Beasts of the Seventh Crusade (The Crusades Book 4) (23 page)

"I will grind them to dust under my boot heel," Qutuz said. He was probably the best warrior in all of Egypt, a magician with the sword. When there was killing to be done, on a large or small scale, Qutuz was always the best man for the job.

"You will Qutuz, I know it. I need each of you to ready your men and meet these 'crusaders' at Mansura. Stop them at the canal, and if they try to cross it, widen the canal and pepper them with arrows and stones. I want to take a bit of their confidence before we take their hearts."

"Should we cross the canal? Or shall we make a stand in Mansura?" Shajar asked.

"Do not let them capture Mansura! If everything goes to plan, they will never even see the city. I do not want you to cross the canal, but if they make a ford, I want you to use it. Let them die trying to cross the canal, and then we will use their ford to bring more death."

"We shall crush them greater than all of their previous crusades combined! How many times must we slaughter these European men before they realize we are superior?" Qutuz exclaimed, prompting a bout of laughter from the other men. It was true, too, that the Muslims had won almost every major war in every crusade against the Holy Land, and then in the crusades against Egypt directly.

The Sixth Crusade was nothing but politics and diplomacy. The Fifth Crusade was a devastating victory for the Ayyubids. The Fourth Crusade never even reached their shores, and the first three produced mixed results for both sides. The sultan and his generals had every right to hubris, to the sort of confidence that comes from endless success. They had no reason to believe that this "Seventh Crusade" would be any different.

"Ready our men for battle. If I do not survive until the end, let my final wish be known throughout the land. Let every man, woman, and child know what Sultan Malik-al-Salih's dying wish was: destroy this 'Seventh Crusade' and parade its leader through Cairo, mocking him as the fool and weakling that he is."

The generals silently filed out of their sultan's room, his words still echoing in their ears. If they weren't motivated enough before, the wish of an obviously dying Sultan was more than enough of an incentive. His words were a mandate, a decree from on high to fulfill their holy mission and protect their homeland.

Chapter Twenty-Five

THE RIVERS ARE THE LIFEBLOOD OF EGYPT. In the vast desert, rivers provide everything humans need to survive. The waters always run to the lowest places, as is the nature of water, and the Seventh Crusade followed the rivers to Cairo. To Francois' sense of direction, the crusaders were moving downhill, deeper into hell; the lowlands of Egypt.

The fall season had arrived. The heavy rains were gone, and most rivers flooded their banks, pushing the populations back and making crossings over the larger branches of the Nile impossible. The Nile itself was the most treacherous, and a man was guaranteed to drown if he tried to cross that rushing stream of black death. Francois had seen it happen, twice, and he wondered if their deaths had been easy. Their deaths were certainly easier than the Ayyubids who were unfortunate enough to meet Artois in battle: his temper during the march from Damietta was foul and violent.

"Where are they?" Artois bellowed for, what seemed to Francois and Raul, the thousandth time.

"They will find a place to make a stand, and we will fight and die, son. Do not rush what may be your final days of life. Youth is wasted on the young," Raul said.

"I did not come all the way from France to look at ugly rivers and burn my skin! What if they don't even fight, Father? What if we march all the way to Cairo and their sultan is waiting at the gates, bending over and kissing his own arse?" Artois asked. Several nearby soldiers laughed and their steps became lighter; marching with a man like Artois on your side was an incalculable confidence builder.

The column continued its inexorable march south. The French infantry was the heart of the army, and they marched ten men abreast, more than 50,000 strong, with the king and his commanders in the heart of it. Ten thousand archers were spread throughout the infantry, each man assigned to a different unit of infantry. The cavalry was 2,000 men, the wings of the column, and they rode far and wide, reporting back to King Louis. There was no tail of merchants, whores, and children for this war column. They were expecting battle.

"I should go back to the medical unit, with the king," Francois said, as the sun began to dip in the sky. Olivia had stayed behind in Damietta, and Francois found himself drawn to Henry in her absence. Mostly, he wanted the doctor's assurance that Olivia was a faithful woman, and would care for herself well while he marched with the crusade.

"We'll see you soon, Francois," Raul said.

"Be safe, little brother," Artois rumbled.

Francois took three steps before a huge roar tore his attention south. Three riders were galloping full speed toward King Louis' position, and it wasn't until they got closer that Francois saw the reason for the commotion. The rider in the middle had six arrows in him, three in the chest, one in the leg and two in the back. His comrades were holding him up on the horse; he likely saw the enemy first, or had vital information for the king.

Francois didn't know what the scouts told the king, but the trumpets blared, signaling a halt. He went back to Artois and Raul, who looked just as confused as he did.

"What's happening?"

On cue, screams and cries of battle came from the front of the column. Every man tensed and suddenly every hand held a weapon, every eye darted to and fro, expecting enemies to spring out of the ground.

"Easy men, easy!" a veteran scout rode up the column, "There's a river ahead, a big one. Our boys are slaughtering a few Egyptians who were on the wrong side of the water, but there's no battle to be had now."

The officers swung the column parallel with the river, like a snake nestling against a wall. The veteran scout had not lied. The river was a half-mile wide, muddy and fast. Huge logs, tangles of branches, and bodies floated down the current continuously. With a sinking feeling, Francois realized that King Louis had made a bitter mistake. If the Seventh Crusade had only marched before the rains, in the early summer, it would have never encountered this obstacle.

The crusaders settled in for a long wait. Maximum arrow range was established, tents were erected, and campfires lit. Oddities washed up from the river: nooks, clothes, bottles, and dishes. Captured Egyptians claimed the river was called, "Ashmoun," and they said it was the place where the Seventh Crusade would end. The Egyptians underwent torture after that, and their pleas for a quick death could be heard across the desert, robbing Francois of sleep.

"I must walk," he said to himself on the third night. The stars sparkled brilliantly in the dark cloth of the sky, though they were the same stars in France, and Francois was homesick. Francois walked north, to feel closer to Olivia, and his feet soon grew moist. Perplexed, he walked farther and his ankles sank into the dirt. Even in the pale moonlight, Francois could see that the rivers had flooded more, turning the crusader's only retreat path into a soggy nightmare.

"Nothing is impossible! Nothing! Find me a way across that damned canal or I will have your heads!" Louis shouted at his engineer corps. They were educated men from the four corners of Europe, and they glanced nervously at one another at Louis' threats. He was frustrated, obviously, and was seeing his hopes of a successful crusade crumble in the face of the impassable canal. It was branched off from the Nile, manmade and well-defended. If the waters weren't so high, if they had only marched earlier in the year . . .

"Does the king have any suggestions?" one of the engineers asked, a stout man from Spain with cold eyes and callused hands.

"I suggest you do your job! Leave me! Scout east and west, as far as you must, but get me across this canal!" Louis' words scattered the engineers from his tent, and he sat down heavily, head in his hands. This could not be happening! This was the exact same location where the Fifth Crusade failed almost thirty years before, and Louis knew everyone thought he was a fool.

King Louis IX was a gambling man. If he had to sacrifice 10,000 men to cross the canal, so be it. If he had to build a ford with his own soldiers' corpses, so be it. What he could not do was turn back now, when he had all the momentum, all the confidence, of a victory.

"My king, there is news from the north," one of his guards said, poking his head in the tent.

"The north? There is nothing to be done in the north. We captured Damietta. The north is secure."

The soldier risked his status and his life with his next few words. "A man says that the rivers have flooded behind us, and that there is no retreat to Damietta. He says we are caught between two floods."

"Who is this man?"

"He is here now, shall I send him in?"

"Please, yes, send in a random peasant so that he may advise me on matters of war. My so-called experts don't have anything worth saying; I might as well start listening to goat herders." Louis' sarcasm was lost on the guard, and he opened the flap for Francois to enter. Francois immediately got down on one knee.

"My king, I am honored to be in your presence."

"Of course you are. Get up. Who are you?"

"Francois Coquet of Troyes. I serve in the medical unit and have been under your command since Aigues-Mortes."

His mention of France soothed something in Louis' countenance, and he pulled a bottle of wine from his personal cask. He snapped his fingers and Francois realized that he was supposed to grab two glasses. He looked frantically about the tent and located the empty glasses next to the hearth. King Louis filled them to the brim and indicated Francois should sit.

"Aigues-Mortes, you say?"

"Yes."

"And what say you of this crusade? Has it been successful?"

It was a trick question, and Francois knew it. If he said yes, that would mean that they were done, that they had accomplished what they set out to, and that was a lie. If he said no, well, that was a personal insult to King Louis, in his tent, in the middle of his army.

"Successful thus far, my king."

"Ah, so you're clever. Tell me; do you miss the green fields and blue skies of France? A handsome lad like yourself, you must have a lass back home, pining for your heroic return."

Francois couldn't say that her name was Olivia, and that he had taken her back from Louis' bed. He just smiled and nodded, instead.

"If we're not going to discuss lasses, then we must discuss business. What did you see when you found yourself wandering north?"

"Water, my king. I scarcely went three miles when I couldn't move anymore. My boots sunk into the ground and it was only getting worse. I saw the river in the east was overflowing at its banks, and I fear there may be another river that we missed, likely in the west."

Louis stared Francois down until he looked away. They both knew his words were true. What kind of man would request a personal audience with the king only to lie to him? The information was galling, surely, because none of Louis' generals or guides thought to scout the retreat path, not with all their attention focused on moving toward Cairo.

"Thank you, Francois Coquet. I'll remember your name, now leave me," King Louis said. Francois bowed and thanked the king for the wine, and then he left. He was sure that the king believed his words, but if they had an effect on him, he could not tell. The king's eyes had been jaded and suspicious, and Francois feared that Louis would simply redouble his efforts to cross the Ashmoun Canal.

The Seventh Crusade sat on the banks of the Ashmoun Canal for two months. Arrows were occasionally shot from either side, as bored men made bets with their friends on how close they would get to the river. They always ran out, dodged a few arrows, and then came back, red-faced and laughing. Insults were hurled, in several tongues, across the canal, and Francois even found himself yelling once, saying something about the dirtiness of sand-dwellers.

"There's a way, Francois, they've found a crossing!" Artois shook Francois out of his bed early one morning. The air was cold and still and he dressed warmly before venturing out. In the soft gloom of false dawn, the entire crusader camp was alive. Tents were being broken down, fires doused out, armor strapped on, and weapons checked and rechecked.

"What do you mean? Where?" Francois asked.

"There is a shallow sandbar four miles away! A cavalry officer noticed it yesterday, and he walked across this morning! He took his horse, too, to prove its stability. We are going to launch an artillery attack from here, to distract the Ayyubids, and everyone is ordered to be ready to cross! The time has come!"

Francois did not share his brother's enthusiasm. Just because they could cross the Ashmoun Canal did not mean the Ayyubids would let them do so peacefully. There would be a violent battle at the crossing point, as soon as the Ayyubids saw what was happening. They were not stupid, no matter what European men thought.

"Robert, listen to me! You will cross the canal and wait! You will wait! Do not attack, nor provoke, the Ayyubids until we get enough men across to deal with them. Do you understand?" King Louis asked his half brother.

"Yes, my king," Robert said. He was a burly, young warrior with blonde hair and blue eyes. It was said the women of Paris would faint when he passed by, and he knew his own genetic gifts. They were all for naught, though, if he was a coward. Robert had volunteered to lead the cavalry across the canal, and this was his time to prove his mettle—his chance to write his name in the history books.

The artillery barrage, catapults and arrows, began. They rained across the canal suddenly, a violent storm that completely surprised the Egyptians. There were a few deaths, but mostly superficial wounds, and return fire started after a brief time. Meanwhile, the cavalry silently rode behind the lines of the Seventh Crusade, on its way to the crossing, four miles northeast.