Jack Hight: Holy War

‘But my lord!’ Balian protested.

‘You were born and raised in the Holy Land, Balian,’ Henry said. ‘Will you not fight for it?’

‘Of course, but-’

Richard cut him short. ‘You have my thanks, Henry. Who else?’

The Templar and Hospitaller Grand Masters reluctantly gave their support. The Pisan envoy agreed to provide two thousand crossbowmen, for a fee.

‘It is settled then,’ Richard declared. ‘Go now and prepare your men to march. We leave for Acre tomorrow, where we will gather our forces.’

The men trooped out. John remained behind.

‘Speak, John,’ Richard said as he went to a side table to pour himself a cup of wine.

‘This is not the time to think of conquest, Your Grace. The men are dispirited. Thousands have already taken ship to return home, and now we have lost the French, too. You must turn your mind to peace.’

‘Peace is all you ever talk of, priest,’ Richard grumbled. ‘I begin to think Guy was right. You love the infidels overmuch.’

‘I only speak the truth, Your Grace. You must make peace before you leave the Holy Land. With every failed assault on Jerusalem, the terms of that peace grow worse for us.’

‘That is why I need a victory, John. God is on our side. The Saracens cannot defeat me.’

‘Yet still you have lost.’ Richard’s brow furrowed at this, but John pushed on regardless. ‘A wise king must know when to fight and when to put aside his sword. Make peace, Your Grace.’

Richard sat at the table and took a long drink of wine. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Go. This talk of peace sickens me. I have no patience for cowards.’

John’s jaw set. ‘I am no coward, but to attack again and again in the face of defeat is not bravery. It is madness.’

‘It is madness to insult one’s king, John.’ Richard’s voice was soft, and all the more dangerous for that. ‘I could have you beheaded for less.’ He let the threat hang in the air. ‘But no. No doubt the heat has addled your wits. When I depart, you will stay in Jaffa to recover.’

John would have been happy to be rid of Richard, but he feared what the Lionheart might do without his restraining influence. ‘My place is at your side, Your Grace.’

‘Your place is wherever I decide. You will stay.’

The sword slashed towards John’s face. He knocked it aside with his shield and swung his mace, but his opponent leaned back out of the way. John attempted to attack backhanded, but the sudden change of direction of the mace caused a sharp pain in his shoulder. ‘’Sblood!’

His sparring partner stepped back and removed his helm, revealing curly red hair. Rand was a young man-at-arms. The men called him Quickfingers because he had once been caught cheating at cards. He had paid for that with the little finger of his left hand. Rand was one of the hundred men that Richard had left behind to garrison the citadel of Jaffa. A hundred was hardly enough. John had asked for more, but Richard refused.

Rand’s face wore a look of concern. ‘Are you well, father?’

‘It is nothing.’ John raised his mace and winced as the pain returned.

‘We will spar again later,’ Rand suggested. ‘I must see to my duties.’ The young man hurried off.

‘If you fear for my old bones, just say it,’ John grumbled. All these young ones treated him as if he had one foot in the grave. John removed his helm and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Training against younger men was hard, but he had had little else to occupy his time in the two weeks since Richard left for Acre. He massaged his aching shoulder. He needed a hot bath.

He changed out of his armour in his quarters in the citadel and went into the city. He paid three coppers to the stooped old man at the bathhouse door. Inside, he left his clothes in a cubby and pulled on a thin cotton bathing tunic. The rays of sunshine that lit the warm room were visible in the roiling steam that filled the air. Three other men sat in the hot waters. None looked up as John sank into the bath with a sigh of relief.

He worked his shoulder until he could lift his arm without pain and then sat back and closed his eyes. His mind drifted. He thought of his first time in a bathhouse. It had been the day he arrived in the Holy Land. He had gone in the women’s entrance. They had shrieked at him in a tongue he did not understand, and John had feared they might castrate him. He thought of Yusuf’s sister Zimat, whom he had loved, and then of Reynald, the man he had hated above all others. They were both gone now. He thought of Yusuf. When the two had met, Yusuf had been a skinny, bookish boy, who dreamed he would someday be king. John thought of Richard, the king he now served. The thought made him frown.

Shouting from the streets intruded on his thoughts, and John opened his eyes. The other men were leaving the bath. John followed them to the changing room. The shouting was growing louder. He dressed quickly and stepped outside. ‘What is happening?’ he asked the old man at the door. The man shrugged.

All along the street, men and women were stepping out of their homes. ‘Saladin!’ a young boy shouted as he sprinted past John. ‘Saladin is here!’

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the people rushed back into their homes, only to emerge a moment later carrying their most valuable possessions. John joined the crowd hurrying towards the shelter of the citadel. He entered and climbed atop the wall. Quickfingers was there, along with most of the garrison. Without a word, the young soldier pointed to the east. An army was approaching under a cloud of dust. Their column of mounted men stretched to the horizon.

John squinted at the flag that flew over the head of the army. It bore Yusuf’s eagle. He quickly scanned the rest of the column. ‘At least seven thousand men.’

Quickfingers nodded. ‘We cannot hold against so many. What do we do?’

‘Send a rider north to Acre. And get as many of the people inside as you can. Put the men on the walls. I will speak with Saladin.’

Yusuf rode into Jaffa with his emirs and personal guard trailing behind. He heard distant shouts of pain and terror. Those would be the men who had waited too long to seek shelter in the citadel. He rode past home after home with their doors kicked in — some doors sagged on their hinges while the wood had splintered around the lock on others. Further up the street, a mamluk stepped out of a house with a heavy bag over his shoulder. The man behind him carried an armful of silks.

The town had put up no resistance. Most of the occupants had fled to the citadel long before Yusuf had arrived. They had taken their most valuable possessions, but more than enough had been left behind to make his men happy. It had been a long time since they had taken any plunder. His men needed this victory. Yusuf needed it more. When he heard that Richard had left Jaffa almost undefended, he had struck at once. Perhaps the city’s fall would finally convince the Lionheart to make peace.

As he reached the square at the heart of town, Yusuf heard a woman’s screams coming from an alleyway to his left. He frowned. He had ordered his troops to spare all the women and Muslim men when they took the town. He turned to Qaraqush. ‘Put an end to that.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

Yusuf rode into the long shadow cast by the citadel, which stood on a tall hill near the coast. The flag of the Kingdom of Jerusalem flew from its keep, alongside the three lions of Richard. He could see men lining the walls. He estimated their numbers at less than five hundred, and that no doubt included citizens from the town, dragooned into standing there with sticks in hand to make the citadel look better defended than it actually was. Five hundred men or one hundred, it hardly mattered. They did not have enough men to resist for long. Nor, it seemed, did they intend to. The citadel gate opened and a man in mail rode out under a white flag.