Jack Hight: Holy War

Yusuf reined to a halt. Al-Afdal came up beside him. His son smirked. ‘Shall I bring you the fool’s head?’

‘He comes under a flag of truce. I will speak with him.’

‘You mean to negotiate?’ Al-Afdal asked incredulously. ‘We should slaughter them, Father. Kill them all, as they murdered our men at Acre.’

Yusuf sighed. ‘Have you learned nothing, my son? Acre was Richard’s greatest mistake. We have suffered defeat after defeat since then, yet the desire for vengeance has held our army together when there was nothing else. The massacre at Acre is the only reason Richard has not taken Jerusalem. I will not make the same mistake. If we want the Lionheart gone, we must seek peace, not vengeance.’

Al-Afdal frowned. ‘As you say, Father.’

The Frank with the white flag was drawing closer. Yusuf squinted. Then his eyes widened in recognition. He urged his mount forward. ‘John!’

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, friend,’ John replied as his horse came alongside Yusuf’s.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Richard left me behind. I have come to negotiate the citadel’s surrender.’

‘If you turn the citadel over to me, I will give your men and the people of Jaffa free passage to Acre.’

John looked about. The occasional scream still punctuated the morning air. At the edge of the square, a Christian in a blood-stained tunic stumbled past with four taunting mamluks at his heels. ‘I trust your word, Yusuf, but your men’s blood is up. I fear that if the people leave the citadel now, they will be slaughtered.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘I will give my men five days to sack the city and have their sport. That will also give your people time to prepare their departure. On the fifth day, you will leave.’

John nodded. ‘Thank you, Yusuf.’

‘You need not thank me, John. Blood only begets more blood. The time has come for peace.’

Yusuf watched as a ship far out to sea made its way along the horizon, gliding along under the same gentle northerly wind that ruffled his hair. In the hazy morning sky, gulls floated on the breeze. The tide was at its lowest point and the surf was quiet. His horse shook its head, and the jingle of tack sounded loud in the morning calm. He heard the nickering of horses amongst the men behind him. Fifty members of his khaskiya waited there, along with the four hundred men who would take control of the citadel when the Franks left. There was a loud cawing to Yusuf’s right, and he looked to see a crow settling on to one of the branches of a dead tree. The black bird seemed to look right at him. It cawed again.

‘An ill omen,’ Qaraqush muttered.

‘You see ill omens in everything.’

‘Of late, I am usually right.’

‘It is just a bird,’ Yusuf said, though in truth, he was ill at ease. Crows followed armies and always seemed to know when a battle was in the offing.

‘The flags are coming down.’ Al-Afdal pointed to the citadel.

The three lions of Richard fluttered in the breeze as his standard was lowered. Next came the flag of Jerusalem — a gold cross, surrounded by four smaller crosses. Yusuf raised his voice. ‘Prepare to ride, men!’

A horn sounded over his last words. Aah-hoo! Aah-hoo !

Qaraqush frowned. ‘That did not come from the citadel.’

‘There!’ Saqr pointed out to sea.

More ships had appeared north of the city. There were ten of them. Yusuf squinted. No, fifteen — shallow-drafted longships, each packed with men. The closest were surging towards the shore, their oars beating at the waves. Over each boat flew a flag: three golden lions on a field of scarlet. Richard.

Yusuf turned to Saqr. ‘Sound the call to arms. We will hold the light cavalry in reserve. Al-Afdal, you will lead the mamluks. No bows; close with sword and lance. We will ride them down before they reach the shore.’

‘Yes, Malik!’

Al-Afdal galloped away as Saqr sounded his horn. Behind Yusuf, the camp sprang to life, men grabbing their weapons and running for their horses. As was his custom, Yusuf had ordered his men to pitch their tents in order of the line of battle, so that they could form up at a moment’s notice. The Frankish ships were still well out to sea when the line formed, the mamluks in the fore with spears in hand. The four hundred men who were to have formed the citadel’s garrison joined them, with the Bedouin and Turkmen cavalry gathered behind. Al-Afdal waved his sword overhead as he cantered down the line of mamluks. He turned back and stopped at the centre of the line. He shouted something, and the men roared back: ‘ For Islam! For Saladin !’ Four thousand strong, the mamluks headed north at a trot, riding for where the Frankish ships would come ashore.

‘With me, men!’ Yusuf called to the troops gathered around him. They rode after the mamluks at a slower pace, and the light cavalry fell in behind them. Yusuf counted twenty-four enemy ships now. At something like a hundred fighting men per ship, that meant approximately twenty-five hundred Franks against his more than seven thousand. Yusuf raised a fist and reined to a stop on the sandy dunes overlooking the beach.

Below them, the line of mamluks had accelerated to a gallop and was thundering across the sand. The first longship was nearing the shore, moving faster now as it surged forward on the waves, their crests foaming at its sides. The mamluks splashed into the water, their mount’s hooves kicking up clouds of spray. Yusuf looked back to the ship. The men crowded in the prow did not hold swords or spears. Crossbows. Yusuf recognized the weapons just as they released a volley into the charging mamluks. The effect was devastating. Dozens of horses went down, and their riders were thrown under the waves. Frankish warriors poured from the ship, led by Richard himself. The king towered over the others. He set about him with his double-bladed battle-axe, cutting down the fallen mamluks as they rose from the sea.

More ships surged towards the coast, the crossbowmen in the prows releasing volleys of quarrels. Horses fell by the dozen. The beasts thrashed and kicked in the surf, reducing the advancing mamluk line to chaos. Spears in hand, the Frankish men-at-arms were vaulting from their ships into water, which came up to their waists. They were met by mamluks, many of them now on foot. The wind picked up, carrying to Yusuf the injured beasts’ loud whinnies, the men’s shouts of pain and anger and the ring of steel upon steel. He saw a spray of blood as a mamluk slashed through an enemy’s throat.

‘Selim!’ Yusuf called. ‘Lead in the light cavalry. Have them stop on the beach and shoot at the crossbowmen in the boats.’

Selim galloped away, and Yusuf turned back towards the fighting. He could not find Al-Afdal amidst the chaos. Richard was clearly visible, driving forward into a knot of half a dozen mamluks. The king’s battle-axe flashed in the sun, and Yusuf saw an arm go flying. Another man had his head nearly cut off. Three of the mamluks fled, and the remaining man took a blow to the chest and disappeared beneath the waves.

‘The bastard is brave,’ Qaraqush noted.

‘A brave fool. We outnumber them four to one.’

The Turkmen and Bedouin cavalry had reached the beach and began arcing arrows over the mamluks. Yusuf saw one of the crossbowmen take an arrow in the gut and tumble from his ship into the water. Several more were hit, and the rest took shelter. The hail of crossbow bolts slackened, allowing the mamluks to press forward. Their numbers soon began to tell. The Franks were pushed back into deeper water, first up to their waists, and then to their chests. Only Richard and two dozen of his knights remained in the shallower water. A hundred mamluks swarmed around them.

‘For Christ! For the Kingdom!’