God defer the taking of Acre till I have gained the wall, said he.
That prize he sought is known to be among the oldest cities on earth, called Akka by some very ancient pharaoh. A while later Ptolemy named it Ptolemais to honor himself. Anon came Franks who christened it Saint Jean d’Acre. Save only Constantinople, no city boasted such wealth. Here was a very fine customs house where officers seated on handsome carpets dipped their pens into ebony inkwells. And on Sunday when church bells rang together the sound might be heard a league or more at sea.
What first met the gaze of Richard’s men when they ploughed across the water was the fort of Margat, then Tortuosa, then Tripoli and Nephyn. Afterwards they saw the tower of Gibelath. And off Sayette they chanced upon a dromond packed with Saladin’s Turks, eight hundred swarming over a solid vessel crowned by three tall masts. Nor was she an untidy piece of work but streaked across one side with green felt and yellow opposite until she resembled a fairy craft. She had meant to reach Acre but could not on account of the Christian army and now eased back and forth looking for another place to land, or glide into port by surprise. All stared in wonder, not knowing she was a Turk. No mark could be seen, Frank or otherwise, nor any Christian symbol. Then the king summoned Peter des Barres who commanded a galley, directing him to row speedily and find out who she was. Aboard the dromond was an interpreter who falsely cried out to Peter des Barres how they were Genoese bound for Tyre. But there was a galleyman with Richard who recognized the ship. Hang me or take my head, said he, if those are not Turks. And the king demanding if he was certain, he pledged his life.
King Richard sent galleys forward. Whereupon those aboard the dromond rose up shooting with Damascus bows and arbalests, shafts and bolts dropping thicker than hailstones. Richard swore an oath by the throat of God he would string up his oarsmen on gibbets if they idled or this Turk escaped. So they sprang to their work, plunging against the waves, and caught up to her because the wind carried her slowly. Geoffrey de Vinsauf, who was present, describes how they rowed more than once around the vessel to scrutinize her but found no point of attack, so large and stout she was and darts kept dropping on their heads. To meet the enemy on equal ground is enough, says he, whereas a dart thrown from above must tell on those below, considering how the iron point comes downward. All this Richard’s men liked very little and their ardour slacked. Then the spirit of the king increased. He cast shame at the oarsmen, asked if they foundered, grew coistrel and timid from sloth. Therefore making virtue out of necessity because they cared no more for Richard’s wit than iron darts, some hopped into the waves with rope to bind the Turk’s rudders and slow her progress. Others got hold of cables and climbed up. All the same these pagans were no left-hand archers but skilled at combat and hewed off arms and legs as fast as Franks arrived, pitching bodies into the waves. And so King Richard’s men thirsted after Turkish blood, crossed the bulwarks glowing with desire to thrust them back. Now up out of the hold rushed more, young and not afraid to die, thus both sides contributed to the bloody deck. Then the king, seeing how difficult it would be to take this stout ship, ordered galleys to attack with the iron beak that mariners call the spur. So they drew off far enough and reversing course propelled themselves with mighty strokes, rammed the dromond, skewered her. All at once this great ship cracked apart. Turks leapt howling overboard while the king and his men slashed right and left to kill as many as they could, and it is said Richard’s lion shield dripped blood.
Some prisoners who could build or operate catapults he exempted from death, the rest slain, flung into the sea. Turks. Persians. Renegadoes. Had that dromond reached Acre, bringing seven emirs and all the means for defense she carried, Saladin’s devils would have kept their grip. While at Beyrouth she brought on board one hundred camel loads of weapons, crossbows with winches, levers, darts, slings, racks, Greek fire in bottles, plus two hundred writhing gray serpents gorged with venom to hurl or drop from turrets into the living army of Christ. But through divine intercession the Turk was sunk, noxious vipers scattered across the waves.
Unbelievers on a hilltop witnessed this combat. They cursed the hour and wailed and brought the news to Saladin. He clawed his beard for grief, moaned that Acre was undone. Those attending him lamented the fate that brought them to Syria, ripped their garments, snipped their curly tresses because of so many emirs and slaves of Allah lost.
King Richard held course, passed by Candalion, by Casella Ymbrici, sailed within view of Acre’s high tower. All about were the armies of Christ encamped. Beyond them Saladin’s host covering hills and valleys. They saw his pavilion and the tent of his brother Malik al-Adil.
King Richard touched the strand at eventide in the week of Pentecost before the feast of Saint Barnabas while the ground shook with acclamation. Horns, drums, flutes, timbrels, pipes, harps, trumpets, shouts of welcome. Universal gladness reigned. Many recited the deeds of ancient heroes to express their delight at his coming, others sang familiar ballads. High and low, they gathered as one, dancing with jubilation. Wax torches illuminating the night made it appear the land was on fire. As for Turks who observed this celebration from a distance, they were alarmed and downcast, murmuring, tugging their beards.
King Philip met Richard at the shore, pretending friendship. It is said he embraced Queen Berengaria and graciously escorted her to dry
