Kingdom

Chapter 24

NOVEMBER 1177: THE ROAD TO ASCALON

A crow’s harsh cry carried from the branches of a dead tree, startling John awake. He had nodded off in the saddle, lulled to sleep by the even gait of his mount. The army had left Jerusalem the day before. They had reached the coast and ridden south late into the night until Baldwin finally allowed the men a few hours of sleep. The march had resumed early, when the birds were still sleeping and the only sounds were the jangle of tack and the crash of the surf. Now it was getting light and the crows were waking. They were the inevitable companions of every army. They picked over the scraps of food the army left behind during its march. After the battle they would feast upon the bodies of the dead. John watched as one of the infantrymen scooped up a pebble and threw it at the crow in the dead tree, sending the bird flying off, cawing in protest.

John shivered as a chill wind blew off the sea. The long column marched along the coast under low, scudding clouds. At their head the Patriarch of Jerusalem and the knights of the Holy Sepulchre carried the True Cross: a small fragment of the original, embedded in a huge cross of gold. Just behind the cross rode John, Baldwin, Reynald and the other great lords, followed by nearly four hundred knights. Eight thousand sergeants brought up the rear. It was a sizeable force, but less than half as large as Yusuf’s army.

Baldwin slowed his mount to draw alongside John. The king wore mail under a white surcoat adorned with the Jerusalem cross: a single large cross of gold with four smaller crosses around it. Despite the weight of his armour, he rode straight-backed. His helmet had a long nosepiece and wide cheek pieces, which together hid most of the sores on his face. He looked nothing like the sickly man who had spent most of the past year huddled before the fire in his chamber.

‘That armour suits you better than priestly robes, John,’ he said.

John had set aside his alb, chasuble and stole for mail and a surcoat. Instead of the cross around his neck, he wore a sword at his side. It was normally forbidden for priests to shed blood, but under the circumstances no one had protested. The Kingdom needed every soldier it could find.

Baldwin spoke again in a lower voice. ‘I do not trust Reynald. Keep an eye on him for me. If he so much as takes a piss, I want to know the colour.’

‘He will not welcome my presence, sire.’

‘Tell him you are there on my orders. Say that I feel he needs a spiritual adviser, and that I have chosen you.’

‘Very well.’

John rode ahead to join Reynald. The regent had been talking with Odo Saint Amand, the bull-necked grand master of the Templars. The two fell silent at John’s approach.

‘What do you want, Saxon?’ Reynald demanded.

‘Baldwin has asked me to ride with you. I am to be your spiritual adviser.’

Reynald snorted. ‘Tell Baldwin he can-’

‘Good day, Reynald,’ Baldwin said as he joined them. The regent flushed red. ‘Tell me,’ the king continued, ‘will we reach Ascalon soon?’

‘This afternoon, sire. But if Saladin has arrived first, we are dead men. Perhaps it would be best to stop some distance off and send scouts ahead.’

‘We do not have time to be cautious. We will ride on and pray to God that we reach Ascalon first.’

‘I have no talent for prayer,’ Reynald muttered.

‘That is why I have instructed John to remain by your side every waking moment. He is a priest. He shall pray for you.’

They rode on as the afternoon sun burned off the clouds and the gulls began to circle overhead, filling the air with their harsh cries. Finally they saw Ascalon, at first only a smudge on the distant horizon. It was an ancient city, already great when the Romans conquered it. It was said to be the place where Delilah had cut off Samson’s hair. Now it was a fortress town, its thick walls protecting the frontier with Egypt. As the city grew closer John began to make out some details: walls dotted at regular intervals with square towers; tall buildings of white stone; a church fronted with twin, massive towers. He squinted. The cross still flew above the city gates.

Baldwin grinned. ‘God is with us! We have arrived in time!’

‘You may have spoken too soon, sire,’ John said. He pointed beyond the city to the horizon, where a tall cloud of dust was rising. ‘Saladin’s army.’

‘There is still time to retreat,’ Reynald said.

Baldwin shook his head. ‘We must reach the city first.’ He raised his voice. ‘Forward, men! As fast as your legs can carry you!’ He urged his mount to a trot. The knights followed, and the sergeants jogged to keep up.

All eyes were fixed on the ever-growing cloud of dust on the horizon. Ahead, the city was no more than half a mile off. John could clearly see the walls, which were thick and fronted with a broad moat on the land side. On the ocean side, waves crashed against their base. He looked back to the horizon. He could now make out figures, thousands of men on horseback, stretching inland across the plain for as far as he could see.

‘We will not make it, sire!’ Reynald said. ‘The sergeants are moving too slowly.’

‘We must buy them more time. Knights, follow me! We will hold them off. For the Kingdom!’

Baldwin urged his horse to a canter, and John followed. The rest of the knights thundered in their wake. Behind, the careful ranks of the army dissolved as the sergeants ran for the city gates. The knights continued south with Baldwin at their head, his sword held aloft. Ahead, the Saracens were surging towards them; a solid wave of warriors covering the plain. Baldwin spurred his horse to a gallop.

Reynald pulled alongside John. ‘He is mad!’ the regent shouted over the rumble of hooves.

John ignored him and spurred after the king. The Saracens were no more than two hundred yards off, close enough that John could make out the banners flying above them. He spotted the eagle of Saladin. Then the Saracen advance stopped. They began to form ranks in order to meet the Frankish charge. Baldwin reined in just outside bow range. John pulled up beside him. He glanced over his shoulder. The sergeants were pouring through the city’s northern gate.

‘The men are safe, sire.’

‘Let us not press our luck. Ride fast, men!’ Baldwin shouted. ‘We may yet escape with our lives!’ He wheeled his horse and spurred towards Ascalon.

John followed at a gallop. He heard a roar from the Saracen ranks behind and then the thunder of thousands of hooves. Leaning forward in the saddle he flicked the reins, urging his mount to greater speed. An arrow hissed past and shattered on the hard ground. ‘Faster!’ he shouted in his horse’s ear. Ahead, the southern gate of Ascalon had opened. Arrows were falling thick about them now. One struck Baldwin in the back, but the king seemed not to notice. And then they were clattering across the drawbridge and through the city gate. As the last of the knights entered behind them, the drawbridge went up, sealing the city off.

Baldwin ignored the cheers of the people crowding close to greet him. He dismounted and took the stairs to the top of the gate. John followed.

‘Are you injured, sire?’ he asked, gesturing to Baldwin’s back.

Baldwin craned his neck to see the arrow. ‘I did not even know I was hit. It did not penetrate my jerkin.’ He looked back out past the wall. Saracen riders were spreading out to surround the city. To the south, thousands more continued to pour over the horizon.

Baldwin looked to John and grinned. ‘They are too late! Ascalon is ours!’

‘Fifty-three towers,’ Qaraqush reported. He had just returned from an inspection of the city’s defences. ‘The wall is thirty feet high. On the far side it is protected by the sea. Ascalon will be a tough nut to crack.’

Yusuf said nothing. He was standing outside his tent with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the city. The walls were crowded with men whose helmets gleamed in the setting sun. The flag of Jerusalem flew from the top of each tower.

‘How long to take the city?’ Turan asked.

Qaraqush shrugged. ‘We will have to starve them out-three months, if then.’

‘We do not have three months!’ Turan paced in frustration. ‘Winter will be upon us soon, and the Frankish army will return from the north. Akh laa! If only we had arrived a day earlier. We would already have the town in hand.’

‘It does not matter,’ Yusuf said. ‘We do not need Ascalon.’

‘But we cannot leave an enemy in our rear,’ Qaraqush protested. ‘It is unheard of. They will attack us when we make camp.’

‘Not if they are locked away inside Ascalon. The Franks think they have entered a mighty citadel, but we shall transform it into a prison. Turan, you will stay here with ten thousand men, more than enough to keep the Franks trapped. Ubadah will go to Gaza with a thousand men, to ensure that their garrison cannot escape. I will ride for Jerusalem.’

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 shitan 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!’

‘I’ll see you in hell, Saxon,’ Reynald muttered. He spurred his horse straight towards the onrushing Saracens.

‘’Sblood!’ John cursed and galloped after him. Ahead, Reynald had disappeared into the crowd of Saracens. John charged after him, swinging his sword in wide arcs. He felt blows raining down on him from all sides, swords and spears glancing off his mail. There were no other knights in sight. The Franks had been swept up in the flood of mamluks, and each knight was now an island facing dozens of circling men.

John glimpsed Reynald through the crowd of mamluks and forced his horse alongside the regent’s. His surcoat was soaked in blood, though John could not tell if it was his or a Saracen’s. ‘To me!’ Reynald cried. ‘Men of Jerusalem, to me!’

A knight joined them, then another and another. Soon they had more than two-dozen men alongside. John and Reynald found themselves at the centre of the Christians and momentarily free from the fight. Reynald took a horn from his saddle.

‘What are you doing?’ John demanded.

‘We have lost.’ Reynald raised the horn to signal the retreat, but lowered it as there was a roar behind them. John looked to see the sergeants, with Baldwin at their head, slam into the Saracen line. The king drove into the Saracen ranks, hacking furiously at the enemy. Foot-soldiers came after him, spearing the Saracens off their horses. Reynald hesitated for a moment and then brought the horn back to his lips.

John knocked it from his hands. ‘The King has charged. We must ride to join him.’

Reynald looked from John to Baldwin and then raised his voice. ‘Retreat! Retreat, men! Re-’

John smashed the pommel of his sword into Reynald’s face, knocking the regent from his horse. He waved his sword overhead. ‘For Jerusalem! For Baldwin! Follow me!’

Yusuf watched as the victory that had seemed certain only moments before turned into defeat. His line of mamluks gave ground as the Frankish sergeants led by Baldwin cut into them. The Frankish knights had regrouped and were driving through Yusuf’s men and towards the king. They joined up around him and pressed forward. Yusuf’s men began to leave the field in ever greater numbers.

Yusuf looked to Saqr. ‘Sound the retreat.’

‘Are you certain, Malik?’

‘Do it!’

Saqr raised a curved ram’s horn and blew three times. Before the last of the piercing notes had faded men began to pull back, the line dissolving as mamluks rode for their lives. The Franks rushed after them. The knights led by Baldwin drove straight towards Yusuf.

‘Come, men!’ Yusuf shouted to the members of his khaskiya. ‘Let us save ourselves.’

He turned and galloped away from the Christians. Ahead, at the edge of the ravine, hundreds of riderless horses were milling about. Yusuf’s men had abandoned them in order to scramble down the steep side. Yusuf reached the edge and leaned back in the saddle as he urged his horse into the ravine, zigzagging down the slope. He reached the bottom and urged his mount into the water. The animal struggled against the swift current. ‘Yalla! Yalla!’ Yusuf shouted in encouragement. But the horse stumbled on a hidden rock and fell.

Yusuf managed to free his feet from the stirrups just before he disappeared under the muddy water. He hit the riverbed and was tumbled head over heels by the swift current. Finally he managed to gain a footing and stand, breaking the surface. The water came up to his chest, but he was able to hold his ground by leaning into the current. He spotted his khaskiya some fifty yards upstream. He would never reach them while in the water. He began to make his way to the far side of the ravine. He lost his footing for a moment and drifted downstream. A mamluk on horseback was just ahead of him, and the current slammed Yusuf into the side of the horse. The rider grasped Yusuf’s arm and held him there for a moment, but then Yusuf was forced under. He passed between the horse’s legs and broke the surface again. He continued to struggle across and finally reached the far side of the ravine. He scrambled up the slope and collapsed, gasping for breath. He was covered in dark-brown mud and his head was ringing. His helmet was lost in the water. After a moment he forced himself to stand.

His army was no more. On the far side of the ravine the field was littered with dead and the Franks were cutting down any who remained. On Yusuf’s side, scattered groups of men scurried from the field, heading for the hills to the south. A group of Frankish knights had crossed the ravine and begun to ride down the Saracens. Small skirmishes broke out here and there as groups of mamluks banded together to make a stand. Their bravery was foolish. The Frankish sergeants were starting to cross the ravine. Once they reached the far side, any mamluks remaining would be slaughtered.

Yusuf started south, towards the hills. He tried to run, but his right leg buckled. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he reached down and felt his knee. It was swollen and throbbing. He must have twisted it in the ravine. He looked up at the sound of approaching hoofbeats. A knight was riding towards him, sword in hand.

A sudden wave of fury swept over Yusuf. He had wanted peace. The Franks had forced him to fight, and, somehow, he had lost. But he would not lose his life on this Godforsaken field, and this Frank, at least, would pay for the humiliation he had suffered. Yusuf drew his sword. ‘For Islam!’ he shouted and limped towards the knight. The Frank spurred to a gallop and brought his sword slicing down. Yusuf managed to parry, but the weight of the blow knocked him to his knees. As he rose the knight wheeled his horse and came charging back. Yusuf parried another blow. But this time his sword went flying from his hands and he was knocked flat on his back. He rose to see that the knight had already turned. Yusuf looked about desperately. On the ground beside him was a dead mamluk, still gripping a bamboo spear. Yusuf prised the spear from his dead fingers and rose to see the knight bearing down. He stood directly in the horse’s path and braced himself. At the last moment he plunged the spear into the charger’s chest and dived to the side. The horse fell, throwing its rider. The Frank lay still for a moment before pushing himself to his feet and stumbling towards his sword.

Yusuf retrieved his own blade and turned to see the Frank staggering towards him. He wore a helmet that hid his face, but Yusuf could see enough of his sparse beard to know his opponent was a young man. The Frank attacked with a roar, hacking down at Yusuf’s head. Yusuf turned the sword aside with his own blade and swung backhanded. The Frank surprised him by charging, slamming his shoulder into Yusuf’s chest before his blow could land. Yusuf stumbled backwards. He raised his sword just in time to parry a thrust that would have skewered him. The knight pressed the attack, and Yusuf gave ground. His knee ached, making him slow and clumsy. He stumbled, and the knight lunged to finish him. Yusuf just managed to sidestep the blow. He swung his sword up in a wide arc and hit his foe in the side of the helmet. There was a loud ring, and the knight fell to the ground, unmoving.

Yusuf raised his sword to finish him. Then he heard a familiar voice. ‘Yusuf, wait!’

‘Wait!’ John called again. He dismounted and took a step towards Yusuf. John removed his helmet and Yusuf’s eyes widened.

‘John? What-?’

‘Serving my king.’ John gestured to the prone figure that lay between them.

‘This is Baldwin?’

John nodded. Yusuf met his eyes. ‘This war could be over now. Let me kill him.’

‘I cannot.’

Yusuf hesitated for a moment and then raised his sword.

‘Yusuf!’ John took two steps forward. Yusuf paused, his sword held high. ‘Leave him be!’

Yusuf hesitated a moment longer and then swung down. John was already in motion. His blade met Yusuf’s steel only a handspan above the king’s prone figure. The two friends locked gazes.

‘You choose him over me?’ Yusuf demanded.

‘I choose to do my duty.’

Yusuf’s lips pressed into a thin line. ‘I am your friend, John. Your brother in all but blood.’

‘He is my king.’

‘If Baldwin dies, the Kingdom will be in chaos. I can take Jerusalem. I can bring peace, to your people and mine.’

John shook his head. ‘I cannot let you kill him.’

John saw the knuckles of Yusuf’s hand whiten as he gripped his sword tighter. Then he swung for John’s head. John blocked the blow. Yusuf drove him back a few feet, slicing at his chest again and again. But Yusuf’s injured leg made his steps slow, and John turned each blow aside with ease. Finally he stepped back and lowered his sword. ‘I will not fight you, Yusuf.’

Yusuf’s only response was to attack with renewed vigour. He slashed at John’s side, and when John blocked the blow, he spun and swung for his head. John ducked, and for a moment Yusuf was completely exposed. John could have killed him, but he again stepped away.

‘Fight me!’

‘Never, Brother.’

‘I am not your brother. You have betrayed me to fight with the Franks.’

‘I did not betray you. I was captured by the Franks because I saved your life.’

‘You could have come back to us, but you chose not to. You betrayed me, just like you betrayed my sister. You used her and left her.’

John’s grip tightened on his sword. He felt the blood begin to pound in his temples. ‘I loved her,’ he said quietly. ‘I would have stayed with her.’

‘You made her into a whore!’

A roar boiled up from deep within John. He charged, hacking down at Yusuf’s head. Yusuf sidestepped and swung for John’s side, but John was already spinning away, just out of reach of Yusuf’s sword. He attacked again, thrusting for Yusuf’s chest. Yusuf parried, and John swung backhanded for Yusuf’s throat. Yusuf ducked and lunged. John just managed to twist out of the way of the blow, but Yusuf’s blade still glanced off his side. The sudden pain in his ribs only made him angrier. He roared again and, gripping his sword with two hands, brought it slicing towards Yusuf’s unprotected side. Yusuf recovered from his lunge just in time to block the blow. Their swords met and locked together, bringing them close. Yusuf head-butted John, snapping his head back. John responded by kicking Yusuf hard in his injured leg. With a cry Yusuf fell to his knees. John slammed the flat of his blade down on his wrist, and Yusuf dropped his sword.

John kicked the weapon away. He was breathing hard and his pulse was still pounding in his temples. Yusuf looked up at him and closed his eyes. He was prepared to die. John raised his sword, but froze. A memory had risen unbidden in his mind: Yusuf standing over him while John knelt, waiting for his friend to kill him. Yusuf had spared him then.

John lowered his sword. ‘Go.’

Yusuf opened his eyes. They shone with tears. ‘Kill me,’ he pleaded. ‘Do you not see? I have lost everything. I have been humiliated. Kill me.’

John tossed his sword aside and then gripped Yusuf under his arms and pulled him to his feet. ‘It is only one battle, friend. Live to fight another.’ He shoved Yusuf away, towards the hills to the south. ‘Go!’

Yusuf hesitated for a moment and then limped away. John watched until he was sure his friend would reach the hills safely before turning and kneeling beside the king. Baldwin’s face was masked in blood. John carefully removed his dented helmet. There was an angry wound above the right temple, but it did not look fatal.

Baldwin’s eyes fluttered open. ‘John?’

‘I am here, sire.’

‘What happened?’

‘You have won the day. The enemy is fled.’

Baldwin reached up and touched the wound on his head. He winced. ‘How did I come to be here?’

‘You were knocked unconscious.’

Baldwin blinked, then nodded, remembering. ‘I thought he would kill me-You saved my life, John.’

‘I did my duty, sire.’

‘I will not forget it. I owe my life, and this victory, to you.’