Holy War (37 page)

‘Where are you going, Cousin?’ Philip called down from above.

‘I am joining the fight.’

‘Why in God’s name? Acre is almost ours. The last thing we need is for you to get yourself killed. You should return to your tent and rest. I have matters well in hand.’

‘Forgive me, Cousin, but it looks to me as if you are taking no hand at all in this battle.’ Richard pulled on his helmet and strode through the gate.

John walked at his side. He had a better view of the action now that they were on the flat plain leading to the city. The steep pile of rubble that filled the gap rose thirty feet. The Muslim garrison had been prepared for the wall’s collapse. They had brought forward mantelets – overlapping mobile walls seven feet high and four feet across – and placed them across the gap. The hundreds of knights and men-at-arms who had scrambled up the rocky slope were keeping their distance from the mantelets, and John soon saw why. A sergeant ran forward and leapt, grabbing hold of the top of a mantelet. He had begun to pull himself up when a spear tip burst from his back. As he fell, John saw the spear pulled back through one of dozens of holes in the face of the barrier. The sergeant lay dead at its foot, joining a score of other Franks.

Richard was puffing as he climbed up the uneven slope in his heavy mail. An arrow shot by a Saracen archer on the still standing portion of the wall hit him in the chest. John froze, but Richard only grunted and snapped the shaft off. It had not penetrated his mail. Robert Blanchemains came skidding down the slope towards them. ‘Your Grace! We did not look for you at the battle.’

‘Well here I am.’ Richard paused to catch his breath. ‘What progress have—?’ Another arrow hissed through the air and slammed into his shield. ‘By the devil’s hairy balls! You there!’
The king pointed to an archer who had just arced an arrow over the mantelets. ‘Quit wasting arrows and make yourself useful. Gather your fellows and keep those archers off the walls.’ Richard turned back to Blanchemains. ‘What progress have you made, Rob?’

‘The gap is small, Your Grace. We have many thousand men eager to fight, but cannot bring all our force to bear. We have tried to push through the mantelets, but it is no use. They spear any man who gets too close.’

‘So our men stand about like flies on a horse’s arse while their archers pick us off one by one. Is that the way of it, Rob?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Richard squinted against the glaring sunshine as he stared up at the wall of mantelets. ‘Fetch me twenty men with grappling hooks and rope, Rob. We’ll have that wall down soon enough.’

Men were sent running to camp to fetch the hooks. Richard and John climbed to the front of the line, where Richard’s knights gathered around the king. When the men with the hooks arrived, Richard drew his sword and held it aloft so that the sun flashed off the blade. ‘Men, are you ready to give those bastards a taste of your steel?’ he roared. Richard turned to the men with the hooks. ‘Throw them over the wall, men, and we’ll pull it down.’

The men stood in a line and swung their hooks in wider and wider arcs before letting fly. Many of the hooks fell short or bounced off the mantelets. Others flew too far. The Saracens on the far side of the wall grabbed the ropes and pulled them forward so they snaked over the wall. But two were thrown just right. They hooked over the top of the same mantelet, and the lines went taut as the men who had thrown them started to pull. Other men took up the ropes and added their weight.

‘Pull, men!’ Richard shouted. ‘Heave! Heave!’

The mantelet tilted forward and then fell over with a crash. The men roared and rushed at the gap. The first to reach it was a French knight, his shield emblazoned with a castle. He ran straight into a flaming jar of naphtha, tossed by one of the Saracens. The jar shattered against the knight’s chest and the naphtha ignited, turning him into a human torch. He stumbled forward and was impaled on the spear of one of a dozen mamluks who had stepped forward to defend the gap.

The charge faltered as the men edged back from the burning knight. None were eager to follow him into what looked to be sure death.

Richard stepped forward. ‘With me, men! For Christ!’

Before any of his lords could stop him, the king charged. John was the first to follow. As he neared the gap, he could see a jar of naphtha arcing towards the king. Richard raised his shield and the jar burst against it, coating it in flames. Richard flung the burning shield forward into the Saracens and rushed after it. He sidestepped a spear and hacked the shaft in half. His backswing nearly took the mamluk’s head clean off . Another mamluk thrust his spear at the king’s back, but John stepped forward and took it on his shield. Richard had continued forward, inside the reach of the enemy spears. A splash of naphtha clung to the crown of his helmet, burning there like a halo. He impaled a mamluk and left his sword in the man’s gut. Richard took his battle-axe from his back and lay into the enemy with huge swings. He was a head taller than the Saracens surrounding him, a giant amongst men. He fought his way forward, his axe snapping spear shafts, slicing through mail, severing limbs.

John came close behind, protecting Richard’s flank and finishing those the king missed. He blocked a spear and smashed the attacker’s face with his mace. A sword sliced through his breeches and opened a cut on his thigh. As John fell to one knee, de Preaux stepped past and hacked down the man who had struck him. John pushed himself to his feet and was swept up in the wedge of Franks driving forward through the enemy. Richard was still at their head, a dozen paces up ahead. The king was hacking his way through the enemy ranks. Then he came face to face with Al-Mashtub.

The huge mamluk was even taller than Richard, and much thicker, with a chest as wide around as a barrel of wine and arms as thick as most men’s thighs. He held his four-foot blade with both hands. Richard swung for him with his axe, but Al-Mashtub caught the blade with his sword and kicked out, catching Richard in the gut. The king stumbled back into the men behind. The charge stalled.

Now that the Franks were no longer driving forward, the Saracens closed from all sides. John found himself fighting for his life. He parried a sword thrust and brought his mace down on his attacker’s forearm, shattering the bone. He glanced towards Richard. The king had tossed aside his flaming helmet. He snarled as he hacked at Al-Mashtub with mighty blows. The mamluk turned them aside easily. John had seen Al-Mashtub fight dozens of times. He knew how deadly he could be. If Richard had not been ill, he would have been a match for him, but the king’s fever had weakened him. Even a glance was enough to tell John that Richard was going to die. His crusade would die with him. All John had to do was let it happen.

A flash of pain exploded in John’s ribs as a sword slammed into him. He staggered to the side and turned to face his foe, a squat mamluk with a long black beard. The man swung again, and this time John knocked the blow aside with his mace. There was another stab of pain in his side. He must have cracked a rib. John gritted his teeth and swung backhanded, catching the bearded man in the side of the head and caving in his helmet. As the mamluk fell, John turned back towards Richard. The king was on the defensive now. He turned aside a thrust. Al-Mashtub swung his blade back, and Richard recovered just in time to block it.

‘Christ’s blood!’ John cursed. Richard might be a bastard, but he had sworn to serve him. He pushed through the battle towards the king. A sword flashed at him and he dropped to one knee. He slammed his mace into the attacker’s gut and the man crumpled. Richard was only a few strides away. The king was clearly labouring, his chest heaving as he struggled for breath. As he blocked another blow, his axe went spinning from his hands. Al-Mashtub hacked down at him. Richard tried to sidestep the blow, but it glanced off his shoulder, driving him to his knees.

The pain in John’s leg and side vanished and the sounds of battle faded until all he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears. He sprinted forward. A mamluk appeared before him, and John deflected the man’s blade and then slammed his shoulder into him, knocking the man aside. Al-Mashtub was raising his sword to finish Richard. John stumbled and lunged forward swinging. He caught Al-Mashtub in the side of the knee. The huge mamluk crumpled, screaming in pain.

Richard had grabbed his axe and pushed himself to his feet. He looked about at the Saracens swarming from all sides. ‘There are too many! We must fall back.’ He raised his voice. ‘All together, men! Fall back! Fall back!’

John and Richard fought side by side as they retreated towards the gap. They were the last of the Christians through. As they emerged on the other side, men surrounded them. They were shouting, their voices so loud that it took John a moment to understand them. ‘Lionheart!’ they screamed. ‘Lionheart! Lionheart!’

Richard swayed and leaned against John to keep from falling. John noticed that the mail at the king’s shoulder was rent and bloody, but the king was grinning despite his injuries. ‘Sieges sap men’s courage, John. These men need only shed a little blood to become brave again.’ Richard pushed away from him and started down the slope unaided. Men lined the path back to the camp. ‘Lionheart!’ they cheered. ‘Lionheart!’ As they passed through the gate in the rampart, John looked up and found Philip. The French king stood with his arms crossed, scowling as he looked down upon Richard.

Yusuf stood atop the tower and chewed on a piece of flatbread. It was all he could stomach. His gut had been troubling him ever since the breach was opened in the wall. That had been a week ago. He looked to Acre. The night after the breach was made, the garrison had built a wooden wall atop the rubble, behind the line of mantelets. The Franks had burned that wall the next day. The garrison built a new one, and that, too, had been burned. Another wall now protected the gap, but it would not last long. Even now, Franks bearing torches were launching another attack.

Yusuf knew the garrison could not hold out for much longer. They were losing hundreds of men each day. Yusuf had kept up a steady attack on the Frankish lines to draw some troops away from the battle, but yesterday he had pulled back his men and sent a messenger to the Franks, offering to start negotiations for the surrender of the city. If he could not save Acre, he at least wanted to see that its garrison was spared. His messenger had been sent back with no answer.

The Franks were hurling their torches at the base of the wall. The defenders were prepared. Some met the Franks with arrows while others poured buckets of water to extinguish the flames. A jar of naphtha flew from behind the wall and shattered amongst the Franks, covering half a dozen men with clinging flames. The rest scattered. Acre would hold a little longer.

Movement along the Frankish line caught Yusuf’s eye, and he turned his gaze in that direction. A gate opened in the barricade, and two men rode forth under a white flag of truce. Yusuf could not see their faces from this distance, but they were clearly not Philip and Richard. He scowled. He turned to the messengers who waited at the rear of the tower. ‘Go to my brother. Tell him the Frankish negotiators are coming, and he is to treat with them.’

Yusuf already had a tent prepared for the negotiations. The men at the line had been instructed to lead the Franks there. Yusuf would not go. He had asked to speak king to king, and he would not lower himself by meeting with their representatives. He left the tower and returned to his tent to await Selim’s report. His stomach was twisting with nervous tension. He tried to read the
Hamasah
to settle his nerves. He had not finished the first poem when Saqr stepped into the tent.

‘Your brother has sent one of the Franks to you, Malik.’

Yusuf’s brow creased. ‘I instructed him to treat with them.’

‘He thought you would want to meet this one in person. It is John.’

Yusuf thought John had returned to England. Had he come with Richard? Or had he been in the enemy camp all along? He set the book aside. ‘Show him in.’

It had been four years since Yusuf had last seen him, but John seemed to have aged more than that. His hair was more silver than blond now, and the lines on his face had deepened. He still stood straight-backed, though, and walked with a firm step.

‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan,’ Yusuf greeted him.

John gave a small bow. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum. Thank you for seeing me.’

Yusuf gestured for him to sit. ‘I had thought you in England.’

‘I was.’ John sat across from Yusuf. He smiled ruefully. ‘I spent so many years dreaming of home. But when I finally reached Tatewic, I realized my home is here. I joined Richard’s crusade so I could return.’

‘And now you fight by his side.’

‘God help me, but I do.’

‘What sort of man is he?’

‘He is a bastard. He can be cruel and impulsive, headstrong and hot-tempered. And he is worse when he drinks.’ John met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘But I have never seen a braver warrior, nor a better leader of men. Not even you, Yusuf.’

‘Can he be reasoned with?’

‘You cannot buy him off, if that is what you mean. Richard has set his sights on Jerusalem. He has vowed not to stop until he has taken it.’

‘I will stop him.’

‘Do not be so sure. I would not lie to you, Yusuf. Richard is unlike anyone you have faced. There was a prophet on Sicily who predicted Richard would not lose a battle in the Holy Land. I thought those were just words, but after seeing Richard at Messina, then on Cyprus, and now here at Acre . . . I believe him.’