‘Blondel will take a squadron back to Marshal and Mercadier to tell them that we have engaged the Muslims. We will approach at a canter, downwind, which will deaden the sound of our approach. On the signal from my horns, we will attack at a gallop in four columns. Ranulf, you will stay close to me as I take the centre. Robert will take the left flank, Baldwin the right; we will give Burgundy all the fun by giving him the fourth column, formed up behind us as a second wave. Is that clear?’
It was.
But the night was not.
The moon was only three days old and so was of little help. But it was the time of the solstice, which meant that dawn was not far away. Even so, a massed cavalry charge in near darkness was a challenge for any army.
The King had developed a precise method for deploying his cavalry in darkness with the minimum of noise. The horses were saddled while still tethered and were kept occupied by the grooms feeding them where they stood. When all the mounts were ready, the captain of each conroi led his men to its assembly point by following a guide who had rehearsed the route several times. The men remained on foot, and the grooms continued to feed the horses to keep them calm. The assembly points for each conroi were marked by small fires, the light from which was shielded from the enemy by hurdles of brushwood.
Only when everybody was ready did the signal come to mount the horses, an order that passed from conroi to conroi by the rustle of men settling into their saddles. Then came a few moments of calm as the rustling ended, indicating that all was ready. It was a strange feeling; I could see a few men around me but knew that there were many more spread out in a formation that I could imagine, but could not see. I looked ahead, which was pointless. I might as well have been blindfolded, because ahead of me was just a black void. All cavalry charges were a test of courage, but to undertake one in total darkness was petrifying.
We advanced at a canter; fifteen hundred mounted men swept across the darkened landscape like a wave of avenging angels. Some horses tripped and fell, their riders trying to muffle their cries. But the only other noise was the steady rhythm of hooves, a pulsating sound that made my heart race.
When the horns sounded, we were at the crest of a ridge above the valley where the Mamluk column was encamped. Some of their fires were still burning – primarily the braziers of the perimeter guards – so we had something to aim for. By then, our approach had been heard and, as our gallop began, the fires were extinguished. We had no other guide except Fauvel, who carried the Lionheart five yards ahead of us. We may as well have closed our eyes as there was nothing to see except Fauvel’s tail. It must have been much worse for the Duke of Burgundy and his men, who not only had to cope with the gloom but also to ride through a murk spiked with blinding dust.
Nevertheless, we soon breached the perimeter of the Muslim camp. Dawn’s half-light now gave us shadows to aim for, all of which were scattering in different directions, desperate to find their horses and weapons, or a place to hide. It was carnage. Our cavalry consisted of disciplined phalanxes of men and horses, armed with swords and lances, formed up in compact multitudes, while the Mamluks were a haphazard rabble of largely unarmed men, easy targets for our experienced warriors.
As always, I stayed close to the King, watching his back as best I could. There was rarely a need as he slashed and chopped his way through our hapless opponents. The light was improving rapidly and as I looked around I could see the mass slaughter of a one-sided battle. Men on the ground running helplessly for their lives made easy targets for mounted warriors who were murderously adept at killing from horseback. Heads rolled, severed from necks with a single blow, and shoulders were cleaved down to men’s ribcages. Lances impaled torsos, spilling innards over the ground, and blood splashed everywhere, covering men and horses until they were glistening in crimson.
The Lionheart never looked back. We knew that we were required to keep pace with him, and he knew that he could rely on us – such was the bond of trust between us. After what seemed like an eternity of death and destruction, we reached the end of the Muslim camp. The King reeled his horse round and led us on another rampage through the bedraggled remnants of our opponents. This was not a day to show mercy, and none was given.
The half-light offered some respite for the defenders, giving a few the opportunity to ride away, but for most, there was no escape. When we had finished our assault we regrouped to ride back and survey the results of our work. Bodies were strewn across a large area, almost all of them Mamluk. Many had been cut down by sword and lance, but many more had been killed or maimed under the hooves of our horses. At least half the Mamluk column appeared to have fallen.
But its baggage train was intact, as were most of its corrals of horses and camels. We acquired hundreds of each, and more than 150 carts of weapons, armour, tents, spices, herbs, clothing and medicines, as well as several surprisingly large chests of gold and silver. It was a major windfall, of which the Lionheart shared a more than generous proportion with Hugh of Burgundy and his French contingent.
When we returned to the bulk of the army there were celebrations in the camp at the news of the Mamluk gold and silver and the other booty, which usually meant a bonus for the men. The cooks began a feast of stewed lamb to make use of the bonanza of the requisitioned Muslim condiments.
We all felt that the fall of Jerusalem was now a foregone conclusion.
However, over the next few days, the mood changed.
The first setback was the news that, commanded by Saphadin, hundreds of Muslim reinforcements were on their way from east of the Euphrates and beyond. Then came a series of reports from our scouts which, added together, gave the King a logistical dilemma. Saladin had issued orders, over a wide arc around the Holy City, that every water cistern (most of which had been created by the sappers of previous Latin Kings of Jerusalem) be poisoned and every well filled in. Not only was this critical for the men, but also for the horses. It was a stark fact that made it even more pressing that we launch our attack on the city, as it contained our only available source of water, apart from the modest supply that we carried.
The Lionheart called for a tally of our stocks of water and then consulted his astrolabe. His calculations presented a clear picture.
‘We must have the city in our hands and, most importantly, its wells available for our use by 30th June. Assuming that we can take the city within three days, this gives the men from Jaffa just two days to get here.’
The King jumped to his feet.
‘Ranulf, send a squadron of hand-picked men to meet the column. They must tell Robert Thornham and Henry to come on with all speed.’
Early the next morning, while the King was enjoying breakfast, the squadron returned at a gallop, but with Robert Thornham at its head. He had ridden most of the night. The Lionheart was delighted, because it meant the column of reinforcements was nearby. The two men embraced, with the King beaming from ear to ear.
‘Robert, tell me the good news. How many men?’
Thornham stepped away, looking forlorn.
‘From Europe some Danes and Norse; men of the Low Countries; some Germans from various principalities; a few Iberians; and a large contingent from your realm.’
The King could sense bad news.
‘How many?’
‘Fifteen hundred knights, and three hundred sergeants and men-at-arms.’
‘Burgundians? Franks?’
‘A handful of each, against King Philip’s wishes.’
‘The scheming bastard! I wish I could get my hands on him. And Henry’s men?’
‘Not many; eighty or so knights, and two hundred men. There are some weapons and armour and some silver, but it’s a meagre offering.’
The King cursed like a lowly soldier, a tirade that went on for a couple of minutes. The gist of it was his fury at the size of the European contingent. Thornham offered an explanation, but it did little for the Lionheart’s humour.
‘The English and Norman knights will tell you that both your brother, John, and King Philip Augustus are actively discouraging men from answering your call and that, indeed, they are openly plotting against you. The
