by Tony Roberts
Casca looked over at the crag of Kerak, shimmering in the heat in the far distance. The village was out of sight from their position. “You know how far it is to the castle? And if you approach the garrison will sally out and chase you off.”
Sabat huffed and stared at Kerak. “And if we are on horseback? We approach from the wadi at night so that we cannot be seen. Arnat is a thief, so why don’t we steal back from his people? The loss of face he will suffer will enrage him.”
Casca grinned at the thought. “And where, pray tell, are you going to get hold of horses?”
Sabat cleared his throat and looked down at his toes. “Ah, Captain. Well, I was thinking perhaps you can ask the cavalry to lend us some of their fine beasts for the job. Only five.”
“Five!” Casca confronted the man, hands on hips, glaring at him. The rest of the men gathered round, eager to hear what their new Captain would do. “Why five?”
“A small group of five would be best, Captain. I would go obviously, and we have here three of the best thieves from Damascus within our exulted ranks. And of course, Captain, you would come too.”
“This is madness,” Casca said, thinking what a great opportunity to irritate Reynauld. He would have to move fast though, for the morning had gone and the sun was now passing over to the west. If they were to be in place by nightfall they would have to get a move-on. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
The men cheered and they made their way back towards camp. Casca headed right for the tent of the mamluk cavalry amir, a man he’d become friendly with by the name of Shafraz. Shafraz was from Persia and had been taken when young by a raiding party from Anatolia, and later sold to the Egyptian sultan. He’d been trained as a warrior slave and had risen to the post of amir, a sort of company commander, by the time Salah-ed-Din had taken over Egypt. Since then Shafraz had served the Saracen leader faithfully.
Shafraz greeted Casca and the two shared news, what little they knew, before Casca broached the subject of ‘borrowing’ five horses for the evening. “Five? Borrow five of my horses?” Shafraz was understandably reluctant.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” Casca reassured him, “I shall be in the group and we’ll return before long, just to gather some goats or sheep for the camp meal later this evening.”
Shafraz still stalled until Casca offered a share of the spoils in the meal that would come. “Ah,” Shafraz beamed, “then I shall of course accompany you on my horse. I wish to ensure my property is not misused by your clumsy Damascus alley scum!”
Casca smothered a grin. “Afraid they will use them as women, eh?”
“Bah, my horses know far too much for them!” They shook on it and as the day faded Shafraz turned up with six horses and a sheaf of arrows together with the Turkic composite bow he favored.
“Expecting trouble, Amir?” Casca queried.
“Just to make sure it stays at distance,” he answered, keeping a close watch on Casca’s men as they mounted. Casca was used to riding, even if he disliked it as a rule; Sabat was fairly clumsy as his bulk wasn’t the best for riding, while the three alley scum, as Shafraz called them, took two or three goes to get into the saddle. Once they were up, however, they looked the part. “Have they ever ridden before?” Shafraz asked, concerned.
Casca turned to the nearest of the three, a gap-toothed shaven-haired Arab. “Ah, yes, Captain, once we stole a herd of horses from a breeder outside Damascus. We rode as far as Aleppo to sell them!”
Shafraz covered his eyes and muttered something about insanity. Casca discarded his sharbrush, a stiff fur-trimmed cap with a raised front. This was a cap only worn by officers and Casca wished to remain anonymous. He threw it into his tent as he passed, then galloped after the others who had passed out of camp. They rode for a while, then slowed as they came to the plain that led to the base of Kerak’s rock. They waited until the sun had passed beneath the far peaks of the hills beyond the castle and night began to descend before resuming. One of the three Damascenes was a fair scout and led the way, walking his mount down to the wadi and along its length. Darkness had fallen by the time they reached the point where the wadi turned into the desert and they climbed out.
The village rested perhaps two miles from their position, and they fanned out, Shafraz taking the right hand side and Casca the left. Sabat brought up the rear, just as much because he was easily the worst rider there than he had been given that position by Casca. The others rode in a ‘V’ formation in the center, and they headed for the lights of the village, the inhabitants unaware of the approaching party.
The castle loomed overhead, menacing, and Casca had a shiver as he remembered his exit from that place. He certainly didn’t want to get caught again. The village was a loose collection of sun-baked mud and brick buildings, huddled in the lee of the great rock Kerak was built upon. There was no wall; why would there be when the villagers had a great castle on their doorstep?
The houses had pens at the rear. The bleating of the sheep drew the men to their target. Sabat reined in outside the village, keeping an eye on things while the three thieves got to work, smashing down a pen and grabbing a sheep each.
A dog began barking and the noise of the horses, breaking wood, sheep and dog brought the inhabitants tumbling out of their homes, outraged at the intrusion. “Back into your homes or you die!” Casca warned them, waving his sword at them. The light spilling out from the doorways made things clear enough.
“Thieves!” one villager shrieked and the cry was taken up. Casca swore. The whole neighborhood was up in arms and he could see knots of villagers gathering on one corner, torches lit, obviously planning a hurried course of action.
“Shafraz!” Casca shouted, “get them out of there now!”
Shafraz, wheeling his mare in tight circles, took stock and barked a command at the three thieves who were struggling with their prizes. Ropes had been used to tether two sheep behind horses, but the third was putting up one heck of a fight.
“Stop trying to bugger it and get the thing tied!” Shafraz shouted, loosing off an arrow that smashed into a wall next to one of the villagers. The man ducked and yelled in alarm. By now lights were coming on along the parapets of the castle and heads could be seen peering over the edge to see what the commotion was all about. Shouts could be heard from high and Casca cursed again. “The castle is alerted! Now, Shafraz, now!”
Casca waved the thieves on, and two went past, their bleating captives bounding along unwillingly, charging off with fright, herded by the Damascenes. The third lost control of the sheep and it careered off down an alleyway. “Let it go!” Casca barked and pointed at the advancing knot of villagers. The thief leaped onto his horse and followed after the two others, with Shafraz and Casca close behind, a few strides ahead of the enraged villagers. Stones pelted past and one struck Casca’s shoulder, bringing a shout of pain from him.
Then they were out and into the countryside. Two sheep from the raid wasn’t bad. Now they had to get to camp ahead of the garrison riders who were piling out of the gateway. Casca knew what had to be done. “Sabat, you lead the men back to camp; no risks, ride easily! And I want the best haunch for myself and Shafraz or you’ll be made into a court eunuch, you hear?”
“Loud and clear, Captain!” Sabat replied from the darkness. The four men vanished and Shafraz led Casca at an angle across the line of approach of the Crusaders. He had an arrow fitted to his bow and peered at into the darkness, dominated by the castle rock. Casca could just make out the dark shape of Shafraz in the starlight and made sure he was on his ass.
Thundering hoofs told them of the Christians’ approach and a number of silhouettes appeared, heading for the village. Suddenly a voice shouted an alarm and they began veering in their direction. Shafraz took aim, turned and began riding away from them. As he did so, an arrow streaked away, clipping the shoulder of one of the knights.
“Look out, they’re shooting at us,” one growled in Provencal.
Casca urged his horse
on after Shafraz, trying not to unseat himself. There must have been about a dozen pursuers, all riding hard after the two of them, and they were gaining. Shafraz turned suddenly to the right and plunged down a slope and Casca realized it was the wadi. Jupiter’s balls! He’d nearly ridden over the edge without seeing it! Slowing down, he urged his mount down the slope after Shafraz and heard the closing pursuit behind him. He reached the bottom and turned left, riding away towards the camp.
The Crusaders reached the edge, pulling hard on their reins and they stopped at the rim, peering down into the blackness. “They’ve got away,” one growled.
“Sheep stealers, they were,” another commented. “Come on, let’s go to the village and see what damage has been done. Damned Arabs, always stealing!”
Casca slowed, grinning. Sweat covered his face and his arm ached, but they’d stolen two sheep and would feast that night on roast mutton. Excellent! Shafraz was waiting for him a short distance ahead and rode alongside as Casca reached him. “We won’t be able to do that again,” the mamluk commented. “They will have guards there from now on.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Casca replied, “we’ll be off north again soon. Back to the main camp.”
Shafraz nodded. “I trust your men will have returned the horses to my camp upon their return.”
“They will have. Sabat will make sure of that. And we’ll have fresh meat tonight!”
Shafraz laughed and urged Casca to follow him. “In which case let us not delay. My stomach is complaining I do not treat it well enough!”
Laughing, the two Saracen officers rode at a trot back to the camp.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Raymond greeted his latest visitor with due courtesy. An envoy from the son of Salah-ed-Din had arrived with a request. Raymond, intrigued, had ordered the envoy to come without delay. He stood with his back to the window where his favorite view of the lake could be seen, and waited. Raymond was very tall and it impressed many visitors who first caught sight of him. The envoy who arrived, ushered in by two guards, was suitably impressed. He bowed low and proffered a message scroll sealed by the House of Salah-ed-Din.
Raymond offered the envoy suitable refreshments and broke the seal. He unrolled the scroll and frowned as he read the Arabic script. His years in captivity had given him the ability to understand Arabic. It was a request from al-Afdal, son of Salah-ed-Din, to allow a reconnaissance force across his lands into those of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Raymond, as an ally of the Saracen emir, could hardly refuse. He felt awkward, allowing soldiers of the Muslims to cross through his lands, but what else could he do? The actions of Guy, Gerard and Reynauld and their allies had left him with no alternative.
“I agree to this request,” he said slowly, “but on two conditions.”
The envoy paused in the act of eating a handful of dates. “And these are, Esteemed One?”
“Firstly, this reconnaissance force passes through tomorrow during the hours of daylight and returns before dark. The second condition is that these soldiers do not touch a single building or person within my domains.”
The envoy bowed. “It shall be done. My master has given me authority to sign an agreement on his behalf.”
Raymond nodded and beckoned across his scribe. “Make a note of this and pass it to the populace, advising them not to venture out tomorrow unless absolutely necessary.”
The envoy left with Raymond’s written consent, but no sooner had he gone, then a messenger came in breathlessly. “Your grace! Sir, message from the frontier guards. You are expected visitors from Jerusalem tomorrow; the Lord Balian, the two Grand Masters and the Archbishop of Tyre.”
“What!” Raymond was aghast. “They’ll bump into that reconnaissance force! Oh my Lord it’ll be a disaster. Quick, get the scribe to send a message out to Balian warning them of the Muslim force’s passage through here tomorrow!”
Raymond sat down, his head in his hands. What had he agreed to?
____
The next morning things unfolded with a dreadful inevitability. Raymond watched from the battlements as the Muslim column passed by, counting hundreds of riders, and a thousand or so foot soldiers. Hundreds! He made sure it wasn’t a full invasion and was satisfied it was merely a strong reconnaissance.
Not too far away Balian’s party had split up. Balian had been distracted by administrative matters at his castle of Nablus where they had all stayed the night, and advised the Grand Masters to ride on ahead and he’d catch up later. The others rode on but shortly after they were confronted by a messenger from Tiberias. Gerard eagerly took it and scanned it rapidly. He sat bolt upright in amazement. “Raymond has allowed a reconnaissance force of the enemy through his territory! This is evidence of his treason! Surely now, Roger, you can’t doubt his collusion!”
Roger took the message and frowned. “It doesn’t say how many. Where will they go?”
Gerard pointed excitedly ahead. “It must be along the road to Acre! They will pass through close to Nazareth. I have knights there and we can intercept them!”
“Oh come on Gerard, we have no idea how many there are and if we can stop them.”
Ridfort turned to his fellow Grand Master in scorn. “Are you a coward? They are Muslims! We must fight them!” He dug his heels into his mount and galloped down the road, the others following more reluctantly behind. At Nazareth Gerard soon rousted out ninety of his Templars under their commander James of Mailly, and forty more knights garrisoned there joined the group. The Archbishop of Tyre decided such military matters were not for him and refused to go any further. Other soldiers, irregular infantry, joined them, eager for a crack at the invaders.
Scouts reported the Muslim horde were over the hill watering their mounts, so Gerard, the crusading spirit bright in his eyes, led the motley group up out of the town and towards their enemy. Townsfolk poured out to witness the battle from which, according to Gerard’s promise, they would be able to collect much booty.
Gerard, Roger and the 140 knights crested the rise and looked down on the place known as Cresson. Springs poured water out of the earth’s bowels and vegetation was abundant there. The Saracens were encamped down there, watering their horses and taking a rest. Roger stared in shock at the immense numbers of them. “Surely, Gerard, you don’t intend attacking all these!”
Marshal Templar James added his doubts too. “They are too numerous for us to have any chance of success, Sir.”
Gerard spat in disgust. “Pah! Hospitaller, you are an old woman, afraid of these animals! Are you a man or a puling child? And you, Marshal, you love your blond head too much to want to lose it!”
James angrily gripped his reins. “I shall die in battle like a brave man! It is you that will flee like a traitor!”
As one, the knights descended the long slope towards the valley bottom, thundering down towards the astonished Saracens. Their leader, an emir by the name of Gokbori, sprang into action, yelling orders to his men to mount up and face the threat. His infantry grabbed their spears and hurriedly ran to form a line while the cavalry milled about within and without the trees that grew in abundance.
“They are leaving their infantry behind, the fools!” Gokbori shouted to his senior officer, Qaymaz. They grinned and shouted at their men to form up ready for a counter-charge. The trees made things difficult but it would be less of a hindrance to the Saracen mares than the Crusader stallions.
The knights crashed into the infantry with a scream. Men fell off their mounts and soldiers were trampled under hoof. The Christian infantry came up the hill, panting, and saw the battle developing. Eager to get in amongst the action, they continued, running down the hill at full pelt.
By this time the Saracen cavalry had counter-charged. Roger saw in desperation they were now surrounded and hacked away to get out of the ring of steel, but the spears were too many. Knights were falling by the dozen and the circle was closing fast. He yelled at his men to break out and they made one great last effort…….
&nb
sp; ____
Balian had left his castle, intending to meet the others at the agreed meeting place at Faba, but found the place deserted. Puzzled, he rode on with his retinue towards Nazareth, the next town on the road, wondering where they had gone. Suddenly he saw coming towards him a rider, galloping madly. “Oh, what have we here?” he said to his squire.
The man galloped on, then slowed as he neared. Balian saw with shock it was a Templar, disheveled, bleeding, exhausted. His horse was blowing hard. “What news?” Balian called.
The Templar stopped, leaning over his saddle, distress on his face. “Bad.”
Balian passed the man his water bottle and the Templar gratefully took it and drank deeply. Finally, he passed it back and shut his eyes in pain. “We attacked a host of Saracens, too many for us! The Grand Master insisted on an attack however, despite the Hospitaller Master’s advice, and we were slaughtered.”
Balian was horror struck. “What! What of the Grand Masters?”
The Templar wiped his face wearily. “Roger Grand Master of the Hospital had his head cut off. And James, Marshal of the Temple, fell at his side.”
“And the Grand Master of the Temple?”
“Survived – just. He is wounded and at Nazareth. I am one of only two other survivors. The Grand Master was sending me to the king to warn of the defeat.”
Balian nodded. “Then go, but save your mount, he won’t last the distance at that speed. Tell me, how many were lost?”
“Over a hundred knights and all the infantry. They cut us to pieces!” The Templar was too distressed to talk further, so Balian pushed him on his way and resumed his journey to Nazareth, grim-faced.
There he met a disheartened and wounded Gerard, lying on a bed tended by a priest, and the Archbishop of Tyre stood in disapproval in the background. Balian stood over the Grand Templar. “So you got yourself in a fight and lost,” Balian said, his disapproval clear to all.
“They were Muslims! We had to attack!”
