Holy War (32 page)

‘Allah is giving the Franks a foretaste of hell,’ Saqr murmured.

Yusuf said nothing. The wind had also brought the stench of roasting flesh. It made his stomach turn.

The last tower went up in flames. A moment later, several jars were dropped on the ram. The Franks manning it fled long before the last, flaming jar fell. The ram burst into flames and was quickly consumed. The Franks who had survived began to stream back to their camp, while behind them, the towers collapsed into piles of ash and charred timbers. The screams of the dying had ceased but the smell of roasting meat had grown stronger.

‘Father!’

Yusuf turned to see Al-Afdal striding up the rampart, Az-Zahir trailing him. ‘You have done it! The city is saved!’

‘Alhamdulillah!’ Az-Zahir cried.

Yusuf nodded. He could not share their joy. Acre was saved, yes, but for how long? All their attacks had failed to dislodge the Franks, and more of the enemy arrived every day. Yusuf’s gaze went to the sea. He remembered the crusade of his childhood, when he had watched in secret as his father and uncle talked in hushed tones about the barbarians from overseas. Now they were coming again. The German emperor’s great army was marching across Anatolia, creeping ever closer. And from across the sea came the King of France and the English King Richard, the one they called Lionheart.

C
hapter 17

October 1190: Messina, Sicily

‘Sit still, man!’ Philip snapped. The French king was as ugly as Richard was handsome, and though he was eight years Richard’s junior, he somehow looked older. Philip had broad shoulders, thick stubby fingers and a plain face that would have suited a peasant better than a king. His hair was wild and unruly, and he had lost sight in his left eye, which drifted aimlessly, making it impossible for John to tell where he was looking. It was disconcerting.

‘I said stop,’ the king repeated, ‘or I’ll have your head.’

John stopped pacing. He had worn a path on the ground before Richard’s tent. He turned in the direction of Messina. The city was out of sight beyond a range of hills, but when the wind blew from the east, he could hear distant cries of agony and rage, overlaid with the clash of steel. The latest breeze brought a whiff of smoke, too.

John had arrived in Sicily two months ago after a long journey from England. He had stayed at Richard’s side throughout. In spring, they had crossed to France, where Richard had marshalled his men: a hundred knights, four thousand experienced men-at-arms, two thousand Welsh bowmen and another two thousand common soldiers, mostly thieves and farmers. Pincushions, Richard called these last. He considered them good for nothing but to serve as human shields. In July, they had joined forces with Philip at Vézelay, a fortress town three days’ march east of Orléans. Philip brought with him over six hundred knights – more than John had ever seen gathered in one place. Each knight had two horses and at least one squire. There were also five hundred French men-at-arms, though their purpose seemed to be mostly to see to the baggage train.

Despite their differences, or perhaps because of them, Richard and Philip were as close as brothers. They had fought together against Richard’s father, and as youths they had spent time together in Aquitaine. John had overheard old Sir Ranulf of Glanville muttering to one of his men that Richard had buggered the French king half a dozen times. But such rumours were always present in an army. When he asked Robert Blanchemains about Ranulf, the lord high steward had frowned. ‘Stay clear of that one, priest. He fought for Richard’s father. The King does not favour him.’

The two armies had marched south together until Lyon, where the French had turned west for Genoa. Philip had contracted with an Italian fleet to carry his men. Richard led his army to Marseille, where an English fleet thirty ships strong met them. Once at sea, both fleets had been caught in violent autumn storms that forced them to take shelter at Messina, in Sicily. It had not been long before Richard had fallen out with Tancred, the king of the island.

Richard’s younger sister, Joan, had been married to the previous king, William. When he died, the throne had been disputed. Joan had backed the losing side, and when Tancred took the crown, he had placed her in prison. When Tancred refused to immediately free Joan, Richard had left Messina in a rage. He had marched south and seized the castle of La Bagnara from one of Tancred’s vassals. Now he had returned with blood on his mind.

The plan was for a hundred French and English knights to approach the city’s northern gate under cover of darkness. A dozen men with grappling hooks would climb over the wall, kill the guards and open the gate. Once inside, Richard was counting on surprise and confusion to win the day. ‘If we make enough noise,’ he had said, ‘they will think our whole army is inside the walls. They’ll run before they even see us.’

It was a bold plan. A mad adventure, Philip had called it. The French king had elected to stay in camp. The sun was now nearing the mid-point in its daily journey across the sky, and he and John were still waiting for news of the battle.

‘Will you sit still!’ the king said.

John had not realized he was pacing again. ‘My apologies, Your Grace.’ He sat on a camp-stool beside Philip.

The king was reading from the second volume of a travel-sized version of
De re militari
. The military treatise had been written by a Roman over eight hundred years ago, but it remained popular amongst the nobility. Philip swore by it. In private, Richard had told John that he feared the French king cared more for books than battle. ‘If wars were won with a pen in hand instead of a sword,’ he had said, ‘then King Inkpot there would be mighty indeed.’ John did not share Richard’s scorn for scholarship, but nor could he understand how Philip could sit calmly reading while his knights were risking their lives.

Philip noticed John staring and lowered the book. He seemed to guess what John had been thinking. ‘Richard finds a reason for bloodshed wherever he goes. Tancred is no fool. Just last week, he invited Richard to Messina to discuss their differences. He thrust out his hand in friendship, and Richard pissed all over it. Lives will be lost because of it, the lives of my men and his. And what will be gained? A few pieces of gold, perhaps?’ He shook his head. ‘It is not truly the gold Richard wants. It is the fight.’

‘Why did you not try to stop him?’

Philip smiled, showing crooked teeth. ‘I would as soon stand before an arrow to halt its course. I could never stop Richard.’

The king looked away, his attention drawn by the sound of pounding hooves. John followed his gaze and saw an approaching knight. It was Peter de Preaux, one of Richard’s favourites. He was a handsome young man with curling blond hair and a bright smile that he flashed often. He had made his name at tourneys in Normandy and Aquitaine. Though he was not yet twenty-six, Richard had given him the honour of carrying the king’s standard in battle. John had heard other knights grumble about that.

Peter slid from the saddle and knelt before Philip. ‘Your Grace, Richard bid me tell you that the battle is won. Messina is ours, or what’s left of it.’

Philip raised an eyebrow. ‘What exactly did Richard do?’

‘Once we were inside the walls, we put the city to the torch, and went charging through town, shouting like madmen. When Tancred’s troops saw the smoke and heard us coming, they panicked and fled. It was hardly a battle.’

‘I heard screams – shouts of battle,’ John said.

‘Begging your pardon, father, but the women do scream sometimes when you stick it to them.’

John noticed Philip wince. ‘And Richard is well?’ he asked.

‘Not a dead man among us, though Lord Chauvigny won’t be sitting for some days. He took a crossbow bolt in the arse. Richard has invited you to feast his victory with him in the palace.’ De Preaux turned to John. ‘You are invited as well, priest.’

‘See to your horse, sir,’ Philip said. ‘We will find our own way.’ He shook his head as de Preaux sauntered off. ‘The fool plays at war as if it were a game.’

A dozen knights rode with Philip and John to the city, which consisted of a few churches and a sprawling palace set among hundreds of white stucco homes, all clustered at one end of a crescent-shaped harbour that opened on to the Straits of Messina. The western gate stood open. Inside, Messina had been reduced to a smouldering ruin. Their horses’ hooves kicked up clouds of ash as they rode. Only one building in ten still stood. The rest had collapsed into piles of blackened timbers. To the south, the fires still burned, leaping high into the sky. John could feel their heat from a quarter-mile away. He passed a man in a blacksmith’s smock lying in the street in a pool of his own blood, his throat slit. Near by, a woman was trying to cover herself with the torn remains of her tunic as she sat weeping in the doorway of one of the few standing homes. John’s grip on the reins tightened. The scene reminded him of the needless butchery that he had once seen in Egypt.

At the palace, an English man-at-arms showed them inside and down a cool, tiled hallway that opened out on to an expansive garden. There were hundreds of rose bushes, their last petals fallen and their leaves now tinged red. Orange trees stood around the edge of the garden, their branches heavy with green, unripe fruit. At the centre of the garden was a fountain, water spouting from the breasts of a full-figured bronze mermaid. Richard stood beside it. His face was blackened with smoke and ash. His white surcoat was red with blood.

‘Congratulations on your victory, Cousin,’ Philip greeted him.

Richard’s scowl deepened. He gestured to the fountain. ‘This should be torn down. It is unholy.’

Philip laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘It will be seen to, Cousin. We have other matters to attend to first. Do you have Tancred? Joan?’

‘He escaped south towards Catania. He took my sister with him.’

‘That is unfortunate.’ Philip hesitated before he continued cautiously. ‘You might not have burned the town, Cousin. We cannot leave Sicily until we have recovered your sister, and that means we shall be forced to winter in Messina. Where will the men live?’

‘You will find a place for them, Philip.’ Richard turned to John. ‘A word with you, priest.’ He led John to a corner of the garden. ‘I wish to confess my sins, father.’

John suppressed a frown. He had taken confession only a handful of times, and had never grown accustomed to sitting in judgement of his fellow men. ‘I am but a humble priest. Hubert Walter is the bishop of Salisbury. Perhaps he would be better suited.’

‘My soul is heavy with sin. I must confess now.’ Richard knelt and bowed his head. ‘I confess that I have kept to my baptismal vows worse than I promised our Lord, and my rank, which I ought to have kept in praise of God and for my own eternal salvation, I have held unworthily.’

‘If you truly repent and mend your ways, the Lord will be forgiving.’

Richard’s head snapped up. ‘Do not go lightly on me, John. Give me the penance that I deserve.’

‘I will. What other sins have you committed?’

‘I killed men today, at least a dozen. I have not the exact number.’

‘These were the defenders of Messina?’

Richard nodded.

‘Then you slew them under compulsion, for they were your enemies.’ John tried to recall the penance recommended in the penitential he had studied before becoming a priest. ‘You will fast for one year, consuming only bread and water, then for two years, you will fast each Wednesday. What other sins have you committed?’

Richard’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘I raped a woman. A maid. She can only just have come into her womanhood. She had dark hair, dark skin. She screamed in a foreign tongue when I took her.’

John’s jaw set. His brother Caelin had been right about Richard.

The king looked up at him, and John was surprised to see tears in his eyes. ‘Give me my penance, father.’

John hesitated. He had known plenty of men who raped and pillaged without a second thought. Richard’s remorse seemed genuine enough. ‘The penalty for taking a maid in fornication against her will is excommunication. But as you were stoked with bloodlust and thus not in your right mind, I shall lessen your penance to one additional year of daily fasting, and six more years of fasting each Wednesday. Have you anything else to confess?’

‘No, father. I ask you to be my witness on Doomsday regarding these sins, so that the devil might not gain power over me and the Lord not judge me overharshly.’

‘I will, and if you perform your penance faithfully and repent your deeds truly, the Lord will surely show you mercy.’

Richard rose. The cloud over him seemed to have lifted. ‘My thanks, John. There is nothing like a good shriving after a battle.’ He took a deep breath. ‘How many years did you say I must fast? I lost count.’

‘Two years daily, my lord, and each Wednesday for eight more years.’

‘My men will share my fast with me these next three days, and the food they would have eaten will be distributed to the people of Messina. Eight thousand men for three days: that adds up to well over ten years of fasting, yes, father? Good. Now, I have another task for you. Tancred has taken my sister. You will go to Catania and treat with him for her release. Now that he has lost Messina, perhaps the King of Sicily will be more accommodating.’

John was still digesting Richard’s rather cavalier attitude towards penance. He was less than eager to serve his king. ‘I am only your secretary, my lord. Tancred will be more likely to listen to someone of higher rank. He might even see my presence as an insult.’