Balian reached out and gripped Baldwin’s shoulder so firmly it hurt him—for the sickness had not reached his shoulders. “I know you do, Baldwin. Believe me, I know you do.”
Baldwin pulled himself together. He looked Balian in the eye and took a deep breath. “I want to know everything that happens. I’m counting on you to remember and tell me everything when you return.”
“I promise, your grace,” Balian assured him.
“Wait! I almost forgot!” Baldwin sprang up and ran up the stairs to his bedchamber. Balian heard him murmuring with Ibrahim, and then he returned carrying a little casket laid in his cupped hands, the only way he could carry anything these days. “Please take what is inside of this with you, Balian.”
Balian frowned warily. “What is it, Baldwin?”
“Open it up and find out!”
Reluctantly, Balian took the beautifully carved ivory casket out of the King’s hands, and opened it. A heavy, somewhat battered and misshapen ring lay inside.
“It was the ring Godfrey de Bouillon wore when he took Jerusalem seventy-five years ago.”
“Your grace! I can’t take this!”
“Just to wear and bring back,” Baldwin explained. “To remind you I am with you, in spirit if not in body.”
“I am honored, your grace, but it is not necessary. I could never forget that your heart is with us, your army.”
“Wear it anyway, Balian. With God’s grace, it will bring you luck.”
Reverently, Balian took the signet ring out of the box and slipped it on his ring finger. It was too large, so he moved it to his middle finger and formed a fist. “My liege,” he murmured, and bowed deeply to the leper.
“We’re running out of fodder,” Tripoli declared, a grim expression on his tanned face. “Ibelin! Take some of those Turcopoles over there and see what you can collect.”
“My lord,” Balian acknowledged, trying to suppress his disappointment and resentment. Tripoli was employing him more as a squire than a knight. Both his brothers were with the van of the army, Barry as Baron of Ramla and Henri in the entourage of Oultrejourdain—but Tripoli had assigned Balian to his own staff, and at best he let him carry messages. More often he used him like this: to forage. Balian had not once had occasion to mount his destrier, and Godfrey de Bouillon’s ring seemed heavy on his hand, a reminder of his promise to Baldwin to fight like a lion. How could he fight like a lion if he didn’t get a chance to fight at all? And what was he going to tell Baldwin when he returned? How important it was to have enough water and fodder for the horses while on campaign?
He swung his palfrey around to trot over to the troop of Turcopoles Tripoli had indicated. The Turcopoles were dismounted, their horses listlessly trying to tear up tufts of dried-out grass and scrub brush. The men themselves were sprawled around in bored inaction since, to be fair, the entire army was in position but had not yet engaged the enemy. At Balian’s approach, the Turcopoles got to their feet.
Balian looked them over, trying to decide who was their commander. They were a motley crew, with mismatched armor and round shields of differing sizes, ages, and repair. Most wore leather jerkins of some sort, some had captured chain-mail hauberks, and the poorest had only quilted linen aketons. Most wore woolen hoods of some sort to protect their heads—as much from the cold as from enemy action—although those with captured armor had coifs over these. They were armed with short swords and the reed lances carried by Sarcen horsemen. Balian addressed them in Arabic: “Who’s in command here?”
A tall, dark man with bushy black eyebrows and a black mustache at once indicated himself and, flinging the reins over his horse’s head, swung himself up into the saddle. He wore scaled leather Turkish armor and a turban, and his horse was sturdy and lively. The horse pricked up his ears and looked at Balian with intelligent eyes as his rider guided him alongside Balian’s larger mount. “Sir?” the Turcopole commander asked.
“How many men do you command?”
“Seventeen, sir.”
“And you know them well?” Balian asked skeptically. The quality of Turcopole troops was very uneven. Some were highly effective and motivated, others of almost no use at all.
“We are all men from the domains of the Canons of the Holy Sepulchre,” came the answer. “We are Maronite Christians, except for Athanasius there, who is Greek.”
That was good, as the Maronite Church was in negotiations with the Pope about accepting the supremacy of Rome, and—quite regardless of religious dogma—most Maronite Christians were exceptionally loyal to the current regime. These were men whose fathers or grandfathers still remembered what it was like to live under Turkish rule—and had no desire to return to it.
“You’ve campaigned together before?” Balian asked hopefully.
“Yes, sir, except for Athanasius and Ezekiel.” The commander nodded his head toward two young men, neither of whom looked more than fifteen or sixteen.
“And your name?”
“Amos, sir.”
“Amos, we have been ordered to find fodder for the horses. Have you sacks or the like to carry hay?”
“Yes, sir.” He indicated a roll of linen tied behind his saddle. “And we have donkeys as well.” He pointed a little farther away to a small herd of donkeys waiting docilely.
With an inner sigh, Balian nodded and signaled for the Turcopoles to mount and follow him.
The Christian army had surrounded the city of Homs, which was controlled by troops loyal to the Sultan of Egypt, Salah-ad-Din, but the citadel was still in the hands of troops loyal to as-Salih, the young heir of Nur-ad-Din. Salah-ad-Din had taken his army north to try to seize Aleppo, where the young as-Salih was protected by the local lord, Gumustekin. The garrison in Homs had requested help from the Christians to raise the siege of the citadel, and Tripoli had responded by moving the Christian army up and surrounding Homs. He was refusing to actually launch an assault on the city to relieve the garrison, however, until the commander at Homs promised to release prominent Christian prisoners he held. However, Balian judged that Tripoli was less concerned with the release of prisoners than with using the Christian “siege” at Homs to relieve the pressure on Aleppo. If Aleppo fell and as-Salih with it, Salah-ad-Din would be in a position to take control of Nur-ad-Din’s complete Syrian empire. He would then effectively surround the Christian states, as well as more than double the manpower at his disposal—a highly threatening prospect. By threatening Homs, Tripoli hoped to force Salah-ad-Din to abandon his attack on Aleppo, and so ensure that Nur-ad-Din’s territories remained divided and fought over.
After two weeks in position, however, the Christian army had already consumed all the feed and fodder from the countryside immediately surrounding Homs. It didn’t help that the winter so far had been exceptionally dry, so that everything was still brown, with no hint of new growth yet. Most foraging, therefore, followed the Orontes River, but Balian already knew how far he had to ride to reach anything irrigated from the Orontes. On an impulse, he struck out to the east. Tripoli had not charged him with reconnaissance, but Balian decided that if he had to spend his time foraging, he might as well do it where he might also see something relevant to their siege. After all, Salah-ad-Din needed to keep in close contact with the forces he’d left in Damascus.
Behind him he could hear the Turcopoles muttering among themselves, and Walter spurred his horse so he could ride beside Balian. “Wouldn’t there be more forage along the Orontes?”
Balian shrugged. “Everyone goes there. Let’s see what we can find east of here.”
Walter made a face and demonstratively pulled the hood of his woolen surcoat up over his coif. The wind across the plain was bitterly cold, and Balian glanced up at the white sky: a mixture of thin cloud and dust that reflected in pastel the brownish-yellow color of the countryside. It was not the kind of sky that promised precipitation, just the kind of sky that blocked out the sun and made the whole landscape bleak.
They rode in silence, each man lost i
n his own thoughts, past abandoned and partially ruined villages. That was the way the Christians had found them, for the villagers had sought refuge in Homs as soon as Salah-ad-Din’s army appeared, and it was his troops that had broken down the doors and forced the windows in search of plunder. Balian did not doubt that their own troops had also scavenged through the houses and barns, but by then there would have been only slim pickings.
After about half an hour, they finally came to the first village that had not been sacked. They saw people running out into the orchard, carrying or chasing their children and their goats before them in an attempt to escape the Christian soldiers. Balian halted his troops to look into the crude mud-and-wattle barns, and was surprised to find some twenty bales of hay. These they loaded onto the donkeys, which they then sent back to Tripoli with the youngest of the Turcopoles as escort.
Roughly a quarter-hour further along the road they came upon an abandoned caravansary, and here they found not only hay but some barrels of barley and a broken barrel of rye that mice had gotten into. While the Turcopoles loaded these things into their sacks, Balian went outside and stared into the distance. The horizon was blurred and indistinct—whether from dust or moisture in the air was impossible to tell, but probably dust, as it was clearly thicker at one point.
Balian started and stood up straighter. This was what he had been looking for all day. “Walter! Amos! Come quick!”
His squire emerged out of the caravansary storeroom with straw sticking to his surcoat, the Turcopole commander on his heels. “Sir?”
“Look there! That smudge on the horizon. What do you think?”
It was Amos who answered. “Riders, probably a body of fifty or more.”
“Leave the fodder! Have your men mount up at once!”
Amos and Walter gaped at him, and then Amos ducked inside to give the order and Walter protested, “But they must be Saracen. None of our troops would be this far east.”
“Exactly.”
“Shouldn’t we lie low, then? Maybe they won’t see us.”
“And if they do, do you want to be on foot when they attack?” Balian countered.
Walter ran for their horses without another word.
Within less than five minutes they were all mounted in the courtyard of the caravansary, out of sight of the Saracen riders. Balian ordered them to check their girths, and then took a lance from Walter and ordered him to prepare to use the other one himself. “But you’re riding Jupiter!” Walter protested.
“I’ve trained on him often enough for him to know the drill. Besides, he’s still bigger and stronger than most of the native horses.”
“You’re going to attack?” Amos asked uncertainly in Arabic, for Balian had been speaking to Walter in French.
“Yes, that’s exactly what we’re going to do,” he answered in the same tongue.
Amos’s face split into a wide grin, and he hooted in triumph. “Boys! We’re going to attack! We’re going to attack!”
“Hold your lances upright until I give the order,” Balian turned to address the excited troop of Turcopoles. “From a distance, they may take you for Turks and not immediately sense the danger.”
The men nodded vigorously, and Amos suggested, “Maybe I should ride in front until you want to launch the attack?”
Balian hesitated. It seemed cowardly, but Amos in his turban and leather armor, carrying a round shield, certainly looked Saracen. Balian nodded curtly, adding, “When I give the order, break left and let Walter and me through, then stay as close to us as possible.” He turned and addressed the still-eager troop of Turcopoles, looking into each face. Although one or two of the men looked dubious, the majority seemed genuinely pleased by the prospect of action. “Success will depend on momentum and a compact formation. Stay stirrup to stirrup. Four abreast, no more. Only spread out to swing around us as we engage the enemy—not before!”
They nodded at him, and one was bold enough to say, “We’ve watched you Franks do it. We can do it.”
Balian wasn’t so sure, but he was sure that he was going to attack. As they filed out of the courtyard they could now clearly see the fast-moving body of horsemen, riding hard across the fallow fields, heading southwest. Banners fluttered from their lance tips. Just as Amos had guessed from the start, the Saracen cavalry was a fairly small troop, no more than fifty riders, and they had their bows and shields slung on their backs. They were going someplace, not attacking.
“Those are Kurdish riders, sir!” Amos informed Balian. “Look at their banners!”
Balian looked, but he was not yet familiar with the heraldry of his enemies. Amos insisted, however: “Those are Kurdish Mamlukes.”
“Salah-ad-Din’s men?” Balian questioned him. “You’re sure they are not followers of Gumustekin or Saif-ad-Din?”
“No, sir. Those are some of Salah-ad-Din’s elite cavalry. See their yellow turbans and the yellow vests!” Amos pointed.
“Then may Christ, St. George, and the Holy Cross be with us all!” Balian gestured for Amos to take the lead, and the little troop set off at once on a course to intercept the Saracen horsemen at an oblique angle.
With each stride they closed the distance, trying not to appear threatening until shouts reached them from the other column of riders. The Mamlukes slowed their horses and turned slightly toward them, trying to assess who these riders were. Salah-ad-Din had many enemies, and most of them were Turks. His men were wary. There seemed no point in disguise anymore. Balian ordered Amos out of the way and lowered his lance as he spurred Jupiter forward with a shout of “Jerusalem!”
Walter lagged on his right but Amos, despite having a weaker lance, was pacing him so perfectly that they crashed almost simultaneously into a still-confused enemy. The Mamlukes had been caught by surprise. Only a few managed to pull their shields or bows off their backs, and Balian aimed his lance tip at a man without a shield, pierced him, shook the lance free as he continued forward, Jupiter still at a gallop, and took a second man down as he tried to draw his bow. This time the lance broke, but Balian was also already out at the far side of the column of riders. He drew his sword as he turned Jupiter around and rode back into the enemy, holding it high over his head at the ready.
Meanwhile the rest of his little troop of Turcopoles was among the Mamlukes, shouting their own battle cries as they made their attack. The Turcopoles’ lighter lances all broke on the first impact, while Walter appeared to have lost his altogether. Nevertheless, the attackers appeared to have unseated at least one rider apiece, or at least to have drawn blood.
By now dust was starting to obscure the overall picture. Horses were screaming along with their masters, and Balian was focused simply on parrying the blows directed at him while striking back every chance he got. Once he almost attacked one of his own men, unfamiliar as they were—but he recognized the mistake in time, held his hand, and then dropped his sword on the man behind him.
The bodies of the fallen were starting to get in the way of the horses, and Jupiter tripped and then shied sharply, almost unseating Balian. A moment later he sensed a volley of arrows coming at him, and he ducked below his shield. Several arrows thudded into the wooden surface of the shield, one embedded itself into his saddle, and another hit Jupiter in the shoulder. The stallion whinnied in pain and threw up his head, but Balian could see it was not a mortal wound, and he was more concerned about how the enemy could risk a volley when they were in such close combat.
As he spun Jupiter around on his haunches, looking for the source of the volley of arrows, he realized that around him only his own men were still mounted. The bulk of the enemy were drawing away to the south at a gallop, the rear riders firing backwards over their shoulders to discourage pursuit.
There was no point in following. The enemy horses were faster and their numbers still greater than Balian’s little troop. He had achieved what he could for the moment; most important, he had proved to himself he was not a coward.
“How can a man have so m
uch luck!” Barisan d’Ibelin complained indignantly to his friend Aimery de Lusignan. “It was nothing but a routine foraging patrol! He was looking after our stomachs, not our honor!”
Aimery wasn’t so sure it was luck. The entire strategy of this campaign was to attack the city of Homs in order to relieve the pressure on Aleppo. If the strategy was to work, Salah-ad-Din had to be forced to withdraw troops from the assault on Aleppo and send them to reinforce Homs. Balian d’Ibelin’s “foraging patrol” had swung far to the east, putting itself across the path of any forces sent by Salah-ad-Din from Aleppo to Homs. Aimery strongly suspected that Balian had known exactly what he was doing, but if Barry didn’t see it that way, Aimery saw no point in arguing with him. Instead he remarked, “In fairness, that doesn’t detract from what he did. With only his squire and fifteen Turcopoles, he attacked some threescore of Salah-ad-Din’s elite cavalry, spearing no fewer than two men personally and killing another three men with his sword, before capturing four prisoners and putting the rest to flight.”
“And what might you and I have done if we’d had the good fortune to encounter Salah-ad-Din’s cavalry!” Barisan countered. “There’s nothing so remarkable about killing five Saracens in the open! It’s trying to kill them when they’re secure behind high walls that is difficult!”
This was true enough in its way, but Aimery thought it was ungracious of Barry to belittle Balian’s achievement. For a young, unproven knight to attack a more numerous force and scatter it after a short engagement was remarkable, and he thought the praise given Balian by Tripoli was both deserved and commensurate. It wasn’t as if Tripoli were lavishing him with rewards; he’d simply said “well done” and immediately made him a banneret over five royal knights.
“If we’d had the luck to encounter Salah-ad-Din’s cavalry, we would have done twice as well,” Barisan insisted stubbornly.
“We might have killed more Saracens,” Aimery conceded, “but I would not have been able to understand enough to know they were Salah-ad-Din’s troops and not someone else’s,” Aimery admitted. “It was that intelligence, far more than the casualties inflicted, that was valuable to us. We now know Salah-ad-Din has taken the bait and is indeed trying to reinforce Homs. Tripoli has given your brother more knights not to kill more Saracens, but rather to find out more about Salah-ad-Din’s intentions. Tripoli rightly wants to know whether Salah-ad-Din is withdrawing from the siege of Aleppo. You have to give your brother credit for that, at least.”
Knight of Jerusalem Page 11
