00 - Templar's Acre (52 page)

The process of the ritual was enough to calm his nerves. Any alarm at the thought of the battle was washed away, and he found himself viewing a scene in his mind’s eye of how Paradise must
look. It would be blue and clean, always. There would never be any yellow colours, he decided. Yellow and ochre were the colours of sand, of heat, of thirst. Paradise would have no reminders of
such things. He would be thirty-three once more, and he would recline on a couch inlaid with precious stones, while his house would be built of bricks of gold and silver. Servants would place foods
before him that were so delicious, he would eat and never wish to stop.

But he
would
stop, when his darling Aisha came to him. His lovely wife would kiss him and respect him. And they would again know that perfect happiness from their love-making. And he
would see his son once more.

It was a beautiful scene in his mind. A picture that a man might hold on to for the rest of his days.

A trumpet sounded, and then he was marching with his men. There was no time now for foolish reflections. This was a time for stern duty.

There were three hundred camels arrayed behind the army, and as he turned to his men and ordered them forward, the kettledrums began to pound. There were two per camel, and their rhythm was a
solemn call to arms, to death. But today Abu al-Fida felt more alive than he had in the whole of the last year. Today would bring about the end of the Franks in his land. Once they were gone, he
could die happily.

The trumpets and drums continued, and as he marched the hundreds of yards to the walls, he heard the first of the rocks humming and whooshing through the air. So many, they seemed to hit with
one enormous concussion that threatened to shake the earth itself.

And then he recalled the scenes from that other siege so many years ago, and his heart quailed within him.

A man on his left disappeared, and glancing down his line, he saw others toppling, or screaming and shouting as arrows found them. So many arrows were falling, it was like walking in the rains
and trying to avoid each drop. He set his face, breathing in deeply, thinking that if he was to be hit and killed, better to get the business done.

‘Run!’ he shouted.

They were at the first, outer walls now, and there, before them, was the ruin of the city gate, a rampart of rubble paved with Muslim bodies.

Stumbling, Baldwin allowed Edgar and Ivo to pull him away from the bodies and to the barricades behind. This second line of defence would have to withstand the onslaught, if
the Mameluks managed to breach the first line on top of the rampart, and just now, with so many dead and dying, Baldwin found it hard to see how they could survive.

He was ready before the first white-turbaned Emir appeared at the rampart, urging on his regiment with an eager, high-pitched command. An English arrow ended his cry. Others with their black
turbans were already at the barricades, and spears and swords flashed. Baldwin lurched to his feet, and as he did so, felt much better. Snatching up a spear, he ran at the lines, shoving his weapon
in between other men . . . and thus began the heaving, sweating, jabbing and killing once more.

Encased in his helment, he could see little, only the backs of the men in front, and occasionally some of the enemy, teeth bared in their bearded faces, as they hurled abuse and tried to push
into the city.

A man leaped onto the spears hafts, balancing like a tightrope walker, and there began to lay about him with his sword at the heads and hands of the Christians, but a Templar cut off his feet at
the ankles. Another copied him, and managed to stab a Hospitaller in the vulnerable spot where his mail shirt met his helmet before he too was dispatched.

Baldwin felt his feet sliding on the loose rubble and stones. The whole line was moving back, and then he heard the enemy roaring as they realised they were succeeding. Men called for help. Some
matrons who had been filling baskets with rubble hurled rocks.

A bellow, and Baldwin felt impelled by its urgency to glance up, and when he did, he saw the Muslims had taken the Accursed Tower. They were all over the walls, their banners flying, and he saw
black and white turbans, while still more streamed up ladders.

‘Ivo! Ivo, they’ve got the tower!’

‘We can’t do anything about that . . . have to stay here. Hold hard there, you worms! Have to hope someone can get . . . them reinforcements.’

Baldwin knew he was right, but it was hard to concentrate on this area, knowing that Muslims were running behind them into the city. It would only take three or four men at their rear to throw
their line into terrible defeat.

With a surge, the Muslims began to win the shoving contest. The Christian line was forced back, legs struggling to keep their ground. Baldwin saw a sword rise and hack, and the man in front of
him was gone. Suddenly a sword flashed at him, and he had to drop his spear before it took off his hand at the wrist, and he drew his own sword instead.

In an instant, the whole line had collapsed into a series of hand-to-hand combats. Baldwin saw Ivo over to his left, Edgar beyond him, while all about them was a circle of screaming and yelling
men, their weapons glinting.

He was hard-pressed. A blade nicked his thigh, another his knee – then a man edged in closer, and Baldwin could feel that this was no amateur, but a practised swordsman. He forced Baldwin
back, and would have killed him, had Edgar not turned, hacked once, and the man’s neck was broken. He fell, and Baldwin moved forward again, thankful for Edgar’s joy in battle.

‘Back! Back to the second line!’ Ivo shouted, and they all broke away and pelted for their second line of defence.

The timbers piled here were meagre, but at least offered some resistance to the Muslims, who tried to clamber to the top, only to meet a vintaine of spear-men, who stabbed and prodded them back.
Baldwin fell to the ground with profound relief, rolling over to see how the battle was progressing.

Pietro was wildly swinging his blade, Ivo beside him with his more effective, economical parrying and stabbing, but then, at last, they were saved. Baldwin heard a bellow from behind and as he
turned, he saw six mounted Templar knights. They came at the gallop, spears lowered. Baldwin scarce had time to bolt, and Ivo and Pietro threw themselves to the side as the massive horses pounded
to the barricades, and sailed over them. They landed on their enemy, and some more were pierced by Templar spears, and the horses began to kick and bite even as the knights on their backs threw
aside their spears and used swords, axes or maces to lay about them. Arrows rained down about them, but by some miracle, the men and their horses were unhurt.

Ivo was already up behind them as the last Muslim fell back warily up the slope, watching the Templars. One spurred to the rampart, pushing him and the others back, while his brothers dismounted
and stood in line. A troop of Templar sergeants and squires joined them, and all set off up the ramp, to stand at the top. Rocks and arrows were cast at them, but men were already scurrying about
setting baskets back in place and refilling the gaps between.

Pietro and Edgar were near Baldwin, both panting, and he stood with them. For a while, no one spoke, merely gathering their resources for the next fight.

Then: ‘We need to help there,’ Edgar said, nodding towards the Accursed Tower.

‘Someone else must go,’ Baldwin said. ‘We are too few already.’

‘The Templars should help us then. Or the Hospitallers,’ Edgar insisted. ‘If the enemy are allowed to hold the tower, we will soon be fighting them behind us as well as
before.’

There was sense in what he said. Baldwin cast about, looking for someone who could be sent. Just then, a large force of English and men of the King of Jerusalem’s forces came at the run,
and while the King’s men took up positions behind the Templars, the English went to the walls at either side and nocked arrows to their bows, ready.

Baldwin waited until he saw the archers bend their bows, and then set off up the rampart again, but this time the Muslims were there in still greater force; they scaled the walls, appearing at
the inner battlements, and ran along, stabbing the archers and throwing them from their positions. To his dismay, Baldwin found that he and the others were now caught between the Mameluks in the
gateway, and those who had come up behind them.

‘We cannot hold this!’ Ivo cried despairingly. ‘We have to pull back!’

‘We can’t leave the gate!’ Baldwin shouted.

But they had to. Nothing remained for them to hold. The gates had gone, the barricades were crushed or knocked aside, and Baldwin found himself forced back with the others, towards the Accursed
Tower.

Baldwin, Ivo and Pietro were thrust further and further back, and Edgar was a short way away, with two Templar sergeants, who fought like berserkers. They were all soon pushed
from the main gates, and thence back towards the castle.

Staring about him, Baldwin recognised where they were. At the castle, there was a gateway – the original gateway to the city, he assumed, before the second space had been added to
incorporate Montmusart. He had little hope they could hold the gate here, because now that the Accursed Tower had fallen, the city’s defences were lost. But still, there was the second series
of gates at the second wall that kept Montmusart separate from the old city, and if it were possible to recover the Accursed Tower, the city could perhaps pull back and hold this second line.

It was a possibility. A cause for a last desperate hope. He shouted this to the others, and saw Ivo nod. Then, as they retreated through the gates, Baldwin bellowed and charged. Edgar and the
two others saw his plan, and they too roared and redoubled their efforts, and their sudden change in tactic made the forward line of Muslims hesitate. Only for a moment, but that was enough. The
four men turned and pelted through the swiftly closing gates, and the bars were slid across before they had drawn breath.

Baldwin grinned at Edgar and clapped him on the back. ‘That was a good job!’

‘But not enough,’ Edgar said, staring at the Tower’s remains.

Ivo snorted. ‘Aye, we should go there and see if we can help.’

There was already a steady thudding on the gates. Baldwin looked at them. ‘What about that?’

‘If they’re into the city up there, this gate won’t save us,’ Ivo said harshly.

They left some men at the gate, and ran to the corner of the walls. Here, they soon saw, all was desperate. The Muslims had a firm toehold, and there were hand-to-hand struggles all over. A trio
of Christians stood at the entrance to one alley, while Sir Otto’s men were still on the walls, fighting to regain the tower.

Taking a deep breath, Baldwin pelted into the flank of the men before him. With Pietro, Edgar and Ivo, he managed to clear a small space, and the four did push the Muslims back a little, but
then the weight of their enemies began to tell again.

That was when they heard the rallying cry of the Temple. Guillaume de Beaujeu appeared at the head of a strong force of Templars and Hospitallers. He and Matthew de Clermont of the Hospital
joined forces and ran at the Muslims like men possessed. Their swords and their maces whirled, and their enemies fell back, terrified by their fanatical strength. With his sword held high,
Guillaume de Beaujeu shouted out an order, and the men of the Temple closed up about him, the Hospitallers rallying to their banner, before they started to push and hack their way towards the
tower.

Seeing them, Sir Otto’s archers loosed off arrow after arrow, and Baldwin and the others joined in, redoubling their own efforts in the mad attempt to reach the tower.

They had nearly reached it, when the disaster happened. As Sir Guillaume lifted his sword to point to another objective, a Muslim archer saw his target. He loosed his bolt, and it sped straight
and true, striking Sir Guillaume in the armpit.

Baldwin saw him thrown sideways by the impact, and thought at first he had tripped. It was only as the Templars formed a protective ring about him that he guessed at the truth. He saw men pick
up their Commander and hurry him away, while he grimaced.

‘No! Don’t leave us all here!’ Baldwin heard somebody shout.

Sir Guillaume stared around, and there was wildness in his features as he cried out, ‘Gentlemen, I can do no more! I am dead! Look, see the wound!’

Although the men fought with no less determination, without the Grand Master they knew that the battle must slip through their fingers. Matthew de Clermont escorted de Beaujeu to the Temple,
while the remainder of the Hospitallers and Templars resorted to hand-to-hand fighting to hold the enemy to the line near the tower.

‘To the Temple! To the Temple!’ Baldwin heard, and felt himself caught up in the general movement back along the roads. The Templars did not lessen their efforts, but held the
Muslims at bay while the rest of the city folk withdrew in good order. With the walls lost, now Sir Otto’s men were vacating them, and hurrying to join the retreat.

Baldwin was swept along with them all, but even as he retreated, he wondered where his Lucia was, and prayed that she might be safe.

He was alive, but Abu al-Fida felt sickened.

His own men had performed miraculously well, climbing the rampart to the city with only a small number killed, but here in the streets was where the worst danger would lurk. He knew the
potential for traps.

They made their way to the inner gate, but it was barred against them. Men at the walls overhead pelted them with rocks and arrows, causing a number of injuries. Abu al-Fida sent a party along
the wall to see if there might be a second entrance that could be more easily taken while he organised his men here to assault the gates. They found a heavy timber and six of his men ran with it,
one falling dead from an arrow as they crashed into the gates. Pulling back, another man taking his place, they ran again – and again the wood held. A third, a fourth, and there were six of
his men dead now. It was frustrating, and he chafed to be thwarted by such a small force.