by K. M. Ashman
He turned to face Baldwin.
‘My king,’ he continued, ‘I have fulfilled the tasks you set before me and my command had been wiped out in your service, however, I do not deem to affect your will and you must do what you see fit. I cannot guarantee that my information is correct, but I will say this. Which would you rather lose, Ashkelon, or Jerusalem?’
Silence fell amongst the men as the seriousness of the situation sunk in. The king sighed deeply and closed his eyes as the men surrounding him waited for his decision with baited breath.
‘Sir Gerald is correct,’ he said eventually, drawing a gasp of surprise from the surrounding knights. ‘We cannot be sure but if we have to wager our tactics on a single outcome, it has to be the safety of Jerusalem. Brief the men, tomorrow we march north.’
‘My lord,’ said Raynald, ‘with respect I must disagree. The source of this information is a Bedouin boy who may have Ayyubid interests at heart. We cannot trust his word and should immediately attack the army to our front as soon as the sun rises.’
‘On the contrary,’ said the king, ‘it comes from the mouth of a man who wears the red cross of the Templars upon his chest, and that, Sir Raynald, is good enough for me. Rally the camp, for at dawn, we ride for Jerusalem.’
----
Chapter Thirty-One
The Ashkelon Plains
November 22nd
AD 1177
The sun had still not crested the eastern mountains when the army lined up for the march north the following morning. Behind them lay their vast discarded camp including any tents or equipment deemed too heavy to carry into battle.
Relative silence fell upon the ten thousand men as they stared nervously northward, for far from being idle during the night, the Saracens too had been busy, and now stretched out across the Christian army’s path, a barrier on the road to Jerusalem.
‘It would seem Sir Gerald’s words may be found to be true,’ said the king, ‘why else would they try to block our way?’
‘Their numbers are smaller than yesterday, said Raynald, ‘our scouts say many rode northward during the night.’
‘Reinforcements for Saladin?’
‘Aye, and if we are to thwart his plans, we need to ride after them at all speed. ‘
‘What about the men to our front?’
‘They will not withstand a direct charge but once we have breached their lines we will not turn and engage them. Instead, we will head directly on as fast as our mounts will carry us.’
‘We will be harried at every step.’
‘Probably, but we must not waste time fighting pawns when the main players lay to the north.’
‘Understood,’ said the king, ‘but there is one more thing. If Saladin has another army already on the way to Jerusalem, then we will be heavily outnumbered and will need the Templars at our side. Somehow we need to get a messenger through the siege at Gaza and brief the Grand Master on the change of circumstances.’
‘Your Grace,’ said William, ‘I have already taken the liberty of sending the message. With a bit of luck, he should be in Gaza by noon.’
‘Who did you send?’ asked the king, ‘one of our knights?’
‘No, my lord, I do not have that authority but there was one man who was not only confident he could get through without being seen, he also begged for the opportunity to do so.’
‘And who was this man?’
‘He is a scout, the one our men rescued from the jaws of death last night in the wadi. He goes by the name of Hunter.’
----
Twenty minutes later, Raynald sat astride his horse at the head of the vanguard. His unit formed a wedge of two hundred heavily armed knights intended to drive through the Saracen lines and open the road northward. Behind them came the main column led by the king’s bodyguards, flanked on either side by five hundred lancers. Further out rode the mounted turcopoles who would try to disperse the disrupted Saracens forces while bringing up the rear came the archers and infantry, protected by another two thousand lancers on either side.
Raynald turned his horse to face the column and stood up in his stirrups so he could be heard.
‘You have your orders,’ he shouted, ‘and know what is at risk. There will be no quarter shown, and no turning back. Our target is not the men to our front, but those ten leagues to the north so do not be drawn into close-quarter conflict. We smash through them and we drive on. Understood?’
‘Aye,’ roared the men.
‘Leave the wounded where they fall,’ continued Raynald, ‘our rear echelons will care for them as they pass.’ He paused before raising his voice even higher to reach the far ends of the column. ‘Make no mistake, to falter is to fail. Ride hard and strike with every fibre of your being, for one thing is for sure, God is with us.’
‘God is with us,’ roared his men.
Raynald drew his sword, holding it high into the air as he turned to face the Saracens.
‘Men of Jerusalem,’ he roared, ‘for God, for king and for Jerusalem…advance!’
The sounds of horns rent through the air and as Raynald drew down the faceplate of his helmet, the army headed northward. The struggle for Jerusalem had begun.
----
Further north, on the slopes of Montgisard, Saladin and his generals stood on a ridge, watching their forces making ready for the push to Jerusalem, all attempts at subterfuge now abandoned as the time for battle neared.
The numbers were impressive, almost twenty-five thousand horsemen and infantry, all recruited from many different tribes to finally wrest Jerusalem from the hands of the Christians, yet Saladin’s brow was creased with concern.
‘Shirkuh,’ he said to the man at his side. ‘We should be ready to move by now. What is the delay?’
‘My lord,’ said the general, ‘the arrival of Taqi ad-Din’s men in the night along with those who have ridden from Ashkelon, has put a strain on our resources. Many need food and water and cannot be expected to ride until their horses have been refreshed.’
‘I was told our supply lines are healthy,’ said Saladin, ‘why do we struggle with such a basic task?’
‘The rains have swollen the river,’ said Shirkuh, ‘and so many men using the ford has turned the area into mud slowing the supply columns down. The majority will be across by dusk.’
Saladin turned to his general, the look on his face barely concealing his anger.
‘We have come all this way,’ he growled, ‘and amassed an army capable of tearing down the walls of Jerusalem and yet you tell me I am to wait another day just because a stream has become swollen?’
‘My lord,’ said Shirkuh, ‘with respect, it was unforeseen, and our supply caravans struggle in the mire. There is little to be done unless we build a bridge.’
‘We have scouted these hills and plains for months,’ said Saladin. ‘All such obstacles should have been foreseen and allowed for.’ He stared down again into the valley. Most of his army was already on the northern banks and ready to ride while the southern bank was a picture of disorganisation and confusion as the supply columns struggled to negotiate the muddy fields. He knew he needed the food and the barrels of water if he was to sustain his push northward, but he was also painfully aware that time was not on his side. If Baldwin found out about the subterfuge he would make every effort to chase him down.
‘There is no time for bridges or alternative routes,’ he said eventually. ‘Leave the carts on the far side and load up every spare horse and camel on this bank with water skins. Every tenth horse to carry dried meat and biscuit.’
‘It will not be enough,’ said Shirkuh.
‘It will be enough for us to reach Jerusalem,’ snapped Saladin.’ The rest of the caravan can follow on as soon as they are across. I will give you until dawn to sort this out and then we march north with whatever forces we have at hand.’
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and marched away, furious at the unforeseen delay.
----
Back o
n the Ashkelon plain, Raynald felt the blood coursing through his veins as he led the vanguard thundering into contact. To his front, the Saracens had closed ranks to form a wall of infantry, each presenting their spears against the Christians, but the Regent’s men and horses were fully armoured, and it would take a very disciplined defensive line to maintain its formation against such an attack.
The stale smell of sweat and his own breath filled his helmet and his heart raced at the familiar stench of war as the enemy grew larger through the narrow slit in his visor. Saracen arrows fell all about them, but the knights’ heavy chainmail combined with the quilted caparisons protecting their horses meant few did any serious damage and only one knight fell, suffering a broken neck when his mount tripped on the uneven ground.
Raynald’s hand gripped his lance and he lowered it into the charge position, bending low over his horse to present a smaller target. All around him the rest of his men did the same and as they kicked their heels into their horses’ flanks, the effect of such a formidable attacking force took its toll and many of the Saracens broke ranks to run from their path.
Instinctively the attacking knights turned slightly to take advantage of the weakened lines, causing more of the enemy to break and Raynald knew, before a single blow had been struck, the advantage was already his.
Within seconds the wedge of knights smashed into the front lines of the enemy infantry at full gallop, scattering defenders on all sides. Saracen lances shattered on the steel breast plates sewn into the horses’ caparisons, and the knights drove deep into the heart of the defenders. The impetus was overwhelming, and those Saracens brave enough to face down the charge were cut down with impunity, victims of heavy broadswords wielded by strong men toughened by a lifetime of warfare and training.
Despite the bravery of the Saracen infantry, the vanguard broke through and as ordered, continued pushing onto the plain beyond. Behind them, the rest of the army poured into the breach, causing confusion throughout the defenders’ position and even though the Saracens tried to counter the attack, the flanking Christian lancers fell upon them, cutting men down in their hundreds.
‘The breach is formed,’ roared one of the king’s bodyguard, ‘advance.’
Immediately the core of the army spurred their horses forward, following the knights through the Ayyubid position. In the centre, the king, closely surrounded by his heavily armoured body guard, urged his own horse forward, followed by the clergy and the wagon bearing the carefully wrapped true cross. Behind them, the infantry fanned out and marched towards the panicking Saracen lines, while out on the flanks, the turcopoles caused mayhem with their arrows, cutting down any of the enemy trying to escape.
‘Faster,’ roared the king, seeing the enemy beginning to rally, ‘we need to get through.’
The makeshift army surged forward and soon the Saracen position was cleaved completely in two, divided by the Christian column as they drove onward to the plains beyond.
----
The Ayyubid commander tried desperately to rally his command but the damage had been done and as he watched, many of his infantry turned away from the fight to try to escape with their lives. Baldwin’s Turcopoles were causing terrible casualties on the flanks and he knew that it was foolish to continue with no hope of victory. He turned to the man at his side.
‘Recall our cavalry,’ he said, ‘they are fighting a lost cause.’
‘Why?’ asked his fellow officer. ‘This fight is not yet lost.’
‘Our orders were to contain Baldwin,’ came the reply, ‘not engage in a meaningless battle with little depending on the outcome. His vanguard has already broken through our lines and the Christians pour through like blood from a slit throat. Saladin’s cause will be better served if we withdraw while our men are still fresh and then delay their advance as much as we can as they ride north. Hopefully, he is already on his way to Jerusalem, but we cannot take that chance. Sound the retreat, there is still much to do.’
----
‘They are falling back,’ shouted William back in the Christian lines,’ we’ve done it.
‘It was too easy,’ said Baldwin, as the sound of Saracen horns filled the air, ‘and I suspect it is a tactic only. Harden your resolve, my friend, and pray for God’s speed. This race has just begun.’
----
On the seaward defensive walls of Gaza city, a sentry got to his feet and walked over to peer at a small fishing boat approaching the defensive chain stretching across the dock. It was not marked with the crests of the city and he did not recognise the two men standing in the bow.
‘Hold there,’ called the sentry, as the vessel neared, ‘state your business.’
‘My name is Assir,’ said the first man, ‘and this is my boat. I operate out of Ashkelon and seek a berth.’
‘What is your cargo’ asked the sentry.
‘Nothing more than this man,’ said the sailor, indicating the bedraggled soldier wrapped in a blanket at his side, ‘he seeks audience with the master of the castle.’
The sentry turned towards the second man.
‘And you are?’
‘I am a scout in King Baldwin’s army,’ said Hunter, ‘and I have an urgent message for the Grand Master of the Templars from the king himself.’
‘And the message?’
‘Is for his ears only but I will say this, the longer you delay my audience, the better the chance that every one of us could lay rotting upon the desert sands within weeks. Now, do you allow us to land or not?’
The sentry hesitated for a few moments for his orders were to let no ships through without authorisation from his commanders, but this was just one man, and a westerner at that.
‘I will seek authorisation,’ he said eventually and turned away.
‘Wait,’ shouted Hunter, ‘there is no time. Jerusalem itself is under attack and unless I can get to the Templars urgently, we may be too late. You have to let me through.’
Again the sentry hesitated. If what the man said was true then every second counted, yet if the man was no more than a braggard, then he, and every one of his own comrades on duty that day could be punished.
‘You may land,’ he said eventually pointing at Hunter, ‘but as soon as your boots hit the dock, the boat must leave without a berth.’
‘Understood,’ said Hunter.
‘And I swear to you,’ shouted the sentry again, ‘if this is some sort of ruse, then I will see you hung by your balls from the highest tower in Gaza.
‘It is no ruse, my friend,’ said Hunter, ‘and by this action alone, you may just have saved us all.’
The sentry grunted and turned towards the port tower a hundred paces away.
‘Let her through,’ he shouted, ‘lower the chains.’
----
To the south of Blancheguarde castle, a group of ten knights rode their horses carefully along a mountain ledge, returning from a patrol amongst the hills. They were tired and hot from the trek but knew the safety and relative comfort of the Blancheguarde castle lay only a few hours away.
The patrol had been uneventful, yet their senses were ever alert, knowing that danger often lay only moments away.
The echoing of the horses’ hooves in the silent rocky valley was hypnotic, almost lulling the riders into a false sense of security but the sound of a distant call made everyone sit upright in their saddles, their hands instinctively reaching for their shields and swords. The lead rider held up his hand, bringing the patrol to a halt.
‘Did you hear that?’ he asked.
‘Aye, I did,’ said the second knight.
The call came again, and all heads turned to stare toward the ridge on the opposite side of the valley.
‘There,’ said the second knight, pointing to a group of sprawling trees near the top, there’s someone in the shade.
As they watched, several men crawled from beneath the trees and struggled to their feet, waving their arms and calling out in a desperate attempt to gain the riders’ attentio
n.
‘Seven men and what looks like an Arab boy,’ said one of the knights, ‘yet I see no horses.’ They stared at the pathetic group. Even from across the small valley, the knights could see the travellers were in a terrible state and in dire need of help.
‘My lords,’ shouted one of the men across the valley, ‘please, in the name of God, we need your aid.’
‘Who are you,’ shouted the knight, ‘and what circumstances have brought you to this place?’
‘The story is a long one,’ shouted the man, ‘and I will recount every word I swear, but there is no time. We have to get to Blancheguarde as soon as possible.’
‘To what end?’
‘To warn of a Saracen army not half a day’s march from here,’ shouted the man, ‘Jerusalem is at risk, and we have to warn the castle.’
‘The castle is garrisoned by Templars,’ shouted the knight, ‘and we are based there under their command. Why would they believe such a tale from someone such as you?’
‘Because,’ said the man, ‘my name is Tom Cronin and I am a brother sergeant of the Templar order. Now please, you must take us to Blancheguarde before it is too late.’
----
Chapter Thirty-Two
Blancheguarde
November 22nd
AD 1177
Sir Redwood watched patiently as the seven men brought in by the patrol drank from the water skins provided by his steward. The eighth, a young boy, walked over and dipped his head into a water trough, immersing it completely before rising again, gasping as his long black hair fell sodden down his back.
All around the bailey, the men tasked with defending Blancheguarde stared down at the ragged remains of Sir Gerald’s patrol. The rumours had already circulated about what had happened and the feeling of anger at the loss of so many good men was tempered with respect for those that had survived the hardships of the desert.
Cronin poured the last of the water over his head before turning to seek the Castellan.
