Chapter 26

July 1192: Jaffa

Richard slammed his fist down on the table. ‘We must strike again!’

His declaration was met with silence by the lords around the table. Balian frowned, while Hugh of Burgundy shifted uncomfortably as he leaned on his crutch. The new king, Henry of Champagne, bit his lip. The Pisan and Genoese envoys appeared to be carefully studying the map on the table. John looked away, out of the window. Beyond the rooftops of Jaffa, he noticed a dozen men heading north along the coast. They were no doubt marching for Acre, where they would take a ship for home.

‘Well?’ Richard demanded. ‘Have you all lost your tongues?’

‘I have my tongue,’ Hugh replied. The French commander was flushed. Fever had burned away his belly, leaving him painfully thin. He had never fully recovered from the arrow he took in his ankle at Arsuf. After the first attempt on Jerusalem, the doctors had wanted to take his foot, but he had refused. Corruption had set in, and now he looked likely to lose his whole leg, if not his life. ‘It is your wits that I fear have been lost.’

‘You’ll not long keep your tongue if you speak to me thus,’ Richard growled. ‘I am king-’

‘Of England,’ Hugh finished. ‘And I am a Frenchman. I’ll not follow you blindly, and I’ll not throw away the lives of my men. We have already tried for Jerusalem twice, and twice we have failed.’

A murmur of assent went around the table. The army had returned from Beit Nuba only three days before. This time, it had not been the cold and wet that had stopped them, but rather the heat. Yusuf had poisoned or filled all the wells within miles of Jerusalem. Richard had sent men to fetch water from beyond Ramlah, but half of them fell prey to Muslim raiding parties. Those who returned could not possibly bring enough water for horses and men alike. Richard had favoured the horses. After a month, the men were mad with thirst. Hundreds deserted. John’s lips had become blistered, and he suffered from piercing headaches and dizzy spells. When the horses began to die, too, they had withdrawn to Jaffa.

‘It is true. We have not taken Jerusalem,’ Richard acknowledged. ‘But nor have we been defeated. We need only crush our enemy in the field! If we kill Saladin, his army will collapse, and the Holy Land will spread its legs for us.’

‘And how do you plan to kill Saladin?’ Balian asked. ‘He knows our armies are disintegrating. He need only wait to achieve victory. Why would he be fool enough to meet us in battle?’

‘Because our failure to take Jerusalem has served at least one purpose: it has made the Saracens over-confident. If they see an easy prize, they will reach out to take it. And we will strike!’

‘Then you will do so without the French,’ Hugh said.

‘You would abandon your brothers-in-arms? Is it your life you fear for, Hugh, or have the Saracens so cowed your spirit that you dare not raise your sword against them?’

Hugh’s lips pressed together in a thin line. When he spoke, his voice was cold. ‘My lords and I fought beside you at Acre and Arsuf. None can question our bravery. But we have also frozen on the road to Jerusalem in the winter, and have burned there in the summer. We have had enough.’

‘Go, then. There will be more glory for those who do follow me.’

‘Glory? Hah. If you keep at this mad quest, you will find only death.’ Hugh limped from the room, his crutch tapping loudly on the stone floor.

Richard let him go and then looked around the table. ‘If you also fear death, go. Follow Hugh. As for me, I am not afraid to give my life in the service of God.’ He paused to meet each man’s eyes. ‘Who will fight beside me?’

Again, there was silence. Richard’s knuckles went white where he gripped the edge of the table. Just when it seemed no one would respond, Henry cleared his throat. ‘The men of the Kingdom will join you, Richard.’

‘But my lord!’ Balian protested.

‘You were born and raised in the Holy Land, Balian,’ Henry said. ‘Will you not fight for it?’

‘Of course, but-’

Richard cut him short. ‘You have my thanks, Henry. Who else?’

The Templar and Hospitaller Grand Masters reluctantly gave their support. The Pisan envoy agreed to provide two thousand crossbowmen, for a fee.

‘It is settled then,’ Richard declared. ‘Go now and prepare your men to march. We leave for Acre tomorrow, where we will gather our forces.’

The men trooped out. John remained behind.

‘Speak, John,’ Richard said as he went to a side table to pour himself a cup of wine.

‘This is not the time to think of conquest, Your Grace. The men are dispirited. Thousands have already taken ship to return home, and now we have lost the French, too. You must turn your mind to peace.’

‘Peace is all you ever talk of, priest,’ Richard grumbled. ‘I begin to think Guy was right. You love the infidels overmuch.’

‘I only speak the truth, Your Grace. You must make peace before you leave the Holy Land. With every failed assault on Jerusalem, the terms of that peace grow worse for us.’

‘That is why I need a victory, John. God is on our side. The Saracens cannot defeat me.’

‘Yet still you have lost.’ Richard’s brow furrowed at this, but John pushed on regardless. ‘A wise king must know when to fight and when to put aside his sword. Make peace, Your Grace.’

Richard sat at the table and took a long drink of wine. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Go. This talk of peace sickens me. I have no patience for cowards.’

John’s jaw set. ‘I am no coward, but to attack again and again in the face of defeat is not bravery. It is madness.’

‘It is madness to insult one’s king, John.’ Richard’s voice was soft, and all the more dangerous for that. ‘I could have you beheaded for less.’ He let the threat hang in the air. ‘But no. No doubt the heat has addled your wits. When I depart, you will stay in Jaffa to recover.’

John would have been happy to be rid of Richard, but he feared what the Lionheart might do without his restraining influence. ‘My place is at your side, Your Grace.’

‘Your place is wherever I decide. You will stay.’

The sword slashed towards John’s face. He knocked it aside with his shield and swung his mace, but his opponent leaned back out of the way. John attempted to attack backhanded, but the sudden change of direction of the mace caused a sharp pain in his shoulder. ‘’Sblood!’

His sparring partner stepped back and removed his helm, revealing curly red hair. Rand was a young man-at-arms. The men called him Quickfingers because he had once been caught cheating at cards. He had paid for that with the little finger of his left hand. Rand was one of the hundred men that Richard had left behind to garrison the citadel of Jaffa. A hundred was hardly enough. John had asked for more, but Richard refused.

Rand’s face wore a look of concern. ‘Are you well, father?’

‘It is nothing.’ John raised his mace and winced as the pain returned.

‘We will spar again later,’ Rand suggested. ‘I must see to my duties.’ The young man hurried off.

‘If you fear for my old bones, just say it,’ John grumbled. All these young ones treated him as if he had one foot in the grave. John removed his helm and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Training against younger men was hard, but he had had little else to occupy his time in the two weeks since Richard left for Acre. He massaged his aching shoulder. He needed a hot bath.

He changed out of his armour in his quarters in the citadel and went into the city. He paid three coppers to the stooped old man at the bathhouse door. Inside, he left his clothes in a cubby and pulled on a thin cotton bathing tunic. The rays of sunshine that lit the warm room were visible in the roiling steam that filled the air. Three other men sat in the hot waters. None looked up as John sank into the bath with a sigh of relief.

He worked his shoulder until he could lift his arm without pain and then sat back and closed his eyes. His mind drifted. He thought of his first time in a bathhouse. It had been the day he arrived in the Holy Land. He had gone in the women’s entrance. They had shrieked at him in a tongue he did not understand, and John had feared they might castrate him. He thought of Yusuf’s sister Zimat, whom he had loved, and then of Reynald, the man he had hated above all others. They were both gone now. He thought of Yusuf. When the two had met, Yusuf had been a skinny, bookish boy, who dreamed he would someday be king. John thought of Richard, the king he now served. The thought made him frown.

Shouting from the streets intruded on his thoughts, and John opened his eyes. The other men were leaving the bath. John followed them to the changing room. The shouting was growing louder. He dressed quickly and stepped outside. ‘What is happening?’ he asked the old man at the door. The man shrugged.

All along the street, men and women were stepping out of their homes. ‘Saladin!’ a young boy shouted as he sprinted past John. ‘Saladin is here!’

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the people rushed back into their homes, only to emerge a moment later carrying their most valuable possessions. John joined the crowd hurrying towards the shelter of the citadel. He entered and climbed atop the wall. Quickfingers was there, along with most of the garrison. Without a word, the young soldier pointed to the east. An army was approaching under a cloud of dust. Their column of mounted men stretched to the horizon.

John squinted at the flag that flew over the head of the army. It bore Yusuf’s eagle. He quickly scanned the rest of the column. ‘At least seven thousand men.’

Quickfingers nodded. ‘We cannot hold against so many. What do we do?’

‘Send a rider north to Acre. And get as many of the people inside as you can. Put the men on the walls. I will speak with Saladin.’

Yusuf rode into Jaffa with his emirs and personal guard trailing behind. He heard distant shouts of pain and terror. Those would be the men who had waited too long to seek shelter in the citadel. He rode past home after home with their doors kicked in — some doors sagged on their hinges while the wood had splintered around the lock on others. Further up the street, a mamluk stepped out of a house with a heavy bag over his shoulder. The man behind him carried an armful of silks.

The town had put up no resistance. Most of the occupants had fled to the citadel long before Yusuf had arrived. They had taken their most valuable possessions, but more than enough had been left behind to make his men happy. It had been a long time since they had taken any plunder. His men needed this victory. Yusuf needed it more. When he heard that Richard had left Jaffa almost undefended, he had struck at once. Perhaps the city’s fall would finally convince the Lionheart to make peace.

As he reached the square at the heart of town, Yusuf heard a woman’s screams coming from an alleyway to his left. He frowned. He had ordered his troops to spare all the women and Muslim men when they took the town. He turned to Qaraqush. ‘Put an end to that.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

Yusuf rode into the long shadow cast by the citadel, which stood on a tall hill near the coast. The flag of the Kingdom of Jerusalem flew from its keep, alongside the three lions of Richard. He could see men lining the walls. He estimated their numbers at less than five hundred, and that no doubt included citizens from the town, dragooned into standing there with sticks in hand to make the citadel look better defended than it actually was. Five hundred men or one hundred, it hardly mattered. They did not have enough men to resist for long. Nor, it seemed, did they intend to. The citadel gate opened and a man in mail rode out under a white flag.

Yusuf reined to a halt. Al-Afdal came up beside him. His son smirked. ‘Shall I bring you the fool’s head?’

‘He comes under a flag of truce. I will speak with him.’

‘You mean to negotiate?’ Al-Afdal asked incredulously. ‘We should slaughter them, Father. Kill them all, as they murdered our men at Acre.’

Yusuf sighed. ‘Have you learned nothing, my son? Acre was Richard’s greatest mistake. We have suffered defeat after defeat since then, yet the desire for vengeance has held our army together when there was nothing else. The massacre at Acre is the only reason Richard has not taken Jerusalem. I will not make the same mistake. If we want the Lionheart gone, we must seek peace, not vengeance.’

Al-Afdal frowned. ‘As you say, Father.’

The Frank with the white flag was drawing closer. Yusuf squinted. Then his eyes widened in recognition. He urged his mount forward. ‘John!’

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, friend,’ John replied as his horse came alongside Yusuf’s.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Richard left me behind. I have come to negotiate the citadel’s surrender.’

‘If you turn the citadel over to me, I will give your men and the people of Jaffa free passage to Acre.’

John looked about. The occasional scream still punctuated the morning air. At the edge of the square, a Christian in a blood-stained tunic stumbled past with four taunting mamluks at his heels. ‘I trust your word, Yusuf, but your men’s blood is up. I fear that if the people leave the citadel now, they will be slaughtered.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘I will give my men five days to sack the city and have their sport. That will also give your people time to prepare their departure. On the fifth day, you will leave.’

John nodded. ‘Thank you, Yusuf.’

‘You need not thank me, John. Blood only begets more blood. The time has come for peace.’

Yusuf watched as a ship far out to sea made its way along the horizon, gliding along under the same gentle northerly wind that ruffled his hair. In the hazy morning sky, gulls floated on the breeze. The tide was at its lowest point and the surf was quiet. His horse shook its head, and the jingle of tack sounded loud in the morning calm. He heard the nickering of horses amongst the men behind him. Fifty members of his khaskiya waited there, along with the four hundred men who would take control of the citadel when the Franks left. There was a loud cawing to Yusuf’s right, and he looked to see a crow settling on to one of the branches of a dead tree. The black bird seemed to look right at him. It cawed again.

‘An ill omen,’ Qaraqush muttered.

‘You see ill omens in everything.’

‘Of late, I am usually right.’

‘It is just a bird,’ Yusuf said, though in truth, he was ill at ease. Crows followed armies and always seemed to know when a battle was in the offing.

‘The flags are coming down.’ Al-Afdal pointed to the citadel.

The three lions of Richard fluttered in the breeze as his standard was lowered. Next came the flag of Jerusalem — a gold cross, surrounded by four smaller crosses. Yusuf raised his voice. ‘Prepare to ride, men!’

A horn sounded over his last words. Aah-hoo! Aah-hoo!

Qaraqush frowned. ‘That did not come from the citadel.’

‘There!’ Saqr pointed out to sea.

More ships had appeared north of the city. There were ten of them. Yusuf squinted. No, fifteen — shallow-drafted longships, each packed with men. The closest were surging towards the shore, their oars beating at the waves. Over each boat flew a flag: three golden lions on a field of scarlet. Richard.

Yusuf turned to Saqr. ‘Sound the call to arms. We will hold the light cavalry in reserve. Al-Afdal, you will lead the mamluks. No bows; close with sword and lance. We will ride them down before they reach the shore.’

‘Yes, Malik!’

Al-Afdal galloped away as Saqr sounded his horn. Behind Yusuf, the camp sprang to life, men grabbing their weapons and running for their horses. As was his custom, Yusuf had ordered his men to pitch their tents in order of the line of battle, so that they could form up at a moment’s notice. The Frankish ships were still well out to sea when the line formed, the mamluks in the fore with spears in hand. The four hundred men who were to have formed the citadel’s garrison joined them, with the Bedouin and Turkmen cavalry gathered behind. Al-Afdal waved his sword overhead as he cantered down the line of mamluks. He turned back and stopped at the centre of the line. He shouted something, and the men roared back: ‘For Islam! For Saladin!’ Four thousand strong, the mamluks headed north at a trot, riding for where the Frankish ships would come ashore.

‘With me, men!’ Yusuf called to the troops gathered around him. They rode after the mamluks at a slower pace, and the light cavalry fell in behind them. Yusuf counted twenty-four enemy ships now. At something like a hundred fighting men per ship, that meant approximately twenty-five hundred Franks against his more than seven thousand. Yusuf raised a fist and reined to a stop on the sandy dunes overlooking the beach.

Below them, the line of mamluks had accelerated to a gallop and was thundering across the sand. The first longship was nearing the shore, moving faster now as it surged forward on the waves, their crests foaming at its sides. The mamluks splashed into the water, their mount’s hooves kicking up clouds of spray. Yusuf looked back to the ship. The men crowded in the prow did not hold swords or spears. Crossbows. Yusuf recognized the weapons just as they released a volley into the charging mamluks. The effect was devastating. Dozens of horses went down, and their riders were thrown under the waves. Frankish warriors poured from the ship, led by Richard himself. The king towered over the others. He set about him with his double-bladed battle-axe, cutting down the fallen mamluks as they rose from the sea.

More ships surged towards the coast, the crossbowmen in the prows releasing volleys of quarrels. Horses fell by the dozen. The beasts thrashed and kicked in the surf, reducing the advancing mamluk line to chaos. Spears in hand, the Frankish men-at-arms were vaulting from their ships into water, which came up to their waists. They were met by mamluks, many of them now on foot. The wind picked up, carrying to Yusuf the injured beasts’ loud whinnies, the men’s shouts of pain and anger and the ring of steel upon steel. He saw a spray of blood as a mamluk slashed through an enemy’s throat.

‘Selim!’ Yusuf called. ‘Lead in the light cavalry. Have them stop on the beach and shoot at the crossbowmen in the boats.’

Selim galloped away, and Yusuf turned back towards the fighting. He could not find Al-Afdal amidst the chaos. Richard was clearly visible, driving forward into a knot of half a dozen mamluks. The king’s battle-axe flashed in the sun, and Yusuf saw an arm go flying. Another man had his head nearly cut off. Three of the mamluks fled, and the remaining man took a blow to the chest and disappeared beneath the waves.

‘The bastard is brave,’ Qaraqush noted.

‘A brave fool. We outnumber them four to one.’

The Turkmen and Bedouin cavalry had reached the beach and began arcing arrows over the mamluks. Yusuf saw one of the crossbowmen take an arrow in the gut and tumble from his ship into the water. Several more were hit, and the rest took shelter. The hail of crossbow bolts slackened, allowing the mamluks to press forward. Their numbers soon began to tell. The Franks were pushed back into deeper water, first up to their waists, and then to their chests. Only Richard and two dozen of his knights remained in the shallower water. A hundred mamluks swarmed around them.

‘For Christ! For the Kingdom!’

A loud cry came from Yusuf’s left. He looked over to see that the citadel gates had opened, and two hundred Frankish spearmen were pouring out to strike his men in the flank. They cut into the light cavalry on the beach, spearing them from their horses. Yusuf’s men began to panic. A few retreated, and then more and more fled. As the rain of arrows from the light cavalry ceased, the Frankish crossbowmen began to shoot once more. At the same time, the spearmen veered into the sea to strike the mamluks from behind. The Frankish men-at-arms led by Richard pushed forward again.

‘Stand your ground, men!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘Stand your ground!’

‘It is no use, Malik,’ Qaraqush urged. ‘They fear the Lionheart.’

‘Then we must kill him. If we strike down Richard, the battle is ours.’ Yusuf drew his sword and held it aloft. ‘With me, men! For Islam!’ He spurred his horse down from the dunes and on to the beach. His guard came close behind. They streamed past the fleeing Bedouin and Turkmen and splashed into the water, heading straight for Richard. A Frankish spearman lunged at him, and Yusuf knocked aside the spear point and slashed down. The Frank blocked the blow with his shield, but Saqr came close behind and finished him. Yusuf rode another spearman down from behind, and slashed across the face of a third Frank. His mount had slowed. The waves were crashing against its chest now. Richard was only ten yards away when Yusuf’s horse whinnied and stumbled. Yusuf saw a crossbow quarrel protruding from the beast’s neck, and then it fell.

Yusuf managed to get free of his stirrups just before he splashed under the waves. His helmet came off, and he slammed into the sandy sea floor. He opened his eyes, but quickly shut them; the briny water stung, and it was too churned up and murky for him to see. He began to rise when someone kneed him in the side of the head. He fell back to his knees. He stabbed up blindly and felt his sword strike home. Yusuf rose from the waves, blinking water from his eyes. A wide-eyed Frank with blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth was impaled on the end of his sword. A wave hit Yusuf in the chest. He stumbled backwards, and the Frank slid off his blade to disappear beneath the water.

Yusuf looked about, trying to locate Richard. There. The king had moved about twenty yards further away. He was hacking down a mamluk, while Saqr rode up behind him, unseen. Saqr brought his sword down hard; Richard moved at the last second, and the blade glanced off his conical helm. With a roar, the Lionheart spun and sank his axe into the neck of Saqr’s horse. A spray of blood spattered the king as he pulled his weapon free. The horse collapsed, and Saqr vanished beneath the waves. He came up swinging. Richard deflected the blow with his axe.

Yusuf waded towards the two men through waist-deep water. A Frank appeared from his left and lunged at his chest. Yusuf lurched sideways to avoid the blow and hacked down, catching the Frank on the wrist. The man fell to his knees, screaming and clutching his nearly severed sword hand. Ahead, Saqr and Richard were trading blows. Lean and compact, Saqr looked like a child next to the towering king, but he was quicker. He landed a blow against Richard’s side, and red showed on the king’s surcoat. Saqr pressed his attack and struck the king’s left arm above the elbow. Richard grunted in pain, and his guard came down. Saqr slashed at the king’s face, but the Lionheart brought his axe up, knocking Saqr’s blade up above his head. Richard brought his axe back down in a vicious blow. The blade caught Saqr where the neck and shoulder meet. It sliced through flesh and bone, cutting him to the navel.

Yusuf’s mouth stretched open in a scream, but he heard nothing. All sound had drained from the world, all but the pounding of blood in his ears. Richard turned towards him, and their eyes met. Yusuf raised his sword. He took a step towards the king, but someone came between them. Yusuf slashed angrily, but his sword was parried.

‘Yusuf!’

He swung again, and again his blade was knocked aside.

‘Yusuf!’

This time, the shout penetrated the fog of anger that had enveloped him. Yusuf took a step back. ‘John?’ His friend was dressed in mail. John spread his hands in a gesture of peace and lowered his mace beneath the waves. ‘Stand aside!’ Yusuf shouted at him.

‘I will not let you fight him.’

And I thought you were my friend. Yusuf’s lips curled back in a snarl. He lunged, but John’s mace rose from the water to deflect the blow. John took a step back and again lowered his weapon.

‘I am not protecting him, Yusuf. I am protecting you.’

Yusuf swung again. This time, his sword caught in the grooves of the mace, and the two weapons locked together, bringing the two men close. They struggled against one another, but John was the stronger. Yusuf was shoved back just as a wave struck him. He lost his balance and went down beneath the water. He slashed beneath the waves and felt his sword make contact. He rose to see that John was clutching his right leg and struggling to stand. The water around him was turning crimson. A wave hit him, and John fell to his knees, so that his chin was just above the water. He dropped his mace.

‘He will kill you, Yusuf, and if you fall, your army will scatter. There will be no peace. Richard will take Jerusalem, and the war between our people will never end. You must not fight him.’

Yusuf scowled. ‘I am not afraid to die.’

‘I know. You are the bravest man I have ever known. That is why you will retreat, because you do not fear the jeers of your enemy, because you know that the lives of your people matter more than glory, more even than your honour.’

Yusuf hesitated. Richard was still fifteen yards away. Man after man waded forward to try for the glory of striking down the king. Richard hacked off a mamluk’s hand. He nearly cleaved a warrior’s head from his body. He stove in the next man’s helm.

‘This is Richard’s last chance, Yusuf,’ John said. ‘All you have to do is survive, and you will win.’

John was right. Richard was younger and stronger, and he fought with a ferocity that Yusuf could not match. If he faced the king, Yusuf would die in these waters. All he had fought for would be lost. He lowered his sword, and reached out to pull John to his feet.

John gripped his shoulder. ‘I knew you were no Richard.’

‘Thanks to you, friend.’ Yusuf took a step back, then turned and moved toward the beach. ‘Retreat!’ he shouted. ‘Fall back, men! Back!’

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