‘Christ! What was that?’ Rabbit shouted.
A scream came from the far side of the barricade, then another and another. ‘It’s an ambush!’ John cried out, drawing his sword and crouching behind his shield, his back to the barrier. He pulled Rabbit down beside him.
‘Where are they?’ Tybaut demanded. Sword in hand, he went and knelt beside One Eye. He touched the wound in One Eye’s back, and then looked up to the wall. John followed his gaze and noticed that there were dozens of round holes, each just wide enough for a spear to fit through. ‘The wall!’ Tybaut whispered. A spear shot through one of the holes, catching him in the shoulder. He cried out in pain and scrambled backwards. Another spear shot out from the opposite wall, catching him in the back and dropping him.
‘We’re going to die,’ Rabbit whimpered. ‘We’re going to die!’
‘Your shield!’ John snapped, and Rabbit raised his shield just in time to deflect yet another spear. ‘We’re not going to die, follow me.’
John climbed up to the top of the barricade and pulled Rabbit up after him. The ground on the far side was littered with dead and wounded men. Ernaut’s horse had been killed beneath him, and he lay pinned beneath it, screaming for help. Four knights were hurrying forward from further down the column. An arrow struck one, dropping him, and the others hugged the walls, only to be cut down by the spears. As John watched, an arrow sank into the barricade just in front of him. He looked past the wall to a tall building set amongst the fruit trees. There, in the windows of the upper floor, stood four archers. One took aim at John, and an arrow whizzed past his ear.
‘Come on!’ John shouted as he grabbed Rabbit’s arm. They scrambled to the wall, which rose four feet above the barricade. John pulled himself up and dropped over the other side. He landed on top of a Saracen, knocking the man unconscious and sending them both sprawling. John sprang to his feet to find himself facing three more men. The closest stabbed at John with a spear. John blocked the blow with his shield and thrust with his sword, impaling the man through the chest. Another man attacked, and John was forced to jump aside, leaving his sword with the dead Saracen. He backed away, his shield raised, as the two remaining Saracens advanced, their spears pointed at him. One of them screamed ‘ Allah! Allah! Allah!’ and had started to charge when Rabbit landed on him from above, knocking him flat. John rushed the other Saracen, taking advantage of the surprise. He slammed his shield into the man’s face, dropping him. He turned to see that Rabbit had slit the other man’s throat. The boy was white-faced and shaking.
John clapped him on the back. ‘Well done. You saved my hide.’
‘Th-that’s the first man I ever killed.’
‘You did well,’ John replied as he wrenched his sword free from the chest of the dead Saracen. ‘We have to deal with those archers.’ He pointed towards the tall building before them. ‘Are you up for it?’ Rabbit nodded. ‘Let’s go, then.’
John kicked the door of the house open and rushed inside. The bottom floor was empty. He and Rabbit hurried up the stairs on the far wall. The door at the top was locked. John raised his shield, then kicked the door hard. As it swung open, a volley of arrows thumped into his shield. John threw it aside and charged. Four archers stood along the far wall, each frantically trying to nock another arrow to his bow. John slashed across the face of the one furthest to the right, dropping him before his arrow was free of the quiver. The next in line had managed to nock an arrow, but John sliced the man’s bow in two before he could shoot, then finished him with a thrust to the chest. He turned to see a third archer kneeling and holding up his bow in a vain attempt to block Rabbit’s sword. Rabbit’s blade sliced through the bow and cleaved the Saracen’s head in two, spilling blood and pink brains on wooden floor. Rabbit turned away and vomited.
The final Saracen, a beardless man no older than John, raised his bow and shot. But the man’s hands were shaking, and the arrow flew wide, embedding itself in the wall. The Saracen threw down his bow and drew a knife. As John approached, sword held high, a puddle of urine formed at the feet of the wide-eyed Saracen. ‘Drop it!’ John ordered, and the archer threw down his weapon.
‘No hurt! No hurt!’ he babbled in broken Frankish. ‘I prisoner!’
‘There you are, Saxon,’ Ernaut said as he limped into the room, sword in hand. Four arrow shafts protruded from his chest; they had penetrated his breastplate but not made it past the thick leather vest beneath. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’ve taken a prisoner.’
Ernaut shoved John out of the way and impaled the archer through the chest. He turned back to John. ‘We don’t have time for prisoners.’
‘He could have told us about other ambushes,’ John protested.
Ernaut frowned. ‘You’re a smart bugger, aren’t you,’ he said as he snapped off the shafts of the arrows protruding from his chest. He pulled off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘God, I could use a drink. We found a path that leads around the barricade. Let’s get to that damned river.’ He turned to leave, but then stopped in the doorway. ‘You two chop off those sons-of-whores heads and bring them with us on spears. Maybe that will make the bastards think twice before they attack us.’
‘’Sblood,’ John cursed as he turned to his gruesome task.
Yusuf and Turan stood on the wall above the al-Jabiya gate and watched as Muslim troops poured out of the orchard and splashed across the river, heading for the open gate. Behind the troops, a procession of disembodied heads approached through the orchard, bobbing high above the trees. A moment later, the first Frankish knights stepped out of the orchard, carrying spears with the heads of Muslim soldiers impaled atop them.
‘They are savages,’ Yusuf whispered.
‘They will pay for this indignity,’ Turan spat.
‘Inshallah.’ On the far side of the river more Christians were emerging from the orchards. Most went straight to the waters to drink. A few shouted up at the wall and made crude gestures. Below Yusuf, the gate slammed shut behind the last of the Muslim warriors. Yusuf looked beyond the orchard to the horizon, where the sun was just setting. The battle for the orchards had taken the best part of a day. He looked away from the blood-red sun to see his father approaching along the wall.
‘The Franks have taken the orchard, Father!’ Turan shouted to him.
Ayub nodded. ‘Unur will have no choice now but to ally with Nur ad-Din. He has invited us to dine at the palace. Come, we are expected.’
‘Should we change into finer clothes?’ Yusuf asked. He and Turan both wore plain white cotton caftans.
‘No. Unur prefers simplicity.’ Yusuf followed his father through the city to the emir’s palace, a jumble of domed buildings and simpler wooden structures that sat behind a tall wall and deep moat. A dozen mamluks guarded the bridge across the moat. Their commander nodded respectfully as Ayub approached. ‘You are expected,’ the mamluk said, and the soldiers parted to let them pass.
They entered the palace entrance hall and found themselves before a pair of tall bronze doors guarded by two muscular Nubians. ‘Remember,’ Ayub said to his sons, ‘you are here as guests. Do as I do. Do not speak unless the emir speaks to you first. And if you must speak, keep your answers short. Everything you do and say will reflect upon our family. We can ill afford the emir’s disfavour.’ Ayub nodded to one of the Nubians, who knocked on the door three times and then pushed it open.
‘Najm ad-Din Ayub,’ the Nubian declared.
Yusuf followed his father and brother into a large, circular room, brilliantly lit by candelabras mounted on the marble-clad walls that rose to a vaulted dome high above. The dome’s interior was covered in ornate script in gold-leaf, with Emir Unur’s seal at the centre. Generals and ministers of the emir sat on cushions that had been placed in a circle around the edge of the room. They were already eating, selecting their food from dozens of platters placed on low stands. Emir Unur sat directly across from the door, on a dais that raised him two feet above the others. He wore robes of white silk embroidered with an interlocking pattern of red roses and green thorns. Unur was fit and olive-skinned, with a clean-shaven chin and scalp and crinkles around the corners of his bright, hazel eyes. He smiled broadly when he saw his guests. ‘Welcome, Ayub,’ he said in a pleasant baritone. ‘These, I take it, are your sons?’