Eagle (40 page)

Yusuf grabbed his arm. ‘Help me remove the bar!’ John nodded and put his shoulder to the heavy oak log that held the gate shut. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, he heaved. The two men barely managed to raise the bar out of its brackets, then dropped it on the ground with a thud. A second later, the gate ground inward as Qaraqush pushed his way in, followed by the rest of the mamluks. The Franks began to retreat. John stood aside as the mamluks flooded through the gate and pursued them down the main street of the town.

When all the mamluks had poured past, Yusuf walked over to John and clapped him on the back. ‘We did it!’

John looked about him at the men he had killed and shook his head. ‘The crusader’s oath I swore had three parts,’ he muttered. ‘I was to make pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, to protect the people of the kingdom from the Saracens, and to aid my fellow Crusaders. I failed to reach Jerusalem, and now I have betrayed my oath twice over.’

Yusuf frowned. ‘I am sorry, John.’

‘It was them or you. I made my choice long ago.’ John wiped the blood from his sword. ‘The priests say those who die fighting the Saracens will go straight to heaven. Where shall I go when I die?’

Yusuf stood in the dusty central street of Banyas and watched as a dozen men with axes hacked at the beams of a wooden house
and then pulled them loose. Nur ad-Din had sent the men, who would use the wood to build the first of the catapults necessary for besieging the citadel. John sat nearby, leaning against a wall in the shade as he rested his bandaged leg. The rest of Yusuf’s men had spread out through the town. Nur ad-Din had given them until midday to loot before the rest of the army entered. Yusuf looked to the sky. Their time was almost up.

Turan approached from a side alley, his face set in a grim line. ‘We have found little, Brother. The Christians left nothing of value when they fled.’

‘Then we shall have all the more riches when we take the castle,’ Yusuf replied.

A high-pitched cry, cut suddenly short, came from their right. It sounded like a child’s voice. ‘What was that?’ John asked, rising.

‘Sounds like the men have found something,’ Turan said.

John was already heading in that direction, his hand on his sword. Yusuf followed. They passed through an alley and out into another street. From a house across from them, Yusuf could hear a woman cursing in Frankish, and then the loud wailing of a child. John rushed to the house, and Yusuf followed.

In the centre of the home’s single room three mamluks were crouched over a red-haired Frankish woman. Her dress was torn, exposing one of her pale white breasts. Her eyes were wild, and she screamed and thrashed, trying to pull free of the two mamluks who were holding her down. The third mamluk was loosening the belt of his breeches. A blonde girl stood to the side, wide-eyed and sobbing. The mamluks ignored her, their eyes fixed on the Frankish woman.

John began to draw his sword, but Yusuf reached out to stop him. ‘I will handle this.’ He raised his voice. ‘What have we here, men?’

The mamluks looked up and released the woman. She scrambled over to her child and clutched the girl to her breast. The men turned to face Yusuf. He recognized Nazam – the bald-headed
mamluk John had fought long ago, when they first arrived at Tell Bashir.

‘We’ve found no gold,’ Nazam said. ‘But we did find this prize. She’ll fetch a fine price on the slave market, if we don’t keep her for ourselves.’

Yusuf walked over to the woman, who shrank back in fear. He bent down and grabbed her jaw, turning her head towards him. She spat in his face. As Yusuf backed away, wiping the spit from his cheek, one of the mamluks stepped over and back-handed the woman, knocking her down. She pushed herself up, blood dripping from her lip, and the mamluk raised his fist to strike again.

‘That is enough,’ Yusuf said. ‘Leave her to me. You shall each have a dinar to compensate you.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Nazam said.

‘Now leave us,’ Yusuf ordered. ‘Report to Turan.’

‘Yes, my lord. Enjoy yourself.’ Nazam winked at Yusuf, and the men trooped out, chuckling.

When they were gone, the woman turned to John. ‘You are not one of them. Kill me. Do not let him defile me. Don’t let him sell my child.’

‘I will not hurt you,’ Yusuf said in Frankish. The woman’s eyes went wide. ‘You are free. I will escort you and your daughter to the citadel.’

‘Thank you,’ the woman sobbed in relief. She knelt before him and kissed his hand. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘We haven’t much time,’ Yusuf said, taking her hand and raising her up. He stepped outside, and the woman followed, holding her daughter. John brought up the rear. They reached the gate leading out towards the citadel without incident. It was open.

‘Go,’ Yusuf said. The woman lifted her daughter and ran up the slope towards the citadel.

‘Thank you,’ John said from behind Yusuf. ‘You did not have to do that.’

‘I did not do it for you,’ Yusuf said, his eyes still on the woman. She reached the citadel gate, and it opened just enough for her to slip through. Yusuf turned to John. ‘The Franks raped my mother when she was young. Now come. We must see to the building of the catapults.’

The next morning Yusuf stood atop the wall surrounding Banyas and looked out towards the citadel, rising high above on its hilltop. At the foot of the hill were the three enormous catapults that Nur ad-Din’s engineers had constructed. Yusuf watched as one of catapults fired. The heavy counterweight – stones and dirt gathered in a wooden bin – fell, and the long arm of the catapult rose into the air. Trailing from the far end of the arm was a leather sling, which now snapped upwards, hurling a three-hundred-pound boulder. The stone arced through the air and then shattered against the wall in a cloud of dust. When the dust cleared, the wall still stood, apparently undamaged. Then a few stones fell away and went tumbling down the hillside. A cheer went up from the Muslim camp, which was spread in a circle all around the hill on which the citadel stood. Yusuf smiled. The walls were strong, but they would fall.

From the corner of his eye Yusuf noticed movement, and he looked away from the citadel to the north. Beyond the tents of the camp, he saw a plume of dust rising into the sky. Squinting, he could make out a horse charging towards the town – a messenger. From the way he was pressing his mount, Yusuf guessed he had important news.

Yusuf left the wall and hurried to the two-storey merchant’s home in town where Nur ad-Din had established himself. Yusuf arrived just as Nur ad-Din stepped out of the house.

‘Who could this be?’ Nur ad-Din asked, looking up the street to the distant rider.

Yusuf squinted. ‘Khaldun,’ he said, recognizing his brother-in-law through the dust that covered him.

‘Salaam, Khaldun!’ Nur ad-Din hailed as the rider reined to a stop.

Khaldun dismounted and bowed before Nur ad-Din. ‘Salaam, malik.’

‘You bring news from Shirkuh?’ Nur ad-Din asked.

Khaldun nodded. ‘The Christians sent only a small force to confront Shirkuh. The main army is marching for Banyas. They will be here tomorrow.’

‘So soon,’ Yusuf whispered.

‘When will Shirkuh arrive with the rest of my men?’ Nur ad-Din asked.

‘A week, my lord.’

Yusuf looked to Nur ad-Din. ‘What shall we do? The Franks will outnumber us two to one.’

Nur ad-Din smiled. ‘We do what the Christians expect us to do: retreat.’

MAY 1157: JACOB’S FORD

John stood on the ridge of a long line of dusty, brown hills and looked down upon the Christian army as it moved through the narrow valley below, heading south alongside the silvery ribbon of the Jordan River. The Franks marched in a square formation, with foot-soldiers on the periphery providing protection for the horses of the mounted knights at the centre. But the ranks were loose. A constant stream of men left their places to go to the river and refill their skins. Most of the men marched with their helmets off and their shields strapped to their backs. A few had even removed their armour to better enjoy the beautiful spring day. Multicoloured pennants flapped gaily overhead in a cool breeze, giving the army a festive appearance. They had reason to celebrate, only three days before they had driven the Saracens from Banyas.

John turned his back on the Frankish army to look down the
opposite side of the ridge, where thousands of mounted Saracen warriors were gathered out of sight of the Christians. John knew that Nur ad-Din was waiting with an equal number of men behind the hills on the other side of the valley. After leaving Banyas, Nur ad-Din had only pretended to retreat before turning south to shadow the Christians. Yesterday, he had driven his army through the night in order to lay a trap for the Franks.

John picked out Yusuf’s eagle standard amongst the men below. He would not ride with his friend today. Since taking the town of Banyas, John had been troubled by bloody nightmares. Fighting Reynald’s bandits was one thing; Reynald was a savage who had betrayed him. But John knew that he had put his soul in jeopardy by killing his fellow Christians. He did not wish to die in battle before he had received absolution.

‘The Franks have reached the ford,’ Imad ad-Din noted. He and a dozen other scribes had joined John atop the ridge, ready to record the coming battle for posterity. They sat on the ground around him, their writing tables across their laps, quills ready.

John turned back towards the Frankish army. They had reached the shallow waters of Jacob’s Ford, the safest crossing point over the Jordan River. The first foot-soldiers were already wading across, the water reaching up to their waists at the deepest point. Behind them, the army had broken its square formation, forming a column in order to cross the narrow ford. John’s stomach tightened with nervous tension. When half the foot-soldiers had reached the far bank, the first of the mounted knights entered the water, the standard of the King of Jerusalem flying above them. They were halfway across when a horn sounded from the hills on the far side of the river. As the low, mournful cry of the horn faded, the Christian army stopped, knights and foot-soldiers looking about nervously. In the silence, John could hear the distant Frankish horses, their anxious whinnies borne to him on the wind.

The blast of another horn sounded behind John, drowning
out the sounds of the Frankish army. He turned to see the Saracen army on the move, Yusuf’s eagle standard flying at their head. They headed for a gap in the hills that led out to the valley.

‘Look!’ Imad ad-Din cried.

John turned to see the other half of the Saracen army pouring from the hills on the far side of the river, the sound of the pounding horses’ hooves rolling like thunder across the plain. There was disorder in the Christian ranks as the mounted knights hurried to cross the river to meet the threat. But the narrow ford slowed their efforts. Some entered the river south of the ford to avoid the bottleneck and were swept away by the current. Meanwhile, the foot-soldiers hurriedly formed a line, pikes out.

The horsemen led by Nur ad-Din split in two as they reached the foot-soldiers, riding parallel to the Christian lines and shooting arrows into their enemies. Christians fell by the dozen, but the line did not break. Behind the foot-soldiers, the last of the mounted knights were crossing the river to group around the  standard of the Frankish king. A horn blast sounded out from the Christian ranks as the knights prepared to charge. Then, behind them, the other half of the Saracen army galloped forth from the hills, Yusuf’s banner at their head. Shooting arrows as they rode, they cut through the Frankish foot-soldiers who had not yet crossed the river and then splashed across the ford to attack the Christian knights from behind. Trapped between the two halves of the Saracen army, the Franks panicked. Individual knights attempted to ride to safety, but their horses were shot out from under them. The line of foot-soldiers dissolved as men fled, only to be ridden down from behind. Hundreds of Franks stripped off their armour and leapt into the river, swimming downstream to safety.

A piercing horn sounded again and again as the Frankish king sought to rally his men. Only two hundred or so knights remained, encircled by the Saracen army, which closed in to
finish them. John spotted Yusuf’s standard at the heart of the fighting, pushing towards Baldwin’s banner. If the king fell, the battle would be over. And then, after a final, long blast of the horn, the Frankish knights charged, heading straight towards Yusuf. Nothing could stand in the way of the Franks’ plate armour and strong horses. They crashed through the Saracen ranks, spearing men off horses with their long lances and then crushing them underfoot. For a moment Yusuf’s standard stayed aloft as he and a handful of mamluks held their ground. John thought he spotted Yusuf at the head of the mamluks, his sword flashing in the sunlight. And then the mamluks were swept away and Yusuf’s standard fell. Yusuf was nowhere to be seen.

‘
Allah
!
Allah
!
Allah
!’ Yusuf stood in the saddle, screaming as he slashed out at the Frankish knights streaming past. Then a knight’s lance hit Yusuf’s horse directly in the chest, killing it instantly. Yusuf managed to jump free of the saddle as his horse collapsed. He landed in the path of a charging warhorse and rolled to the side. Another horse was bearing down, and Yusuf curled into a ball as the horse galloped straight over him. He sprang to his feet and jumped to his right to avoid a knight’s lance. As the Frank rode past, Yusuf knelt and slashed out, slicing through the girth that held the knight’s saddle in place. The saddle slid off and the knight crashed to the ground, to be trampled. Yusuf ran after the horse, which had slowed to a walk. He grabbed its mane and swung himself on to its back. The last of the Christian knights were now flying past, and Yusuf kicked his mount’s sides, urging it after them.

Yusuf’s horse kicked up plumes of sand as it raced alongside the river. Two banners flew over the fleeing Franks: one a gold cross with four smaller crosses on a white background, the other royal blue and scarlet. Four knights rode under the blue and scarlet flag, surrounding a tall man in shining plate armour. That had to be King Baldwin.