Holy War

by Hight, Jack

  ‘Sound the charge,’ Yusuf called.

  Saqr sounded his horn, and Yusuf’s men surged forward. He could hear the clink of mail and the drumming of their feet, but he saw nothing of them in the darkness. Then there they were, lit up by the Frankish torches. As the light hit them, they roared their battle cry. Horns sounded in the Frankish camp, and men rushed to the barricades. Soon, Yusuf could hear the clash of steel alongside screams of rage and pain. But the battle was not what interested him. His gaze moved to the wall of Acre in search of arrows. Al-Mashtub had fought beside him since Yusuf was a boy, since his first command at Tell Bashir. He had always been there. He was a rock that Yusuf could lean on.

  He glanced back to the battle at the Frankish ramparts. A mamluk reached the top of a ladder and clambered over the palisade, only to be hacked down from behind by a huge Frank wielding a war-axe. The Frank was speared in the side by the next man up the ladder and tumbled off the wall. Yusuf looked back to Acre. Still nothing. The battle continued and the night crawled on. A gap in the clouds let in the moonlight, turning the sea silver. There was no sign of Al-Mashtub’s men on the coast. The clouds closed again. At the barricade, the battle began to slacken as the combatants tired.

  ‘It has been too long,’ Yusuf murmured. ‘They should have reached the city by now.’

  ‘There, Malik!’

  Yusuf looked in the direction Saqr was pointing and saw a flaming arrow arcing from the wall of Acre to fall in the ocean. Another arrow followed, and then another.

  Saqr grinned. ‘They made it.’ He blew his horn to signal the men at the barricade to fall back.

  ‘Alhamdulillah,’ Yusuf whispered, his voice swallowed up by the blast of the horn. ‘Thank God.’

  Chapter 19

  June 1191: The Mediterranean

  John bent over the ship’s rail and retched. His stomach had emptied long ago, and nothing came up but bitter bile. He spat. The first time he came to Acre, he had also been puking. He raised his head to gaze at the horizon. He saw only endless waves. But he knew that before day’s end, they would make landfall in the Holy Land. Home. And Richard was coming to destroy it.

  John had harboured doubts about Richard after Messina. They were confirmed on Cyprus. They had set sail from Messina in April, but during the voyage a storm had split the English fleet. Joan and Richard’s new fiancée, Lady Berengaria of Navarre, had landed on Cyprus, where the ruler, Isaac – a renegade from the Roman court in Constantinople – had taken them captive, hoping to ransom them back to Richard. That had been a mistake. Guy and several of the other crusader lords had sailed from Acre to join Richard, and instead of paying, he had brutally subdued the island. He and his men had waded ashore through a hail of arrows to crush the Cypriot army, and had sent them fleeing across the island. Since Isaac was a fellow king, Richard had promised not to place him in irons. He had shackled him with silver chains and turned him over to the Hospitallers for safekeeping. The common people had not been so lucky. Those who had surrendered saw their homes ransacked and their women raped, but at least they escaped with their lives. The few who resisted had been killed, slowly, and their heads set on spikes as a warning to others.

  John had urged Richard to show mercy, but the king had refused. ‘If I show them mercy now, John, then they will have their knives out the moment my back is turned. I must teach them the cost of defiance.’

  Perhaps John would have more success in the Holy Land, where Richard would need his guidance. He prayed that it was so, for the king desperately needed someone to curb his passions. Cruelty and bloody-mindedness were not irredeemable faults in a king – many believed they were virtues – but Richard’s impulsiveness made him his own worst enemy. On Sicily, he had no sooner come to terms with Tancred than he broke with King Philip. Tancred had agreed to turn over Joan, along with her dowry and half the inheritance owed her. He had also ‘voluntarily’ contributed four thousand tari – the equivalent of a thousand gold dinars – to the war chests of both Richard and Philip. Tancred was glad to pay, for he had obtained the thing he coveted most: both kings had recognized him as the rightful ruler of Sicily.

  The feast to celebrate the agreement was attended by the three kings, the Lady Joan and Berengaria of Navarre, a drab little thing with mousy brown hair framing a round face that would have been pretty were it not dominated by a long, sharp nose. Berengaria had been escorted to Sicily by Richard’s mother, Eleanor, ostensibly for the purpose of marrying the next king of Jeruslaem. But in the middle of the feast, a very drunk Richard had declared that he would marry Berengaria. Philip was furious. Richard had been betrothed to his sister Alys, and he saw this new marriage as a personal attack. Richard did not help matters when he called Alys his father’s whore and loudly swore he would never go where Henry had been before. Philip had stormed from the hall. Two days later, he and his men left Sicily without Richard. They were, no doubt, already at Acre.

  ‘Father John. May I join you?’

  He turned to see Joan approaching. Her fair face was even paler than usual, and there were faint circles under her eyes. She had at last learned the truth about Roger of Apulia’s death, and the king’s treaty with Richard had sealed her fate. She was little better than Richard’s property now, to be disposed of as he pleased.

  John bowed. ‘Lady Joan. Are you well?’

  She nodded to the front of his robe. ‘Better than you, I should think.’ She placed her elbows on the rail, and together they looked out to sea. ‘What is the Holy Land like?’ she asked.

  ‘Not so different from Sicily.’

  ‘And the Saracens? I understand you once lived amongst them.’

  John nodded. ‘They are people like any other. There are good and bad men amongst them.’

  Joan placed her hand on his arm. He turned, surprised, and she met his eyes. ‘I need your help, John,’ she whispered urgently. ‘I—’

  ‘John! There you are!’ Richard strode across the deck and slapped John’s back. For reasons John could not fathom, the king had taken a liking to him. Perhaps it was because John was not afraid to speak the truth to him.

  ‘The lookouts have spotted land!’ Richard declared. He frowned as he turned to Joan. ‘You should get below, Sister. The sun will do your complexion no favours.’

  ‘Yes, Brother.’

  She left, and Richard took her place at the rail. He pointed to a smudge on the horizon. ‘There it is, John. That prophet Tancred kept at his court, what was his name?’

  ‘Joachim, Your Grace.’

  ‘Joachim, yes. He said I would not lose a battle in the Holy Land.’ Richard patted the sword at his waist. ‘I will take Jerusalem, John. I swear it. And I will have Saladin’s head.’

  ‘May God’s will be done,’ John murmured. Silently, he prayed God would spare his friend.

  The sun was halfway to its mid-point, turning the waters of Acre harbour turquoise, and Yusuf was nearing the end of his tour of the barricades. The sky was clear and the day already warm. That was bad. Fair weather meant the Frankish diggers would make more progress.

  Yusuf reached the end of the right wing, where ten mamluks had gathered to talk or perhaps to play a game of chance. They were leaning casually against the rampart, their spears propped up near by. One mamluk, younger than the rest, stood apart holding his spear. Yusuf was not wearing his gold vest, and the men did not recognize him until he was almost upon them. It was the young one who saw him first. ‘Malik!’ he gasped.

  The other men snapped to attention. One grabbed for his spear and knocked the rest over. The men froze as their weapons clattered to the ground.

  ‘Pick those up,’ Yusuf said quietly. ‘Form a line.’

  The men retrieved their spears and formed a line at the foot of the rampart as Yusuf slid from the saddle. He walked slowly before them. He touched at a spot of rust on the mail of the second man. ‘See that this is cleaned.’ He reached the end of the line, where the young mamluk stood. He was rangy and had sandy hair and wide-set
blue eyes. Yusuf was reminded of John, and wondered briefly where the mamluk had come from. His coat of mail was so clean it gleamed in the sunshine. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Dhameer, Malik.’

  ‘A good name.’ It meant ‘conscience’. ‘You have only recently become a mamluk?’

  ‘I was freed one month ago, Malik.’ All mamluks began as slaves, purchased between the ages of eight and twelve. They trained until age eighteen, at which point they were freed and became full mamluks, in the pay of their lord.

  Yusuf stepped back to address the men. ‘Do you hear that? One month ago. I came upon you lounging about like women gossiping at the well. How is it that only this boy knew his duty?’ There was no response. The men stared at the ground. ‘It has been a long siege, men. We have all lost friends to the Franks, and if not to them, then to cold or sickness. I have not seen my wife or home for years. I know the same is true of you. It has been hard, and if you do not wish these sacrifices to have been in vain, then you must remain vigilant. Look to Dhameer’s example. He commands this ashara now.’ The young mamluk was wide-eyed. The former commander had flushed red, but he held his tongue.

  ‘I will need all of your spears in the days to come,’ Yusuf concluded. ‘I am sure you will not fail me.’ He mounted and rode back down the line and towards the tower. Such scenes with his troops had become all too common. The siege was nearing its second year, and victory grew less certain with each passing day. Yusuf had to spend more and more time shoring up the morale of the men. His tours, which had once taken little longer than the time it took him to ride the length of the barricades, now lasted late into the morning.

  Yusuf reached the tower and climbed the stairs. This, too, had become part of his morning ritual. The lookouts bowed and stepped to the back of the viewing platform. Yusuf stood with his hands clasped behind him as he looked out. His eyes went first to the tent of King Philip. The simple canvas tent would have been hard to find had Yusuf not known precisely where to look. It was much smaller than those of Leopold of Austria, Frederick of Swabia, Guy or even many of Philip’s own vassals. From the top of the tent flew the king’s standard – rows of golden fleur de lys on a field of azure. Yusuf had invited Philip to dine with him, but the king had refused. Shortly thereafter, the French king had ended the practice of granting safe-conducts that allowed men to pass between the two armies. Philip was a more serious foe. The siege had made more progress since his arrival seven weeks ago than it had in the previous twenty months.

  Yusuf shifted his gaze to the city wall. It was pitted and cracked, and the battlements were crumbling in many places. There had been seven trebuchets when Philip arrived; now there were seventeen, and more were being built. The machines were in essence huge slings that worked by means of a heavy counterweight, which was affixed to one end of a long arm. A sling was attached to the other end. The weight was winched high in the air, and when it fell, the arm swung up, pulling the sling after it. A trebuchet could hurl stones over a quarter of a mile. Philip had built two huge ones, which could sling rocks weighing up to twenty-five stones.

  But the trebuchets were not what most worried Yusuf. Hundreds of Franks with picks and shovels were at work digging under the city wall. As they tunnelled, they put up braces to keep the wall from collapsing on them. When they had dug all the way under the wall, the braces would be burned, and the wall would collapse.

  Trumpets blared in the Frankish camp, and Yusuf looked that way. The camp was abuzz with activity, but at first, Yusuf could see no reason for it. He noticed men rushing towards the coast and looked out to sea. He saw the ships of the Frankish blockade, which were riding at anchor. On the horizon beyond them was a single sail; then another, and another. Yusuf counted thirty ships in all. The wind was at their back, and they grew quickly in size. They were large transport ships, each capable of holding at least three hundred men and fifty horses. One was larger than the others. From its mast flew a scarlet flag emblazoned with three lions.

  The ship made anchor and a longboat was lowered. Eight sailors, two men in priests’ robes, and half a dozen warriors in mail climbed down into it. One of them was much taller than the rest. Even from this distance, Yusuf could see that he had long hair of reddish gold. He sat in the stern while the sailors rowed the ship to shore. The trumpets blared again, and the Franks from the camp waded into the surf to meet the longboat. The tall man jumped from the boat into waist-deep water to meet them. The Franks cheered him, and the sea breeze carried

  their voices to Yusuf.

  ‘Lionheart!’ they shouted. ‘Lionheart! Lionheart!’

  King Richard had arrived.

  Smoke stung his eyes as John approached another bonfire. Richard seemed not to notice the smoke, or the heat on his face. He grinned as he approached the men crowded around the fire. They cheered. Upon his arrival, Richard had distributed food and wine to every man in camp. For some, it was their first taste of wine in over a year, and they were good and drunk. Someone had had the idea to build a bonfire to celebrate Richard’s arrival, and soon a dozen of them were blazing on the beach. The one that John and Richard were approaching was the biggest of the lot. Huge beams had been leaned against one another and set on fire to create a blaze that soared thirty feet into the air, sending sparks racing up towards the heavens.

  The men at the fire surrounded Richard, basking in his presence. The king slapped backs, grasped men by the arm, laughed when they showed him their scars and showed them his own in turn. The men loved him. Richard had his faults, but he was made for this.

  ‘Men!’ he roared and motioned for quiet.

  ‘Quiet now!’ someone shouted. ‘Quiet for the King!’ others echoed. ‘Quiet for the King!’

  Richard waited until the only sound was the crackle of burning wood. ‘It has been a long journey from England,’ he began, ‘and I give thanks to God that I am here at last. I see Englishmen amongst you, and Frenchmen, too. I see Frisians, Scandinavians, Flemings, Sicilians, Genoese and Germans. Good men, all. Brave men. Tonight, I have heard many tales of your courage, of your skill at arms, of the infidels you have killed –’ he winked – ‘of the women whose fields you have ploughed!’ A few of the men cheered at this. ‘I thank you for saving the fairest maiden of them all for my arrival. There she sits!’ He pointed to the walls of Acre. ‘You have laboured these many months to spread her legs wide. Are you ready to take her?’

  The men’s shouts of approval were louder this time. Richard started speaking again before the last shouts had ceased. The king’s voice was softer, his tone measured. The men quieted instantly. They leaned forward, straining to hear.

  ‘Some of you have fought here for weeks, some for months, a few for nearly two years. I have arrived only today, but do not think that I do not understand the sacrifices you have made, the scars that you bear. You have faced not only the Saracens but hunger and disease. You have lost good friends. I have seen the pyres where you burn the dead.’ Richard paused and bowed his head. The men around him had grown sombre. When the king spoke again, his voice was firm and strong. ‘I have not come to steal their glory, but to honour them. Their deaths will not have been in vain!’

  His voice rose in volume. ‘You have no doubt heard tales of me, of my valour, my bravery, my skill at arms. Stories are only words. I will let my actions here speak for me. But I will tell you this: I am a man of my word, and I give it to you now. Your long wait is over.’ He pointed again to Acre. ‘The bitch will be ours before summer is through. And after that, I will not rest until Jerusalem is once more in Christian hands!’

  The men were completely under his spell. They were nodding, their eyes shining in the firelight. It would take only one word to release them, and Richard gave them that word. He raised his voice into one final roar. ‘To Jerusalem!’

  ‘Jerusalem!’ the men shouted back. ‘Jerusalem!’ The call was mixed with cries of ‘Lionheart!’ The cries grew in number until the men around the bonfire were chanting as one. ‘Lio
nheart! Lionheart! Lionheart!’

  Richard moved on, leaving the chants behind. John followed, along with the other lords and knights of the king’s retinue. He gave more or less the same speech at each of the bonfires. Each time it was greeted with the same enthusiastic response. By the time Richard finished at the last fire, his cheeks were flushed and sweat had soaked through his mail to wet his surcoat.

  ‘Are you well, my lord?’ Robert Blanchemains asked. ‘Perhaps you should retire to your tent.’

  Richard shook his head. ‘I have no desire for sleep. John, come with me. The rest of you go.’

  John followed Richard away from the bonfires, through the tents of the camp and up the bank of the rampart. The guards moved away respectfully. Richard stood with his hands on the palisade, his face lost in shadows, and stared out at the Saracen camp. ‘You have told me about the Saracens’ training and the tactics they employ, John. I wish to know more of their leader, this Saladin. You have said he is an honourable man.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Some of the men say he threw the bodies of our dead into the river to poison the waters. Thousands of our men died in pools of their own shit, struck down by the flux. Where is the honour in that?’

  John’s brow knit. There was no easy answer. The Yusuf he had known would never have done such a thing. ‘We slaughtered women and children when we first took these lands,’ he said. ‘In some places, we even ate the dead. Perhaps Saladin only wishes to revisit upon us the atrocities we visited upon his people.’

  ‘Hmph. If it is blood and suffering he wants, I shall give him both.’ Richard stared at the lights of the enemy camp for a long time. Finally, he turned away, bringing his face into the flickering light cast by the torches on the wall. Sweat was beading on his forehead and his eyes were rimmed with red. The flush on his cheeks had spread to his neck as well. The king looked ill. When he spoke, his voice sounded strangely hollow. ‘Philip did not come to greet me. I have lost him, John.’