Pietro was almost asleep, head nodding. Ivo looked at him with great sadness. You poor old whoreson, you’re too old for this. Same as I am, he thought.
‘We won’t survive this onslaught for long,’ Baldwin said. ‘They must break through before too long.’
‘They will, I think,’ Ivo said. He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Well, I won’t save my bleeding wine for a bleeding Muslim soldier to guzzle after he’s killed me. Drink up, boy! Drink up, Edgar. Lucia, you need a drink too. We drink to Acre, to my friend Jacques, to my wife Rachel, my son Peter, and all the others who’ve died in this damned land. And once we have been kicked out, I pray that no other Christian army ever comes here again, for God has forsaken it – and us,’ he finished viciously. He dashed away the tears as he took more wine.
Baldwin and Lucia drank their wine with him, but left soon afterwards, going to Baldwin’s room where they made love as though it would be their last time.
And so it was.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
Abu al-Fida had stood at his machine’s side all that long day. Al-Mansour was performing with exemplary reliability. They had used seven slings, and had had to replace the beam arm a week ago, but apart from that, nothing had gone wrong.
He watched the final shot loaded, the beam arm straining and creaking under the weight pulling at one end, and nodded to the gynour at the pin. The gynour yanked at his rope, the pin slipped out, and the arm rose, the leather sling scraping the rock along the channel, and up. The sling’s upper loop came away, and the projectile was launched. In the gathering darkness, he lost sight of it in an instant. He thought he could discern it at the uppermost point of its trajectory, but then it disappeared from view again. There was only the flat-sounding crump as it landed.
It did not matter. They had hurled many rocks at the city today, and he had seen the result: the collapse at the gates, the destruction of the final towers nearby, the immense faults showing in the walls themselves. Acre must soon be theirs.
‘Emir, the Sultan asks that you join him.’
Abu al-Fida nodded perfunctorily to the bowing messenger and called for his horse. If the Sultan wanted him, he had better hurry.
Sitting on his horse and cantering from the army of Hama all about the northern edge of the plain until he came to the Sultan’s pavilion, gave al-Fida a measure of just how enormous the force was that Sultan al-Ashraf had accumulated for this holy task. There were men from all over the Sultan’s lands, even a few from the wild Nubian plains west of Cairo. Terrifying men, with their black features and fierce glares.
He dropped from his horse at the entrance to the Sultan’s pavilion, passed his sword to the men standing guard, and bowed low just inside the doorway.
‘I am glad to see you here, Emir. Your catapult is serving us well.’
‘We are pleased to serve you.’
‘And the memory of your son.’
‘Of course.’ Abu al-Fida looked up at that. He would not bow to any man in his sorrow for the loss of Usmar.
He did not like this new Sultan. His father had been a hard man, determined and dangerous. This, his son, was already blooded in deceit and politics. He had killed off those whom he felt had threatened him. Even the mention of Usmar sounded to Abu al-Fida like a threat, as though his determination to avenge his son was to be doubted.
The Sultan eyed him narrowly. ‘Tomorrow, you will increase your rate of discharge at dawn.’
‘We do not have many more missiles,’ Abu al-Fida objected. ‘If we send them too speedily, we must exhaust our resources. We have been throwing them every day for over a month.’
‘I know, Emir. However, there will be little need for you to maintain your firing for too much longer.’
‘You will storm tomorrow?’
‘Early, yes. By nightfall we shall own the city.’
‘Then may I respectfully ask that I join the storming parties?’
Sultan al-Ashraf stared at him with a bemused expression. ‘You realise the danger? The Franks have many men still. The storming parties will suffer terrible losses.’
Abu al-Fida looked at him with a steady eye. ‘I do not care. If I can help win the wall, I will be content.’
Baldwin, Ivo and the others were at the gates again the next morning an hour before dawn. Edgar and Pietro stood near, while Baldwin and Ivo arranged the last of their vintaines into a group. Hob was still alive, but had a gash under his right eye from a spear. It was still bleeding, but he grinned with the other side of his face. ‘Looks good, eh, Master? The girls in London will all want a piece of me when they see this!’
‘I am sure that will make a pleasant change for you. It improves your looks greatly,’ Baldwin joked weakly.
Lucia had also come to the front.
‘I can help,’ she said. ‘We women will bring stones to fill in holes in the ramparts. We can throw stones, too.’
‘It’s dangerous.’
‘More dangerous than sitting at home and waiting for them to come? I’d prefer to die at the gate, near you, than alone.’
They were arrayed in the third row, Baldwin on the far left next to Ivo, and Edgar and Pietro on the right. Before them were some few Knights Hospitaller and two Templars, for it was clear that this was one of the weakest parts of the wall. During the night, women and others had slaved over the barricades, and now at the top of the rampart was a thick line of baskets, palliasses, a trolley and a cart, with stones and rubble filling in all the gaps.
‘They are coming!’
Baldwin glanced up at the man high on the Accursed Tower as he set his helmet on his head. The sentries atop had the best view of the enemy. Baldwin gripped his spear more tightly, and shifted his feet.
And then he heard it: the steady tramp of thousands upon thousands of feet, the brazen blaring of trumpets and the nightmare din of hundreds of kettledrums all being pounded at once.
‘’Ware the missiles!’ came a bellow, and suddenly the air was full of the hammer-blows of rocks as they slammed into the walls, splinters cracking off and hissing through the air. Baldwin saw one run along a man’s neck, cutting bone and sinew at the same time, and the man collapsed like a pole-axed ox. A rock touched the top of the inner parapet, bursting pieces of mortar and stone in all directions, then ploughed into a line of men hurrying to the front. All were crushed. A leg remained where a man had stood only a moment before.
Another struck the tower at full tilt, and Baldwin saw it wobble, a vast crack opening in the side, and as he stared, the tower seemed to rotate. Another hit would bring it down, he thought, but then there was a crash, and he found himself staring through his eye-slots, up at the blue sky overhead.
He was hot, and wanted to pull off his helmet and breathe clean air, but he couldn’t. There was a weight on him, and when he managed to lift his head and look, he saw a man lying over him. All around were more men, most crushed. Slivers of stone lay all about, and as Ivo came and hauled the body from him, Baldwin saw another projectile slam into the Accursed Tower.
It tilted, and as he was helped to his feet, the outer wall seemed to fold in upon itself, and the top of the tower began to move. A crease appeared, as if the tower was made of a mere fabric – and then it tumbled. He could see the sentries at the top, clinging to the parapets, as though that would save them, another man leaping, falling perhaps eighty feet onto the loose rubble.
More rocks: thundering into the walls near the tower, and then the arrows began to fall. Lancing down in great swathes, rattling like a child’s toy on the stones all about. But their impact, when they hit men, was deadly.
‘Get up!’ Ivo was bellowing at him. Baldwin stood, still dazed, and as he did so, an arrow struck the side of his helmet, and bounced away. ‘Shit!’
‘Aye, well, get used to it!’ Ivo snapped.
The line had been demolished by the impact of the rock. The remains of Ivo’s men were huddled in a group, Hob among them. A splinter had opened his groin, and his blood had washed the stones around
him.
‘Look after these arses, Master,’ he managed, but then his eyes fixed on something far, far away that Baldwin could not see.
There were shrieks and sobbings all along the line of men, but then came a warning shout, and men were pointing out over the walls.
‘Form again!’ Baldwin yelled. ‘Here they come!’
They had waited since before dawn, and as he heard the first cries of the muezzin calling them to prayer, Abu al-Fida dropped to his knees and bent his head to the ground.
The process of the ritual was enough to calm his nerves. Any alarm at the thought of the battle was washed away, and he found himself viewing a scene in his mind’s eye of how Paradise must look. It would be blue and clean, always. There would never be any yellow colours, he decided. Yellow and ochre were the colours of sand, of heat, of thirst. Paradise would have no reminders of such things. He would be thirty-three once more, and he would recline on a couch inlaid with precious stones, while his house would be built of bricks of gold and silver. Servants would place foods before him that were so delicious, he would eat and never wish to stop.
But he would stop, when his darling Aisha came to him. His lovely wife would kiss him and respect him. And they would again know that perfect happiness from their love-making. And he would see his son once more.
It was a beautiful scene in his mind. A picture that a man might hold on to for the rest of his days.
A trumpet sounded, and then he was marching with his men. There was no time now for foolish reflections. This was a time for stern duty.
There were three hundred camels arrayed behind the army, and as he turned to his men and ordered them forward, the kettledrums began to pound. There were two per camel, and their rhythm was a solemn call to arms, to death. But today Abu al-Fida felt more alive than he had in the whole of the last year. Today would bring about the end of the Franks in his land. Once they were gone, he could die happily.
The trumpets and drums continued, and as he marched the hundreds of yards to the walls, he heard the first of the rocks humming and whooshing through the air. So many, they seemed to hit with one enormous concussion that threatened to shake the earth itself.
And then he recalled the scenes from that other siege so many years ago, and his heart quailed within him.
A man on his left disappeared, and glancing down his line, he saw others toppling, or screaming and shouting as arrows found them. So many arrows were falling, it was like walking in the rains and trying to avoid each drop. He set his face, breathing in deeply, thinking that if he was to be hit and killed, better to get the business done.
‘Run!’ he shouted.
They were at the first, outer walls now, and there, before them, was the ruin of the city gate, a rampart of rubble paved with Muslim bodies.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
Stumbling, Baldwin allowed Edgar and Ivo to pull him away from the bodies and to the barricades behind. This second line of defence would have to withstand the onslaught, if the Mameluks managed to breach the first line on top of the rampart, and just now, with so many dead and dying, Baldwin found it hard to see how they could survive.
He was ready before the first white-turbaned Emir appeared at the rampart, urging on his regiment with an eager, high-pitched command. An English arrow ended his cry. Others with their black turbans were already at the barricades, and spears and swords flashed. Baldwin lurched to his feet, and as he did so, felt much better. Snatching up a spear, he ran at the lines, shoving his weapon in between other men . . . and thus began the heaving, sweating, jabbing and killing once more.
Encased in his helment, he could see little, only the backs of the men in front, and occasionally some of the enemy, teeth bared in their bearded faces, as they hurled abuse and tried to push into the city.
A man leaped onto the spears hafts, balancing like a tightrope walker, and there began to lay about him with his sword at the heads and hands of the Christians, but a Templar cut off his feet at the ankles. Another copied him, and managed to stab a Hospitaller in the vulnerable spot where his mail shirt met his helmet before he too was dispatched.
Baldwin felt his feet sliding on the loose rubble and stones. The whole line was moving back, and then he heard the enemy roaring as they realised they were succeeding. Men called for help. Some matrons who had been filling baskets with rubble hurled rocks.
A bellow, and Baldwin felt impelled by its urgency to glance up, and when he did, he saw the Muslims had taken the Accursed Tower. They were all over the walls, their banners flying, and he saw black and white turbans, while still more streamed up ladders.
‘Ivo! Ivo, they’ve got the tower!’
‘We can’t do anything about that . . . have to stay here. Hold hard there, you worms! Have to hope someone can get . . . them reinforcements.’
Baldwin knew he was right, but it was hard to concentrate on this area, knowing that Muslims were running behind them into the city. It would only take three or four men at their rear to throw their line into terrible defeat.
With a surge, the Muslims began to win the shoving contest. The Christian line was forced back, legs struggling to keep their ground. Baldwin saw a sword rise and hack, and the man in front of him was gone. Suddenly a sword flashed at him, and he had to drop his spear before it took off his hand at the wrist, and he drew his own sword instead.
In an instant, the whole line had collapsed into a series of hand-to-hand combats. Baldwin saw Ivo over to his left, Edgar beyond him, while all about them was a circle of screaming and yelling men, their weapons glinting.
He was hard-pressed. A blade nicked his thigh, another his knee – then a man edged in closer, and Baldwin could feel that this was no amateur, but a practised swordsman. He forced Baldwin back, and would have killed him, had Edgar not turned, hacked once, and the man’s neck was broken. He fell, and Baldwin moved forward again, thankful for Edgar’s joy in battle.
‘Back! Back to the second line!’ Ivo shouted, and they all broke away and pelted for their second line of defence.
The timbers piled here were meagre, but at least offered some resistance to the Muslims, who tried to clamber to the top, only to meet a vintaine of spear-men, who stabbed and prodded them back. Baldwin fell to the ground with profound relief, rolling over to see how the battle was progressing.
Pietro was wildly swinging his blade, Ivo beside him with his more effective, economical parrying and stabbing, but then, at last, they were saved. Baldwin heard a bellow from behind and as he turned, he saw six mounted Templar knights. They came at the gallop, spears lowered. Baldwin scarce had time to bolt, and Ivo and Pietro threw themselves to the side as the massive horses pounded to the barricades, and sailed over them. They landed on their enemy, and some more were pierced by Templar spears, and the horses began to kick and bite even as the knights on their backs threw aside their spears and used swords, axes or maces to lay about them. Arrows rained down about them, but by some miracle, the men and their horses were unhurt.
Ivo was already up behind them as the last Muslim fell back warily up the slope, watching the Templars. One spurred to the rampart, pushing him and the others back, while his brothers dismounted and stood in line. A troop of Templar sergeants and squires joined them, and all set off up the ramp, to stand at the top. Rocks and arrows were cast at them, but men were already scurrying about setting baskets back in place and refilling the gaps between.
Pietro and Edgar were near Baldwin, both panting, and he stood with them. For a while, no one spoke, merely gathering their resources for the next fight.
Then: ‘We need to help there,’ Edgar said, nodding towards the Accursed Tower.
‘Someone else must go,’ Baldwin said. ‘We are too few already.’
‘The Templars should help us then. Or the Hospitallers,’ Edgar insisted. ‘If the enemy are allowed to hold the tower, we will soon be fighting them behind us as well as before.’
There was sense in what he said. Baldwin cast about, looking
for someone who could be sent. Just then, a large force of English and men of the King of Jerusalem’s forces came at the run, and while the King’s men took up positions behind the Templars, the English went to the walls at either side and nocked arrows to their bows, ready.
Baldwin waited until he saw the archers bend their bows, and then set off up the rampart again, but this time the Muslims were there in still greater force; they scaled the walls, appearing at the inner battlements, and ran along, stabbing the archers and throwing them from their positions. To his dismay, Baldwin found that he and the others were now caught between the Mameluks in the gateway, and those who had come up behind them.
‘We cannot hold this!’ Ivo cried despairingly. ‘We have to pull back!’
‘We can’t leave the gate!’ Baldwin shouted.
But they had to. Nothing remained for them to hold. The gates had gone, the barricades were crushed or knocked aside, and Baldwin found himself forced back with the others, towards the Accursed Tower.
Baldwin, Ivo and Pietro were thrust further and further back, and Edgar was a short way away, with two Templar sergeants, who fought like berserkers. They were all soon pushed from the main gates, and thence back towards the castle.
Staring about him, Baldwin recognised where they were. At the castle, there was a gateway – the original gateway to the city, he assumed, before the second space had been added to incorporate Montmusart. He had little hope they could hold the gate here, because now that the Accursed Tower had fallen, the city’s defences were lost. But still, there was the second series of gates at the second wall that kept Montmusart separate from the old city, and if it were possible to recover the Accursed Tower, the city could perhaps pull back and hold this second line.
It was a possibility. A cause for a last desperate hope. He shouted this to the others, and saw Ivo nod. Then, as they retreated through the gates, Baldwin bellowed and charged. Edgar and the two others saw his plan, and they too roared and redoubled their efforts, and their sudden change in tactic made the forward line of Muslims hesitate. Only for a moment, but that was enough. The four men turned and pelted through the swiftly closing gates, and the bars were slid across before they had drawn breath.
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