His cry was echoed by all the men down the line. ‘The Kingdom! The Kingdom!’ The knights charged, and the sergeants poured after them.
John galloped down on to the plain. Ahead, the Saracen line was still forming. The Egyptian lancers had been caught on the far side of the ravine, meaning there would be no one to blunt the Christian charge.
Reynald spurred to the head of his men, and John kicked his horse’s flanks to keep pace. They rode for the centre of the Saracen line. The men there were dressed in the saffron yellow of Yusuf’s personal mamluks, and above them flew Yusuf’s standard: a golden eagle on a field of white. The Saracens had bows in their hands, and John saw strings being drawn taught. They let fly. Several arrows hit the ground before John, and then one struck him in the chest. It penetrated his mail but was stopped by the padded vest beneath. Another hit him with the same result. John ignored them. His eyes were fixed on the Saracen line only fifty yards away. Forty. Thirty. John could see the men’s bearded faces. The mamluks were shouldering their bows and readying their bamboo spears. John gripped his sword tight. Then he hit the line.
A Saracen spear shattered on his shield, and John swung out, catching his attacker in the throat. John’s charger slammed its shoulder into a Saracen mount, and the Arabian stumbled and fell. John slashed to the right and left as he followed Reynald into the Saracen ranks. Behind him, he could hear yells of anger and pain as the rest of the knights hit the line. John caught sight of Yusuf just ahead. Then the Saracen line broke. The men facing John turned and fled, pushed back by the impact of the Frankish charge.
‘For the Kingdom!’ Reynald roared. ‘Kill every last one of the bastards!’ He spurred after the enemy, but the Saracens pulled away on their fleeter horses. Suddenly they stopped and turned. John spotted Yusuf at their centre, waving his sword overhead and shouting to his right. John looked in that direction and his eyes widened. The Saracens had not been retreating. They had been laying a trap.
‘Reynald!’ he shouted. He grabbed the regent’s reins and pulled back, stopping him. ‘We’ve gone too far!’
‘Release me!’ Reynald snarled and knocked John’s hand away. ‘We’ve almost won!’
‘Look around you!’ The Frankish knights had punched through the centre of the Saracen line, but to the left and right the enemy flanks were now closing in on them. They would be surrounded in moments.
‘Christ’s beard,’ Reynald cursed. ‘Back, men! Back!’
He turned his horse, but it was too late. A roar went up from the enclosing Saracens: ‘Allah! Allah! Allah!’
‘I’ll see you in hell, Saxon,’ Reynald muttered. He spurred his horse straight towards the onrushing Saracens.
‘’Sblood!’ John cursed and galloped after him. Ahead, Reynald had disappeared into the crowd of Saracens. John charged after him, swinging his sword in wide arcs. He felt blows raining down on him from all sides, swords and spears glancing off his mail. There were no other knights in sight. The Franks had been swept up in the flood of mamluks, and each knight was now an island facing dozens of circling men.
John glimpsed Reynald through the crowd of mamluks and forced his horse alongside the regent’s. His surcoat was soaked in blood, though John could not tell if it was his or a Saracen’s. ‘To me!’ Reynald cried. ‘Men of Jerusalem, to me!’
A knight joined them, then another and another. Soon they had more than two-dozen men alongside. John and Reynald found themselves at the centre of the Christians and momentarily free from the fight. Reynald took a horn from his saddle.
‘What are you doing?’ John demanded.
‘We have lost.’ Reynald raised the horn to signal the retreat, but lowered it as there was a roar behind them. John looked to see the sergeants, with Baldwin at their head, slam into the Saracen line. The king drove into the Saracen ranks, hacking furiously at the enemy. Foot-soldiers came after him, spearing the Saracens off their horses. Reynald hesitated for a moment and then brought the horn back to his lips.
John knocked it from his hands. ‘The King has charged. We must ride to join him.’
Reynald looked from John to Baldwin and then raised his voice. ‘Retreat! Retreat, men! Re-’
John smashed the pommel of his sword into Reynald’s face, knocking the regent from his horse. He waved his sword overhead. ‘For Jerusalem! For Baldwin! Follow me!’
Yusuf watched as the victory that had seemed certain only moments before turned into defeat. His line of mamluks gave ground as the Frankish sergeants led by Baldwin cut into them. The Frankish knights had regrouped and were driving through Yusuf’s men and towards the king. They joined up around him and pressed forward. Yusuf’s men began to leave the field in ever greater numbers.
Yusuf looked to Saqr. ‘Sound the retreat.’
‘Are you certain, Malik?’
‘Do it!’
Saqr raised a curved ram’s horn and blew three times. Before the last of the piercing notes had faded men began to pull back, the line dissolving as mamluks rode for their lives. The Franks rushed after them. The knights led by Baldwin drove straight towards Yusuf.
‘Come, men!’ Yusuf shouted to the members of his khaskiya. ‘Let us save ourselves.’
He turned and galloped away from the Christians. Ahead, at the edge of the ravine, hundreds of riderless horses were milling about. Yusuf’s men had abandoned them in order to scramble down the steep side. Yusuf reached the edge and leaned back in the saddle as he urged his horse into the ravine, zigzagging down the slope. He reached the bottom and urged his mount into the water. The animal struggled against the swift current. ‘Yalla! Yalla!’ Yusuf shouted in encouragement. But the horse stumbled on a hidden rock and fell.
Yusuf managed to free his feet from the stirrups just before he disappeared under the muddy water. He hit the riverbed and was tumbled head over heels by the swift current. Finally he managed to gain a footing and stand, breaking the surface. The water came up to his chest, but he was able to hold his ground by leaning into the current. He spotted his khaskiya some fifty yards upstream. He would never reach them while in the water. He began to make his way to the far side of the ravine. He lost his footing for a moment and drifted downstream. A mamluk on horseback was just ahead of him, and the current slammed Yusuf into the side of the horse. The rider grasped Yusuf’s arm and held him there for a moment, but then Yusuf was forced under. He passed between the horse’s legs and broke the surface again. He continued to struggle across and finally reached the far side of the ravine. He scrambled up the slope and collapsed, gasping for breath. He was covered in dark-brown mud and his head was ringing. His helmet was lost in the water. After a moment he forced himself to stand.
His army was no more. On the far side of the ravine the field was littered with dead and the Franks were cutting down any who remained. On Yusuf’s side, scattered groups of men scurried from the field, heading for the hills to the south. A group of Frankish knights had crossed the ravine and begun to ride down the Saracens. Small skirmishes broke out here and there as groups of mamluks banded together to make a stand. Their bravery was foolish. The Frankish sergeants were starting to cross the ravine. Once they reached the far side, any mamluks remaining would be slaughtered.
Yusuf started south, towards the hills. He tried to run, but his right leg buckled. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he reached down and felt his knee. It was swollen and throbbing. He must have twisted it in the ravine. He looked up at the sound of approaching hoofbeats. A knight was riding towards him, sword in hand.
A sudden wave of fury swept over Yusuf. He had wanted peace. The Franks had forced him to fight, and, somehow, he had lost. But he would not lose his life on this Godforsaken field, and this Frank, at least, would pay for the humiliation he had suffered. Yusuf drew his sword. ‘For Islam!’ he shouted and limped towards the knight. The Frank spurred to a gallop and brought his sword slicing down. Yusuf managed to parry, but the weight of the blow knocked him to his knees. As he rose the knight wheeled his horse and came charging back. Yusuf parried another blow. But this time his sword went flying from his hands and he was knocked flat on his back. He rose to see that the knight had already turned. Yusuf looked about desperately. On the ground beside him was a dead mamluk, still gripping a bamboo spear. Yusuf prised the spear from his dead fingers and rose to see the knight bearing down. He stood directly in the horse’s path and braced himself. At the last moment he plunged the spear into the charger’s chest and dived to the side. The horse fell, throwing its rider. The Frank lay still for a moment before pushing himself to his feet and stumbling towards his sword.