upon the sultan’s camp at Lubiya, but he did not trust men who’d sold their swords to infidels. Moreover, he could see for himself the sad state of his army after a day and night without water. The infantrymen seemed to have abandoned all hope, stumbling along like men trapped in a bad dream, some of them no longer able to sweat or urinate. He’d been horrified to learn how many horses they’d lost on Friday to Saracen arrows and he realized that the sight of knights trudging beside crossbowmen was sure to erode what confidence his soldiers still had. Faced with nothing but bad choices, he decided to push ahead toward Kafr Haṭṭīn and its life-giving springs.
* * *
Some of the men were baffled that the Saracens did not attack at once, contenting themselves with harassing the rearguard again. These were the newcomers to Outremer. The Poulains knew Saladin wanted the sun and heat to continue to sap their strength. That the sultan was playing a waiting game was clear from the actions of Taqī al-Dīn, who retreated as Raymond and the vanguard advanced, yet always kept his men between the Franks and the springs. And they were about to discover that the Saracens had another nasty surprise in store for them.
The wind at this time of year always blew from the west and it soon carried to them the ominous smell of smoke. While they’d lain in wakeful misery in their camp at Maskana, the Saracens had sent their civilian volunteers to gather up brushwood and thistles, which had been piled along the route the Franks would take on the morrow and were now being set afire. To men already feverish, light-headed, and weakened by thirst, this proved for some to be one trial too many. Five of Raymond’s knights and several serjeants seized their first opportunity to flee, spurring their horses toward Taqī al-Dīn’s soldiers and shouting that they wanted to surrender.
Their desertion sent shock waves through the vanguard, for they knew these men, they’d fought with them, trusted them. And as word slowly spread to the center, it raised fresh suspicions in the minds of those who still suspected the Count of Tripoli was colluding with Saladin. The men of the rearguard were spared this added burden, for they did not learn of the betrayal. Under constant pressure by Gökböri’s horse archers, they were on their own, caught up in a harrowing, hellish ordeal of swirling smoke, choking dust, and foes who could not be defeated or even discouraged, who kept coming back.
During a brief lull in the attacks, Balian had sent a serjeant to warn Guy that they were falling farther and farther behind, but he did not know if the man ever got there. They did not have enough infantry to protect their horses and they left a trail of blood and slain stallions behind them, the crossbowmen marching backward at times as they bunched tightly together, for this was the only way they could stave off Death and the archers who swooped in like hungry hawks. Balian refused to let himself think of the inevitable outcome of their running battle, for he was no longer a husband and father with much to live for: his world had been reduced to this desolate stretch of road and his sworn duty to keep his men alive as long as he could.
* * *
When Salāh al-Dīn decided the fateful moment had arrived, he ordered Taqī al-Dīn to attack the Frank vanguard at the same time that he led an assault upon their center. The Templars launched a charge that pushed the Saracens back, but they could not break through the trap. Raymond’s vanguard had also failed to clear the road to the springs. He knew that he had to keep trying, and he conferred with his stepsons, his godson, and their knights, declaring that he was not willing to wait for Death to find them. They agreed and he dispatched a messenger to tell Guy de Lusignan what he meant to do. He did not bother to wait for Guy’s response, sure that they could not rely upon this inept, alien king for anything, much less leadership. Shielding his eyes to look up at the blazing sun, he saw it was nigh on noon. He supposed that another commander would have said a prayer first, yet his faith had never been a source of strength. He’d always preferred to depend upon himself rather than a God who’d never displayed a personal interest in his fate. Glancing around at his men, he gave the command they awaited.
Taqī al-Dīn was too good a commander to be taken by surprise. He’d been sure that sooner or later the Count of Tripoli would try to fight his way free, and he’d had time to devise a counterstrategy. Knowing they could not withstand a full-on, thunderous charge by so many armed knights galloping downhill, he’d given explicit orders to his most trustworthy men, and so they were ready when the ground began to shake and dust rose in billowing clouds and they heard the infidel battle cries of “Holy Savior, aid us!”
Even Taqī al-Dīn would admit that a charge by the unbelievers was an awe-inspiring sight, almost like an avalanche roaring toward them. But his men knew what to do and with perfect timing, they opened their ranks, their agile, cat-quick horses wheeling out of the way as the knights and destriers swept by. Carried along by their own momentum, the Franks were unable to halt until they reached the bottom of the wadi. By the time they’d regrouped, Taqī al-Dīn’s men had closed ranks again, blocking the path.
The knights fell silent. Even the most inexperienced soldier, Raymond’s young stepson Raoul, saw at once that there was no way they could charge back up that steep slope and fight their way onto the high ground held by the triumphant Saracens. And as they looked at one another, they shared the same emotion—an overwhelming sense of relief that they would not have to die on the Horns of Haṭṭīn after all, tinged with shame that they should feel such joy when so many of their Christian brethren would not be as fortunate.
Raymond was staring up at the Saracens massed at the top of the path. Glancing over at his stepsons, he saw they did not yet realize how much they’d lost—their principality of Galilee, their kingdom, their world. His own material losses would not be as great, for Saladin was unlikely to conquer Tripoli, too. God had given him back his life, but in such a way that his honor would be forever lost. “Never doubt,” he said, “that the Almighty has a sense of humor.”
Becoming aware of their danger, then, alone in a countryside soon to be occupied by an enemy army, they turned their horses and headed north. Hugues and his brothers occasionally glanced over their shoulders at the twin hills of Haṭṭīn. Raymond never looked back.
* * *
“Now do you all believe me? I told you that treacherous hellspawn would betray us as soon as he had the chance!”
Not many of his listeners were paying much attention to Gerard de Ridefort’s rant. Even the men who shared Gerard’s suspicions of Raymond were more concerned with finding a way out of Saladin’s trap than in casting blame upon the count. Accusations and recriminations could come later, assuming there were any left alive to settle scores. The Poulains within earshot felt only envy, wishing they’d been riding in the vanguard with Raymond. It was a bitter fate, having to die for another man’s mistakes.
Gerard was vexed that he was getting such a tepid response from his audience, for he felt thoroughly vindicated by the count’s escape from the battlefield. Glaring at the closest Poulain lord, that milksop Humphrey de Toron, he thought none of these half-breeds were to be trusted, for they’d been corrupted by years of living side by side with the Saracens, seduced by the luxuries of life in the Levant. He’d heard rumors that Raymond had secretly embraced the unholy Muslim faith, and he found these stories easy to believe. Nor was the count the only counterfeit Christian in his eyes, for Denys de Grenier was said to have read the Qur’an, and why would any man of true faith show such curiosity in the Devil’s work?
When he said as much to Brother Thierry, the grand preceptor of the Temple, the other man stared at him, unable to understand why the grand master was fuming about the Poulain lords when they were all likely to be dead by sunset. Easing his stallion’s reins, Thierry let himself drop back, no longer riding at Gerard’s side.
There had been a pause in the fighting; Thierry assumed that was because Saladin was conferring with Taqī al-Dīn, deciding upon thei
r next move now that the Count of Tripoli, a seasoned battle commander, was no longer a threat. More fires had been set, and the wind was once again propelling smoke toward them. Thierry could hear strangled sounds as men tried not to inhale it. He imagined that the rearguard was getting the worst of it, for white clouds were rising into the sky to the west. Yet for all he knew, they could already have been overrun by the Blue Wolf, in a repeat of Cresson Springs.
Thierry was astride a white stallion named Roland and he was very worried about the destrier’s heavy, labored breathing. He was thankful that so far Roland had not been hit by those showers of Saracen arrows and his anger was growing that their infantrymen had not yet come back to resume protecting the horses. They had broken ranks and run ahead when they heard that Count Raymond was trying to charge through the Saracen lines. Thierry did not approve of this breach of discipline, though he could understand it. Driven to desperation by their thirst and the unrelenting heat and their lack of confidence in their leaders, they’d tried to follow the vanguard, hoping they could somehow reach the springs. But they ought to have returned once they saw that the vanguard had failed and Taqī al-Dīn’s men still blocked the path.
When Thierry saw Amaury de Lusignan spurring his horse from the king’s squadron, he knew at once that they were about to get more bad news. Reining in before the Templar grand master, the constable said something too low for Thierry to catch. Gerard’s reaction was so vehement that Thierry urged Roland forward to join them.
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 78
