Holy War (21 page)

But the men did not listen. The king and his knights were far, and the southern hill of the Horns close. They headed up its slope, seeking the high ground. The mamluks poured after them.
Fighting together, in close formation, the sergeants could have turned back the charge. Fleeing in panic, they were easy pickings. The Saracens’ fastest riders caught up to the rearmost sergeants and began to run them down, spearing them from behind.

John rode towards the slaughter. ‘Stand and fight!’ he shouted. ‘We must stand and fight!’ Ten men rallied to him, then ten more. ‘Form a line! Shields together. Spears out!’ More men rushed to join in. They were two hundred strong now, but thousands of Saracens were galloping towards them, setting the earth atremble. The mamluks reached their line and split, like waters flowing around a rock.

‘Back now, men!’ John shouted. ‘Bring in the wings! March in step! Stay together!’

The line retreated, bowing as the ends curved in to prevent the Saracens from flanking them. But the sergeants were too few to hold against so many. The men at the ends of the line were not falling back fast enough. They were flanked and began to fall as the Saracens attacked them from behind. The line broke suddenly as the men at the centre panicked and fled past John. He found himself alone, facing a wall of charging Saracens. And then they were on him.

A bamboo spear shattered against John’s shield and another slammed into his shoulder. The point did not penetrate his mail, but the blow knocked him back in the saddle. He recovered and lashed out, feeling a jolt in his arm as his mace made contact. The man he struck rode past before John could see what damage he’d done. He knocked another spear aside with his shield and swung his mace, catching a mamluk in the throat. The man fell wide-eyed, his windpipe crushed and his screams dying in his throat. John was raising his mace to strike another rider when he felt his horse give out beneath him. A mamluk had planted his spear in the beast’s chest. John rolled clear as the horse fell. A Saracen was galloping straight for him. John huddled in a ball and felt a rush of wind as the animal galloped past.

John staggered to his feet. He had lost his mace. Another mamluk was bearing down on him, his spear raised. John bent down and wrested the spear from the hands of the dead sergeant at his feet. Just before the mamluk reached him, he raised the spear and planted its butt against the ground. The Saracen rode straight on to the weapon, and the tip burst from his back, carrying him from the saddle. His horse galloped past, and John turned to give chase.

‘Waqqaf!’ he called. ‘Waqqaf.’ The horse slowed to a walk, but as John caught up to the steed, it whinnied and pranced away. ‘Easy! Hudû.’ John managed to catch the reins. He gently stroked the horse’s neck and pulled himself into the saddle.

The left wing of the Saracen formation had ridden past, chasing the sergeants up the slope. The Christian foot-soldiers were not putting up much of a fight. The rush for the lake had taken the last of their strength. Many had already thrown down their weapons and collapsed, exhausted. John looked away. The rest of the Saracen army had moved on to confront the knights. As John watched, Raymond’s vanguard of five hundred men charged the northern wing of the enemy. The Saracens resisted for a moment, then split to let Raymond’s knights ride through. Once past, Raymond paused for a moment before leading his men galloping from the field.

Only six hundred knights, and twice as many native Christian cavalry, remained grouped around the king. Eighteen hundred men against more than twenty thousand. And many of the Christians were on foot, their horses having been shot out from under them. They were retreating, following the True Cross up the slope of the northern Horn while the Saracens massed below for the final assault. The battle was all but over.

Then John spotted Yusuf’s eagle standard flying over the centre of the Saracen ranks. Saladin. If he killed his friend, John might just save the Kingdom. It was their only chance. But he could not do it alone. ‘Yalla!’ he shouted and spurred his horse towards the northern Horn.

Yusuf sat in the saddle behind his lines and watched as Raymond of Tripoli’s men galloped north, leaving the battle behind. Beside him, his son Al-Afdal frowned. ‘Why did you let them escape, Father?’

‘By letting them go, I weaken our enemy. Raymond of Tripoli is not the one I want. I want the King.’ He could see Guy’s standard. It was flying beside the True Cross atop the northern Horn, where the king and his knights had retreated, leaving the lower slopes littered with the bodies of dead warriors and horses. As Yusuf watched, the king’s red tent went up atop the Horn. It was to serve as a rallying point, but there was no one to rally. The Christian foot-soldiers were trapped atop the other Horn. Yusuf saw a single knight gallop from the southern Horn to join the king. He was halfway up the slope of the northern Horn when a dozen mamluks met him. The knight soon had so many arrows protruding from his mail that he looked like a porcupine. A dozen knights from the top of the Horn rode to his rescue, driving off the mamluks. Together, they managed to reach the king.

‘A brave man,’ Yusuf noted.

‘A fool, Father. He would have done better to throw down his arms. The Franks have lost.’

‘Not yet. Not until the King’s tent falls. Saqr, signal the final attack.’

Haa-room
! Saqr blew a loud blast, and the mamluks massed at the foot of the Horn surged forward. The sides of the hill turned black as they rode up it from all directions. They looked sure to overwhelm the knights; but they were fighting uphill, and the knights’ armour was strong. The wave of mamluks crashed against the knights ringing the top of the hill and was thrown back. Yusuf’s men surged forward again, but they could not break the Christian lines. For every knight that fell, four or five mamluks died. Yusuf clenched his reins, twisting the leather in his hands. A horn sounded from the hilltop.

‘Perhaps it is a signal to surrender, Father.’

‘No.’ Yusuf could see the few knights whose horses still lived gathering atop the hill with lances in hand. ‘It is a signal to attack.’

‘Ride for the eagle standard!’ John shouted to the knights grouped around him. ‘If Saladin falls, his men will not stand!’

‘This is suicide, Saxon,’ Reynald grumbled.

‘We will die either way. This is our only chance.’ John’s grip tightened on the sword he had taken from a dead knight. He raised it over his head. ‘Follow me. For the Kingdom!’

The knights holding back the Saracens parted, and John galloped past and straight into a crowd of mamluks. His horse shouldered aside one of their mounts, and John cut down a second mamluk. A spear glanced off his shield, and then he was through, charging down the hillside with forty knights thundering after him. Hundreds more mamluks galloped towards them, and John charged straight into them. The knights on their destriers came close behind, encased in thick mail and wielding death. They drove through the Saracen ranks like a sword through cloth. John struck out to his left and right. He caught a man in the neck and a spray of blood filled the air. He could see Yusuf’s standard only fifty yards distant.

But the ranks of men ahead grew thicker and thicker. Spear after spear shattered against John’s shield. One dug into his left shoulder, penetrating the mail just enough to send a wave of agony down his arm. A sword glanced off his right side. Another flashed towards his face. He ducked, and the blade struck the crown of his helmet, setting it to ringing. The men facing him now wore the saffron-yellow surcoats of Yusuf’s private guard. John spurred his mount, trying to hack his way through, but the Saracens were pushing back. The charge stalled, and John found himself fighting for his life. He swung his sword in wide arcs, trying to keep the enemy at bay. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a mamluk raise his sword to strike, but suddenly the man fell, impaled from behind. It was Reynald. Ten more knights joined them, driving back the Saracens.

‘Are these men all that remain?’ John shouted over the cries of combatants and the clash of steel.

Reynald grunted in affirmation. ‘Where is that bastard Saladin?’

John looked beyond the sea of men before him and spotted Yusuf only twenty yards away, waving his sword to rally his men. ‘There! With me, men! For Christ! For the Kingdom!’

John spurred forward, driving into the enemy ranks. The knights came after him, hacking their way through the mamluks. John could clearly see Yusuf’s face now. He was only ten yards away. His eyes widened as he recognized John. Then John heard shouting from behind.

‘This way, men!’ Reynald roared. ‘With me if you want to live!’

John looked back to see that Reynald had veered away from Saladin and towards a weak point in the Saracen line. The knights were following. They burst through the mamluk ranks and out on to the plain. Reynald galloped away without looking back.

‘Bastard!’ John growled. He gave a final glance in Yusuf’s direction, turned and galloped after Reynald. He followed him north across a field of brown grass and towards a wadi that led into low hills. Arrows began to fall around him, and he looked back to see hundreds of mamluks giving chase. John’s mount was lathered and tiring, its breath coming in laboured bursts. ‘
Yalla
!
Yalla
!’ he shouted, flicking the reins and urging one last effort from the beast. It surged forward and John pulled alongside Reynald.

‘We must turn back!’ he shouted. ‘We must strike Saladin!’

Reynald ignored him. John slashed backhanded and his blade caught Reynald in the chest, tearing his surcoat but not penetrating the mail beneath. Reynald countered, and his sword slammed into John’s forearm. John felt his arm go numb, and his sword dropped from his hand. He turned his horse into Reynald’s and grabbed him, pulling Reynald from the saddle. John fell with him. He hit the ground and rolled several times before coming to a stop. His lower back felt as if a sword had been plunged into it, and each breath brought a stab of pain in his chest. He pushed the pain from his mind and climbed to his feet. He was facing the northern Horn. The king’s tent had fallen. John turned to see the other knights galloping on without them. A few feet away, Reynald was on his hands and knees, crawling towards his sword. He grasped it and rose.

‘You traitorous shit!’ he roared as he staggered towards John.

John looked about for a weapon, but there was only knee-high brown grass. He backed away.

‘Come here, Saxon,’ Reynald growled. ‘I’ll kill you before I die.’ He lifted his sword over his head and charged, then stopped short as an arrow struck him in the wrist, the arrowhead bursting out the far side. Reynald cried out and dropped his sword. Three more arrows slammed into his chest, and he staggered backwards.

John turned to see hundreds of mamluks galloping towards them. An arrow struck John in the stomach and lodged in his mail. He turned away and crouched low to make himself a smaller target.

Reynald had fallen to his knees and was cradling his wrist. ‘Fool!’ he snarled at John. ‘We could have escaped. You have killed us both.’

John began to smile, but then winced in pain; he had split his lip. ‘So long as I see you die first, I shall die happy.’

C
hapter 11

July 1187: The Horns of Hattin

Crows flapped among the bodies that littered the slope of the northern Horn, pecking out eyes and tearing at the soft flesh of faces. Yusuf kicked at one, and it cawed in protest as it flapped away. He continued up the slope, striding past dead knights, their mail armour stained reddish-brown with dried blood, their swords sill clutched in their hands. He passed a big Frankish destrier with arrows protruding from all over its body. Its eyes were rolled back in its head and the poor beast had bitten through its tongue. The horse had struggled as it died, thrashing and kicking up chunks of earth all around it. Beyond the horse, Yusuf came upon a dozen dead mamluks, fallen almost one atop the other. They had been facing a single man. The Frank lay dead, his surcoat so stained with blood that it was impossible to make out the arms he wore. His great helm hid his face. Yusuf felt a sudden stab of pain in his gut as he thought of John. He knelt beside the knight and removed his helmet. The dead man had white hair and green eyes that stared sightless into the heavens.

‘Malik,’ a voice croaked from behind. Yusuf turned. One of the mamluks he had thought dead moved, propping himself up amongst the dead. ‘Malik!’

Yusuf went to him. The mamluk was a young man, not much older than Al-Afdal. An ugly gash on his thigh went to the bone. It was oozing blood, but too little. The young man was bled out. He would die soon. Yet when he clutched Yusuf’s
arm, his grip was surprisingly strong.

‘Have we won, Malik?’

‘We have.’

The mamluk smiled. His teeth were red with blood. ‘I shall boast of our victory in paradise.’ His eyes fluttered and then closed. A moment later, his grip on Yusuf’s arm relaxed.

Yusuf blinked back tears as he rose. The boy’s death had moved him in a way the rest of the carnage had not. He turned to Saqr, his shadow, always by his side. Al-Afdal stood a short distance away, watching as some Bedouin stripped a fallen knight of his armour and boots.

‘Remember this, my son,’ Yusuf called. He pointed to the body at his feet. ‘The scribes will write of this as a day of glory. Never forget its true nature. Never forget the cost of victory.’

Yusuf continued up the hill. The slope grew steeper, and the muscles in his thighs were burning when he finally reached the top. The bodies were thicker here, mamluks and Franks fallen one on top of the other. He had to pick his way so as to avoid trampling on the dead. Ahead, a ring of mamluks stood guard around the surviving knights. Only two hundred remained – two hundred knights out of more than a thousand. Several hundred had escaped with Raymond, but the rest lay on the field. The survivors before Yusuf looked more dead than alive. They sat slumped on the ground, their heads hanging. Not one of them looked up when Yusuf stepped into the circle.