NOVEMBER 1177: ASCALON
John hurried up the steps to the top of the wall and strode to where Baldwin and Reynald stood looking out at the enemy campfires, which seemed as innumerable as the stars. Closer to the walls, thousands of mamluks were massed before the nearest gate, ready in case the Franks tried to sneak out. They were less than a hundred yards off, but John could barely see them. It was a dark night, cloudy with no moon.
‘The tide is out,’ John told Baldwin. ‘It is time, sire.’
‘Are you sure of this?’ Reynald asked. ‘The lands beyond the sea wall are dangerous, a morass where sucking sand can swallow a horse whole.’
‘We have no choice,’ the king replied.
They rode across the city to where the army had gathered before the west gate. Most of the time the ocean crashed against the bottom of the gate, but the tide had receded, exposing the ground beyond it. They would have to go far out amongst the receding waters to avoid being seen by the Saracens. A local boy, who often visited the tidal flats to hunt for clams, had volunteered to guide them. He stood in front of the gate, biting his thumbnail.
‘We haven’t much time,’ he said as Baldwin and John rode up to him. ‘When the tide returns, it will come like a horse at gallop.’
Baldwin nodded to the men at the gate. ‘Open it.’
The gate swung open and the boy led them out on a winding path across the dark tidal flat. Soon the ocean was washing against the ankles of John’s horse. When he looked back, the walls of Ascalon had been swallowed up by the darkness. Suddenly there was loud shouting. ‘Help! Help me!’ A knight had strayed just a short distance from the path picked out by the guide. His horse was mired in sucking sands, and the more it struggled, the deeper it sank. ‘Help!’ the knight shouted again.
‘You, sergeant,’ Baldwin called quietly to a nearby foot-soldier. ‘Silence him.’
The sergeant drew back his bow and let fly. The arrow hit the knight in the chest, and he cried out in shock. The second arrow lodged in his throat. Baldwin rode on. John watched for a moment as the knight slowly sank into the sands. ‘God have mercy on his soul,’ he murmured, and spurred after the king.
The waves were now slapping against the knees of John’s horse. ‘The tide is coming,’ their guide called softly. ‘We must hurry.’ He began to jog, lifting his knees high. They angled back towards shore, but the water continued to rise around them. Then the land sloped up sharply. A moment later they were leaving the sea behind and riding on to the sandy shore. John looked south, but saw no sign of the Saracens.
‘Praise God!’ Baldwin said. He tossed their guide a pouch heavy with gold coins and then turned to John. ‘Come! We ride for Jerusalem!’
NOVEMBER 1177: MONTGISARD
The morning dawned cold with a driving rain, and Yusuf wrapped his fur cloak tight about him as the army set out for Jerusalem. The rain muddied the ground and filled the ravines with turbulent brown water. By noon the sun had burned off the clouds and dried Yusuf’s cloak, but the ground remained a morass of sucking mud. They did not reach Ramlah until mid afternoon.
The city had been deserted and everything of value carted away. Yusuf’s men watered their horses and then put the city to the torch. They left it burning, sending roiling black smoke into the sky as they continued on towards Jerusalem. The road passed through low hills and then out on to a broad plain, which sat in the shadow of a tall peak named Tell al-Safiya, or Montgisard, as the Franks called it. The plain was bisected by a steep-sided ravine some twenty feet deep. It was flooded with fast-moving water from the rains. Yusuf’s men had to dismount to lead their horses down the sides. At the bottom the turbulent water reached to the horses’ chests, making their footings treacherous.
Yusuf dismounted and took a small meal of bread and water while his army crossed. He was finishing the bread when Saqr pointed to the horizon.
‘Someone is approaching, Malik.’
Yusuf squinted but saw nothing. ‘Can you tell how many?’
‘It is hard to say. The ground is wet, so they kick up no dust. There could be dozens, or thousands.’
Yusuf made to call for Qaraqush, but the mamluk general was already approaching. He dismounted and nodded towards the horizon. ‘We have visitors. Men returning from Arsuf or Lydaa, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps.’ Yusuf could now see sunlight flashing off steel in the distance. ‘They are close.’ He looked to the ravine. A third of his men had reached the far side. That left only eight thousand mamluks with Yusuf. And whoever these new arrivals were, they would arrive long before the rest of the army had crossed. ‘Qaraqush, have those who have crossed return to this side. And send scouts to find out who is approaching.’
Yusuf paced as he waited for the scouts to return. He could now see tiny figures in the distance. There seemed to be thousands. Flags flew over them, but he could make nothing out.
‘The scouts are returning,’ Saqr said. Yusuf spotted a dozen mamluks in saffron yellow racing across the plain. ‘They are driving their horses as if shitan himself were at their heels.’
‘The Franks,’ Yusuf whispered. He called for Qaraqush. ‘Have the men form ranks. Prepare for battle. Quickly!’
Qaraqush rode away waving his sword and shouting orders. The scouts galloped across the plain and pulled up before Yusuf. When they spoke, they only confirmed what he already knew.
‘It is the Frankish army, Malik. They are here!’
‘God is with us!’ Baldwin cried. ‘We have surprised them!’
John sat in the saddle beside the king and the other Christian leaders. They were atop a hill with the Frankish army behind them. The knights were in the front ranks, grouped in the middle. Thousands of foot-soldiers spread out to either side of them. They had marched through the night, taking the coastal road in order to avoid the enemy scouts. The morning’s rain had profited them, dampening the dust that would have revealed their approach and slowing the Saracens. Now, they had caught them. Before John, the ground sloped down to a broad plain, where the Saracen army stood. The enemy was in chaos as men scrambled to form ranks. Thousands of warriors were stuck on the far side of the ravine that bisected the plain.
‘Reynald!’ Baldwin called. ‘Are the men ready to charge?’
‘Aye, sire. The knights will ride first to break their ranks. The sergeants will clean up the mess.’
Baldwin nodded and then turned to John. ‘Help me from my horse.’ The king could ride well enough, but his leprosy had weakened his legs, making it difficult for him to dismount. John helped him down. The king drew his sword and knelt with the blade pointing towards the earth. He bowed his head so that his brow touched the pommel.
‘O God!’ he prayed loudly. ‘What I ask now, I ask not in my name but in the name of all the faithful, and in the name of your son, who died on the cross in Jerusalem. That same city is now under threat from the infidels. Give us strength, O Lord, that we may defend it. Guide our swords that we may strike down our enemies. Look with favour on the armies of God. In your name, Amen!’
The men began to cheer. Baldwin rose, and as John helped him back into the saddle the king grasped his arm and leaned close. ‘Godspeed, John. Stay close to Reynald.’
John nodded and mounted his horse. He drew his sword and rode alongside Reynald, who scowled at him before pulling on his helmet. John pulled on his own helmet and readied his kite-shaped shield.
‘Godspeed!’ Baldwin called in his direction and raised his sword. ‘For Christ! For the Kingdom!’