‘In Cilicia, ambushed by Armenians. Isaac of Cyprus’s daughters are dead as well.’
‘What in God’s name were you doing with them?’
‘Taking them to their family, in Constantinople.’
‘Through the Cilician Gates? But that’s madness!’
‘I know, sire, but there were compelling reasons; it’s a long story. But at the end of it, in his death throes, Alun extracted a promise from me that I would finish the mission he and I were given by Earl Harold, and so I’ve returned to the service of the Lionheart.’
‘I’ll take your word for that. I respect a man with a conscience; there are too many who are driven only by greed and their sword. I’ll talk to the King for you, but a battle is looming with Saladin; your reconciliation with the Lionheart will have to wait until it’s over. See the Captain of my English conroi, he’s a good man and will fit you in with his men. But whatever you do, stay out of the King’s way.’
I spent the rest of the day, and the next, with my new colleagues, many of whom knew me. They also knew that I had been dismissed by the King, and there was a danger that word would reach him about my return. But I had been reduced to the ranks, which happened often, and most were sympathetic towards me. With a battle in the offing, I did not think the risks too great.
We were thirty miles north of the vital port of Jaffa, close to a Christian fortification called Arsuf. Jaffa was vital to an attack on Jerusalem, because it was one of the main ports from where Saladin could get reserves and supplies from Egypt. The Sultan’s skirmishers had been harassing our army all the way down the coast, but word had spread around the camp that he was about to mount a full-scale attack. It was designed to stop our advance before we reached the port.
On the morning of 7 September 1191, the King’s orders were despatched around the camp. I missed the thrill of being close to the King as he laid his plans, but I had a job to do, like any other cavalryman, and I had to concentrate on doing it.
We advanced as we would on any other morning, but we knew that this one would lead to a major battle. It was a typically clear day and, although only an hour after sunrise, it was already hot with a gentle breeze wafting in from the sea to assuage the heat. Our pennons and gonfalons flapped and cracked, flying proudly in every conceivable colour. The King’s standard, three golden lions passant on a gules shield, which had already become such a potent image, led us from the vanguard.
With him in the van were the Knights Templar commanded by Robert de Sable. Then came four of the Grand Quintet and their conrois: Poitevins, Bretons, Angevins. Guy of Lusignan, the absent King of Jerusalem, was there with his local knights, many of whom were third-generation Palestinians.
William Marshal led our contingent, close to the back of the column, in order to stiffen our rear. With us were the Knights Hospitaller led by their Master, Garnier of Nablus, a man whose grandfather had fought with Robert Curthose and Edgar the Atheling in the First Great Crusade. Henry of Champagne commanded a corps of light cavalry, deployed to break ranks if needed, and Hugh of Burgundy led the rump of the French troops left by Philip of France.
I counted our numbers and estimated we were close to 25,000 men and 3,000 knights. Our baggage train and the men of our fleet must have been close to another 4,000. It was a mighty host, by any standards, but we were led by one of the few men who could fashion such a large number into an effective fighting force in such difficult conditions.
As we moved down the coast, through the Forest of Arsuf, Saladin’s army slowly came into view, stretched out along our left flank in huge phalanxes of alternating infantry and cavalry. They were clad even more colourfully than we were, comprising men from many different countries: Seljuks, Armenians, Mamluks, Nubians, Sudanese, Bedouin and Egyptians.
Not only did the Sultan’s forces parade all the colours imaginable, but they were also men of many shapes and hues. Some had faces from the east and had the sturdy build and strange pallor of the yellow races, while others were brown men of the Arab world. There were paler ones from Anatolia, and dark-brown desert people like the Bedou. Some, like the Nubians, were very tall and as black as night.
Their weapons were just as diverse: they were equipped with bows of many designs, wielded by both mounted archers and infantry bowmen; they carried ornately patterned kilij, talwar and shamshir swords; and they held countless styles and sizes of lances, pikes, poles and javelins.
Their qaadis rode out towards us, beyond their lines, to bless their troops and blaspheme ours; their war drums and tabors beat an incessant rhythm, and the cries from their horns and the crashes from their cymbals pierced the air mercilessly. It was difficult to assess their numbers from a distance, but they seemed to be significantly greater than ours.
The two mighty armies and their now legendary leaders were ready to engage in a pitched battle for the first time. There is always acute tension among men before a battle, but we all knew that this one was going to be a day of destiny.
Our orders came down the line every fifteen minutes. They were the same each time.
The Lionheart was explicit about the signal to attack: the command would come as six blasts from the trumpets, and the order would come from him and him alone.
Saladin’s tactics were also clear. He launched a constant onslaught of arrows and javelins from his highly mobile cavalry, while small units of infantry made lightning raids on our flanks to try to provoke a crack in our discipline. It was not easy to be a sitting target and resist the temptation to retaliate. But our orders were clear, and we knew we had to obey them. Men fell all around us, unlucky enough to be in the path of a missile falling from the sky. Our arbalests and archers were our most potent defenders – especially the crossbow quarrels, which the Muslim faris feared above anything else.
We waited all morning for the King’s signal to wheel left and attack, but it never came. By early afternoon, the heat of the day and the trauma of hours of Muslim attacks, with no response from us, were taking their toll. The Hospitallers at the rear of the column bore the greatest burden. In order to keep the Muslims at bay, their arbalests were having to load and shoot while walking backwards.
It was a game of chess. Saladin knew that an army of 25,000 disciplined men, with the sea as a bulwark to one flank, was impregnable. He had no other recourse but to use his knights to taunt, tease or terrify our human castle and make us attack him. On the other hand, the Lionheart knew that, sooner or later, he would have to commit his knights, followed by the massed ranks of the infantry, who were his pawns; it was just a matter of when to strike for the end game.
Garnier of Nablus rode at a gallop from the back of the column to reach the King’s position, accompanied by two of his Hospitallers. We assumed it was to seek permission to launch an attack. When he rode back and no attack ensued, it was clear his request had been refused. Another hour passed and on we marched relentlessly. The army was at breaking point; we had lost many horses and dozens of knights, some of whom had lost their mounts and been forced to join the infantry. The horses were difficult to control. Men could drink in the saddle, but the horses could not and were thirsty and exhausted. Disquiet spread and men started to talk openly about the wisdom of the Lionheart’s strategy. The only reassuring fact was that the skirmishing by Saladin’s men was costing many more Muslim lives than Christian; even so, our discipline was being tested to its limit.
The front of our column had reached the citadel of Arsuf, a powerful fortification in an elevated position overlooking the sea, which only added to our defensive strength. Here the King could protect vital elements of our baggage train.
Saladin, realizing that King Richard was playing a game of arithmetic with the lives of his men, rode into the fray to encourage his skirmishers. He was accompanied by his brother, Saphadin, and both came well within range of our arbalests and archers. I looked at William Marshal, who brusquely declined the suggestion by his Captain of Archery to direct the flight of their arrows directly at the Sultan. Saladin’s appearance intensified the attacks on our flanks, and he began to commit more and more men in what were almost suicidal assaults on our tightly packed column.
I looked around at the ranks of the Hospitallers. The neat lines of black mantles were awry, horses were rearing. Suddenly, a knight carrying the great black standard of the Order of Hospitallers, with its white Amalfi cross, was struck square in the chest by a Muslim javelin. He was less than three yards from Garnier of Nablus and was taken right out of his saddle. The distraught Master, without even looking towards the Lionheart’s position,
