by K. M. Grant
At the end of September, the fleet sailed into port for a rendezvous in Sicily. The knights hung their shields over the sides of the ships and fixed standards and pennants to spearheads to announce their arrival. Sir Thomas and Gavin stood with the king as the oarsmen made a great froth and the sailors whooped and cheered.
“I have family business here,” Richard said. “And anyway, this island can provide us with a safe harbor and a rest.” Sir Thomas, who had grown weak during the journey, thanked God.
The halt turned out to be a long one. The crusaders spent the winter on the island, recuperating and restocking their supplies while King Richard dealt with prickly matters of state. Blood was shed as relations between the Sicilians and the crusaders, who were not overly polite in their treatment of the native people, grew increasingly bitter. Sir Thomas turned diplomat, and his new role meant that he failed to notice that Gavin, frustrated and bored, was taking up with new friends. He and Adam Landless now spent time gambling and drinking in the camp outside Messina. Adam was determined to win enough money to buy another horse. He won one first from a knight called Roger de Soucy, but Roger soon won the horse back. Gavin accused him of cheating. It was only because the king decreed that men caught fighting would be executed that the matter did not come to blows.
William, who watched Gavin from a distance, did not tell his father what was going on. He simply spent less and less time in his brother’s company. Instead, he spent more with the horses, riding all over the island. After so many weeks standing still, they reveled in the chance to stretch their legs and gallop in the sun.
News from the Holy Land began to trickle through to Messina. King Guy of Jerusalem, released by Saladin, was already besieging Acre. His actions were considered heroic. But as the crusaders prepared to celebrate the Christmas feast in Sicily, other news also filtered through. While Richard ate off gold plate and consumed fine wine, Guy and his men were so beset by famine that they were forced to eat their horses—heads, intestines, and all.
“Does the king not hear what we hear?” William asked his father. “Why are we not setting sail at once?”
“Patience, William, patience,” said Sir Thomas. “The king will do everything in his own time.” William looked at his father. Although showered with gifts by Richard for his services, Sir Thomas had begun to look as old as he often joked he felt. He was still cheerful and merry with his sons, but William noticed his face was lined with worry.
It was three days before Good Friday when, with a fleet of two hundred ships, Richard ordered the crusaders to prepare to set off again. William, while hating having to make the horses go back into the hold, was exultant.
This time, however, Gavin was not with them.
“I have decided that I will travel with my friends,” he said. “And my horses will come with me.”
“But Montlouis travels so well next to Hosanna,” said William.
A look of uncertainty crossed Gavin’s face.
“You surely don’t need that little horse to lend courage to the great Montlouis,” came the voice of Adam Landless from behind them. “Why not travel with me? After all, you may remember that I won your other horse— Montalan is he called?—at cards last night, so Montlouis will be among friends.”
William turned on Gavin, his face furious.
“You idiot!” he said, and walked off, shouting for another knight to bring his horse forward.
Three days away from the Sicilian coast, a huge storm, bigger than anything the crusading army had felt before, blew up in the night. Down below the deck of the king’s ship, Hal held on to Hosanna for dear life as the ship rose, hesitated for one dreadful second, then, with a terrible heave, plunged down into a wall of water that threatened to drown them all. The noise was appalling. Through the keening wind and the rain beating like a thousand drums, Hal could hear the sailors cursing and crying as the oars were torn from their oarlocks and the stores came loose from their moorings. Some of the other grooms were on their knees or even just lying facedown in the filthy straw, praying to the Virgin. William appeared in the chaos, abandoning his place on the deck above. He did not try to shout above the creaking and howling, but fought his way over to Hal, and after an almighty struggle to fix Hosanna’s slings, both of them buried their faces in his mane.
All night the sea roared, but the next morning an almost surreal calm had descended, as if the storm had been nothing but a bad dream. But it had not been a bad dream. Richard’s fleet was scattered, and Gavin’s ship had disappeared. All around the king’s galley, amid a floating forest of smashed wood, corpses of men and horses in terrible attitudes of violent death floated past. William stood, white-faced, with his father, dreading to see his brother’s face or Montlouis’s familiar head in among the flotsam. Sir Thomas urged everybody to pray rather than stare. But many, like William, were beyond prayer. The whole venture, which had begun so proudly, seemed to be turning sour, from the months of inactivity in Sicily to the pointless deaths of so many before they had even reached the Holy Land.
“Surely God should protect us on our journey,” William said to Sir Thomas.
“God works in His own ways,” his father replied, his face grayer than ever.
There was nothing to do but push forward to Cyprus, the next planned stop, an island that Richard was determined to take under his control since it was close enough to the coast of Palestine to be crucial to the crusaders’ efforts.
William and Sir Thomas spoke little as Richard’s ship pressed on. Sir Thomas could not even bring himself to condemn his eldest son’s decision to travel separately, since he did not know if he was alive or dead.
After three weeks’ further sailing, during which Richard’s ship stopped at many islands in search of news, what remained of his fleet reached Limassol. Almost immediately, just outside the harbor, William spotted Gavin’s shield hung over the side of a very battered ship that had once been painted blue. Surely they would not hang the shield of a drowned knight? They had not. As they sailed nearer, Sir Thomas and William could see Gavin and Adam among a group of men sitting on deck, playing dice.
William, careless of his dignity in his relief, called out Gavin’s name again and again. But his brother barely nodded. As William got close enough to board, he could see his brother’s hands were shaking and his face was hard and closed.
Gavin had had a terrible journey. At least twenty of the men who had mustered at Hartslove, including Humphrey and Mark, men who had followed him and changed ships, were drowned in front of his eyes. Montalan had also gone when, the hail and wind having rotted the caulk that secured it, the great trapdoor in the ship’s side blew open and all the horses tethered beside it had been swept off their feet. Montlouis had only been saved by a load of barrels that had slid across the hold, dividing it in two. Every time he shut his eyes, Gavin could still hear Humphrey’s pleas for help, help that Gavin was unable to give. And he could still see Montalan swimming past, his eyes wide, his nostrils flared, searching—searching for land he would never reach. Gavin conveyed none of this to William. He did not know how. He simply gave his brother and father a desultory wave and carried on with his game.
William, deeply hurt by Gavin’s coolness, reboarded Richard’s ship. Sir Thomas patted him on the back.
“Your brother has learned a hard lesson,” he said. “He needs some time to deal with it.”
William pursed his lips. “Gavin seems to learn no lessons,” he said.
“Don’t speak of your brother like that,” said his father wearily. “Come, I think the king has something for you to do.”
Richard was sitting in a small room, surrounded by a group of knights. William noticed how, just before entering, his father made himself stand up straight and smile. William felt a sudden chill.
“Father,” he said. “Are you—”
“I’m absolutely fine,” said Sir Thomas. “Just a little tired. Now, Will. Listen carefully to the king. This is a big moment for you and Hosanna.”
William squeezed his father’s hand, then went apprehensively into the king’s presence.
“Good,” said Richard when William approached. “I have a job, and your father says you are just the man to do it.”
Richard outlined his plan. The ruler of Cyprus, Isaac Comnenus, a disaffected member of the Greek imperial family, was posing as a friend to the crusaders but was in fact allied with Saladin. He would have to be got rid of. Richard could not risk Cyprus offering support to Saladin’s army. Under cover of darkness, the horses were to be disembarked into the shallow sea about a hundred yards offshore. They would surround the Griffons, the Cypriot army who had made camp on the beach, and by morning Richard was to be in control of the capital city. William’s task was to get to the beach and lead a charge.
“Hosanna, I’m told, gives men and horses confidence,” said Richard. “If he will disembark straight into the sea, it seems likely that the other horses and men will follow. And I hear he can jump. If he will leap over the barricades that they have erected, who knows? The others may, too.”
William’s face lit up.
“Yes, sire,” he said. “We will do our best.”
William felt no nerves waiting for the darkness to fall, though this was his first experience of battle. He and Hal discussed how best to prepare Hosanna and what saddlery he should wear. Having got Hosanna ready, Hal was busy organizing the horses that would follow him out.
When the order came for the operation to begin, William, wearing only light armor, climbed down into the hold. Hosanna whickered gently as Hal led him out of his stall and helped William to mount. Lying almost flat along Hosanna’s neck because the roof of the hold was so low, William whispered encouragement into his ears. They twitched. He felt his own heart beating fast as the gangplank was lowered, and with only a momentary hesitation Hosanna stepped onto it. The wooden slats were steeply inclined and barely rested on the seafloor. The horse slithered momentarily, then struck boldly off into the waves. Within a few strokes, he found his feet and, snorting, made his way onto the beach.
“Sssssh,” said William.
It was a propitious start. Where Hosanna went, the other horses followed. Some of the knights had preferred to wear heavier armor and sail to the beach in flat-bottomed boats while their grooms brought their horses. William grinned. Jumping in heavy armor was extremely painful. The knights who had followed his lead and worn only a breastplate and helmet would find themselves much more comfortable. But the task of getting the knights to the beach had been accomplished, and in silence.
Now for the next stage. When they were all assembled, at William’s signal they charged. The enemy, most of whom were dozing, were completely taken aback. Jerked into wakefulness by the pounding of horses’ hooves, they stood helpless at the sight of a flame-colored horse and its young rider, followed by fifty other knights, flying over the upturned wagons, old doors, and great piles of wood that the Griffons had thought would form an insuperable barrier. The day was won before breakfast.
As William galloped through the streets of Limassol he hollered his victory, and when later in the day Richard rewarded him with a jeweled dagger, William held it up to show his peers.
Gavin, who had not been asked to take part in the adventure—because, so he said by way of explanation, Montlouis could not be relied upon in water—looked on with envy. He knew why Richard had not chosen him. It was he, Gavin, who could no longer be relied upon.
The taking of the island provided rich rewards for all, including Richard, who captured Isaac’s horse, which, so the knights whispered, was the swiftest in the world. Richard offered it to William, who thought his heart would burst with pride. The king laughed as William refused it, as everybody knew he would.
“I already have a horse, sire,” William said. “I need no other.”
“Would you exchange him for this one?”
“With all respect, sire, no.”
Later, William and Sir Thomas rode together into the hills and looked over the sea. If they strained their eyes, they could see the cedar-covered mountains of Lebanon just visible over the horizon.
“That’s it, William,” Sir Thomas said. “Next stop, the Holy Land.” They stood in silence for a while before turning to ride back to the city.
After William gave Hosanna to Hal to feed, he bumped into Gavin, Adam, and several others. They were drunk.
“Here’s your precious brother,” they taunted Gavin. “Now, why not show him some real life. Does he even know what goes on in the back streets of Limassol? We think it is your brotherly duty to show him the beautiful girls of Cyprus. Hey, Will! A crusader can have a rare good time here! And to a hero like you, well, you can have your pick!”
William ignored them. As Gavin halfheartedly tried to grab him, he slid past and went to find his father, about whom he was increasingly worried. Sometimes, he thought, it is as if I were the older son. Gavin seemed barely to have noticed their father’s tired face and troubled expression.
It was only a short month before all was secure and the fleet sailed on to Acre. This time Gavin traveled with William and Sir Thomas. Nothing was said, but when Hal went to collect Montlouis to put him next to Hosanna, Gavin did not object. Their arrival at Acre, a year after setting out, was an emotional moment. The Christians besieging the city were almost beside themselves with relief, and the crusaders felt that their real task was about to begin.
Walking to the horse lines on the evening of their first day to see if his faithful Phoebus was still in one piece, even Sir Thomas had a spring in his step. “Well, old man,” he said to his horse. “This is the beginning of something great.”
But two days later William was sickly, and by midday he was delirious. For a day he slipped in and out of consciousness as his father watched, helpless.
Sir Thomas consulted a priest who had been living outside Acre, for advice. The priest looked sadly at the old man, but could offer little hope. “It’s the fever,” he said. “Acre is full of it. So many get it, and most do not recover. You can only pray for him—and for your king, who I hear is also ill.”
Sir Thomas sank down in despair. Surely William, having been through so much, could not die delirious, not even knowing where he was? And surely the king could not die now, just when his real work was about to start?
Already the hideous reality of siege warfare in a hot climate was sinking in. Acre and its environs were little better than a cesspit, with polluted water, filth everywhere, and mutilated corpses being thrown both in and out of the city as if they had never been living people. Sir Thomas remembered William’s joy at the vision of the cedar-covered mountains. Was this the reality? Was the crusading dream nothing more than a dismal, stinking nightmare of famine, plague, flies, heat, and dust? The rumors they had heard in Sicily about men eating their horses had been true. And much worse things were happening. Some men were being accused of cannibalism. Others were reduced to gibbering idiots, having eaten rats that were themselves sick from eating flyblown carrion.
Sir Thomas shuddered as William, lying in a stifling tent, launched yet again into a long complaint about Old Nurse setting him on fire. Dropping to his knees, Sir Thomas began to pray. “If anybody should die pointlessly of illness rather than gloriously in battle, let it be me,” he begged. “Please, Lord, if You have any mercy, spare my son. Please spare my son.”
11
Acre, 1191
For over a week it seemed as if Sir Thomas’s prayers would not be answered. He never left William’s side, and Gavin lurched in and out, torn between pity and horror. Eventually Sir Thomas bowed his head to the inevitable and sent Gavin to look for a priest. Gavin was glad to be doing something. As he rode out, he could see Acre’s domes and minarets over the city walls. He could also hear the muezzin and whistled to drown out the sound.
Acre was still held by the Saracens, but only just. Hours were spent discussing the quickest way to make it fall. Once in Christian hands it would provide a good por
t for reinforcements and supplies. However, careful planning was required. More than a third of the city’s perimeter was water, and on a treacherous, rocky outcrop, a tower, known as the Tower of the Flies, had been built to help protect the city from attack by sea. To the landward side another tall building, nicknamed the Cursed Tower, provided cover for Saracen archers. As occasional arrows whistled through the air, despite the heat, Gavin was glad to be wearing his armor. It was commonly believed that this tower was where the silver that had been paid to Judas Iscariot, the apostle who betrayed Jesus, was forged. Gavin could well believe it.
A river flowed into the city, but it was narrow and shallow—“Good for making glass,” as some of the siege mechanics observed, “but useless for watering two armies and a city.” The “two armies” referred to another difficulty that the arriving Christians found themselves facing. For while the Christians under King Guy of Jerusalem had begun one siege, they found themselves, in their turn, besieged by Saladin, who now had them trapped on the plain between hostile hills and a hostile city. It was a deadlock.
Gavin had not been as happy to reach Acre as everybody else. He was still unable to rid himself of nightmare visions of drowning men and horses. The shortages of food, the brown water, and the constant presence of death suited his mood, even though these conditions were killing more people than any battle. Men and horses were visibly shrinking inside their trappings. The only thing that kept the Christians going, Gavin thought to himself as he dodged another arrow, was the thought that the plight of the Saracens holed up inside Acre must be even worse than the plight of those camped outside.
He urged Montlouis into a canter. He could not find a priest, so he would find a drink instead. Putting William to the back of his mind, he looked for a friendly face. It did not take long to find one, and by the time Gavin returned to Sir Thomas, he was swaying on his feet.
Sir Thomas looked at him with both sympathy and fury.
“No priest,” slurred Gavin, and sank down. Sir Thomas said nothing. He watched as William grew steadily weaker, sweating and shivering in equal measure.
