Holy War (41 page)

The Saracen cavalry had wheeled away long before they reached the range of the Frankish spears. Another wave of mounted archers followed, and another after that. The air was constantly filled with arrows. The men on the outside of the Frankish line stayed for only a moment before retreating inward, while fresh men stepped out to take their place. The sun rose above them, and John was soon sweating beneath his mail. And still the column shuffled forward, leaving the bodies of the dead behind on the plain.

By noon, the foot-soldiers along the line did indeed look like pincushions, with arrows protruding here and there from their padded armour. John had half a dozen arrowheads lodged in his mail. A chance arrow had caught him in the left calf just below the knee, and his boot was slowly filling with blood. He was lucky to still have his horse. They had lost well over a hundred mounts, forcing many of the knights to go on foot. They grumbled and cursed as they stumbled on in their heavy armour. Richard rode grim-faced, clutching his sword.

And they had been spared the worst. The Saracens had focused their attack on the rearguard. John glanced back. The air was so thick with arrows that it looked as if the heavens had begun to rain down death. Thousands of mounted mamluks swarmed around the lines. A few had begun to dismount to take better aim, and to deadly effect. Richard had been forced to reinforce the rearguard with men from the rest of the column.

‘Arsuf at last!’

John turned to see Guy pointing ahead. He could just make out the city, squatting on the coast a little over a mile away. Even from this distance, John could see that the walls had been toppled to prevent the Franks from using Arsuf as a stronghold.

‘And none too soon,’ Richard said, wiping sweat from his forehead. He turned in the saddle at the sound of shouting from the rear of the army. ‘By the devil’s hairy balls, what now?’

Exhausted by the constant onslaught and the long march backwards, the rearguard had begun to lag behind. Gaps opened up in the shields of the line connecting it to the rest of the army. The Saracens had been waiting for just such an opportunity. Hundreds of mamluks in mail, spears in hand, galloped forward and burst through the gaps. The ranks of foot-soldiers opened further. For a moment, John thought the line was breaking, but they were only parting to let the knights through. Nablus thundered through the gap at the head of his knights. The Saracens who had dismounted to shoot were cut down. The rest fled, Nablus and his knights close on their heels. But even as they drove the enemy back across the plain, more Saracens were slipping into the space they had left behind.

‘Curse the fool!’ Richard growled. ‘He leaves me no choice. Signal the charge!’

John took his mace from his belt as de Preaux sounded his horn. Its call was answered by horns all along the column. The line of foot-soldiers on the landward side divided to the left and right. Richard raised his sword and with a roar charged through. John put his spurs to his horse and galloped after the king.

The mamluks melted away before them, riding in headlong flight across the plain. The few Saracens who stood their ground were trampled or impaled on lances. Ahead, Richard was grinning fiercely as he drove his sword into the back of a mamluk fleeing on foot. John looked beyond him to the distant hills, where the enemy was headed. He caught the flash of sun off steel. There it was again. He knew what he was seeing. The Saracens had fled too easily. They were laying a trap. John had to tell Richard. It was his duty. Instead, he reined in. To hell with duty. To hell with Richard. The rest of the knights charged on to their doom.

Guy flashed past him. ‘Richard!’ he was shouting as he spurred his horse after the king. ‘Richard! We must stop! Stop!’

Yusuf sat in the saddle and watched as the Frankish knights thundered across the plain, driving his men before them. The mamluks and Bedouin and Turkmen skirmishers were racing towards the hills, keeping just close enough to ensure that the Franks followed. Yusuf nodded in satisfaction. ‘They have taken the bait, Saqr. It is time we withdrew. Give the signal.’

Saqr blew a long blast on his horn, and other horns answered. Yusuf turned his horse and spurred to a canter. His khaskiya, five hundred strong, came after him. The hills loomed before Yusuf, and then he was amongst them, cantering along a twisting path between two high slopes. He rounded a corner and reined to a halt. Two hundred of his spearmen waited just ahead in ranks ten deep. Archers crouched high on the slopes to either side. Once the Franks rode into the trap, more spearmen would cut off their escape.

Yusuf turned his horse on to a trail that zigzagged up the slope to his left. Az-Zahir waited atop the hill. Yusuf had given him charge of the ambushes.

‘All is ready?’ he asked his son.

‘It will be a slaughter, Father.’

From the hilltop, Yusuf had a good view of the coastal plain. His men were nearing the hills now, and the Frankish knights were still in pursuit. Beyond them, the field was littered with hundreds of dead, mostly his men. Along the coast, the Christian foot-soldiers were continuing into Arsuf. Yusuf looked back to the retreat. The first of his men had reached the hills. He saw a dozen mamluks gallop past on the trail at the base of the hill. The spearmen opened ranks to let them pass through. Four Frankish knights had followed the mamluks. They rounded the corner and charged straight on to the spearmen’s lances. Their horses fell, and the knights were cut down.

More mamluks were entering the hills to Yusuf’s left and right, with a handful of Franks in pursuit. The main body of knights was galloping closer and closer. They were almost to the hills when a horn sounded. It blew again and again, and the Frankish charge stopped just short of the hills. The knights turned and cantered back towards Arsuf.

‘
Ya Allah
!’ Az-Zahir cursed. ‘Why did they turn back?’

Yusuf thought he knew. John. His friend would have anticipated the ambushes. Once again, he had put his duty to the Franks ahead of his friendship with Yusuf. Damn him! Yusuf had needed this victory, and not just to stop Richard. Each night brought more desertions, and Al-Mashtub reported that the men of Al-Jazirah were still bitter that Yusuf had not let them attack at Acre when Richard murdered the garrison. A victory would have put an end to their grumbling. With defeat, it would only grow louder.

‘Shall I order the men to give chase, Father?’

‘No.’ Perhaps Yusuf could turn this setback to his advantage. ‘Have the army withdraw beyond the hills. I want no skirmishers out tomorrow during the Franks’ march to Jaffa. Let them think they have driven us off with a great victory. Inshallah, it will make them careless, and then we will strike again.’

September 1191: Jaffa

Yusuf pushed a leafy branch out of the way as he crept forward through a stand of trees. The thick undergrowth scratched against his leather breeches and tore at the dark caftan that covered his armour. He reached the edge of the woods and found Az-Zahir waiting. His son pointed across the coastal plain to where Jaffa sat, a quarter-mile distant. In the hazy light of early dawn, Yusuf could just make out the ruins of the fortress sitting high on a hill overlooking the city. His men had destroyed it and torn down the city wall before the Franks invested the town. Yusuf squinted and could see smoke against the pale sky. Campfires. The nobles had taken up residence in the city, but most of their men were camped in tents beyond the walls. They had yet to build a palisade. Why would they? They believed they had routed Yusuf’s army.

Yusuf turned to his son. Az-Zahir had command of Yusuf’s scouts. He had been watching the Franks ever since the battle of Arsuf, five days ago. ‘You say you have seen men leaving the city?’

Az-Zahir nodded. ‘Heading north to Acre.’

‘How many?’

‘Hundreds. Thousands maybe.’

‘Are they going for supplies?’

‘I think not. They take no wagons, and those who return are empty-handed. Something else draws them.’

Yusuf could guess what that was. Since the fall of Acre, Franks had been flooding into the city from overseas. The merchants, farmers and craftsmen who had fled after the fall of Jerusalem were returning. And with them came whores, eager to service the men of Richard’s army.

‘You have done well, my son. Stay here. Let me know at once if the Franks make ready to march.’

‘Yes, Father.’

Yusuf made his way through the stand of trees to where a dozen members of his khaskiya waited with his horse. He cantered back to his camp, which was hidden beyond the hills two miles from Jaffa. He had ordered his emirs to gather when he left that morning, and he found them crowded into his tent. Qaraqush, his old companion-in-arms, stood beside Al-Mashtub, who leaned on a staff to spare his ruined knee. Al-Afdal stood with two of Yusuf’s younger sons, who had joined the army after Arsuf. Mas’ud was now sixteen, and Yaqub, fourteen. Yusuf had hardly recognized them when they arrived. They had been children when last he saw them, and now they were young men, their sparse beards filled out with kohl. Muhammad and Nu’man stood with dozens of lesser emirs from the Al-Jazirah. Yusuf frowned. He had only asked for his closest advisors. The presence of these additional men boded ill.

He addressed his emirs curtly. ‘Today, we march on Jaffa. The Franks think us defeated and their pride has made them careless. The city is but poorly defended. They have not built a proper palisade, and many of their men are gone to Acre. We will charge in crescent formation, cutting them off from all escape. Al-Afdal will command the right wing and Az-Zahir, the left. I will have charge of the centre. You all know your positions, and you know your duty. The eyes of Allah are upon us. Let us make this a day of glory in his name. Let us drive the Franks back into the sea from whence they came!’

There was a time – before Acre, before Arsuf – when such a speech would have been met with cheers. But today the emirs made not a sound. They shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to meet his gaze. Yusuf felt a twinge in his gut. Something was wrong.

It was Muhammad who finally spoke. ‘Perhaps it would be better to wait a few days before we strike,’ he suggested in his silky voice. ‘The Franks will be more vulnerable on the march, once they have left Jaffa.’

‘They will not leave until they have finished repairing the walls and the city is lost to us. And when they do march, they will do so ready to fight. I tell you that the time to attack is now. Jaffa is only weakly held.’

‘Even in its ruined state, the citadel will not be easy to take,’ Muhammad countered. ‘The Franks will take shelter there, and we will find ourselves entangled in another siege, as at Acre. I need not remind you how that ended.’

‘Jaffa is not Acre. The Franks have only half as many men. The wall is in ruins. And this time, we have the element of surprise.’

‘I wonder why are you are eager to attack,’ Nu’man said in his rumbling baritone, ‘when you refused to strike the infidel outside Acre, after they massacred our men.’ Several emirs grunted their agreement. The pain in Yusuf’s gut sharpened.

‘If you want vengeance,’ he responded, ‘then you can have it now.’

‘How can we know this is not a trap?’ Nu’man demanded. ‘This Lionheart is a clever man. He bested us at Acre. He anticipated our ruse at Arsuf. Surely he would not leave his men defenceless.’

‘He is clever but arrogant. He thinks us defeated and has let down his guard. The city is ours for the taking!’ No one spoke. His men’s eyes were fixed on the carpeted ground. Yusuf felt anger rising within him, pushing aside the pain in his gut. His fists clenched. ‘Has Richard so unmanned you that you fear to face him? I am your king! Have you forgotten your duty?’

‘We have done our duty and more, Malik,’ Nu’man replied. ‘We have travelled far from our lands. I have not seen my wife or my children in more than two years. All that time, I have been at your side. My men have fought your battles. They have suffered hunger and cold.’

‘Perhaps if we were paid the gold we are owed—’ Muhammad started.

Yusuf’s jaw clenched. It was all he could do not to strike Muhammad. The fate of the kingdom was at stake, and Muhammad spoke of gold like some merchant. ‘The Franks carry with them the gold they took from Acre. You will have your coin when they are defeated.’

‘If they are defeated,’ Muhammad countered. ‘Pay us now if you wish me by your side in today’s battle. My men are done fighting for promises.’ The other emirs of Al-Jazirah added their assent.

Muhammad was a lost cause. He had always been more of a courtier than a warrior. Yusuf turned to Nu’man. ‘We have fought side by side many times, friend. I have saved your life, and you, mine. You would rebel against me?’

‘I am no rebel, Malik. I would fight for you even now. But my men will not.’

Yusuf’s hand went to his sword. ‘Then go!’ he shouted. ‘Go! Leave my tent before I have your heads!’ The emirs hurried out, but Qaraqush remained behind. ‘I should have them all executed,’ Yusuf muttered.

‘Your emirs are not to blame, Malik. Nu’man spoke true: the men have no heart for a fight. They fear the Lionheart.’

‘What sort of king am I, when I cannot command my own men?’ Yusuf went to a table to pour a glass of water, but then flung it to the ground. ‘Curse them all! We could have won!’

‘What will you do, Malik?’

Yusuf rubbed his beard – more grey than black now – and could feel the sharp angles of his cheekbones. He felt every one of his fifty-three years. He wanted nothing more than to return to Damascus, to spend his days with Shamsa. But that was not to be. He forced himself to stand straight.