Holy War (19 page)

Reynald sneered. ‘Ah, yes. That was it.’ He leaned close and whispered in John’s ear. ‘If she had not mentioned you, I might have spared her. I raped the bitch before I gutted her.’

John slammed his shoulder into Reynald’s chest and drove him backwards into the table. Plates and goblets clattered to the floor as the two men grappled. John’s hands closed on Reynald’s throat. Reynald head-butted him, and John stumbled back.

‘Enough!’ Guy shouted. ‘Guards!’

John ignored him. He raised his fists and surged towards Reynald, but before he reached him, he was grabbed from behind. Two guards dragged him back across the room; a third man held a knife to his throat. John ceased struggling.

Reynald pointed a thick finger at him. ‘You see! He is a demon. He should be hanged as a traitor.’

‘Sit down, Reynald!’ Guy commanded. He stepped around the table to face Raymond and John. ‘I am glad you have come, both of you. We can use every man we can find. But I will not have you if you are not willing to serve. I must have your oaths.’

Raymond and John knelt and clasped their hands before them as if in prayer. They spoke in unison. ‘I promise on my faith that I will be loyal to you, King Guy, loving all that you love, shunning that which you shun, according to the laws of God and the order of the world. My men, my sword, and the arm that wields it are yours.’

‘I accept your fealty.’ Guy returned to his place at the table. ‘You must be hungry after your travels. Sit.’

A place was made for John and Raymond at one end of the table, beside bald Reginald of Sidon. Servants entered to clear away the mess and to bring more food and wine. The roast lamb was tough and the wine sour, but they were welcome all the same.

‘Raymond!’ Guy called from down the table. ‘Before your arrival, we were discussing marching on Tiberias. You know these lands better than any of us. What do you say?’

‘I council against it, Your Grace.’

‘You would leave Tiberias to the enemy?’ Gerard demanded. ‘He condemns himself with his own words, Your Grace.’

‘Enough, Gerard!’ Guy snapped. ‘I will hear him out.’

‘For twenty years and more,’ Raymond began, ‘I have fought the armies of Islam, but I have never seen a force equal to the one that Saladin has brought against us. He has more than twelve thousand mamluks, with an equal number of Bedouin and Turkmen. We have had to empty all our garrisons to gather a force that can match him. If we are defeated, there will be no one left to defend the Kingdom.’

John nodded. ‘It is not just the size of the enemy army that should give us pause. Raymond and I have just ridden from Tiberias. Saladin controls the southern road, along the valley. We will be forced to take the north road – fifteen miles across arid land with only a few wells. If we stay here, Saladin’s army will have to cover that ground. They will be tired; their mounts will be thirsty and weak. If we march, it will be we who suffer. We must stay at La Sephorie. Saladin will withdraw again, as he did the last time he invaded.’

‘I remember the last time.’ Reynald turned to Guy. ‘You did not fight, Your Grace, and it cost you the regency. Baldwin had you exiled to Ascalon. Raymond opposed your crowning. Now, he seeks to make a fool of you, to undermine your reign and cheat you of your chance at glory.’

‘He made a treaty with the infidel,’ Gerard added. ‘He let the Saracens into his lands. He is responsible for Cresson!’

‘And I have come to wipe the stain of that day from my honour,’ Raymond said stiffly. He leaned over the table so he could meet Guy’s eyes. ‘I want victory as much as the next man, Your Grace. But how much are you willing to risk in order to achieve it? If we suffer defeat, the Kingdom will fall. Make no mistake, Your Grace.’

‘We will not lose!’ Reynald insisted. ‘Saladin’s host is vast, yes, but so is ours. We have never before gathered so many men
– twelve hundred knights, over eight thousand light cavalry and nearly ten thousand sergeants. We must not let them go to waste.’

Raymond opened his mouth to reply, but Guy held up a hand, silencing him. ‘I have heard enough.’ The king took a long drink of wine. ‘You have made your arguments. Now I would have your council. Who favours marching on Tiberias?’

‘We must attack, Your Grace,’ Gerard declared.

‘Aye,’ Reynald agreed.

Young Humphrey nodded his assent. ‘As my father-in-law
says.’

Guy waited a moment, but no one else spoke. ‘And those against?’

Raymond and John spoke first. Reginald joined his voice to theirs, and to John’s surprise, so did the constable, Amalric. William the Old spoke last. ‘I fought during the Second Crusade, Your Grace. I saw what lack of water can do to an army. I say we stay here. If Saladin wants a fight, then let him come to us.’

‘Five against three, Your Grace,’ Raymond said. ‘The choice is clear.’

Reynald shook his head. ‘You are a king, Guy. Your duty is to lead, not count votes. The decision lies with you.’

Guy licked his lips. ‘We will stay.’

John woke with a start. Someone outside his tent was shouting. ‘Get your lazy arses up!’ The man banged his sword against his shield. ‘Up, I say! We march at sunrise!’

John stepped outside. The day had only just dawned and the horizon to the east was turning a purplish red, like a bruise. He looked about. Last night, tents had stood for as far as he could see in every direction, their shapes silvery in the moonlight. Now the plain around La Sephorie was almost bare. Men were calling to one another as they stowed the remaining tents. Others pulled on their armour or sharpened their swords. At the heart of the camp, the cooking fires were roaring. John could smell baking bread. His stomach rumbled. He spotted Aestan striding towards him.

‘Morning, domne.’ The sergeant handed John a piece of steaming bread.

‘Why are we breaking camp?’

‘I’ll be damned if I know. I was sound asleep when that bastard started shouting outside my tent. I had half a mind to gut him, but he was in full mail.’

‘Whose arms did he wear?’

‘Reynald’s.’

John felt a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘Help me with my armour, Aestan.’

Dressed, John headed for the keep. He had reached the hill on which it stood when he saw Raymond coming down towards him. The lord of Tripoli’s face was grim. ‘By the devil’s hairy balls!’ he cursed. ‘Of all the boil-brained, senseless—’

‘My lord,’ John greeted him.

‘John. You had best start praying, friend.’

‘Tiberias?’

Raymond nodded. ‘I had it all from the king. Gerard and Reynald came to him late last night. They persuaded him to march. It seems they have spent the gold that King Henry of England sent ahead for when he comes on crusade. They used it to hire more men-at-arms. Gerard has convinced Guy that if they do not have something to show for the coin they spent, there will be hell to pay when Henry finally arrives. Guy might even lose his throne.’

‘He will lose it just as surely if Saladin defeats us.’

‘I know it, John, but he will not be swayed. By his nails! I cannot believe I knelt to that spineless bastard.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Maybe it is God’s will, as Gerard insists. Perhaps we shall be victorious again, as at Montgisard.’

‘Perhaps.’ John looked up to where ravens were circling overhead. ‘Perhaps we will all be food for crows before the day is done.’

‘The Horns of Hattin,’ Raymond declared. In the distance, two round hills with a saddle between them rose to dominate the surrounding plain. Their steep sides were covered with scrubby brush. ‘On the far side the land slopes down to the lake, three miles distant.’

John nodded. His mouth was too dry and sticky to speak. The army had marched all day while the summer sun beat down and transformed the arid plain around them into a sea of mirages. The Saracens had harassed them continuously, swarming about the two-mile-long column and filling the sky with arrows. Few lives were lost, but the march had slowed to a crawl as the foot-soldiers drew together and shuffled along with their shields overlapped. The villages they had passed had all been burned to the ground. When the men went to water their horses, they found that the corpses of dogs had been thrown in the wells. John had finished the last of his water before they were halfway to Tiberias. By mid afternoon, his horse was lathered in sweat and he had a blinding headache. Some of the men had become so desperate for water that they removed the dead animals from the third well they reached and drank. Within a mile they were sick, dropping to their knees on the side of the road to retch.

The day finally began to cool as the sun sank towards the horizon, casting long shadows ahead. They had nearly reached the Horns when William of Montferrat came galloping up the column to join them where they rode in the vanguard. ‘Guy has called for a halt,’ the old crusader said.

‘Why?’ Raymond demanded.

‘He did not see fit to share his reasoning with me.’

‘We cannot stop,’ John said. ‘We must reach the lake.’

‘I will speak with him,’ Raymond said.

‘I will come with you.’

They cantered down the column to where the king’s banner flew. They found Guy nervously licking his lips while Reynald and Reginald of Sidon shouted at one another.

‘Are you blind as well as stupid?’ Reginald roared. He pointed to the horizon. ‘The lake is there! We cannot stop now.’ He fell silent as John and Raymond approached.

‘Why have we stopped, Your Grace?’ Raymond asked.

It was Reynald who replied. ‘We will not reach the lake before sunset. It is best to make camp before dark falls.’

‘No. Reginald is right. We must push on.’

Reynald sneered. ‘Afraid of a night under the stars, Raymond?’

John answered for him. ‘The men and the horses are thirsty.
If we wait until tomorrow, they will be in no condition to fight.’

‘That’s what I tried to tell him,’ Reginald grumbled.

‘You would have us stumble on in the dark?’ Reynald asked. ‘We will march straight into a Saracen ambush.’

John shook his head. There was no use trying to speak reason to this fool. He turned to the king instead. ‘Your Grace?’

Guy licked his lips. ‘We will halt.’

‘But my lord—’ Reginald began.

‘I have made my decision.’ Guy raised his voice. ‘Make camp! Where are my squires?’ He walked his horse away from the column. Reynald followed.

Reginald spat dust from his mouth. ‘This is madness.’

‘We have no choice.’ Raymond grimaced. ‘Guy is our king. We are sworn to follow him.’

‘Straight to hell,’ John muttered.

C
hapter 10

July 1187: The Horns of Hattin

The night was dark; the moon only a thin sliver in the sky. The camp was silent save for a faint rustle as a wind from the east blew over the tents of the mamluks, Bedouin and Turkmen. But Yusuf could not sleep. He never could on the eve of battle. He stood outside his tent, which had been erected on a ridge overlooking the plain where the Franks had camped. Yusuf could see their white tents, lit a hellish red by the brush fires blazing around them. The smoke would rob the Franks of sleep, leaving them awake to be tormented by their thirst. The fires had been Ubadah’s idea. Yusuf’s nephew had grown into a valuable commander. Tomorrow, he would command the army’s right wing.

From near by, Yusuf heard the slow rasp of a whetstone on steel. He motioned for Saqr to stay behind and walked amongst the luxurious tents of his emirs until he found the source of the sound. Al-Afdal was seated outside his tent with a sword in hand. Yusuf stopped in the shadows of a nearby tent and studied his son. Al-Afdal had narrow shoulders like his father, but his hands were strong and his forearms well muscled. He had his mother’s sharp cheekbones, covered now with a thin adolescent beard. His son was nearly sixteen. When had he become a man? Yusuf frowned. He had seen little enough of his father as a child, and he had resented Ayub’s distance. But he had been no better with his sons. No, he had been worse. There had been no time. He had a kingdom to rule.

Perhaps it was not too late. Yusuf stepped from the shadows. ‘Trouble sleeping?’

Al-Afdal looked up, startled. He set the sword aside. ‘Father. I – I wished to be certain my blade was sharp.’

The dry grass crunched beneath Yusuf as he sat. ‘You did well at Cresson, my son. I am proud of you.’

‘I killed five men.’ It was not a boast. Al-Afdal’s voice was soft and his eyes were fixed on the moon above. ‘The last was a foot-soldier, one of their sergeants. I struck him from behind as he fled. He fell, and I dismounted to finish him. He rolled on to his back . . .’ Al-Afdal trailed off. He took a deep breath. ‘He was no older than me. When I raised my sword, he begged me to spare him. “Please! Please!” Those were his last words.’

Yusuf wanted to put his arm around his son’s shoulders, to whisper words of comfort to him, but he could not. His son was a man now. Instead, Yusuf took up his son’s sword and whetstone. He tested the blade’s edge with his thumb, and began to sharpen it with long, practised strokes. ‘I killed my first man when I was ten.’

Al-Afdal looked up, curious.

‘It was at Damascus. A great host of Franks had come from overseas to lay siege to the city, but we drove them off . My father rode out with the other warriors to harry the Franks as they withdrew. He was unhorsed and my brother Turan and I rode out, thinking to save him.’