Templar's Acre

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

Edgar and Ivo were at the ruins of the English Tower when they saw King Henry’s taken. Suddenly the enemy were everywhere on the walls, and Ivo took a bow from a man nearby and began to loose his own arrows, taking careful aim and wasting not a shot. More bowmen from the inner walls were plying their trade, too, and the Muslims who reached the walls paid for it.

Alas! It was not only that section of wall that was in danger. When Ivo felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to look the other way, he saw that an all-out assault was being launched on the gate. Where the Tower of the Countess de Blois had stood, now the Muslims were clambering up the rubble and beginning to attack the gatehouse itself. More and more men were scaling the walls, helped by their towers and more ladders, and the defenders were hard-pressed.

So this, Ivo thought, was how Tripoli fell at last.

‘We should leave,’ Edgar said calmly.

Ivo shot him a look. ‘Get a move on!’ he bellowed, wondering whether this Edgar could ever show alarm. He always seemed so collected.

They reached the inner walls just in time to escape being trapped by a second party of Muslims who had managed to come around behind them. That was when Edgar and Ivo realised that Baldwin and his men were still in the tower.

Baldwin and Hob went together to the roof. There had been a catapult here, and its ravaged timbers lay broken beneath the rock that had demolished it. Peering over the wall, they saw a group of eight Muslims with a heavy timber, running along the walkway and ramming it into the door. They could feel the collision through their feet.

‘Help me,’ Baldwin snarled, turning to the catapult. In amongst its remains were the pieces of masonry which it had used as missiles. Now, the two began to roll one of the heavy lumps of stone towards the edge of the tower. With a heave, they managed to lift it to the battlement, and rested it there. The Muslims had retreated, and now they came on again, pelting over the walkway and onto the timbers of the entranceway to the tower. As they did so, Baldwin and Hob thrust at their rock. It fell, and Baldwin heard the screams and cries as it struck the men below, but then there was a terrible cracking sound, and when they peered over, they saw that the rock had crashed through the timbers of the drawbridge to the tower. There was little chance now that the enemy would break into their tower.

Baldwin flinched as an arrow pinged off the stone near his head, and stared down into the gap between the two lines of wall. ‘Hob, we have to retreat. They’re in behind us.’

Hob scratched his ear. ‘I think we’re too late.’

‘Perhaps so,’ Baldwin agreed. He cast an eye about him. Thousands of their enemy stood bunched up before them on the plains, and there was a thin sprinkling behind them. He looked up at the inner walls, and saw Sir Otto high on his tower, but then there was a bellow from the Tower of the Legate, and he saw a party of Christians making a sortie from the Tower’s gates.

‘Quickly!’ he shouted, running down the ladder to the main chamber in the tower. ‘We can make it to the inner line.’

Hob scowled. ‘If we do, we lose all the outer walls. Shouldn’t we remain here and contest every section?’

‘If we do, we’ll die. We can’t hold them off. All they need do is keep battering us with their catapults, and we’ll be buried in the towers. Better that we go now, and can join in the last fights.’

‘Aye. Very well, Vintenary.’

There was shouting outside now. Baldwin went to the door that led out towards the Legate’s Tower. Sliding open the bar, and drawing the bolts, he peered out cautiously. There were only Christians here. He pushed the door wide and bellowed at the men to evacuate the tower. There were steps further along, and he pushed and cajoled his men along the wall towards them. As he went, a ladder appeared at the parapet, and he thrust with his sword at the man who appeared. It was satisfying to hear his howl of pain as he slid down again.

The stairs were clear, and they ran down them, heedless of the risks of falling. At the bottom, Baldwin took a quick look about him. There were small groups of Muslims fighting with members of the city’s guard further along, and he ran at them, Hob in his wake. The sight of so many reinforcements was enough to persuade the first group to flee, and the Christians joined Baldwin and his men, rushing to support the next group, but in a moment it was clear that they would be stranded if they remained. Baldwin heard a shout from the wall above, and saw Edgar high overhead.

‘I think you’ll find a postern-gate down here,’ Edgar called, jabbing a finger down below him. ‘It would be sensible to use it.’

Baldwin took a quick look behind him at the growing number of Muslims, and bawled to Hob and the others to follow him. They pulled back, arrows from the walls covering their retreat, and when the last of them slipped in, Baldwin himself followed. He shoved the three bolts across, then dragged the bar across and stepped out of the way as men ran up with timbers and propped them against it. No one would get through there in a hurry, hopefully.

‘Master Baldwin, I think your men would be appreciated at the gatehouse,’ Edgar said.

Ivo was already inside the second line of walls when the assault began in earnest.

Until now, the enemy had concentrated their efforts on winning the towers and the remains of the wall at the outer ring, but now they brought up a ram and more men to attempt the gates. Two tall storming towers were rolled laboriously over the rough ground, their high platforms full of archers, who rained a storm of arrows on the poor fellows who stood at the gatehouse itself. More arrows plunged into the enemy towers themselves from two sides, and for a time it seemed as though the men on them must all die, but such hopes were short-lived. The attackers reached the gate, the drawbridge fell, and once inside, the enemy rushed, shrieking their unholy war cries, into the groups of defenders.

Ivo saw the black-clad hordes overwhelm the men, and the spirited defence was gradually silenced. The Muslims had the outer gates, and their men opened them to the army outside. Soon, like a plague of locusts, the warriors gained the space between the walls.

Ivo stared down at the men in the gap, but then he saw that more men were approaching the gate, and these had a ram with them. They ran it at the gates, heedless of the arrows and rocks that rained upon them, berserk in their desire to be first to break into the city. He wanted to go and join the men on the gatehouse, but he could see that already there was little enough space for the men who were there.

As he watched, the cat was brought into the space between the inner and outer defences, and drawn over the heads of those at the ram. Arrows served no purpose now, but the heavier rocks did smash their way through the thick wooden roofing beneath the skins. A few tried fire arrows, hoping that the skins would have dried out by now, but they made little impression. The thunderous clamour of the men yelling inside the cat rose like the screeching and yabbering of demons, and the noise was enough to make Ivo’s heart quail. He glanced about him at the remains of his command, and saw too many men with faces drawn and petrified. It was enough to unman the noblest and bravest.

A shout, and a cracking — and he realised that the gates were beginning to break already. Madness! They should have lasted much longer!

If he was to die, Ivo decided, he would die with a sword in his hands, bellowing his defiance at his enemies. He would not go meekly into death. His poor Rachel deserved better. He had a sudden memory of her smiling at him, their son beside her, and the vision was like a dagger in his heart.

‘To me! To me, my vintaine!’ he roared, and ran for the ladder. He and his men would guard that gate until none was left standing. He ran along the road, until he was outside the gateway, and here he found many of the city folk, all prepared with their lances under their arms and butted against the paving, staring at the gate as it moved and creaked under the onslaught.

‘Here! To me!’ he shouted again, and found that Edgar and Baldwin were already with him. ‘How did you get here?’ he demanded, but before they could answer, there was a crash from the gates, and the ram pierced the timbers.

Ivo leaped forward as the ram was withdrawn, but it was clear that the men could not hold the gates. Their enemy was too powerful. Looking about him, he saw the last remains of the timbers Baldwin had stored there all those weeks before. ‘Baldwin, Edgar! Fetch those timbers, get logs, carts, anything, to barricade this area. They’ll break the gates now, so we need a new line of defence!’ he roared.

As the ram was withdrawn, bolts and arrows flew in. Archers fired back. The screams of the injured rose to Heaven, but there was no diminution in the attack, and then the first men began to hack at the hole in the gates, axes flashing wildly.

Ivo stared, appalled, but could do nothing to stop them. He felt pathetic, old and useless. And then he heard a joyous sound that would remain with him for the rest of his days. The brilliant, clear calls of military command, and when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the gallant figure of Marshal Matthew de Clermont from the Hospital, and the Grand Master of the Temple, Guillaume de Beaujeu.

Guillaume saw Ivo and smiled broadly. ‘All those horses you bought, and never time to use ’em, eh?’ he called, and then there was another order, and the knights with him and the Marshal drew into ranks. They marched before the citizens, and planted their own lances firmly, while Guillaume de Beaujeu stood with the Marshal, Hospitallers and Templars together.

At the sound of a crack from the gate, de Beaujeu snapped a command. Two Templar sergeants ran forward with spears, and shoved them through the gap. A shriek came from the other side, and the two bellowed back. Instantly, as they stood aside, two archers fired into the gap again, but as soon as they did so, a flurry of arrows flew through, and one of the archers was struck and fell.

The Marshal of the Hospital muttered under his breath. Ivo heard another creaking, groaning complaint from the timbers.

‘More supports!’ he called, and to his relief, he saw that the makeshift barricades were rising steadily behind him, as more lumber was brought to shore up the gates. Men were hurrying all over, ignoring the dangers of arrows from the other side of the gates, but then there came screams and cries from over the gates as the guards were attacked by more Muslims.

Ivo saw the Marshal and two sergeants running up the stairs, and soon afterwards the bodies of three Muslims were hurled from the top, and men set about them, ensuring that they were dead. Meanwhile the shouting and screams continued, and Ivo went to the roof as well, bringing the remnants of his vintaine with him. There he found a scene of horror.

Christians lay slumped, some with arrows in them, while spread over the flooring there were more bodies. Limbs hacked from them lay all about. As he reached the top of the steps, he saw another Muslim being dropped unceremoniously over the battlements by two weary-looking men.

The ladders which had conveyed the men to the top were mostly thrown down, but one remained, and Ivo saw this being thrown over by a Templar sergeant. As the man turned, he recognised Roger Flor.

‘Didn’t expect to see me up here, eh?’ Roger Flor said breathlessly.

‘To be truthful, no,’ Ivo said, but as he spoke, there came a sonorous thudding as the Muslims beat their drums for another assault.

‘We all have to do our part,’ Roger said. He looked tired and tense, but so did everyone else.

Ivo peered down at the men below. He had a good view of the front gatehouse, as well as the plains beyond, and was surprised to see that the attacking forces were standing back. There could be only one reason for that, and he bawled out a warning as he saw the catapults beginning to move and sway, their deadly missiles despatched.

Moments later, the mournful whirring he recognised so well came over the breeze, and with the others he ducked as rocks slammed into the gatehouse in front of them. The parapets were broken down, and a couple of shards of stone were flung at Ivo himself, one slashing a long cut in the tunic over his back, but fortunately not reaching his flesh. Then there was a second massive blow that seemed to hit his heart, and a great rock hammered into the gatehouse’s wall, sending a shock through the whole structure. All was noise: the enormous jolting crashes as rocks impacted, the screams of the injured and dying, the whine and tinkle of arrows that hit the walls and bounced aside. . it was Hell itself, here on Earth.

When the outer walls began to shiver, all knew that the gate could not last long. The floor was already bucking from the constant assault, and as the walls began to move, there was an urgent rush to the stairs. Ivo was there, and Roger Flor, as the turret on the north side collapsed in a rumble of tortured stone.

Ivo was well away, but he saw someone nearer the walls suddenly jerk, and pitch forward. With a horrible premonition, he ran to the man and rolled him over. It was Pietro, and the old man stared up at him. ‘Eh? Am I dead?’

‘You old fool!’ Ivo hissed, and began to drag him away. ‘What are you doing here? You’re too old, in Christ’s name! They come and find you here, they’ll think we’ve run out of men, and have to throw all the old cretins at them. Come on!’

‘Leave me, Master. Leave me!’

‘Oh, shut up. You think it’s easy to find a cantankerous old git like you? Who’ll I argue with if you’re not there?’ Ivo demanded. At the line of barricades, he saw two youths. ‘You! Please, protect this old fellow. He has been hurt.’

Even as the lads took hold of Pietro, a fresh roar of battle cries came from outside the walls.

‘They come!’ the Grand Master bellowed. ‘Knights, to the front; sergeants, prepare! The Sultan’s minions think to take our city and us! I say, “Never!” They will not take this gate nor this city while there remains a whole Christian man here! What say you? Will you give her up?’

There was a ragged denial, and the Grand Master looked about the people with satisfaction. But then there were four massive blows to the gatehouse, and two more rocks missed and went humming past, one pelting into the barricade and leaving a bloody smudge where a man had been standing a moment before.

Ivo grasped his sword more tightly. This was what he had come to this land for all those years before. To fight, and to kill the enemies of his Prince. The enemies of his faith. Perhaps he would die here today. Well, if he were to do so, he thought, pulling his little wooden cross from his chemise and kissing it fervently, he would be glad to die and see Rachel and Peter once more.