by John Man
After two weeks of progress the armies approached Arsuf, and one of Palestine’s rare forests. Saladin, ahead of Richard’s slow-and-steady advance, saw a good place for battle, open ground between the woods and the sea. On 7 September he attacked. But the Christians were well prepared, the experienced Templars out in front, other contingents – Angevins, Bretons, English, Normans – shepherding King Guy, with Richard in the centre and the other knightly order, the Hospitallers, bringing up the rear. ‘They kept so closely together that an apple, if thrown, would not have fallen to the ground without touching a man or a horse.’
In mid-morning, with a bloodcurdling clash of cymbals and gongs and war-cries, the Muslims charged from the woods, infantry first discharging arrows and javelins, followed by the cavalry, the aim being to break the Christian line, scatter them and get in among them for hand-to-hand slaughter. But the arrows could not pierce the Christians’ thick armour, and the line held. A later assault on the Hospitallers forced them back, but they simply retreated facing the Muslims, re-loading their crossbows as they went. Richard was magnificent, riding back and forth, rallying, taking risk after risk. ‘No one escaped when his sword made contact with them; wherever he went his brandished sword cleared a wide path on all sides. Continuing his advance with untiring sword strokes, he cut down that unspeakable race as if he were reaping the harvest with a sickle, so that the corpses of Turks he had killed covered the ground everywhere for the space of half a mile.’ There would be a counter-attack, but not yet; not until the Muslim troops and horses began to tire. Richard ordered restraint until the signal, a sixfold trumpet blast. In the event, two Hospitaller knights could not bear the delay, broke through their own forward ranks to join battle, and inspired the men behind them into a charge. Richard saw that they might fail unless supported, and ordered the whole army to charge. Within minutes, he had regained command. The Muslims fell back and opened to let the Christians through. ‘Then might be seen numbers prostrated on the ground, horses without their riders in crowds, the wounded lamenting with groans their hard fate, others drawing their last breath weltering in gore, and many lay headless whilst their lifeless forms were trodden underfoot by both friend and foe.’64 But Richard, afraid that the Muslims would close ranks, called them back. Despite the thick dust, in which men struck about them indiscriminately, hitting friend and foe alike, they regrouped, charged again, and again, until the Muslim rout became a general collapse, with several hundred dead. ‘The king, mounted on a bay Cyprian steed which had not its match, bounded forward, and scattered those he met on all sides; for the enemy fled from his sword and gave way, while helmets tottered beneath it and sparks flew forth from its strokes.’ Richard himself wrote of his victory: ‘So great was the slaughter among Saladin’s more noble Saracens, that he lost more that day . . . than on any day in the previous 40 years.’
Itinerarium Peregrinorum.
The battle of Arsuf almost did for Richard what Hattin had done for Saladin. The Muslim army was not wrecked, but the Christians were jubilant, Saladin humiliated, and his troops so demoralized there would be no further assault. All he could do was pull back and guard the road eastwards. With no further opposition, Richard moved on that evening to enter Jaffa, his base for his planned advance inland to Jerusalem.
Now there came another pause. Richard had to be sure of securing Jaffa, because through Jaffa’s port would come all his supplies. Besides, his troops were once again living in comfort, with good food and women brought in from Acre. He would be there for weeks, rebuilding the place, but also ‘enjoying ease and pleasure’.
During this time, the Christians very nearly lost their king, in an incident recorded in the Itinerarium Peregrinorum. Richard was out hawking with a few companions. At some point he dismounted to rest and fell asleep. Suddenly a small force of Saladin’s men appeared and attacked. Four knights died in the fight. The Muslims had no idea that they had stumbled upon the king, who, remounting his ‘Cyprian steed’, led a counter-attack. One of his companions yelled in Arabic something like, ‘To me. I am the king!’ and held the Muslims’ attention long enough to be captured and allow Richard to escape.65 Advisers rebuked him for taking such a risk, but he was unrepentant: ‘in all expeditions, he was the first to advance, the last to retreat.’
His name was William of Pratelles. He was ransomed by Richard on his departure for home.
Saladin was not sure what Richard would do next: either go for Jerusalem, or build himself another base in Ascalon, 50 kilometres further south. This would have an important strategic advantage by giving him control of the road to Egypt, thus preventing the arrival of help for Saladin. To forestall such a possibility, Saladin took the decision to use scorched-earth tactics. ‘Knowing that it would be impossible for the Muslims to hold the city, with the remembrance of Acre and the fate of its garrison fresh in their minds, and being convinced, moreover, that his soldiers would be afraid to shut themselves up in the city, he . . . decreed that Ascalon should be destroyed.’
The following day, accompanied by Baha al-Din, he reached Ascalon, a famously lovely city, ‘pleasant to look upon and delightful to the senses; its walls were strong, its buildings beautiful, and it occupied a most charming situation.’ The decision was a hard and painful one:
His tent had been pitched at some distance from the city, and he spent the night there, though he slept very little, for the thought of being obliged to destroy the city filled his mind. I had left him after midnight, but at daybreak he summoned me again, and began to discuss his plans with me. He then sent for his son, el-Melek el-Afdal, to consult with him on the subject, and they talked together for a long while. He said to me, whilst I was on duty in his tent: ‘I take God to witness I would rather lose all my children than cast down a single stone from the walls, but God wills it; it is necessary for the Muslim cause, therefore I am obliged to carry it through.’
With the city’s governor, workmen were hired, and the ramparts, the market and other areas allotted to emirs and soldiers, all of whom well understood Saladin’s decision. The inhabitants, overwhelmed by the news that they would have to give up their homes, ‘uttered loud lamentations, and began at once to sell everything they could not carry away with them . . . even selling ten hens for one dirhem.’ Some of them set out for Egypt, some for Syria, many on foot, having no money for a horse or donkey. As the buildings were stripped, the stone towers and ramparts were undermined and the spaces filled with wood, the purpose of which could hardly be kept a secret from the Franks for long. The work was like that of a siege, but from within. ‘One of the stone-masons,’ wrote Baha al-Din, ‘informed the Sultan in my hearing that the wall of one of the towers which he was undermining was as thick as a lance is long.’ Saladin urged the workmen on, sending his own servants and animal-handlers to help, apprehensive that if the Franks heard what was happening, they would attack. Meanwhile, even as outriders between Ascalon and Jaffa fought small engagements, messages passed back and forth between the two sides discussed possible peace terms, negotiations that were deliberately drawn out on Saladin’s orders to ensure Ascalon’s destruction. Finally, after two days of frantic preparation, the moment came, the signal was given. Every building was set on fire, burning up whatever property had been left by the fleeing inhabitants. Towers fuelled with wood above and below collapsed, ramparts tumbled.
With Richard’s army, mainly the French, settled in Jaffa and Saladin camping near Jerusalem, peace talks started in earnest, in two separate strands, Richard talking to Saladin’s brother al-Adil, and Saladin with Conrad. Proposals ranged from realistic to bizarre. Richard demanded Jerusalem, the whole country west of the Jordan, and the True Cross. Saladin, who vetted all proposals, rejected all three out of hand: Jerusalem was as much Muslim as it was Christian, the land was Muslim, and the True Cross was his main negotiating asset. Richard countered by proposing marriage between al-Adil and the king’s sister, Joanna of Sicily; the release of prisoners; guaranteed Christian access to Jerusal
em. That suggestion was scotched by Joanna herself, who was appalled at the idea of marrying a Muslim. In that case, Richard said, how about his niece, Eleanor of Brittany?
Time passed, and still there was no conclusion. In the winter of 1191–2, Saladin kept guard on Jerusalem, waiting for reinforcements from Mosul, from al-Jazira, from anywhere. Richard took over ruined Ascalon and set about repairing it, a task that took four hard months. But this would not solve his problems. Amongst the Christians, old rivalries re-emerged: Guy’s supporters versus Conrad’s, men from Pisa versus their ancient enemies the Genoans. Richard, having tried and failed to patch everyone together, was more ready than ever for peace, mainly so that he could go home to end his brother John’s ambitions to seize the English throne.
Before he could go, there were vital matters to be sorted out: peace was the first; but that depended on the second – the simmering dispute between Guy and Conrad over the kingship of Jerusalem. In early April 1192, Richard, as commander-in-chief, called a council of all the top Christians to resolve the dispute. To his surprise, he discovered that Guy was universally despised, Conrad by far the favourite. He agreed to replace Guy with Conrad, and sent off a messenger to Tyre to tell him so, the messenger being a young man called Henry of Troyes, Count of Champagne. Upon hearing the news, Conrad fell to his knees in joy, and prayed that if he were unworthy of the kingship it should not be given to him. It wasn’t, as the result of a piece of high drama that almost at once became the subject of rumour and distortion.
This is one account of what happened.
A few days later, on the evening of 28 April, a Tuesday, Conrad was expecting to have dinner with his pregnant wife Isabella, to whom marriage had made him the future king. She was in her bath. He waited, and waited, until finally, in a fit of impatience, he decided to go and dine with his kinsman and friend, Philip, Bishop of Beauvais, who lived nearby. A quick walk with his bodyguards took him to the bishop’s house. But the bishop had already eaten, so Conrad set off home, plus guards, hoping no doubt that Isabella would be ready to join him. Suddenly, rounding a sharp corner and temporarily separated from his guards, he was accosted by two monks, their faces covered by their cowls, one of whom handed him a letter. For a second or two, he was distracted. The other monk stabbed him twice in the side and back. His guards killed one of his attackers, captured the other, and carried Conrad home, dead or dying.
Who was responsible? The captive confessed. The two were not just assassins, but Assassins, with a capital A, employed by their boss, Sinan, the same man who had tried to assassinate Saladin seventeen years before. Ever since then, the Assassins had kept a low profile, strengthening their castles and amassing wealth without bothering anyone. But Conrad had apparently offended Sinan by seizing a ship carrying a cargo that Sinan had bought.
Was the confession true? Was this really just revenge? The timing was strangely coincidental – just after the announcement of Conrad’s coming coronation. Rumour quickly spun other explanations. Yes, perhaps Sinan was responsible, not seeking revenge, but in order to forestall a strong Christian state that would limit his freedom of action. Or perhaps Saladin had paid Sinan to kill both Richard and Conrad (unlikely, given the animosity between Saladin and Sinan). Or Richard had paid them (but this made no sense, because he needed to leave Palestine in Conrad’s hands). The mystery endures.
What now? At a stroke, or a stab, Jerusalem, which a few days previously had a choice of two kings, now had none. Almost at once, a solution emerged, in the form of the young man who had rushed the news of Conrad’s elevation to him and then returned to Acre. The twenty-six-year-old Henry of Troyes was well qualified for kingship. He was a grandson of Eleanor of Aquitaine by her marriage to Louis VII of France, so his mother was half-sister to the kings of both England and France. They were, if you like, his half-uncles. On his arrival in Acre two years before, he had been given command of the siege. As soon as he heard of Conrad’s murder, he returned to Tyre and found that Isabella would see only someone representing either the king of England or the king of France. Young Henry stood for both, and was also wildly popular. Henry himself had his doubts, but Richard had none. Both Isabella and Henry bowed to the pressure. Only a week later the pregnant widow of twenty, already twice married, was married a third time to Henry, who thereby became the new king, and by happy chance the famously good-looking couple fell deeply in love with each other.66
Isabella went on to be very fecund (seven children) and unlucky in her husbands. Henry died in 1197 when he stepped backwards through an open first-floor window. Her fourth husband, Amalric of Jerusalem, died of food poisoning caused by bad fish. She herself died four days later, aged only thirty-four.
For Richard, there remained the problem of the ex-king, Guy. For this too he found a solution. Cyprus, his new possession acquired on his approach to the Holy Land, needed a governor. Guy, with no obvious role to play in Palestine, bought the right to govern it, and there he went in May 1192.
With that problem solved, Richard was keen for a peace settlement with Saladin, for which he could do with a little more leverage. Further down the coast, just over 30 kilometres from Ascalon, was Saladin’s most southerly coastal castle, Darum (or Daron, today’s Deir al-Balah in the Gaza Strip). It was his last stop before Egypt, in effect a frontier post, and very handy for protecting the coast road. It was not heavily guarded, but it had four towers and good, thick walls which would need undermining. The Crusaders had not yet acquired any expertise in this vital skill, so Richard again hired the renegade miners who had been employed in Acre. The garrison didn’t stand a chance. They surrendered after five days, on 28 May. Richard should have been going home, but with all the coast between Darum and Tyre in his hands, suddenly Jerusalem called once again. He moved eastwards, and set up camp halfway between Ascalon and Jerusalem, some 30 kilometres away.
Saladin had been preparing: the walls were strengthened, battle-stations allotted, outlying wells poisoned, spies briefed to report Richard’s movements. Reinforcements had arrived, and more were expected from Egypt in the form of a large caravan – 3,000 camels and horses – and a military escort of over 500. But Richard also had his spies, a group of three Bedouin, who kept an eye on the caravan’s progress. On 21 June, Richard left camp in force, with 700 cavalry, 1,000 foot-soldiers and 1,000 of the ‘Turcopoles’, the locally recruited mercenary archers. Saladin feared for the Egyptian caravan, and sent off a detachment to warn them. The commander seems to have bypassed Richard’s force, but camped on a hill near the caravan a few kilometres inland between Ascalon and Gaza. The following morning, at dawn on 23 June, just as the caravan had been loaded, Richard struck, scattering camels, horses and troops. It was a walkover. The Christians seized almost everything and almost everyone. Only a few escaped, one being a groom who reported to Saladin later that day. The sultan was appalled – ‘no news ever came that grieved his heart more,’ wrote Baha al-Din – for now Richard had all the baggage animals and cash to move easily against Egypt. If he did that, Saladin would have to follow, and expose Jerusalem.
But Richard didn’t. Jerusalem remained too strong an attraction. Yet, having got himself into position at Bayt Nuba,67 just 18 kilometres from Jerusalem, he hesitated. The weather was miserable, cold and wet. There was no water to sustain a siege, he was far from supply ships on the coast and Saladin was on home ground, with help close at hand. Watched at a safe distance by Saladin, Richard pulled back.
The village which Saladin had himself used in his approach to Jerusalem in 1189. It is now the Israeli settlement of Mevo Horon.
From the safety of Jaffa, he returned to diplomacy. Saladin was willing to listen. He would allow Latin priests in Jerusalem’s Holy Places. He would recognize Henry of Champagne as king of Jerusalem, with his little coastal strip as his kingdom, provided only that Ascalon, newly rebuilt, be dismantled again. At this point negotiations broke down, opening another round of tit-for-tat moves: Richard went to Acre intent on seizing Beirut, from whi
ch he would depart; Saladin to Jaffa for a three-day attack which left Christians barricaded in the citadel; Richard back to the rescue in an advance guard of fifty galleys carrying eighty knights, 400 bowmen, 2,000 Italian sailors, and just three horses, with his main force approaching by land. On deck, Richard saw Jaffa apparently in Muslim hands and thought it lost, as the author of the Itinerarium Peregrinorum relates:
and at that moment [Richard] saw a priest plunge into the water and swim towards the royal galley. When he was received on board, he addressed the king with palpitating heart and spirits almost failing him: ‘Most noble king, the remnants of our people, waiting your arrival, are exposed like sheep to be slain, unless the divine grace shall bring you to their rescue.’
‘Are any of them still alive, then?’ asked the king, ‘and if so, where are they?’
‘There are some of them still alive,’ said the priest, ‘hemmed in and at the last extremity in front of yonder tower.’
‘Please God, then,’ replied the king, ‘by Whose guidance we have come, we will die with our brave brothers-in-arms, and a cursed light on him who hesitates.’
The word was forthwith given and the galleys were pushed to land. The king, dashing forward into the waves with his thighs unprotected by armour and up to his middle in the water, soon gained footing on the dry strand.
Saladin was talking about surrender terms to Jaffa’s leaders when Richard waded ashore at the head of part of his army. His sheer audacity and the ferocity of his attack swung the tide of battle. An aide whispered to Saladin what was happening, but Saladin kept his visitors talking until a mass of fleeing Muslims revealed the truth. The city was reclaimed by the Christians, but Saladin was able to stay where he was, in his camp, undefeated.
