Holy War (22 page)

Yusuf addressed them in French. ‘Where is your king?’

At the centre of the knights, a man rose wearily to his feet. He was broad-shouldered and tall, with long blond hair and a turned-up nose that gave him a piggish appearance. His face was smeared with blood that had dried almost black. ‘I am Guy, King of Jerusalem.’

‘Come here.’

After a moment’s hesitation, Guy started towards Yusuf. His men moved aside to let him pass.

‘Your men are dead or captured, your army destroyed,’ Yusuf told him. ‘Do you yield?’

Guy’s voice was hollow. ‘I yield. I am your prisoner.’

‘Where is the Wolf, the one you call Reynald?’

‘The last I saw, he was charging your lines. He meant to kill you.’

Yusuf turned to Saqr and spoke in Arabic. ‘Find him, dead or alive, and bring him to me. Have the King taken to a tent, one befitting his status, and kept under guard. The noble lords will be kept together until they can be sent to Damascus to await their ransom. The other knights, sergeants and camp followers will be sold.’

‘What of the Crossed, Father?’ Many of the survivors wore the hated red or black crosses of the Templars and Hospitallers. They were the most implacable of Yusuf’s foes, fanatics who fought without regard for their lives.

‘Their kind do not take prisoners, nor shall we. Execute them.’

Yusuf turned and started back down the slope. He had not got far when a rider galloped up. ‘We have found the Wolf, Malik!’ the mamluk cried as he slid from the saddle.

‘He lives?’

The mamluk nodded. ‘He was captured along with one of their priests.’

The sword blade flashed, lit gold by the light of the setting sun, and descended in a blur to connect with the Templar’s bare shoulder with a sickening
thwack.
The Templar fell forward on his hands and knees, screaming in agony as his blood gushed forth, turning the dusty ground to mud. Yusuf grimaced and looked away.

So many had clamoured for the honour of killing one of the hated Templars or Hospitallers that Yusuf had had them draw lots. This executioner was one of the imams who travelled with the army and he handled his heavy sword clumsily. He swung again, striking the templar in the back and knocking him flat. It took him two more blows to kill the man, and three more after that to sever his head. It was impaled on a spear, joining the others that framed the entrance to Yusuf’s tent.

‘Fifty-three,’ Imad ad-Din murmured as he recorded the number on a piece of parchment. ‘Thank Allah that is done with.’ The scribe’s cheeks had taken on a greenish tinge.

‘It was necessary,’ Yusuf told him. ‘We shall carry the heads before us in battle as a warning to the enemies of Islam.’ He rose and turned to his emirs. ‘Ubadah, bring King Guy to my tent. Saqr, fetch Reynald.’

Yusuf went inside and poured a cup of water. The executions had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He rinsed and spat, but the foul taste remained. Perhaps it was due to the smell of corruption already coming from the thousands of corpses lying in the hot sun. His men were busy digging graves for their fallen comrades, but Yusuf had decreed that the bodies of the Christians be left. He took another drink and sat.

Guy entered a moment later, escorted by Ubadah and two guards. The king’s eyes were wide after passing between the rows of impaled heads, and his legs were shaking.

‘You are tired,’ Yusuf told him. ‘Please, sit.’ He gestured to a camp-stool and then raised his voice. ‘Bring food and cool water for the King.’

As Guy slumped on to the stool, two servants entered with a platter of fresh bread and goat’s cheese and a glass of water chilled with ice from Yusuf’s private stores. Beads of water had formed on the outside of the cup. The king took a long drink and sighed. The servant refilled the cup and he drained it again. ‘You have my thanks, Saladin.’

The king was taking another drink when Saqr led Reynald inside. The Wolf of Kerak was clutching his right hand, which was bandaged with a bloody cloth. He glared at Yusuf and sat without being asked. Guy handed him the cup. He drank greedily. Reynald wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘What do you mean to do with us?’ he demanded.

Yusuf met his eyes. ‘To kill you, Reynald.’

Reynald held up the cup and smirked. ‘Do your own laws mean nothing to you? You have given me drink. That makes me a guest in your tent.’

‘Your king gave you drink, not I.’ Yusuf stood and drew his sword.

Reynald paled. ‘You cannot do this.’

‘Guards!

Saqr and another mamluk grabbed Reynald by the arms and lifted him from the stool. ‘Do not be a fool!’ he cried. ‘I am the lord of Oultrejourdain. My ransom will be worth a fortune!’

‘No amount of gold would be as precious to me as your death. You have made vows and broken them. You have slaughtered innocents and sought to profane the holy places. You have sworn peace only to attack the moment our backs are turned.’

Reynald straightened. ‘I am a ruler. I did what I must.’

Yusuf stepped closer, so that his face was only inches from Reynald’s. ‘You killed my sister,’ he hissed. He stepped back and nodded to the guards, who forced Reynald to his knees. Saqr placed a leather strap around Reynald’s neck and pulled his head down on to one of the stools. Yusuf raised his sword.

‘You cock-sucking pig!’ Reynald snarled. ‘Shit-faced—’

Yusuf brought his sword down. The first blow killed Reynald and spattered Guy with blood. The second severed Reynald’s head. It landed on the floor and rolled to the feet of Guy.

The king blanched. He slid off the stool and went to his knees, his hands clasped before him. ‘Please, great king, spare me! It was Reynald who broke the treaty! I will give you gold. I—’

Yusuf raised a hand. ‘Your life is safe. A king does not kill a king. You will be ransomed, but first you must swear to never again take up arms against Islam.’

‘I swear it.’

‘On your cross.’

‘On the True Cross and by the blood of the Saviour, I swear it.’

‘I will hold you to that oath.’ Yusuf pointed to Reynald’s corpse. ‘Remember the fate of those who betray their word. Guards, take the King to his tent.’

When Guy had been led out, Ubadah turned to Yusuf. ‘I have something to ask of you, Uncle.’

‘You fought well today, Nephew. Ask, and if it is in my power, you shall receive it.’

‘We captured the priest, John of Tatewic. Let me kill him.’

Yusuf’s brow knit. ‘Were it not for John, the Wolf would have escaped. I mean to spare him.’

‘You cannot. He betrayed you to serve the Franks, Uncle.’

‘He saved my life.’

‘And he took that of my father!’ Ubadah shouted. ‘I was only a child, but I remember. He killed Khaldun.’

‘Khaldun died in the great earthquake.’

‘He died trying to defend my mother’s honour.’ Ubadah went to his knees. ‘Please, Uncle. I beg you.’ He gestured to Reynald’s headless body. ‘You have had your vengeance. Give me mine!’

‘You do not know what you are asking, Nephew. I cannot let you kill him.’

Ubadah stood. His knuckles whitened around his sword hilt. ‘You cannot stop me.’

‘I am your king!’ Yusuf snapped. ‘You will do as I say.’

‘Not in this. Do to me what you will. I swore to Allah I would kill John, and I mean to fulfil my oath.’ Ubadah started for the tent flap.

‘Wait! John did not kill your father, Nephew.’

Ubadah stopped with his hand on the tent flap. He turned and met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He – John is your father.’

‘You lie!’

‘Look in a mirror, Nephew, then tell me if I lie.’

Ubadah’s hand fell from his sword and his shoulders slumped. ‘You . . .’ he began, but faltered. ‘I will never forgive you.’ He spat at Yusuf’s feet and left the tent.

Yusuf felt suddenly weary. He went to his stool and sat slumped forward, staring at Reynald’s body. He had wanted the Wolf dead for so long, yet he could take no joy in it. He had promised his sister to never tell Ubadah the truth. But Zimat would have understood that he had to protect John. She had loved him, too. Yusuf straightened and looked to Saqr. ‘Bring me John, before Ubadah does something foolish.’ He gestured to Reynald’s body. ‘And have this mess removed.’

Reynald’s body was being dragged out as John entered the tent. He grimaced, but then noticed the head still sitting on the carpet. He met Yusuf’s gaze. ‘Shukran, Yusuf.’

‘It is I who owe you thanks. My men told me what you did. Reynald would have escaped were it not for you. Sit. Drink.’

John winced in pain as he lowered himself on to one of the stools. He took a long drink of water. ‘What now?’

‘I told Ubadah the truth.’

John’s eyes widened. ‘Why?’

‘He would have killed you otherwise. He may try to kill you still.’

John’s forehead creased. ‘You mean to let me live?’

‘You delivered my greatest enemy to me. For that, I grant you your freedom. You should leave the East, John.’

‘My duty lies here.’

‘Your death, you mean. The army of Jerusalem has been shattered, John. There is no one left to defend your lands. I will take every last town from the Christians. I will drive them into the sea, and you with them, if you remain.’

John shrugged. ‘If that is my fate, so be it.’ He took another drink. ‘I saw the Templars and Hospitallers. The Yusuf I knew would not have done that.’

‘The man you knew would not have won this victory.’

‘You won, yes, but at what cost? You told me once that a great king must lead a holy life.’

The pain in Yusuf’s gut was back. He looked away from John’s blue eyes. ‘I do not wish to be great, John. I am a servant of Allah, nothing more.’

‘Evil done in the name of God is still evil, friend. I know that all too well. Smell the air. Does that smell like virtue to you?’

‘Enough. It is time you were gone. I cannot guarantee your safety so long as you remain in my camp. You shall have a horse and supplies for three days.’

‘Again, shukran.’ John moved to leave, but stopped at the tent flap. ‘You have it in you to be better than this. I shall pray for you, friend.’ And with that, he was gone.

C
hapter 12

September 1187: Jerusalem

‘Too many people on this road,’ John observed to no one in particular. He wished, not for the first time, that he had someone with whom he could share his worries. But Aestan had died at Hattin, and Raymond had succumbed to a lingering wound not long after John reached Tripoli. Reginald of Sidon was a prisoner of Saladin, along with Guy and most of the other great lords. ‘Too many mouths to feed,’ he muttered, ‘and not enough swords.’

He had left Tripoli with fifty sergeants. As they made their way down the coast, they had been joined by refugees carrying their possessions on their backs and their young children in their arms. After they turned inland towards Jerusalem, the band following them had swollen into the thousands. The people came from every corner of the Kingdom. Tiberias had surrendered the day after Hattin. Acre, the Kingdom’s main port and most populous city, had fallen a few days later. After that, Saladin’s army had split up and swept through the Kingdom. The list of their conquests was sobering: Nazareth, La Sephorie, La Fève, Daburiyya, Mount Tabor, Jenin, Sebaste and Nablus in the south; Haifa, Caesarea, Arsuf and Jaffa along the coast; Toron and Beirut north of Acre. In the last few weeks, the southern strongholds of Ascalon and Gaza had surrendered after long sieges. Only scattered outposts remained. Kerak and Shawbak were in Christian hands but were isolated and besieged. Tyre had been rescued when Conrad of Montferrat arrived from Europe with his men. And at the heart of the Kingdom, Jerusalem still stood. For now.

Saladin was marching north from Ascalon to besiege the Holy City. The men and women on the road knew this as well as John. He could see it in their eyes. They were dull, devoid of hope. Yet what choice did they have? They had nowhere else to go. John would do his best to protect them, but his steel would not save them from hunger. With so many people flooding into the city, food would run short after only a few days. The people would be reduced to eating rats. And when the rats were gone, they would turn on each other. It would make hell look a pretty place.

The road ran upwards through olive groves, and when they reached the top of the slope, Jerusalem came into view. Refugees clogged the road leading to the city. The pace slowed to a crawl, giving John ample time to study the city’s defences. Mangonels had been mounted on the walls, which had been hung with leather skins and bales of hay to reduce the impact of a bombardment. That was good, but there were far too few men walking the walls. John counted only twenty heads over David’s Gate and only two men each on the square towers that dotted the wall to the north and south. As he rode closer, John saw shirtless men working with picks to deepen the dry moat that circled the city. Guards in mail framed David’s Gate. They briefly stopped each refugee. As John approached, a broad-shouldered guard with a thick beard stepped forward.

‘You’re a welcome sight, si—’ He blinked as he noticed the gold cross hanging from John’s neck. ‘Father. Nice to see a man with steel at his side instead of just another hungry mouth.’