Jack Hight: Kingdom

Baldwin grinned. ‘God is with us! We have arrived in time!’

‘You may have spoken too soon, sire,’ John said. He pointed beyond the city to the horizon, where a tall cloud of dust was rising. ‘Saladin’s army.’

‘There is still time to retreat,’ Reynald said.

Baldwin shook his head. ‘We must reach the city first.’ He raised his voice. ‘Forward, men! As fast as your legs can carry you!’ He urged his mount to a trot. The knights followed, and the sergeants jogged to keep up.

All eyes were fixed on the ever-growing cloud of dust on the horizon. Ahead, the city was no more than half a mile off. John could clearly see the walls, which were thick and fronted with a broad moat on the land side. On the ocean side, waves crashed against their base. He looked back to the horizon. He could now make out figures, thousands of men on horseback, stretching inland across the plain for as far as he could see.

‘We will not make it, sire!’ Reynald said. ‘The sergeants are moving too slowly.’

‘We must buy them more time. Knights, follow me! We will hold them off. For the Kingdom!’

Baldwin urged his horse to a canter, and John followed. The rest of the knights thundered in their wake. Behind, the careful ranks of the army dissolved as the sergeants ran for the city gates. The knights continued south with Baldwin at their head, his sword held aloft. Ahead, the Saracens were surging towards them; a solid wave of warriors covering the plain. Baldwin spurred his horse to a gallop.

Reynald pulled alongside John. ‘ He is mad !’ the regent shouted over the rumble of hooves.

John ignored him and spurred after the king. The Saracens were no more than two hundred yards off, close enough that John could make out the banners flying above them. He spotted the eagle of Saladin. Then the Saracen advance stopped. They began to form ranks in order to meet the Frankish charge. Baldwin reined in just outside bow range. John pulled up beside him. He glanced over his shoulder. The sergeants were pouring through the city’s northern gate.

‘The men are safe, sire.’

‘Let us not press our luck. Ride fast, men!’ Baldwin shouted. ‘We may yet escape with our lives!’ He wheeled his horse and spurred towards Ascalon.

John followed at a gallop. He heard a roar from the Saracen ranks behind and then the thunder of thousands of hooves. Leaning forward in the saddle he flicked the reins, urging his mount to greater speed. An arrow hissed past and shattered on the hard ground. ‘ Faster !’ he shouted in his horse’s ear. Ahead, the southern gate of Ascalon had opened. Arrows were falling thick about them now. One struck Baldwin in the back, but the king seemed not to notice. And then they were clattering across the drawbridge and through the city gate. As the last of the knights entered behind them, the drawbridge went up, sealing the city off.

Baldwin ignored the cheers of the people crowding close to greet him. He dismounted and took the stairs to the top of the gate. John followed.

‘Are you injured, sire?’ he asked, gesturing to Baldwin’s back.

Baldwin craned his neck to see the arrow. ‘I did not even know I was hit. It did not penetrate my jerkin.’ He looked back out past the wall. Saracen riders were spreading out to surround the city. To the south, thousands more continued to pour over the horizon.

Baldwin looked to John and grinned. ‘They are too late! Ascalon is ours!’

‘Fifty-three towers,’ Qaraqush reported. He had just returned from an inspection of the city’s defences. ‘The wall is thirty feet high. On the far side it is protected by the sea. Ascalon will be a tough nut to crack.’

Yusuf said nothing. He was standing outside his tent with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the city. The walls were crowded with men whose helmets gleamed in the setting sun. The flag of Jerusalem flew from the top of each tower.

‘How long to take the city?’ Turan asked.

Qaraqush shrugged. ‘We will have to starve them out-three months, if then.’

‘We do not have three months!’ Turan paced in frustration. ‘Winter will be upon us soon, and the Frankish army will return from the north. Akh laa ! If only we had arrived a day earlier. We would already have the town in hand.’

‘It does not matter,’ Yusuf said. ‘We do not need Ascalon.’

‘But we cannot leave an enemy in our rear,’ Qaraqush protested. ‘It is unheard of. They will attack us when we make camp.’

‘Not if they are locked away inside Ascalon. The Franks think they have entered a mighty citadel, but we shall transform it into a prison. Turan, you will stay here with ten thousand men, more than enough to keep the Franks trapped. Ubadah will go to Gaza with a thousand men, to ensure that their garrison cannot escape. I will ride for Jerusalem.’

Qaraqush and Turan were silent for a moment. Then the grizzled old mamluk grinned. ‘There will be no one to stop you.’

‘Exactly. By the time the Franks return from the north, the city will be ours, and they will be forced to besiege us.’

The following morning Yusuf led the army away from Ascalon, leaving Turan’s troops ringing the city. Yusuf and his men angled inland, towards Ramlah and the road to Jerusalem. Every small settlement they passed had been abandoned. Yusuf gave orders to take what provisions could be found and put the rest to the torch. He sent detachments to take the towns of Lydaa, Arsuf and Mirabel, while he marched on with a reduced army of some thirteen thousand men. Before the sun had set they made camp beside a river less than a day’s march from Jerusalem. With Saqr in tow, Yusuf toured the camp, occasionally stopping at a campfire to speak with the men. They were in a festive mood; they spoke of what they would do when they took the city. Some spoke of women or riches, but most said they would go to the Al-Aqsa mosque to pray. Yusuf promised that he would join them.

At one of the last fires he found a dozen men sitting silently, sharpening their blades as they stared at the embers. Yusuf recognized Liaqat and Nazam. With them sat Qadir, a mamluk who had already distinguished himself in Shirkuh’s service when Yusuf was only a boy. Qadir was still an imposing man with biceps as thick as Yusuf’s thighs, but he now had a paunch and his beard was streaked with grey.

Yusuf stepped into the circle of firelight and the men began to rise. He motioned for them to remain seated and took a place before the fire. He drew his eagle-hilt dagger and asked for a whetstone. Nazam handed one to him. Yusuf began to sharpen the blade.

‘Is it true that the Franks have left Jerusalem unguarded?’ Nazam asked.

Yusuf nodded.

‘How could they be so foolish?’

‘They had little choice. They do not have enough men to meet us in the field. They no doubt hoped I would pause to lay siege to Ascalon.’

Yusuf was surprised to see wetness in Qadir’s eyes. ‘Al-Quds,’ the huge mamluk said. ‘Your uncle told me long ago that we would conquer it together. I wish Shirkuh were here to see you, Malik.’ He shook his head sadly before he met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘Do you remember the day we first met?’

‘I do.’ Qadir had called him a little bugger. He had humiliated Yusuf before the rest of Shirkuh’s men. But Yusuf had deserved it. He had not known the first thing about how to lead men.

‘What a fool I was,’ Qadir said.

‘Not as great a fool as I. But the years have made us wiser.’ Yusuf smiled. ‘Although in your case, Qadir, no prettier.’

The mamluk chuckled and waved a fist in mock anger. ‘Do not make me teach you a lesson, little bugger.’

‘Maybe some other time.’ Yusuf rose. ‘Get your rest, men. There will be a long march tomorrow before we reach Jerusalem.’