The sun rose over a scene of slaughter. Another two hours of bloodshed followed, until the earth was stained red and hundreds lay dead or dying. While most of his men wallowed in butchery, Edward sent his friend, Othon, with a few English knights to spy on the nearby fortress at Qaqun.
Othon returned at the gallop. “Part of the garrison is still inside the tower,” he reported breathlessly. “We saw riders emerge from the gates and split off in three directions. They will have gone to raise the nearby garrisons.”
Edward cursed. He had hoped that all the men of Qaqun would have come out to join the festival, leaving their stronghold empty. As it was, the fort was still garrisoned, and Edward had no siege equipment.
He summoned King Hugh and the masters of the military orders to his side. “Withdraw,” advised Hugh. “We have killed many of the infidel, taken much plunder. It is enough.”
Bérard, the Grand Master, agreed. Even his lust for Saracen blood was sated, for now. “Nothing can be gained from lingering here,” he panted, wiping blood from his sword.
Edward gave the order to retreat back to Acre. As the crusaders streamed away from the reeking shambles of the camp, he spared one glance for the tower of Qaqun. The tiny fortress seemed to taunt him.
I came to the Holy Land to reconquer Jerusalem, he thought bitterly. Yet I cannot take a single house.
The return journey was slow, too slow for his liking. His men drove cattle and horses before them, taken from the Saracen camp, and dragged a few prisoners behind them on the end of ropes. These were Saracen elders and a couple of richly dressed men Edward judged to be emirs, maybe worth a ransom. Many of Edward’s soldiers were loaded down with plunder; money, jewels and clothes snatched from the bodies of dead Saracens.
It soon became obvious the crusaders were being tracked. Horns echoed in the distance, and the rumble of hoofs sounded across the barren landscape from several directions at once.
“I suggest we abandon the beasts,” said Bérard, “slit the throats of the captives and leave them for their friends to clear up.”
Edward didn’t like the note of panic in the Grand Master’s voice, or the notion of fleeing from Saracen militia.
“Run back to Acre, with our tails between our legs?” he snarled. “Never! It has taken months to assemble this army. If the Saracens want a battle, they can have one.”
The Templar looked grim but knew Edward well enough not to argue. Edward experienced a rare twinge of guilt. His first task was to ensure the safety of the army, not indulge his own pride.
He weighed up his choices. A half-dozen miles away to the northwest lay Castle Pilgrim, an old crusader fortress near the coast. It was a far closer refuge than Acre.
“Take command,” he told Edmund, “and lead the army to Castle Pilgrim. We shall rest there for the night before returning to Acre. The Saracens will be on us soon. I’ll take charge of the rearguard and hold them off.”
He gave his brother a clap on the shoulder and rode away down the line, followed by his household knights.
The Saracen banners were visible now. He watched three lines of horsemen ride swiftly across the barren hills. Edward’s outriders, a few Turcomen he had hired as scouts, retreated before them.
“They are fast,” Othon remarked quietly. “We could not outrun them even if we wanted to.”
Edward ordered his knights to fan out across the road. Meanwhile the Turcomans were thrown out on the slightly higher ground on either side, to rain arrows down on the enemy and prevent them outflanking the knights.
The Saracen horsemen joined together into a single mass of riders. At two hundred paces or so, Edward could see they were halqa, light horse in knee-length leather tunics and partial lamellar, armed with bows and spears. Their captains met in the middle for a hurried council of war.
As they spoke together, more horsemen poured down from the hills. Edward nervously chewed his lower lip. There seemed no end to the stream of Saracen warriors. The newcomers formed companies of their own, until the land to the southeast was covered by a forest of spears and banners.
The prince looked over his shoulder. Much of his army had disappeared over the hills, heading towards Castle Pilgrim. The men at the rear still lagged behind, encumbered by their prisoners.
“It seems they want to talk,” said Othon.
A rider spurred from the Saracen ranks. He halted a stone’s throw from the crusaders and shouted a message. The captain of Edward’s Turcomen, who also served as interpreter, rode down to the prince.
“That yammering dog demands the release of our prisoners,” he said, “and for the beasts to be handed over.”
“If we refuse?” Edward asked quietly.
The Turcoman gripped the hilt of his kilij. “Death will follow.”
Edward drew himself up. Any Christian knight worth his salt, let alone a prince, could only have one answer.
“Indeed it will,” he said fiercely. “But for them, not us. Tell the fool that his friends shall have nothing of us save our bones. If they are man enough to win them.”
The Turcoman wheeled his pony about to deliver Edward’s response. When the Saracen heard it, he flushed in anger and rushed back to his masters. Moments later gallopers went tearing up and down the Saracen lines.
Horns pealed across the landscape. The companies of Saracen horse clopped forward, slowly at first, then shifted into a trot.
Edward laced on his helm. Now his vision was restricted to a mere slit, his hearing muffled inside a steel case, padded on the inside with a lining of straw-stuffed leather. He took deep breaths and strove to calm his racing heart.
The Saracens were now at the canter. They filled Edward’s narrow world, a surging tide of horses and men, banners snapping in the dead air. The thunder of cavalry, such a familiar noise to his ears, at the same time magnificent and terrifying, echoed inside the cavern of his helm.
Now the Turcomens surged down to meet the enemy. They loosed several flights of arrows into the Saracen ranks, checked and retreated before making contact. These light-armed mounted bowmen were meant to harry the enemy, savage his flanks, to avoid combat unless necessary.
Dozens of Saracens were shot down, tumbled from the saddle, and instantly vanished under churning hoofs. The rest came on regardless. Their horns were like wild music, their war-cries the screech of so many carrion birds, hungry for dead flesh.
Edward flung up his sword-arm. At the same time he clapped spurs to the flank of his destrier, Bayard. The big animal plunged down the slope, while all around the war-yell rose, trumpets screamed defiance, and the knights of England followed their master into battle.
*
The purple light of dusk fell over a small band of bloodied and exhausted riders. Their horses, every bit as weary, carried them to Castle Pilgrim, a forbidding pile of masonry thrown up on a promontory overlooking the shores of the Mediterranean.
A single horn-blast at the gates announced the arrival of these men, the last tattered dregs of Edward’s army. The gates swung inward, creaking on rusted hinges, and the riders clattered through.
Edward was one of the last to enter. He half-fell from his saddle and handed the reins to a squire. The boy had to take them with his left hand, since his right was bound up in a bloodied sling.
The outer ward of the castle was full of wounded, battle-weary men. Many lacked the strength or the will to stand and sat slumped against the walls. Others lay flat on stretchers, grey-faced with loss of blood. A few stared glassily into another world. The fitter men moved among their comrades with bandages, water and salves, doing what they could.
Over the long, bitter years of civil war in England, Edward had trained himself never to give into despair. He almost forgot his self-discipline now, as he looked about the wreckage of his army.
Beaten.
He slowly passed a hand over his face. Edward’s helm was gone, flung away in the chaos of battle, hammered to a pulp by Saracen blades.. His flesh was sticky with blood, most o
f it belonging to other people. How many Saracens had he killed?
Not enough.
His sword was also rank with blood, almost to the hilt. The edge was notched in several places where it had chopped repeatedly into steel and leather. Edward was tempted to throw it away or break the thing across his knee.
Othon trudged over. Edward drew some comfort from his survival. Together they had held off the Saracen tide for a while, fighting back to back until the thin line of crusaders broke under the weight of numbers, and the battle turned into a messy retreat. The Savoyard knight was one of the best and most loyal men he knew and would serve Edward well when he became king.
If, he reminded himself. He had almost died today, several times. The Holy Land was a graveyard for Christian knights, even princes.
One of Othon’s eyes was badly swollen, and he had taken a blow to the mouth. “Lord,” he mumbled. “King Hugh and the Grand Master wait for you in the keep.”
Edward looked briefly at the huge square tower rising above the battlements of the inner ward. Castle Pilgrim had been founded by the Templars, long ago. Their banner, a blood-red cross against a black and white field, hung limply from the turrets of the keep.
He sighed heavily. The Grand Master would regard the castle as his own turf, and feel free to speak his mind to anyone, even Edward. No doubt he would have some hard words to say.
The crusaders had little to show for the attack on Qaqun. Yes, they had put hundreds of Saracens to the sword, most of them innocent holiday-makers. In return they had been chased off – by local garrison troops, not elite Mamluks – and suffered many casualties of their own. To rub salt into the wood, the Saracens had recovered most of the captives and animals taken at Qaqun.
Edward was faced with stark reality. Even after all his effort and planning, he didn’t have nearly enough men to face Baibars in open battle. Those he did have weren’t good enough anyway. The combined might of the garrison of Acre, the military orders, the knights of Cyprus and England could barely make a dent on their enemies.
He savagely cursed the other princes of Christendom, who had so cravenly abandoned the expedition at Sicily and sailed for home. If they had kept their vows and come with Edward to the Holy Land, their combined strength might have made a difference.
As it stood, Edward’s honour was intact, but little else. He had heard nothing of the Tartars and their promised invasion of northern Syria. It seemed nothing on earth could stop the relentless advance of Baibars. The Father of Conquest was well named.
Othon’s voice broke in on these dark thoughts. “Take heart, lord,” he said. “We lost some good men today, but all can be made right again.”
Edward nodded wearily. At least his decision to make for the closer refuge of Castle Pilgrim instead of Acre had been a good one. If the army had attempted to retreat to the city, miles to the north, the Saracens might have given chase and killed them all.
What to do next? It seemed hopeless to carry on. The crusaders were hopelessly outnumbered and outclassed. Edward recalled the words of a bishop in his youth, who had described the crusader states as a little band of sheep, surrounded by wolves. Only now, from hard experience, did Edward truly appreciate the reality of those words.
Something in his nature revolted against the idea of giving up. It would be easy to sail back to England, never to return. Few would criticise him. Unlike most of his peers, Edward had at least set foot in the Holy Land and risked his life against the infidel.
No.
There had to be a way of defeating Baibars. Perhaps the Tartars would come to his aid. Where man failed, God would provide. In the midst of despair, Edward held true to his faith.
“I need a bath and supper,” he said to Othon. “And a new sword.”
13 .
Stripped to his undershirt, Hugh was placed in a cage on the back of a cart, drawn by three mules. The mules were led by a brutish overseer who liked to beat them with a stick, much to the amusement of the crowd.
Their chief amusement was Hugh. As the cart was dragged south, plodding along dusty roads and trails, people came rushing from towns and villages to take a look at the prisoner. They pointed and laughed at him, sang mocking songs – fortunately he couldn’t understand the words – and showered him with spittle, dung, stones and rotten food.
At night his captors fed him the worst of rations, crusts of dry bread, bits of leaves and, if he was fortunate, a cupful of water. The overseer usually pissed in the water, laughing as he did so, in full view of the cage. Hugh forced himself to drink it down anyway. It was that or die of thirst.
He had no idea where they were taking him and found it difficult to stay awake. The blow he suffered in the battle south of Aleppo had left him groggy. In his more lucid moments Hugh suspected the back of his skull was fractured. All he could do was cling onto life, endure the insults and humiliation, and pray for deliverance.
After a time he found almost impossible to measure – it may have been a few days, or as long as a month – the wagon ground to a halt inside a deserted valley.
Filthy, bearded and emaciated, trembling with hunger, Hugh peered through the bars of his cage. The landscape was rocky and barren, with hardly a scrap of vegetation in sight. Above him the rocky walls of the valley loomed sheer on both sides. They were riddled with holes, tiny caves where a man might hide from the world and never be discovered.
The overseer, a fat, unshaven ruffian Hugh had come to hate more than any man alive, cracked his stick across Hugh’s knuckles. He barked something, his ugly face purple with rage, and fished out a bundle of keys from his belt.
Hugh retreated to a far corner of the cage and squatted on his haunches, out of range of the stick. He watched the overseer sweat and curse and fiddle with the big iron padlock. There was no-one else about. The overseer’s mates, half a dozen bullies whom Hugh had assumed to be merchants or slave-traders, had gone their separate ways.
He pondered his chances of killing the overseer. A sudden spring, his hands wrapped round the man’s throat…
The cage door finally creaked open. As it did so, with Hugh poised in a crouch, he caught the rumble of hoofs on stony ground. An instant later six riders rode into view from the southern end of the valley. They were mounted on ponies and dressed all in grey, their faces hidden behind silk scarves and headgear. Every man carried a dagger and kilij inside black plain sheaths.
The Qussad, Hugh thought. Agents of the sultan.
He started to sweat. Othon de Grandson had warned him of Baibars’ spy network before Hugh left Acre. Now, thanks to an evil twist of fate, he had fallen into their hands.
The riders skidded to a halt. Their leader exchanged a few curt words with the overseer, who was clearly frightened. Hugh derived some satisfaction from seeing the man go deathly pale as he tripped and stumbled over his words.
He turned and gestured frantically at his prisoner to come out. Hugh gathered up the shreds of his dignity, crawled out and dropped to the ground. After several days in the cage, unable to stand upright, he struggled to hold himself upright. He grimaced at the searing cramps that shot through his limbs.
The chief rider spurred forward and gazed down at him. Hugh read scorn and impatience in his brown eyes.
“You come with us,” he said in slow, heavily accented English. Hugh was surprised, but did his best to hide it.
“Gladly,” he croaked. “I was growing tired of my lodgings. First, could I trouble you for some clothes? Perhaps later, a bath and a shave.”
The rider’s eye glimmered with amusement. Hugh appreciated the value of playing the brave man, even if he was babbling scared on the inside.
It worked. The rider turned his head to snap a few words at his comrades. One trotted forward and threw a spare tunic at Hugh, who gratefully pulled it over his head. The silken, tight-fitting garment reached almost to his knees.
“My thanks,” he said, with a graceful salaam in the giver’s direction.
The chief rider pu
lled a brown leather purse from his belt – Hugh noticed how slender it was – and tossed it at the overseer, who caught it in both hands and gabbled his thanks. Payment, Hugh assumed, for bringing him here. Wherever here was.
“Up,” the rider barked at Hugh, pointing at a spare horse. He obeyed and pulled himself aboard, wincing as fresh aches and pains coursed up and down his ill-used body.
The horsemen moved off at a trot with Hugh in the middle, guarded flank and rear. They plunged into the valley, which twisted and turned even as the walls narrowed, until they were riding in single file. Hugh disliked confined spaces and had to smother a twinge of panic. He comforted himself by glancing upwards at the sky. A few carrion birds wheeled back and forth, spying for their next meal.
Freedom, thought Hugh. If only I could sprout wings and join them!
After a time the valley widened out again, to arrive at a dead end. There were steps here, carved from the wall of the rock, leading up to the entrance of a cave.
A man sat cross-legged on the top step, hands resting on his knees, apparently lost in contemplation. He wore the same loose grey garb as the riders. As they clattered into view he smiled and raised a hand in greeting.
“Welcome, Longsword,” he cried cheerfully. “Salamo Alaykom – peace be upon you.”
It was Maymun.
*
The cave was reached by a long tunnel, which Hugh had to crawl down on hands and knees. Inside was divided into two chambers, carved out of the sandstone by long-dead hands. There was even the rough outline of a bed in one corner of the first and largest chamber. Above his head, a rope trailed down from the roof of the smaller.
“This was once the home of the Suliani,” said Maymun, who entered behind Hugh. “A sect of Christian hermits. These mountains are honeycombed with their caves. Unlike most of your folk, they were on friendly terms with local Muslims.”
Holy Warrior Page 14
