John sidestepped the spear, knocking the point aside with his sword, and then stuck out his foot, tripping the Saracen as he charged past. He hacked down, finishing the man, then looked up just in time to twist out of the way of another spear thrust, which ripped through his tunic. John grabbed the shaft and pulled his attacker to him, impaling the Saracen on his sword. As he pulled his blade free, John looked about for another foe, but he saw only other Christians, some in armour, some still in their tunics. The Saracens were fleeing as quickly as they had come, disappearing back into the dark trees.
‘Come on!’ John shouted and charged into the trees, weaving between the closely set trunks. He caught glimpses of the Saracens just ahead, and he could hear his own men crashing through the undergrowth behind him. He had not gone far when he heard an arrow whiz past. Another embedded itself in the tree beside him. John took shelter behind a thick tree trunk as the air filled with the buzz of arrows. Around him, the night echoed with cries of pain and curses in French and German.
The arrows stopped and John continued his pursuit. He left the trees and crashed through a row of grapevines. He peered into the dark shadows ahead, but could see neither friend nor foe in the thick darkness, although he could hear the other Christians around him. Then he caught a flash of movement off to his left and headed that way, entering another stand of trees. As he pushed on, the sounds around him faded.
John squeezed between two trees and found himself at the edge of a clearing where two men stood talking. Instinctively, John stepped back into the shadows. The man facing John was a Saracen in a white turban and chainmail. The other had his back to John. ‘It shall be as you say,’ he was saying. The man turned. It was Reynald.
John caught a flash of steel out of the corner of his eye and ducked just in time to avoid being decapitated. He turned to find himself face to face with Ernaut. ‘Ernaut! It’s me, John!’
Ernaut stepped back and lowered his sword. ‘Sorry, Saxon. I thought you were one of them. It’s damn near impossible to see out here.’
‘Saxon!’ It was Reynald, marching across the clearing towards them. The Saracen was gone. Had John imagined him? Reynald grabbed John’s tunic and pulled him close. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was chasing the Saracens.’
Reynald’s eyes narrowed as he examined John; then he released him. ‘Very well. Since you are here, come with me. I must meet with the other leaders to discuss our response to this attack. Ernaut, you get back to camp and look after the men.’
John fell in behind Reynald. As he walked he looked back to catch a glimpse of Ernaut marching into the darkness, a bulging sack slung over his shoulder.
John and Reynald emerged from a dense grove of apple trees into a clearing that was almost entirely filled by a huge tent. From inside, John could hear the heated voices of many men. At the entrance, Reynald paused and leaned close to John. ‘You are brave, Saxon. You will go far with my help. But if you cross me, you will regret it. Do you understand?’ John hesitated. What had he seen, anyway? He nodded, and Reynald clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good man.’
They entered the tent, and Reynald shouldered his way through the crowd to where King Louis stood with the German king Conrad and Baldwin, King of Jerusalem. John stayed at the edge of the crowd.
‘They came in through your section of the camp!’ King Conrad was shouting as he pointed at King Louis.
‘You’re the one who insisted that we camp here,’ Louis retorted. ‘There are hundreds of paths through the orchards. It is impossible to guard every one of them. My men’s blood is on your hands!’
‘How dare you!’ Conrad roared
‘Enough! Enough!’ King Baldwin shouted. ‘This is just what our enemy hopes for. They wish to set us against one another. We must not let them. If you wish to blame someone, then blame me.’ He looked to both kings. Neither spoke. ‘Very well. We must fortify our position immediately. We will build walls to separate the orchards from the city, and we will post guards.’
‘Pardon me, King Baldwin, but is that wise?’ It was Reynald who spoke, and all eyes turned to him. ‘The orchards will be hard to hold, no matter what fortification we build. We will never be safe from these night-time raids so long as we stay here.’
‘What are you proposing?’ Conrad asked.
‘The walls are weaker on the eastern side of the city. I suggest we move our camp there.’
‘After we lost so many lives to take the orchards?’ King Louis asked. ‘And what will our men eat? The land to the east is desert.’
‘We will take supplies from the orchards. We only need enough for a few days. The Saracens do not expect an attack from the east. In less than a week, we will be feasting in the halls of the emir’s palace!’
‘It is too great a risk, Reynald,’ Louis said.
‘No,’ Conrad countered. ‘You should listen to your man. If moving east can bring the siege to an end sooner, then I am for it. I have been too long away from my kingdom already.’
‘What do you say, King Baldwin?’ Louis asked. ‘You know these lands better than any of us.’
‘It is true that the eastern walls are weaker,’ Baldwin began. ‘But moving our camp brings great risk. If we do not conquer the city swiftly, then we will run short of food. And retaking the orchards will be difficult, if not impossible.’ He looked around the tent. ‘If it were left to me, I would stay and fortify our position here, but I am not the only king present. We shall vote. Those in favour of staying?’ Louis shouted his approval and was joined by a handful of men. ‘Those in favour of moving camp to the east?’ A deafening chorus of approval greeted Baldwin’s words. The choice was clear. ‘Tomorrow at dawn,’ Baldwin declared, ‘we break camp.’
On a blazing hot afternoon three days later, John sat in the shade of his tent, his stomach growling as he stared at the unappetizing piece of salted beef he held in his hands. The beef was as tough as leather, and one side was splotched with green. John sniffed at it and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He shook his waterskin and sighed. Only a couple of mouthfuls of water remained to wash down the salty, putrid meat. He was about to toss it aside when his stomach growled loudly. ‘By God, I’m hungry,’ he muttered to himself.
John glanced over his shoulder, beyond the rows of low tents and past the huge pavilion at the centre of camp that served as a church, to the bulky wall of Damascus, shimmering in the summer heat. After three days of bloody fighting, the wall still stood, and already the army was short of food and water. Moving east had taken them further from the river, and whenever men went to fill their waterskins, the Saracens rode out to drive them off. The fruit and vegetables from the orchards that had not been eaten had already spoiled in the sweltering July heat. This loathsome salted beef was all they had left. John rubbed the tough meat between his fingers, trying to remove as much of the mould as possible. Then, he tore off a piece with his teeth and chewed slowly.
‘Get up, Saxon.’ It was Ernaut, approaching in full armour.
‘On your feet, all of you!’ he bellowed to the other men crouched in the tiny squares of shade cast by their tents. ‘We’re leaving.’
‘When?’ John asked.
‘Now. Pack up and form ranks. We’ve been assigned to the rearguard.’
John ducked into his tent and stuffed his possessions into his rucksack. Then he untied and removed the tent’s woollen covering, revealing its skeleton — two poles at either end that crossed at the top to form triangles, and a longer pole that ran between them. He wrapped the poles in the tent fabric, tied up the bundle and stuffed it in his rucksack. He looked around him as he shouldered the bag. What had been a city of tents only minutes before had vanished, reverting to a dusty plain.