even in this very one.
Marshal decided the time was right to announce my return to the fold. However, the sound of horses approaching through the grove startled us. The King’s response was predictable.
‘To your horses; there is game afoot!’
Not for him a cautious retreat. He leapt on to Fauvel in one bound and, as the blond stallion reared, urged us on.
‘Quickly! They will be upon us before we can get up a gallop.’
Then he was gone.
By the time we caught up with him, through the trees, he had already taken one of the Muslim faris off his horse with his lance and had deflected a blow with his shield from the heavy bronze latt of another. It was difficult to know how many opponents we faced. But there were at least a couple of dozen visible through the trees, and no doubt more men we could not see. I was thankful that Mercadier, Marshal and their elite bodyguards were with us; our situation was precarious. Our foes were Turcomans, from Anatolia, brothers-in-arms to the Seljuk Turks who had fought so hard against the early crusaders and were noted for their horsemanship and ferocity.
The King seemed oblivious to the danger and made no attempt to find refuge, even when he was surrounded by adversaries. Mercadier beckoned to us to form a cordon around the Lionheart, which was easier said than done; it was as difficult to keep him within it as it was to keep the Muslims outside.
We were beginning to be overwhelmed, as more and more enemy riders burst through the trees. Marshal bellowed at us to retreat, but the King pulled Fauvel round towards the Turcomans rather than away from them. Marshal looked at me anxiously.
‘Grab the King’s bridle. Pull him away!’
I hesitated for a moment, knowing that the Lionheart would be furious and just as likely to strike me down as an assailant. But I knew Marshal was right; the Muslims had recognized ‘Melek-Ric’, as they called him, and were desperate to claim him as a prize, dead or alive.
I sheathed my sword, took a firm hold of Fauvel’s bridle and yanked his head round. As I did so, a Turc to my left, fewer than ten paces away, hurled his lance directly at the King. Fortunately for the Lionheart, I managed to raise my shield just in time so that it took the blow, rather than the King’s chest. However, I was not so fortunate; the lance cut through my shield and deep into my arm, just above the wrist.
The pain was excruciating, but I managed to keep hold of Fauvel’s bridle. Luckily, Mercadier and his standard-bearer were close at hand and helped me pull the King away at a gallop. My left arm was of no use to me and fell limply at my side. My shield was still held around my shoulder by its leather guige, with the offending lance trailing along the ground behind me. The King, still at a gallop, saw my predicament. Leaning far out from his saddle, he cut the guige with his seax and, with an almighty tug, pulled the lance from my arm.
After three or four miles, and when we were sure we were not being pursued, the King called a halt and jumped from Fauvel. He was unharmed, but we had lost three men and had come very close to losing him.
With Mercadier and Marshal’s help, the Lionheart pulled me from my horse and the three of them laid me on the ground. Marshal ordered the rest of the men to ride out and keep watch for danger. I had no feeling in my arm below the elbow. The King looked at the wound and made explicit what I feared.
‘You’re lucky it’s your left arm, soldier; your wrist is shattered. You’re going to lose your hand.’ Turning to Mercadier, he instructed, ‘Take the man’s weapons, we need his belt as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.’
My face was still obscured. But as the Lionheart began to twist the tourniquet, he started to untie my ventail.
‘What’s your name, soldier?’
Before I could answer and before my face was revealed, Marshal spoke up.
‘You know this man. Stay your temper, sire, it’s Ranulf of Lancaster.’
The King pulled back my mask of maille and looked at me scornfully.
‘What in God’s name are you doing here? I thought you would be in England by now.’
‘It’s a long story, sire.’
‘It had better be a good one! I should have you flogged. But as you’ve just saved my life and you’re about to lose your arm, I suppose that might be harsh.’
The Lionheart gave a final and powerful twist to the leather band around my arm. To my relief, I could see that the bleeding had stopped.
‘Let’s get him to the surgeons. Put him in the hands of Peter of Bologna; he will make a neat job of it.’
I had heard of Peter of Bologna. It was said that he had learned his skills from Arab physicians and their texts. He was renowned for his use of opium, hemlock and mandrake to ease the pain of surgery. But many said his painkillers were just as likely to kill you as his cutting, and that it was better to drink a flagon of wine and bite on a piece of leather. Either way, I was terrified of what was to come.
They had let my arm bleed every half an hour as we rode back to Jaffa; each time, the blood flowed like a fountain. They said it was to stop my flesh rotting. By the time we reached the camp, I had lost a lot of blood and was feeling very light-headed.
When Peter of Bologna appeared, he was far from reassuring.
‘Yes, I must amputate, just above the wrist – otherwise, it will never heal. It will hurt, young man; we have no dwale, and our opium and mandrake are finished. We have only hemlock, but on its own, it will kill you. You will be held, of course, but the amputation is the easy part; it’s the cauterization that hurts the most.’
‘Thank you for your words of comfort. What are my chances?’
‘About one in four survives my amputations – twice the average of other surgeons. The Templars and the Hospitallers undergo it without alcohol or dwale. What is your choice?’
‘I’ll have as much alcohol as I can drink.’
I was given a few minutes to gulp mouthfuls of a foul but strong local brew called Araq which, for reasons all too obvious to anyone who has tasted it, means ‘dog’s sweat’ in Arabic. Despite its flavour, it soon made my head reel. But not as much as the pain that I was about to endure.
My terrors were well founded. Despite the weight and strength of four large men, I fought like an injured bull as Peter of Bologna did his work. He cut quickly and, thankfully, his blade was sharp, but the blood spurted like a man peeing as he neared the bone. And when he brought down his butcher’s cleaver to finish the job, I spat out the leather strop they had put in my mouth and howled like a wolf in a trap.
Peter of Bologna was also right about which part was the worst. I had barely taken a breath after the fall of the cleaver, when a red-hot blade burned into my stump like the fires of Hell. The pain reached into every part of my body and made me convulse like a rabid animal. My teeth ached as if every one of them had been pulled out, my head hurt as if it had been struck by a blacksmith’s hammer, my guts knotted as if they were being wrung out like a tub of washing, and my chest felt as if it would burst open and spew its contents into the air. Fortunately, after a few moments, my body had had enough and I descended into oblivion.
When I awoke a few hours later, the pain was still there; it was dull rather than sharp, but no less difficult to bear. It was a challenge to focus my eyes and get my bearings, and for the next two days I felt like I was suffering in Hell. My only comfort was the thought that it might possibly be a purgatory rather than an eternity.
The infirmarers kept pouring hot soup down my throat and, after about a week, declared that I had not got the canker and that my stump was healing well. They bathed it in salt every day, then made me sit in the sun to let it dry. I was fortunate, because most of the men around me had the smell of foul meat about them and had to have the canker maggots applied to their wounds to eat the rotting flesh. It was a humbling experience to see them die in agony; almost every day a corpse was taken away for burial in a shallow grave.
By the time the Lionheart came to see me, I was able to walk down to the sea to swim and had regained my strength. Most of the pain had gone, although I suffered sudden sharp jolts, just to remind me of what had happened. It was also odd not to have a limb that my mind still assumed was there. I would reach for things with my left hand, or try to scratch an itch, only to realize a moment later that where my hand had been was now thin air.
Accompanied by all five of the Grand Quintet, the King arrived at the infirmary with his usual charm, an aura that so endeared him to his men. He slapped them on the back as if they were old friends and asked them about their recovery and the well-being of their wives and families. Most importantly, if a man was in a bad way, or in
