Kingdom (49 page)

Qaraqush and Turan were silent for a moment. Then the grizzled old mamluk grinned. ‘There will be no one to stop you.’

‘Exactly. By the time the Franks return from the north, the city will be ours, and they will be forced to besiege us.’

The following morning Yusuf led the army away from Ascalon, leaving Turan’s troops ringing the city. Yusuf and his men angled inland, towards Ramlah and the road to Jerusalem. Every small settlement they passed had been abandoned. Yusuf gave orders to take what provisions could be found and put the rest to the torch. He sent detachments to take the towns of Lydaa, Arsuf and Mirabel, while he marched on with a reduced army of some thirteen thousand men. Before the sun had set they made camp beside a river less than a day’s march from Jerusalem. With Saqr in tow, Yusuf toured the camp, occasionally stopping at a campfire to speak with the men. They were in a festive mood; they spoke of what they would do when they took the city. Some spoke of women or riches, but most said they would go to the Al-Aqsa mosque to pray. Yusuf promised that he would join them.

At one of the last fires he found a dozen men sitting silently, sharpening their blades as they stared at the embers. Yusuf recognized Liaqat and Nazam. With them sat Qadir, a mamluk who had already distinguished himself in Shirkuh’s service when Yusuf was only a boy. Qadir was still an imposing man with biceps as thick as Yusuf’s thighs, but he now had a paunch and his beard was streaked with grey.

Yusuf stepped into the circle of firelight and the men began to rise. He motioned for them to remain seated and took a place before the fire. He drew his eagle-hilt dagger and asked for a whetstone. Nazam handed one to him. Yusuf began to sharpen the blade.

‘Is it true that the Franks have left Jerusalem unguarded?’ Nazam asked.

Yusuf nodded.

‘How could they be so foolish?’

‘They had little choice. They do not have enough men to meet us in the field. They no doubt hoped I would pause to lay siege to Ascalon.’

Yusuf was surprised to see wetness in Qadir’s eyes. ‘Al-Quds,’ the huge mamluk said. ‘Your uncle told me long ago that we would conquer it together. I wish Shirkuh were here to see you, Malik.’ He shook his head sadly before he met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘Do you remember the day we first met?’

‘I do.’ Qadir had called him a little bugger. He had humiliated Yusuf before the rest of Shirkuh’s men. But Yusuf had deserved it. He had not known the first thing about how to lead men.

‘What a fool I was,’ Qadir said.

‘Not as great a fool as I. But the years have made us wiser.’ Yusuf smiled. ‘Although in your case, Qadir, no prettier.’

The mamluk chuckled and waved a fist in mock anger. ‘Do not make me teach you a lesson, little bugger.’

‘Maybe some other time.’ Yusuf rose. ‘Get your rest, men. There will be a long march tomorrow before we reach Jerusalem.’

Yusuf returned to his tent, where he lay in the dark, unable to sleep. He had wanted peace but war had found him. Tomorrow he would take Jerusalem. It was the culmination of nearly eighty years of struggle by his people. But Yusuf knew it was a beginning, not an end. The Franks would try to retake the city. Yusuf had not taken Ascalon or Gaza, so he would be surrounded with no open road to Egypt. He would have to hold Jerusalem with the men he had. The walls would need to be fortified. And he would have to deal with the populace. After the carnage that had occurred when the Christians took Jerusalem, Yusuf knew his men would want blood, but there was no sense in creating martyrs who might provoke another crusade. He would allow the Christians to leave. Perhaps
afterwards
he could negotiate peace. Then he could remake the city. He would drive the monks from the Dome of the Rock and rid the Temple Mount of the Templars. The Al-Aqsa would become a mosque once more, and he would go there to pray.
Inshallah
, he added silently.
Inshallah
.

NOVEMBER 1177: ASCALON

John hurried up the steps to the top of the wall and strode to where Baldwin and Reynald stood looking out at the enemy campfires, which seemed as innumerable as the stars. Closer to the walls, thousands of mamluks were massed before the nearest gate, ready in case the Franks tried to sneak out. They were less than a hundred yards off, but John could barely see them. It was a dark night, cloudy with no moon.

‘The tide is out,’ John told Baldwin. ‘It is time, sire.’

‘Are you sure of this?’ Reynald asked. ‘The lands beyond the sea wall are dangerous, a morass where sucking sand can swallow a horse whole.’

‘We have no choice,’ the king replied.

They rode across the city to where the army had gathered before the west gate. Most of the time the ocean crashed against the bottom of the gate, but the tide had receded, exposing the ground beyond it. They would have to go far out amongst the receding waters to avoid being seen by the Saracens. A local boy, who often visited the tidal flats to hunt for clams, had volunteered to guide them. He stood in front of the gate, biting his thumbnail.

‘We haven’t much time,’ he said as Baldwin and John rode up to him. ‘When the tide returns, it will come like a horse at gallop.’

Baldwin nodded to the men at the gate. ‘Open it.’

The gate swung open and the boy led them out on a winding path across the dark tidal flat. Soon the ocean was washing
against
the ankles of John’s horse. When he looked back, the walls of Ascalon had been swallowed up by the darkness. Suddenly there was loud shouting. ‘
Help
!
Help me
!’ A knight had strayed just a short distance from the path picked out by the guide. His horse was mired in sucking sands, and the more it struggled, the deeper it sank. ‘
Help
!’ the knight shouted again.

‘You, sergeant,’ Baldwin called quietly to a nearby foot-soldier. ‘Silence him.’

The sergeant drew back his bow and let fly. The arrow hit the knight in the chest, and he cried out in shock. The second arrow lodged in his throat. Baldwin rode on. John watched for a moment as the knight slowly sank into the sands. ‘God have mercy on his soul,’ he murmured, and spurred after the king.

The waves were now slapping against the knees of John’s horse. ‘The tide is coming,’ their guide called softly. ‘We must hurry.’ He began to jog, lifting his knees high. They angled back towards shore, but the water continued to rise around them. Then the land sloped up sharply. A moment later they were leaving the sea behind and riding on to the sandy shore. John looked south, but saw no sign of the Saracens.

‘Praise God!’ Baldwin said. He tossed their guide a pouch heavy with gold coins and then turned to John. ‘Come! We ride for Jerusalem!’

NOVEMBER 1177: MONTGISARD

The morning dawned cold with a driving rain, and Yusuf wrapped his fur cloak tight about him as the army set out for Jerusalem. The rain muddied the ground and filled the ravines with turbulent brown water. By noon the sun had burned off the clouds and dried Yusuf’s cloak, but the ground remained a morass of sucking mud. They did not reach Ramlah until mid afternoon.

The city had been deserted and everything of value carted away. Yusuf’s men watered their horses and then put the city to the torch. They left it burning, sending roiling black smoke into the sky as they continued on towards Jerusalem. The road passed through low hills and then out on to a broad plain, which sat in the shadow of a tall peak named Tell al-Safiya, or Montgisard, as the Franks called it. The plain was bisected by a steep-sided ravine some twenty feet deep. It was flooded with fast-moving water from the rains. Yusuf’s men had to dismount to lead their horses down the sides. At the bottom the turbulent water reached to the horses’ chests, making their footings treacherous.

Yusuf dismounted and took a small meal of bread and water while his army crossed. He was finishing the bread when Saqr pointed to the horizon.

‘Someone is approaching, Malik.’

Yusuf squinted but saw nothing. ‘Can you tell how many?’

‘It is hard to say. The ground is wet, so they kick up no dust. There could be dozens, or thousands.’

Yusuf made to call for Qaraqush, but the mamluk general was already approaching. He dismounted and nodded towards the horizon. ‘We have visitors. Men returning from Arsuf or Lydaa, perhaps?’

‘Perhaps.’ Yusuf could now see sunlight flashing off steel in the distance. ‘They are close.’ He looked to the ravine. A third of his men had reached the far side. That left only eight thousand mamluks with Yusuf. And whoever these new arrivals were, they would arrive long before the rest of the army had crossed. ‘Qaraqush, have those who have crossed return to this side. And send scouts to find out who is approaching.’

Yusuf paced as he waited for the scouts to return. He could now see tiny figures in the distance. There seemed to be thousands. Flags flew over them, but he could make nothing out.

‘The scouts are returning,’ Saqr said. Yusuf spotted a dozen mamluks in saffron yellow racing across the plain. ‘They are driving their horses as if shîtân himself were at their heels.’

‘The Franks,’ Yusuf whispered. He called for Qaraqush. ‘Have the men form ranks. Prepare for battle.
Quickly
!’

Qaraqush rode away waving his sword and shouting orders. The scouts galloped across the plain and pulled up before Yusuf. When they spoke, they only confirmed what he already knew.

‘It is the Frankish army, Malik. They are here!’

‘God is with us!’ Baldwin cried. ‘We have surprised them!’

John sat in the saddle beside the king and the other Christian leaders. They were atop a hill with the Frankish army behind them. The knights were in the front ranks, grouped in the middle. Thousands of foot-soldiers spread out to either side of them. They had marched through the night, taking the coastal road in order to avoid the enemy scouts. The morning’s rain had profited them, dampening the dust that would have revealed their approach and slowing the Saracens. Now, they had caught them. Before John, the ground sloped down to a broad plain, where the Saracen army stood. The enemy was in chaos as men scrambled to form ranks. Thousands of warriors were stuck on the far side of the ravine that bisected the plain.

‘Reynald!’ Baldwin called. ‘Are the men ready to charge?’

‘Aye, sire. The knights will ride first to break their ranks. The sergeants will clean up the mess.’

Baldwin nodded and then turned to John. ‘Help me from my horse.’ The king could ride well enough, but his leprosy had weakened his legs, making it difficult for him to dismount. John helped him down. The king drew his sword and knelt with the blade pointing towards the earth. He bowed his head so that his brow touched the pommel.

‘O God!’ he prayed loudly. ‘What I ask now, I ask not in my name but in the name of all the faithful, and in the name of your son, who died on the cross in Jerusalem. That same city is now under threat from the infidels. Give us strength, O Lord, that we may defend it. Guide our swords that we may strike down
our
enemies. Look with favour on the armies of God. In your name, Amen!’

The men began to cheer. Baldwin rose, and as John helped him back into the saddle the king grasped his arm and leaned close. ‘Godspeed, John. Stay close to Reynald.’

John nodded and mounted his horse. He drew his sword and rode alongside Reynald, who scowled at him before pulling on his helmet. John pulled on his own helmet and readied his kite-shaped shield.

‘Godspeed!’ Baldwin called in his direction and raised his sword. ‘For Christ! For the Kingdom!’

His cry was echoed by all the men down the line. ‘
The Kingdom
!
The Kingdom
!’ The knights charged, and the sergeants poured after them.

John galloped down on to the plain. Ahead, the Saracen line was still forming. The Egyptian lancers had been caught on the far side of the ravine, meaning there would be no one to blunt the Christian charge.

Reynald spurred to the head of his men, and John kicked his horse’s flanks to keep pace. They rode for the centre of the Saracen line. The men there were dressed in the saffron yellow of Yusuf’s personal mamluks, and above them flew Yusuf’s standard: a golden eagle on a field of white. The Saracens had bows in their hands, and John saw strings being drawn taught. They let fly. Several arrows hit the ground before John, and then one struck him in the chest. It penetrated his mail but was stopped by the padded vest beneath. Another hit him with the same result. John ignored them. His eyes were fixed on the Saracen line only fifty yards away. Forty. Thirty. John could see the men’s bearded faces. The mamluks were shouldering their bows and readying their bamboo spears. John gripped his sword tight. Then he hit the line.

A Saracen spear shattered on his shield, and John swung out, catching his attacker in the throat. John’s charger slammed its shoulder into a Saracen mount, and the Arabian stumbled and
fell
. John slashed to the right and left as he followed Reynald into the Saracen ranks. Behind him, he could hear yells of anger and pain as the rest of the knights hit the line. John caught sight of Yusuf just ahead. Then the Saracen line broke. The men facing John turned and fled, pushed back by the impact of the Frankish charge.

‘For the Kingdom!’ Reynald roared. ‘Kill every last one of the bastards!’ He spurred after the enemy, but the Saracens pulled away on their fleeter horses. Suddenly they stopped and turned. John spotted Yusuf at their centre, waving his sword overhead and shouting to his right. John looked in that direction and his eyes widened. The Saracens had not been retreating. They had been laying a trap.

‘Reynald!’ he shouted. He grabbed the regent’s reins and pulled back, stopping him. ‘We’ve gone too far!’

‘Release me!’ Reynald snarled and knocked John’s hand away. ‘We’ve almost won!’

‘Look around you!’ The Frankish knights had punched through the centre of the Saracen line, but to the left and right the enemy flanks were now closing in on them. They would be surrounded in moments.

‘Christ’s beard,’ Reynald cursed. ‘Back, men! Back!’

He turned his horse, but it was too late. A roar went up from the enclosing Saracens: ‘
Allah
!
Allah
!
Allah
!’