Holy War (47 page)

‘Excellent! Have him shown to my tent.’

Yusuf entered and poured himself a glass of water. He was sipping from it when Reginald stepped inside. Yusuf greeted him with a smile. ‘Welcome, friend! You have made good time.’ The smile fell from his lips as he took in Reginald’s grim expression. ‘What has happened? Has Conrad signed the treaty?’

‘No, Malik. Conrad is dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘Hashashin.’ Reginald spat. ‘Conrad had gone to dine with the Bishop of Beauvais. On his way home, two men disguised in monks’ robes approached him. One gave him a letter while the other stabbed him. Conrad managed to flee to a church, but they chased him down and killed him there.’

Yusuf shook his head in disbelief. Once again, his plans were crumbling to dust. ‘Do you know who sent them?’

‘The Hashashin both died fighting, but I suspect Richard. The barons had named Conrad king. Richard made no secret of his anger at the result. Conrad’s death was very convenient for him.’

‘Who will be king now?’

‘Richard’s cousin, young Henry of Champagne, was proclaimed king by the people of Tyre. Rumour has it that Richard distributed money so that they would declare for him. Regardless, the barons have agreed. Henry is to rule. He will marry Baldwin’s sister Isabella before the month is out, though she is pregnant with Conrad’s child.’

Yusuf grimaced in disgust. ‘Has he no decency?’

‘Men have done worse things for a throne, though I understand that Henry refuses to actually be crowned king. He has declared himself Lord of Jerusalem.’

‘A wise man. Of late, Frankish kings do not last long in the Holy Land.’

Reginald grunted in agreement.

Yusuf placed his hand on his heart and bowed slightly. ‘Thank you, Reginald. You did not have to come to tell me this.’

‘I only wish I brought happier news.’

‘You can stay, if you wish. I will find you a place in my household.’

‘No, Malik. My place is in Tyre with my family.’

‘Very well, but I insist that you stay the night. My men will show you on your way on the morrow.’

‘You are too kind, Malik.’ Reginald bowed and was shown out by the guards.

When Yusuf was alone, he went to stand before a table where a map of Palestine was spread out. Carved figures of men on horseback – pale pine for his allies and dark cherry for his enemies – represented the positions of the various armies: the bulk of Richard’s men in Ascalon; Hugh of Burgundy in Acre, along with the Genoese and Pisan forces; his own men in Ramlah; Conrad’s men in Tyre. Yusuf angrily swept the figurine representing Conrad’s men from the table, and replaced it with a dark figurine. He heard the tent flap part and turned to see Al-Afdal enter.

‘Do you have the treaty, Father?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Will we march on Acre?’

‘There will be no treaty, my son. Tomorrow, we withdraw to Ramlah, to defend Jerusalem again.’

C
hapter 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.