CHAPTER 18
November 1177
Ascalon, Outremer
Immediately upon their return to Ascalon, they began preparing for the siege. The castle’s larders were well stocked, but the townspeople had to be fed, too, and how much food did they have stored away? Balian had heard of sieges in France where the castle garrisons had expelled the civilians who’d taken shelter with them once their provisions began to get low. He knew Baldwin would never give such an order, though he could easily see Reynald doing so. At least the city had numerous wells. The sandstone double walls were in decent shape, too, buttressed by no less than fifty-three towers, which gave Balian some hope.
When he reported to Baldwin after his inspection of the town walls, Balian found the young king was too troubled to sleep. One by one, the other men excused themselves until only Denys and Balian and Anselm remained in the king’s bedchamber, watching as Baldwin paced back and forth, asking questions about past sieges, asking if they thought Saladin would tunnel under the walls or try an outright assault; if he’d brought mangonels from Egypt or would need to build them; if he had enough supplies for a prolonged siege with so many men to feed. They had no answers for him, but voicing his concerns seemed to calm his nerves and so they smothered their yawns and let him talk.
It was very late before Balian retired to the bedchamber he was sharing with his brother. When he opened his eyes again, light was seeping into the chamber through the shutter slats and Piers was leaning over him, gently shaking his shoulder. “Wake up, my lord—please!”
Balian sat bolt upright in the bed. “Has the siege begun?”
The squire shook his head. “No, they are gone, my lord, they are all gone!”
Emerging onto the castle battlements, Balian saw that his brother, Baldwin, and Reynald de Chatillon were already there, staring down at the plain below. Instead of the sprawling siege camp they’d expected to see, there was only trampled grass and churned-up earth and emptiness. One of the largest armies to invade Outremer had vanished overnight.
Balian joined them at the embrasure. “They did not even leave scouts behind to keep watch over us?” he asked in astonishment.
Reynald spat out one of the Arabic oaths he’d learned during his long captivity in Aleppo. “Why should they? They think we pose no more threat than a convent of nuns!”
He sounded outraged, and Balian and Baudouin exchanged glances, grimly amused that Reynald was so offended by Saladin’s cavalier dismissal of their small army.
Baldwin looked exhausted, but he was angry, too. “It is never wise to hold an enemy too cheaply,” he said, and the d’Ibelin brothers realized that, like Reynald, he took the Saracens’ scorn as a personal insult. “Is it a razzia, then?” he asked after a heavy silence.
Razzia was the Arabic word for the widespread raiding called a chevauchée by the Franks. The aim was to cause as much suffering as possible, laying waste the land of the enemy, burning his crops in the field, running off his livestock, plundering his towns and villages, and proving to his terrified subjects that they could not rely upon him for protection, a liege lord’s first duty. Knowing how much pain a razzia would inflict upon his people, Baldwin was taken aback by Reynald’s response.
“Let’s hope so.” Seeing Baldwin’s surprise, Reynald said bluntly, “If it is not a razzia, then Saladin is marching on Jerusalem with twenty thousand men. Pick your poison, my liege.”
Baldwin flinched, his gaze moving past Reynald toward the wide road that disappeared into the low hills to the east, the road that led to Jerusalem. “God would not let that happen,” he said, but without much conviction. He’d once been sure the Almighty would never choose a leper to rule over the Holy Land.
The day dragged by. Quarrels broke out, for nerves were taut and tempers quick to kindle. Soldiers with nothing to do headed for the taverns, where townspeople were celebrating Ascalon’s reprieve. Since most of the army had families scattered throughout the rest of Outremer, they took offense at the festive atmosphere. Some of these fights spilled into the streets and Reynald had to send serjeants out to restore order. Ascalon was not a city under siege, but they were still trapped, and without an enemy to unite them, the miserable men were turning on one another.
A noon dinner in the castle great hall went virtually untouched. Balian soon climbed up to the battlements again. The sun had burned away the last of the morning sea mist, so it felt more like September than late November. As a kestrel circled overhead, Balian tracked its flight until it went into a dive and disappeared from view. His spirits were plummeting like that hawk. He was turning away from the parapet when his eye was caught by a smudge along the horizon—smoke.
By the time Baudouin clambered up onto the battlements, the blue sky to the north of Ascalon was stained with billowing dark clouds. He looked so stricken that Balian hurried to his side. He started to assure Baudouin that it might not be Ramlah on fire, but the words wouldn’t come. “You told them to flee if they saw the Saracens approaching,” he finally said. “They’d have been on the road to Jaffa ere Saladin’s men entered the town.”
Baudouin said nothing. Over three thousand people lived in Ramlah and not all of them would have evacuated the town. Some would have been elderly or sick or just too stubborn to admit the danger until it was too late. They might have taken refuge in the castle, but it did not have enough men to fend off an assault for long. That was true for castles and towns all over Outremer, stripped of their garrisons by Baldwin’s urgent summons. Baudouin slammed his fist against the stone merlon, skinning his knuckles and leaving a smear of blood. It didn’t help. He began to curse then, long and loud; that didn’t help, either.
Judging by the changing pattern of the smoke, there was more than one fire. Mirabel? Ibelin? Balian knew that only fourteen of Outremer’s cities and towns had their own walls. The rest were like Ramlah and Nablus, protected by castles, often small ones. Balian thought of the villagers at Ibelin. Would they be able to reach the castle if a Saracen raiding party came swooping down upon them? Some of them were Muslims, but that might not save them, for men at war did not always take the time to identify the enemy. And what of Nablus? Would Saladin’s army get that far inland? What would happen to the town and the ninety villages that depended upon him now for protection? He looked at the smoke spreading across the horizon, blotting out the sun, and he felt it was also blotting out all hope for his besieged homeland.
Men soon began to arrive at Ascalon, some bloodied, all deeply shaken, reporting encounters with Saracens as they made their way to the coast in response to the arrière-ban. They spoke of deaths and captures and narrow escapes, with those taken prisoner dragged along with the army, to be sold in the slave markets of Cairo. And they confirmed that the Shephelah plain was swarming with raiding parties, already laden with plunder and livestock.
Baldwin insisted upon hearing all of these stories for himself, even though each new account seemed to deplete more of his energy. By the evening meal, he looked absolutely greensick, not even making a pretense of eating. Few of the others did, either. They did drink, though, and that night Baudouin got very drunk. Nor was he the only one. Balian was greatly tempted, but he stayed sober to keep an eye on his brother and had another bad night, sleeping in snatches, jarred awake by nightmares he mercifully could not remember.
Dawn arrived with brutal inevitability and the castle was filled with men who looked like walking death, nursing bad hangovers. The only benefit from their drunken debauchery was that most of them felt too awful to squabble with one another. The great hall was unnaturally quiet as few were breaking their fast with bread, cheese, or thick slices of roasted lamb. Balian steered his groggy brother toward a table, but Baudouin veered away when the scent of meat roiled his stomach and instead collapsed on a bench near the open hearth.
When Balian thrust a cup into his hand, he drank in gulps. “If you had any mercy,” he muttered, “you’d add hemlock to the beer to put me out of my misery.”
“If I were going to poison anyone, it would be him.” Balian looked across the hall, his gaze coming to rest on Joscelin de Courtenay.
Baudouin glanced up, then nodded approvingly. “Do not tempt me, Little Brother. I’d like nothing better than to rid the world of a de Courtenay ere I die.”
Balian was no longer listening, his attention drawn to the table where Baldwin had been slouching, looking utterly desolate. He was on his feet now, though, rising so quickly that his chair teetered and crashed into the floor rushes. One of his household knights was at his side, gesturing toward another man standing nearby. Baldwin beckoned to him, then turned toward Reynald, seated at the same table. He rose swiftly, too, and as soon as the third man reached them, they headed toward the door.
Their path took them by Balian. Taking a few steps forward, he halted, watching as they strode past him. The man with them was a stranger. He was dressed like a Saracen, but many of the local Christians did so. Was he one of Baldwin’s spies? A scout? Balian was sure only that the news he was bringing was not good.
They were not kept in suspense for long. Within the hour, Reynald returned to the hall. Stepping up onto the dais, he raised his voice in a demand for silence. The following lords were wanted by the king, he said tersely. As their names were called, men rose hastily to their feet. A few tried to question Reynald, but he ignored them. Spinning on his heel, he stalked toward the door, leaving the others to scramble to catch up with him. The d’Ibelin brothers followed at a more measured pace, Baudouin convinced that if he moved too fast, his head was likely to detach from his shoulders and Balian in no hurry to hear whatever Baldwin had to tell them.
Baldwin was slumped in a chair, his hand shielding his eyes. He got to his feet as they entered the solar, looking so distraught that they braced themselves for the worst. Wasting no time, he pointed to the stranger. “This is Bernard. I daresay most of you have heard of him.”
Murmurs swept the solar, for Bernard was a legend in Outremer. That was not his real name, merely the one he used on his missions. He’d served Baldwin’s father and now served the young king, beginning as a low-level spy and rising to command a ring that encompassed the entire kingdom. He was thought to be a Syrian Christian but could easily pass as a Muslim and often did. He was said to be fluent in Arabic, Kurdish, Syriac, French, and Greek, as well as several local dialects, and was utterly fearless, despite having a large Saracen bounty upon his head. At least that was what the Franks believed, trading improbable stories of his exploits in taverns and around campfires, no one really knowing the truth.
For such a celebrated figure, Bernard seemed quite ordinary. He was of medium height and slim build, a man to pass unnoticed on the street. Judging by his lithe body movements, Balian thought he was surprisingly young, in his late twenties or early thirties. But he could not be sure of that, for Bernard was wearing the Saracen turban called an imamah muhannak, which had a wide strip of dangling cloth its wearer could wrap around his mouth and nose in bad weather. Bernard was using it now to mask the lower half of his face; only his eyes were visible, so dark they were almost black, eyes that missed little and revealed even less.
“I have naught to tell you but bad news, my lords.” He was so soft-spoken that they had to strain to catch his words. “Saladin has set his men loose to plunder and loot. Ramlah was burned. So were the closest towns and villages, Ibelin and Mirabel. When they attacked Lydda, the people fled to the fortified church, but the town itself was sacked. Any Franks unlucky enough to encounter them have been slain or taken as slaves if they are women or young and healthy. The countryside is shrouded in smoke, for they’ve been firing houses and barns and churches. The streets of Ramlah and Lydda are littered with the bodies of pigs and dogs, and they are stealing all the horses, cattle, and sheep they find. Never have I seen such destruction.”
Bernard was not telling them anything they’d not already suspected. It was still devastating to have their worst fears confirmed. There were a few muted exclamations, some cursing, and someone in the back of the solar exclaimed, “How can people survive the winter if they’ve lost everything? They’ll starve!”
“That is the least of our worries at the moment,” Reynald said, so bitterly that the men fell silent again.
Bernard glanced over at Baldwin, who nodded for him to continue. “Saladin is in no hurry about it, but there seems little doubt of his intent. Whilst he may not have had it in mind when he left Egypt, once he discovered how weak we were, he realized what an opportunity he had. He is leading his army east—toward Jerusalem.”
They stared at him, appalled. The loss of Jerusalem would mean the loss of their kingdom, too, the only world they’d ever known. And they would be blamed throughout Christendom for letting the Holy City fall to the infidels.
For some of them, the fear was more immediate. Balian felt as if his lungs were suddenly being squeezed in an icy grip and he had to struggle to breathe. Nor was he the only one with loved ones in danger; many men had left their families in Jerusalem, thinking they’d be safest there. Baldwin’s mother and pregnant sister. Baudouin’s two daughters, Esquiva and Etiennette, and his young son, Thomasin. Reynald’s wife and stepson. William of Tyre. The elderly patriarch. Thirty thousand men, women, and children at the mercy of an infidel army.
Hugues of Galilee’s first reaction was relief that his mother and younger brothers were at Tiberias, not Jerusalem. He at once felt guilty for that. Glancing toward Baldwin, he thought how dreadful it must be to preside over the death of their kingdom. He was seated closest to Baldwin’s stepfather and he leaned over, asking Denys softly what Baldwin would do. Denys shook his head, for what could he do?
Seeing that Bernard had nothing more to say, Baldwin stepped forward, waiting until the solar quieted again. “I cannot and will not hide behind Ascalon’s walls whilst my people are being killed and terrorized, their homes set ablaze,” he said huskily. “Even if we cannot stop the Saracens from ravaging our lands, we have to try. You do see that?”
He was almost pleading, for he knew what he was asking of them. He did not blame them for being reluctant to ride out to certain death. But he’d shame them into it if need be, and raising his chin, he met their eyes unflinchingly. “I mean to depart Ascalon in search of Saladin. Who rides with me?”
“I will, my liege.” The Bishop of Bethlehem got to his feet. Denys was the next to rise, followed by Baudouin and Balian. Joscelin looked so conflicted that Baldwin felt a spark of sympathy, knowing his uncle was haunted by those twelve years as a Saracen prisoner. But he still stood up. Amaury de Lusignan also rose, as did Denys’s cousins. So did Hugues, torn between terror and pride. When his fifteen-year-old brother did, too, that brought more of the lords to their feet, for how could they let a youngster play a man’s part whilst they stood aside?
Baldwin held his breath then, waiting. He felt deep gratitude when the bishop moved to stand beside him, saying firmly, “God will ride with us, my lord king.”
Baldwin had hoped Bishop Albert’s words would turn the tide. That was done, though, not by the prelate but by the man leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, regarding the other lords with scornful eyes and a sardonic slash of a smile. “We are wasting time, my liege,” Reynald said impatiently. “They’ll come with us, for they have no choice. Any man who cowered behind Ascalon’s walls whilst his ailing young king rode out to confront Saladin would never live down the disgrace.” For a moment, his accusing stare targeted the Brisebarre brothers, both of whom flushed darkly and then slowly got to their feet.
Nor could any of the others hold out against Reynald’s contemptuous challenge. Baldwin knew what had occurred here in the solar was a form of emotional extortion, but he was too desperate to care. “I will send word to the Templar grand master at Gaza,” he said, “asking him to join us. Whilst I cannot order him, I am confident he will agree.”
“The Templars can never resist a losing cause,” Baudouin murmured in an aside to Balian, and those close enough to hear mustered up bleak smiles.
Reynald had overheard, too, and he laughed outright. “Dying as a martyr for Christ is not the worst way to go. But let’s not measure ourselves for haloes just yet. The men who’ve been straggling into Ascalon have all told the same story—that Saladin’s army has spread out over the Shephelah plain in search of plunder—and Bernard has confirmed those accounts. So, if we can find Saladin ere they rejoin him . . .”
Balian felt reluctant admiration, thinking that was adroitly done, offering a hint of hope without actually claiming they could win, which none of them would have believed. He looked over at his brother, then, wondering if the d’Ibelin family’s spectacular rise would end on a November battlefield. Baudouin seemed to read his thoughts, for he punched Balian on the arm. “Do not look so woebegone, lad. Did you not hear Reynald? We’ll likely be facing only twelve thousand Saracens now, so there is naught to fret about.”
It was a game attempt at humor and Balian tried to match it. “I admit I was getting worried. Hoping for a miracle is not the best battle strategy I’ve ever heard. But you’re right, Baudouin. Knowing we’ll only be outnumbered three to one makes a world of difference.”
Would Maria understand why he’d chosen to ride with Baldwin? After a moment to consider, Balian decided that she would, for honor and duty were concepts very familiar to his new wife. If only he’d insisted that she and Isabella seek shelter in Acre or Tyre! Their walls were in far better shape than Jerusalem’s defenses. And if they’d taken refuge in a coastal city, they could have sailed for Constantinople if the kingdom fell to Saladin. He was trying to convince himself that even if they were captured by the Saracens, they’d be well treated, too valuable as hostages to be abused, when Denys’s voice broke into his unhappy musings.
“We’d best shut down the taverns. Once they find out what awaits them on the morrow, every man in the army will want to get blind, raving drunk tonight.”
“They’ll not like that,” Baudouin observed dryly. “So, if we close the taverns, we’d better leave the whorehouses open. Unless the men have something to do tonight, they might occupy themselves by plotting a mutiny.”
That evoked some hollow laughter and a disapproving frown from the Bishop of Bethlehem, who said the men might better occupy themselves with prayer. Before the bishop could launch into a lecture about putting their souls at risk, Reynald raised his voice in a demand for quiet. “We are not waiting till the morrow. The less time that men have to dwell upon it, the easier it will be for them. We march as soon as the Templars arrive.” Only then did he think to consult Baldwin. But the young king took no offense and quickly backed Reynald up, for slights to his royal dignity mattered little when they’d soon be fighting a battle they were sure to lose.
The stronghold at Gaza was only eight miles from Ascalon, so Baldwin was hoping for a quick response from the Templar grand master. He got one: Odo de St. Amand led his eighty knights into Ascalon in midmorning. Odo was notorious for his fiery temper and arrogance, traits that had not always served him well in the past, but they were ideally suited for a desperate last stand with their very survival at stake. Baldwin was heartened by the grand master’s enthusiastic embrace of their plan. He was acutely aware that the lives of more than four thousand men were the stakes in the gamble he was about to take. Yet what choice did he have? It was better to die in the defense of their homeland than to watch helplessly as Outremer went up in flames.
They took the coastal road in hopes of avoiding Saladin’s scouts and set such a punishing pace that they managed to cover twenty miles, reaching Ibelin well after dark. Even cloaked by night, the sight of the village tore at Balian’s heart. He was thankful that the villagers had found shelter in the castle. But their houses and shops had been put to the torch, their livestock taken, and their future looked as bleak as the burned-out remains of their lives. William had once told Balian that three-quarters of the half-million inhabitants of Outremer were Muslims, the majority poor farmers and peasants who scrabbled out a hard living in a land inhospitable to men of any faith. Remembering that, Balian was reminded of an old folk saying, that when elephants fought, it was the ants who were trampled.
The next day was a Friday, the twenty-fifth of November, the feast day of St. Catherine of Alexandria, martyred for her faith at the age of eighteen, and many of the men were inspired to pray for her aid, believing they faced martyrdom, too. The sky had begun to cloud over and a chilly wind swept in from the sea. Smoke to the north and east spurred them on. Baudouin had asked for the command of the vanguard since they were advancing into his lands; that was a military tradition among the Franks, honoring the man whose lordship was under attack.
They were confident that they were close to the Saracen army by now. This was soon confirmed by one of their scouts, a Christian Syrian who nevertheless used the Arabic form of his name—Ya’qūb, not Jacob—for that was his mother tongue. At the sight of Reynald and Baldwin, he let out an excited shout. “I’ve found them, my lords! They are just a few miles away, southeast of Ramlah, near Montgisard!”
A break in the cloud cover had allowed Salāh al-Dīn to get a glimpse of the sun and he calculated it was nigh on two hours past noon. They’d been forced to halt when their baggage carts bogged down as they forded a stream, but there were still a few hours of daylight remaining and they ought to be able to reach Latrun by dark. He was sure that the Templar castle at Latrun would be abandoned, for their knights would be with their grand master at Gaza. He and his men would camp there for the night and in the morning, make their final push for al-Quds, which was just twenty miles to the east of Latrun.
When they’d crossed the border into the land of the Franks a week ago, he’d had nothing more ambitious in mind than a razzia, taking advantage of the absence of so many of the kingdom’s defenders. But events had moved so quickly and their successes had been so easy that their razzia had become a triumphal procession. At first, he’d resisted his nephew’s urging to target the city so holy to Christians and Muslims alike, for his army was not equipped for an extended siege, having left their heavy baggage in their border camp at al-‘Arīsh. After the Franks had retreated into Asqalan, he’d been inclined to press north into Samaria, for Nablus and Nazareth were worth plundering and well-nigh defenseless. Taqī al-Dīn persisted, though, and eventually he prevailed, for the temptation was just too great to resist.
Unlike his nephew, the sultan did not expect them to be able to capture al-Quds. For a serious assault, he’d need siege engines and would have to recall the thousands of men he’d set free to pillage the countryside. Soldiers expected booty when they went to war, and this was a rare opportunity to reward them whilst greatly weakening the kingdom of the unbelievers. But by appearing suddenly before the walls of al-Quds, he would strike fear into Frankish hearts, showing them that not even their Holy City was safe, and making them more amenable to another truce when he was ready to move again against the amirs in Aleppo and Mosul.
“Will we reach al-Quds on the morrow?” When Salāh al-Dīn confirmed that to his young kinsman, Khālid responded with a jaunty smile, reminding the sultan how much he resembled his father. Khālid was Taqī al-Dīn’s eldest son, nigh on twenty. Salāh al-Dīn’s own sons were much younger, the oldest only seven, but Taqī al-Dīn’s youth had been a wild one, resulting in fatherhood before he’d reached Khālid’s age.
Ahead lay the hill called Montgisard by the Franks; it was crowned by a small, deserted castle, for its lord was with the leper king in Asqalan. They’d finally freed their baggage carts from the mud, but some of his men were still fording the stream, when the sultan heard shouting. Turning in the saddle, he saw one of Taqī al-Dīn’s scouts racing toward them.
“The Franks! Their army is on the march along the coastal road!”
It was the panic in his voice as much as his message that spun heads in his direction. “Calm yourself!” the sultan said sharply. “Catch your breath, then tell me what you saw.”
The scout was young, no older than Khālid, and very flustered, but he obediently tried to regain his poise. “Forgive me, my lord. The infidels have left Asqalan. I saw them with my own eyes, flying the banners of their king and the accursed Templars.”
Salāh al-Dīn showed none of his inner agitation; he’d long ago mastered that aspect of leadership. But he was horrified by the scout’s revelation, for his army was in disarray, with many of them off looting, others not even wearing their armor, and none mentally or emotionally ready for battle. He well knew that soldiers needed time to prepare themselves for combat; warfare went against the natural human instinct for self-preservation.
“Sound the trumpets to recall our raiding parties. Those of you who need to fetch your weapons and armor from the baggage train, do so at once.” Glancing at the shocked men surrounding him, he sent several of them to find his nephew and his other battle commanders, then ordered others to post extra guards on their Frankish prisoners. His composure steadied them and they hastened to obey.
Khālid was shaken, but eager, too, for he was young enough to be excited at the prospect of proving himself in battle against the infidels. He’d learned enough of war, though, to recognize that they were caught at a disadvantage. “We still greatly outnumber them, do we not?” he asked, and felt some of his tension ease when his great-uncle assured him that even with so many off raiding, their army was much larger than the Franks’.
His father soon appeared and Khālid gave him a relieved smile. His feelings for his sire were complicated—respect and love and a desperate desire to please mingled with a little fear. But above all, he had utter confidence in his father’s battlefield prowess and the last of his qualms faded away. They could not be defeated as long as Taqī al-Dīn was on the field.
Taqī al-Dīn, ‘Īsā al-Hakkari, and Jawuli al-Asadi, who’d led the raid on Ramlah, were clustered around Salāh al-Dīn as they hastily drew up battle plans. It was agreed upon that they would anchor their line by the hill. But they ran out of time, then, for they heard the trumpets echoing on the wind, heralding the enemy’s approach.
The small army of the Franks was already in battle formation, the squadrons led by their individual lords, with the overall command in Reynald’s hands, the Templars fighting under their own black-and-white banner, and the Bishop of Bethlehem riding with the men sworn to protect the True Cross and the cart that flew the standard of the Kingdom of Jerusalem—a gold crusader’s cross on a field of silver, surrounded by four smaller Greek crosses. The foot soldiers and crossbowmen would usually march in front of the knights, trying to shield their horses from hit-and-run attacks by mounted Saracen archers. But today they marched in the rear, for all depended upon the element of surprise. Far behind came the squires of the knights and Templars, for they were not expected to take part in the battle.
They’d turned inland as soon as Ya’qūb located the sultan’s army and were in better spirits thanks to Baudouin’s exhortations. He’d been encouraged to learn that Saladin was near Montgisard, telling all within earshot that the area around the hill was crisscrossed with streams that fed into the Sorek and Ayalon Rivers, and even an ancient aqueduct. Reynald did not have Baudouin’s familiarity with the region, but he saw at once that such a battlefield would not suit the usual tactics of the Saracens, who depended upon the speed and maneuverability of their horses to encircle and isolate their enemies. He quickly added his voice to d’Ibelin’s, and midst the ashes of their extinguished hopes, a few embers began to glow.
It was then that Ya’qūb returned from a final reconnaissance, an arrow protruding from his boot. “They know we’re coming! They were getting into battle formation, but then they started to shift positions. It looked like the left and right wings were switching places so they’d have the hill at their backs. There was a lot of confusion and I tried to get closer to see better—too close.” He gestured toward the arrow with a grimace, saying it was only a flesh wound.
Despite his bitter disappointment that their attack would not be a total surprise, Baldwin still remembered to thank Ya’qūb. Reynald had already forgotten the scout, would not have noticed had he bled to death right before their eyes. “Christ Jesus!” he exclaimed, his face ablaze with sudden excitement. “Given half a chance, the Saracens will always retreat when we attack. Then they surge back ere we can get into formation for another charge.”
Baldwin had no false pride; he truly wanted to learn from experienced warriors like Reynald. But this was so elementary that it was insulting. “I know that, my lord Reynald,” he said coolly. “Even my sister knows that.”
Reynald laughed, and to Baldwin’s astonishment, he sounded genuinely amused. “You still do not see, do you? The scout said their left and right wings were changing places. If we can hit them whilst they are making this maneuver, they cannot retreat. We can cut through their ranks like a hot knife through butter!”
The Saracens were still struggling to realign their left and right wings when the ground began to tremble, the air rang with hoarse shouts of “St. George!”—the war cry of the Franks—and an avalanche came thundering down upon them. Riding stirrup to stirrup, lances couched under their arms, the armored knights hit their enemies’ line with such force that horses were knocked to their knees and men toppled from their saddles, their lighter armor unable to withstand the thrust of a lance traveling over thirty miles an hour. Confusion was always present on battlefields, but now total chaos reigned.
For a few hectic moments, Balian truly thought they were going to prevail, for their cavalry charge had delivered a staggering blow, dozens of men dying before they could even unsheathe their swords. But their commanders managed to rally some of them and fierce fighting erupted. Balian loosened his hold on the reins, trusting in Demon’s training and temperament. A Saracen soldier was looming on his left, and Balian smashed the man in the face with his shield. He’d fought in close quarters before, yet nothing like this, and he had a bad moment when Demon stumbled over a body. The stallion somehow kept his balance, even reaching out to rake his teeth across the rump of a wild-eyed chestnut, who screamed in rage and nearly threw his rider when he reared, hooves flailing the air. Balian’s lance had shattered when he’d run it under the ribs of a faris, a Saracen knight. A nearby Templar’s lance was still intact, though, and the Templar lunged forward, striking the chestnut stallion in the chest. Like most men of his rank, Balian loved horses and after every battle he lamented those slain or injured. For now, though, his only thought was to stay alive as long as possible. Raising his sword, he urged Demon toward the nearest foe.
Baldwin’s life had just been saved by Asad; he’d nimbly swerved in time to keep the young king from being decapitated. Responding to the pressure of his rider’s knees, Asad now veered to his right, allowing Baldwin to swing his sword at a man on a rawboned bay stallion. The Saracen managed to deflect the blow with his duraqah. Although Baldwin had the same round shield strapped to his right arm, his was a dead weight, like his arm. Sensing he was easy prey, the Saracen moved in for the kill. But Baldwin’s household knights were staying as close to him as they could get, no less protective than Saladin’s elite Mamluk bodyguard. One of them cut the Saracen down in a spray of blood that splattered Baldwin’s leg and Asad’s withers.
The momentum of the knights’ charge had pushed the Saracen right wing into its center and the result was bedlam, with men being unhorsed by their own comrades when they careened into one another. Slashing his way into their midst, Reynald seemed indifferent to his own safety. He was known to some of the Saracens, having earned a grudging respect for his refusal to break during his long captivity, and he was a tempting target; slaying the man they called Prince Arnat would be a sure way to gain battle laurels. But Reynald forged ahead with reckless bravado, inspiring his knights to greater efforts as they struggled to reach his side. At one point, he was surrounded by three Mamluks, yet he was able to hold them off until several of the Templars came to his assistance. One of the Mamluks died; the other two let the tide of battle carry them away, for Templars were famed for their willingness to fight to the death rather than surrender.
The Saracen commanders had been able to send more of their men into the fray. One charge was led by Khālid, who did his father proud by killing the first knight who crossed swords with him. Some of his men were shouting “Allahu akbar!” but Khālid had no breath for that. Although he’d fought in a major battle once before, that was against fellow Muslims outside Aleppo. This was different, for this time they were facing the Franks, who’d dared to claim the holy city of al-Quds. A loss to the infidels would be unthinkable.
Time had no meaning on the battlefield. There was only the here and now, every man’s world reduced to the most basic of needs—survival. Most of them were drenched in sweat, as if it were midsummer and not early winter. Balian’s left leg was throbbing, for he’d taken a blow from a Saracen’s mace. He was already exhausted. But instinct had taken over, drawing upon years of practice at the quintain and in the tiltyard. Training and luck would determine his fate, the fate of all who were fighting with such desperate courage as the afternoon light ebbed away.
Baldwin was taking as many chances as Reynald, for a death on the battlefield held no dread for him. Relying upon Asad’s speed and agility to compensate for the lack of strength in his right arm, he’d so far gotten the better of his adversaries; he had no way of knowing if any of his blows had been lethal ones, but there was blood on his hauberk and sword, none of it his. He was not fighting without fear, though, for he was terrified that they’d fail and doom the kingdom.
Reynald was one of the few Franks who’d actually believed they could win. Their initial charge had been as devastating as he’d hoped, but the Saracens had fought back and the plain became a killing field, a seething mass of men and horses, hand-to-hand combat as savage as any of them had ever experienced. A Mamluk suddenly bore down upon him and Reynald spurred to meet this new foe, his mouth twisting in what was almost a smile, for the man’s saffron tunic identified him as a member of Saladin’s askar, his personal bodyguard. Reynaud’s fatigue falling away as he realized he must be close to the sultan himself, he took a hit on his shield that rocked him back against the cantle of his saddle. As the Mamluk wheeled his mount to attack again, Reynald struck first, putting all the force of his body behind the blow, and his sword severed the Saracen’s arm at the elbow. It was then that he sensed a change in the tempo of the battle. Slowly at first and then more rapidly, the Saracens were giving ground.
“We have them!” he shouted. “For God and St. George!” Those close enough to hear redoubled their efforts, energized with sudden hope. What had been a trickle became a stream and then a flood tide as exhausted Saracens saw some of their fellow soldiers abandoning the battle and joined them. Once the rout was on, there was no stopping it, and Saladin’s commanders sought in vain to hold their men, eventually forced to flee themselves.
The battlefield was an appalling sight, soaked in blood and strewn with bodies, with entrails, brains, bone, severed limbs, even heads. Everywhere Baldwin looked, he saw the dead and wounded. Riderless horses milled about in panic. Other stallions were down, thrashing about in pain and fear. Now that the noises of combat were stilled, the cries of the injured and dying filled the air, asking for help in several languages. And for the first time, the survivors became aware of the smothering, stomach-churning stench of death.
Baldwin was too stunned yet to feel triumph, relief, elation, any emotion at all. Others were not so numbed and they began to laugh, weep, and embrace one another, intoxicated by their reprieve, by the pure joy of deliverance. Reynald and many of the knights had left the field in pursuit of the Saracens. Some of the men had begun to heed the groans of the wounded, while plundering of the Saracen dead had also begun.
Baldwin found himself surrounded by euphoric soldiers. He was searching for familiar faces, feeling intense relief when he found them. His stepfather. His uncle. The d’Ibelin brothers. Hugues of Galilee and his young brother, who’d fought in his first battle before he needed to shave. There were missing faces, though, several of his household knights. So many dead, so many crippled, so many widows and orphans made this day. But God had rewarded their mad gamble. They’d saved the kingdom.
He hastily dismounted when someone told him Asad was bleeding. Grateful when Anselm stepped forward to offer his unobtrusive support, he saw that the stallion had suffered a shallow cut along his flank, and he realized that there would be time to celebrate their improbable victory, but not now.
So much to do. Wounded to care for, prisoners to chain up, horses to be put out of their misery or captured, bodies to be brought back to Ascalon, honorable funerals for their own, mass graves for their enemies, and messengers dispatched to Jerusalem and the other cities of the realm, spreading the word that Outremer was safe.
He was surprised and touched when his uncle rushed forward, enveloping him in an exuberant embrace, Joscelin’s jubilation temporarily prevailing over his fear of leprosy. Baudouin and Balian had just ended a brotherly hug that would likely leave bruises. Wherever Baldwin looked, he saw nothing but smiles.
Baldwin began to delegate authority, asking Denys to organize relief for the wounded and the d’Ibelins to take charge of the prisoners. He felt a sudden jab of alarm, then, remembering that a Saracen army was most dangerous in retreat, often using it as a tactic to lure their enemies into an ambush. But when he voiced his concern, his stepfather reassured him. Reynald and the Templar grand master were in command of the pursuit, Denys said, and they would not let the hunt go on too long. Overhearing, Joscelin agreed, pointing out that Saladin’s army was broken, his men concerned only with saving themselves. Baldwin at last let himself heed his battered body’s message, that he was rapidly reaching the end of his endurance, and he did not object when Denys suggested he return to Ascalon with the wounded.
Some of the men encircling Baldwin began to step aside and he saw the Bishop of Bethlehem approaching. “The Almighty has indeed blessed us, my liege. It is only right that we give thanks for His goodness and mercy.” Clad in a mail hauberk, a mace tucked into his belt, he looked very unlike a man of God at that moment. But he sounded like one and when he dropped to his knees, Baldwin followed his example, even knowing as he did that he’d likely need help getting to his feet again. The other men knelt, too, offering up their prayers for the miracle He had bestowed upon them on this St. Catherine’s Day at Montgisard.