* * * *
At first it seemed that a far off storm was brewing. Still half asleep, de Courtenai gained his feet, saw the gray of dawn against his window bars. Then knew that the sullen rumble was the voice of saddle drums. Trumpets shook the city, and the shouts of men on the walls drove de Courtenai toward his armor. The hoofs of Saracen cavalry were shaking the earth. Saladin’s advance guard had ridden day and night to strike before the city was prepared for siege.
He bounded to his door; Elinor’s trembling fingers buckled his hauberk, laced his helmet. Sunrise reddened the Sea of Galilee. Leaning from the window, they could see the gleaming helmets of the advancing horde. A crescent of steel was enveloping the landward side of Tiberias.
“Fate rides fast,” said the girl in de Courtenai’s arms. “God—look at them—”
It was lighter now, and she could distinguish the black standards of Islam, the dirty brown of camels and the brown robes of Bedouin lancers who followed the wave of cavalry. “No! Don’t go—not yet—”
He could not shake her loose. “I’ve got to join them.” He gestured toward the squires who helped armored knights to their horses in the court below; to the horse and foot that already sortied from the city gates, pennons a-flutter and field music blaring.
“No—it’ll be a siege—you’re worn out—” she begged. “Tomorrow—there’ll be days aplenty for that!” Her lips sapped his resolution.
But Elinor recoiled from his arms when the chatelaine’s quiet voice broke in, “Sieur de Courtenai, she’s right. I’m recalling the hotheads who just left without orders. But you can serve us all. As no one else can.”
“How, madame?”
“Ride to rallying point at Nablûs. Warn my husband and the king. More than the advance guard is surrounding us. A messenger arrived before dawn. It’s the main body of Saladin’s army.”
Her slender arm reached beyond the embrasure, indicating the turbaned men who were unloading parts of siege engines from the backs of camels, and assembling the fitted beams.
“You can get through, disguised as an infidel. No one else could have done what you did in Cairo.”
“No one,” echoed Elinor, lips suddenly gray as she thought of one man, and that man her lover, facing Saladin’s horde.
“I can,” said de Courtenai, removing his flat topped helmet. “By slipping to the lake. Getting beyond their flank.”
“Zayda,” Elinor whispered fiercely, close in his arms. “Couldn’t we make her buy them off?”
“No woman could stop that army! She’s your luck. Don’t betray her.”
Then de Courtenai followed the Chatelaine to choose a Saracen’s weapons from the armory…
* * * *
Later, a patrol filed from a sally port, fanned out, charged at the besiegers. Dust and the wide line of steel blotted the enemy from de Courtenai’s eye. When the charge of the Franks melted before a hail of Turkish arrows, he was afloat, unperceived by Moslems who followed the retreating horsemen to the very walls.
Miles south, his swarthy Turcople boatmen set him ashore. De Courtenai had no horse, nor was any to be found in that deserted lakeside. But a mule grazing beyond an abandoned village served his purpose. So he rode, turban wound to hide his helmet, a flowing cape to conceal his chain mail and scimitar.
The Wolf of Kerak was at Nablus when de Courtenai gave the message to the council. “I left soon after you did,” he laughed, “to prod these cattle into the field. But where’s that heathen hell cat?”
“In Tiberias.” This unexpected encounter with his chief left de Courtenai no other answer. Had he chosen a lie, he could not have convinced Sieur Raynald that Zayda had escaped. “But the Saracens won’t raise the siege on her account—it’s gone too far for bargaining.”
The strategy of the Crusaders was direct enough: go north at once with what forces had gathered, menace the Saracen flank and block their southward march. In the meanwhile, the rest of the Franks could assemble and then join the advance guard.
The column of horse and foot set out the following dawn, an iron serpent that wound across the sun drenched plain. Heat devils danced ahead, and low hanging dust lingered behind. Armor speedily became blistering hot. Sweat blackened leather jerkins, foam whitened the horse gear—until the fierce breath of Palestine dried out both man and beast, and bitter dust burned eye and lip and nostril.
Slow, relentless, massive; giant men, ponderous mounts, heavy lances, going north to meet lean horsemen who swooped like falcons across the desert’s face. De Courtenai put pebbles into his dry mouth and husbanded his leather flask of brackish water like his chief. He had but one thirst: for battle beneath the walls of Tiberias.
Scouts came and went. Rumors were thicker than the dust. Tiberias had capitulated… Saladin had died in battle at Antioch, and victorious Franks were hurrying south to join their comrades…but that night, the blaze of looted villages winked from far off hilltops.
A second day. Then the third: a baking, stifling hell. Footmen stumbled over the furnace-hot, rocky terrain, and horses fell beneath the weight of armored riders. But at last they reached the shade and cool water of the springs at Seffuriyeh.
“Another day’s march!” De Courtenai unlaced his helmet.
“The wolves of Kerak,” growled Sieur Raynald, “could go tonight and strike at dawn!”
But there was no advance in the morning. Couriers came from the flank guards, and this time there were no rumors. Men riddled with lance and arrow were riding in from the Jordan. They had barely escaped the Saracen column that came from the east to ford the river and march along the Sea of Galilee toward Tiberias.
Taki-ud-Din, Saladin’s nephew, had arrived with a second army of Kurdish mountaineers, bearded Bedouins, the atabegs of Mosul with their horse-tail standards. All Islam was in motion and moving swiftly.
The council of the Franks temporized. “Wait for reinforcements!” was a many voiced demand that drowned the impatient clamor of Sieur Raynald, and de Courtenai’s taunt to Count Raymond: “Coward! Your wife and your castle besieged—and you wait for men!”
* * * *
Days passed. June ended, and July’s flame burned the land. Troops, Templars, Knights of the Hospital, lords of outlying fortresses had come to Seffuriyeh to reinforce King Guy’s army. All the power of the Franks was massed; but valor and strength were weakened by dissension.
Sieur Raynald and de Courtenai forced the issue. That was when a haggard courier came from Tiberias. Lady Eschiva could not much longer hold the beleaguered city.
“God’s death!” stormed de Courtenai. “We can cut through! Ask Sieur Raynald!”
But Count Raymond, though haggard from brooding over his wife’s peril, shook his head. “No. We’ve waited too long. There is not a well between here and Tiberias. Not a drop of water. Our men would be dead on their feet before we met the Saracens.”
“How many times can a man die?” mocked grim de Rideford, the Templar. “Or have you made another private bargain with Saladin?”
Count Raymond’s sharp face whitened with wrath. He gripped his sword-hilt, but King Guy intervened. The count answered, wearily, “By God and the Holy Cross that goes before us into battle, I would rather lose my wife and castle than doom an army. You, de Courtenai—would you give all these men to the sword to save Lady Elinor—do you love her more than I my wife?”
“All these and as many more!” flared de Courtenai.
“And I’ll lead them!” Sieur Raynald thundered.
They turned blazing eyes to the king who gnawed his blond moustache. He glanced helplessly from face to face. The rumble of voices dizzied him; some seconded Count Raymond’s heroic sacrifice, some damned it as treachery, cowardice. And then de Rideford, Master of the Templars, advanced a pace.
“My lord king,” he said, “I gave you the treasure I held in trust for the King of England. It h
as paid all these troops you summoned in this extremity.”
“Lead us!” stormed the wolf of Kerak. And de Courtenai added, “Through hell if you will—let thirst drive us to Galilee!”
Count Raymond raised his hand, but de Courtenai’s voice was a contagious fire, and so was the gleam in the Templar’s eye. Though King Guy gestured for silence, it was his white face that stilled them.
“Lords, knights, burghers—we advance at dawn!”
* * * *
From the hills about the well of Seffuriyeh they marched east toward Galilee. And the sun that baked them that day made all former heat a coolness; a slow torment of choking dust and parched lips. Men lagged, stumbled, rose again as the horsemen smote them with the flat of swords.
But de Courtenai and the wolves of Kerak mocked thirst. This was no worse than any desert march. Elinor was beyond the steep ridge that blocked the view of cool Galilee. Her welcoming arms seemed to reach out, urge him on.
Midway across the Plain of Turan, Turkish archers swooped from the flanking hills, taunting the advance guard, halting the main body while the wolves of Kerak met them in their own game. Harassed on the entire front, backing and filling, the Frankish army wore itself out, making no progress, nor yet closing with the elusive horsemen.
In camp that night the last water skin was emptied. Haggard men dropped in their tracks to sleep. Weary horsemen patrolled to guard against surprise. And priests moved softly to and fro, administering the sacraments to those who would die in the morning.
“Pardieu!” De Courtenai’s dry lips twisted, but he refused to touch the water he had hoarded against the next day’s march. “We were wrong, Sieur Raynald! These poor devils will die of thirst. We might have known they couldn’t stand it.”
The old wolf laughed as he sucked a cross bow bolt to save water. “God’s blood, Jehan! Is that girl making you a weakling?”
“No. But the lives of these men are on my head and yours.” Too late, de Courtenai realized that Elinor should have left Tiberias with him. But who could have foreseen Taki-ud-Din’s army, the last fatal reinforcement to Saladin’s horde?
A red sun rose into a brazen sky, fierce promise of the torment ahead. Trumpets blared down the long line of spears, and pennons drooped in the still air. De Courtenai and the wolves of Kerak were the king’s body guard; and with them went the True Cross, encased in gold. They trotted out, and as the ranks wavered from the broken ground, Sieur Raynald gestured to the dust cloud far ahead.
“God’s death! They’ve come to welcome us!”
Cymbals clanged. Saddle drums muttered. The hills flung back the sonorous war cry of the Moslem. The Saracens had cut down the outposts; and the battle began before the march was half under way.
The two forces clashed in the deserted village of Lubiyeh. Dust clouds obscured the sun, and companies lost each other in the confusion. De Courtenai led the charge to the center of crescent. Lance shattered, he hewed with his blade.
Yard by yard, sheer weight of horse and man ploughed into the whirlpool of swooping horsemen. Arrows peppered de Courtenai like hail, lances bit his hauberk; but Sieur Raynald and the wolves smote home. Water and Tiberias were ahead. Death was behind.
“They’re breaking!” He spurred his wounded horse into that hell roar of drums and thundering hoofs.
But as they advanced, the tips of the crescent closed in. Exhaustion killed more than did Turkish arrow or scimitar stroke. And narrow gullies broke the front of the advancing pike men. The battle became raging clusters of unorganized combat. Saracen cavalry swooped through gaps, diving to attack, then swiftly retreating. They had water at their backs and they were fresh.
“Once more!” roared Sieur Raynald, pausing at the king’s side. “We’re through the village! Guilford—de Courtenai—over there—”
Courage flamed anew. Men half dead of thirst took life from desperation. Scattered companies formed, aligned, shoulder to shoulder. Knights massed to lead the way. Over the next crest, then down the steep slope to the fresh waters of Galilee—
But a new foe met them. They saw too late why the enemy fled. The tamarisk brush of the gullies was aflame, and dense smoke billowed to join the dust. The hollow beyond the village was a furnace. Sparks rained, and arrows beyond number hissed through the enveloping curtain of fire.
Back—around—flank exposed—they formed again, those who were not cut down. Ahead, above the blazing gullies, was barren ground. De Courtenai toiled up the slope of the crescent shaped hill. There, on the Horns of Hattin, what remained of the Frankish army gathered around its king and the True Cross. Only a handful; the wolves of Kerak, and Templars pledged to accept no quarter—though none would be offered here.
King Guy wielded a broken sword. Shoulder to shoulder they stood, notched blades and axes, hacked armor still turning the Saracen charge. Then footmen closed in, driven ahead by the cavalry to overwhelm the king and his standard, whatever the cost.
Sieur Raynald went down. De Courtenai whirled, sword in both hands. It bit deep, slashed wide. But the Templar guarding his back caught a lance between the teeth. A mace smashed down on de Courtenai’s dented helmet. He stumbled, dazed by the shock. And a surge of Turks trampled him into the ground, stifling him, weighting the blade he strove to recover. Another blow—the red sunset became black—
Night had veiled the Horns of Hattin when de Courtenai crawled from among the dead. Ahead of him were the fires of Saladin’s camp, and above was a moon that picked out the armor of the dead. Bit by bit he remembered, and as his strength returned, he dug into the tangle of Frank and Moslem about him. But he did not find Sieur Raynald nor the king.
A water skin from the saddle of a dead camel gave him fresh life, and with it, fresh woe. All this slaughter was on his head; his strategy had brought this to pass, and Sieur Raynald was a captive.
Desperation moved him. What he had done in Cairo, he could do again. He unbuckled his armor, stripped a raw boned Kurd he found at the foot of the slope. He bandaged his wounds, armed himself anew. His brain was a fevered maze; he knew only that Elinor was in Tiberias, and Sieur Raynald in the Saracen camp. Perhaps he had thus far escaped Saladin’s notice.
De Courtenai moved without plan or stealth. Madness succeeded where reason could not. He passed the lines, stumbled among the Moslems who squatted about guard fires. A word here—a word there—a battered, reeling Kurd was no novelty in that camp. Thus he heard the last heavy word. Tiberias had capitulated; with the Franks doomed at Hattin, the countess had no other choice. Elinor, captive again—
He was now too numb to move except by instinct. Find Saladin, assume Sieur Raynald’s guilt. Ransom Elinor. Meet Saladin, stab him, and go down in a whirl of blades. Everything was confused, chaotic.
He halted near a pavilion lit by many torches. There were guards in yellow khalats, emirs in gilded mail, bearded scribes and clerks; slaves and musicians. He knew that he was right, even before he saw that thin man whose weary face was darker than his beard; a frail man in black, older than El Adel, governor of Cairo, but with features like his.
Saladin, seated on a rug spread on the earth. Picked swordsmen about him, and others guarding the captives he faced. There was the blonde King of Jerusalem, and Sieur Raynald, sword-slashed but arrogant. The Sultan clapped his hands. A slave stepped to his side, presented a flagon of sherbet chilled by snow from Lebanon. Saladin rose, took the flagon and with his own hands offered it to Guy of Jerusalem. De Courtenai relaxed. No man who tasted the Sultan’s food and drink would bend his neck beneath the headsman’s sword. The King, lips black with dust, could scarcely speak his thanks. He took a swallow, turned to hand the drink to Saladin’s mortal enemy, the wolf of Kerak.
“Thank God!” muttered de Courtenai. “Merciful in victory—maybe he doesn’t know about Zayda—maybe—”
He trembled, watching the flagon rise to Sieur Raynald’s parched mouth. No o
ne dashed it from his lips. And then de Courtenai’s blood froze. Saladin said, “Drink, lord of the wolf pack. But your king gave it to you, not I.”
Sieur Raynald started. Strong arms seized King Guy, who understood. Saladin’s thin scimitar hissed from its sheath. De Courtenai’s yell shook the wits of the bodyguard. He leaped into the pavilion, his own blade dancing.
But he was not quick enough to block the sultan’s stroke. The keen crescent slashed through flesh and bone, shearing the right arm Sieur Raynald raised. He sank beneath the flailing steel of the guards who closed in to finish what their master had begun; and rough hands gripped the madman who cursed the grim faced Sultan.
Weight and weariness overpowered de Courtenai. King Guy was pale as he stared at the red heap that shuddered on the ground.
Saladin smiled. “You are a king, and under my protection. But that man affronted the honor of my house and broke a safeguard.” He turned to de Courtenai. “Another wolf, and loyal to the end?”
“Strike again!” challenged de Courtenai. “They kept me from you.”
“A madman is in the hand of Allah,” countered Saladin. “And you came tonight as a Kurd. As you came to Cairo and my brother’s palace. Your life is yours, de Courtenai.”
De Courtenai scarcely heard for the drumming in his ears. Saladin reassured him. “The power of the Franks ended this day on the Horns of Hattin. Others may come, but Islam is ready and waiting. So go your way. And take with you the red-haired girl who was my sister’s maid.” He gestured to the curtain that divided the front of the pavilion from the back. De Courtenai bowed to the conquering king and the conquered; then he followed a mamluk down the silken passageway to the rear.
He still could not believe. Not until he saw Elinor and the tears that gleamed in her incredulous eyes.
“You—Jehan—but they told me,” she sobbed against his dusty mail, “you were dead—Saladin sent men to capture you alive—”
“I cut them down before they could tell me!” He laughed exultantly, and his arms closed about that white loveliness which had led him to the Horns of Hattin.
E. Hoffmann Price's Exotic Adventures Page 13
