Lionheart's Scribe (17 page)

We are to pause here in Caesarea tonight. This was once a formidable fortress, but now lies in ruins. It is set amidst high sand dunes studded with low, scrubby bushes and has a lonely, haunted air to it. The ground is red and stony, and the stunted flat-topped trees with gnarled trunks give little shade.

I walked the old streets for hours after we camped early this afternoon. The king himself was slightly wounded by a well-aimed spear and had to rest.

The builders of Caesarea used whatever was at hand to construct this fortress town and, as it was once an important Roman city, the Roman ruins have been assimilated into the Christian fortress. The streets and walls incorporate many blocks and columns of Roman marble. It was strange to me to walk under old arches and see glistening whitepedestals, with Latin inscriptions intact, forming part of the old stone walls on either side of me. As well I saw the remains of an old Roman aqueduct that must once have brought water down from the foothills of the mountains that lie to the north. What a noble people the old Romans must have been. My father told me many tales about them.

The city is in ruins, but the harbor, fortunately for our ships, is still good. The entrance is on the northern side. The Romans planned the harbor this way, I learned, so the sand that is washed along this shore by the currents from the south will not fill it up. I found a small blue glass bottle half buried in the rubble along the water's edge. The glass is delicate and hazy, and the bottle wrought with exceedingly great skill. It is of Roman make, I think, and it seems a miracle that it has not been broken. I tucked it into a pouch at my belt and shall endeavor to keep it safe during this journey.

Walking amongst these ruins has given rise to strange feelings and thoughts within me. The Romans were a powerful and cultured people, so my father said. Toward the close of their time they even renounced their pagan gods and embraced Christianity. Who would ever have thought that their magnificent towns and fortresses would fall into rubble, only to be used to build yet another people's towns and fortresses? And that those in their turn would be destroyed. Where does it end, I wonder?

The thirtieth day of August

Mercadier, the king's lieutenant, came to me this morning with a leather vest, short sword and scabbard.

“The fighting will be more intense now,” he said. “The king feels you should be armed. Follow me and I will show you how to use the sword.”

The vest is thick and itchy. I cannot move my arms freely. The sword feels awkward hanging by my side in the scabbard and useless in my hand. It is very heavy. Mercadier urged me to swing at him and it took all of my strength to do so. The first time my sword hit his shield, the shock was so great that I was knocked backward off my feet and landed in the dust on my backside. My foot, of course, betrayed me and caused me even more difficulties. To his credit Mercadier did not so much as remark on it, but I do not think I am cut out to be a soldier.

Still, by the end of the morning I was swinging with more control and stayed on my feet most of the time. What it would be like to wield this weapon on horseback I cannot imagine. The thought that I might have to is even more unimaginable. But I might.

The thirty-first day of August

I rode armed today for the first time. It was a seductive experience. Sitting astride a horse with a sword at my side, I was no longer Matthew, the cripple. I was a man of power. It felt good.

The first day of September

The Turkish forces continue to harass us every day. The sun beats down so fiercely, I would be tempted to remove this heavy jerkin were it not for the hail of arrows that descends on us with every attack. I have not yet been hit, although one or two have whistled past uncomfortably close.

Our nerves are stretched to the limit. How long will this go on?

The second day of September

There are rumors that Salah-ud-Din is massing his army for a major attack. I think my horse realizes how anxious I am as it has become very skittish. Tempers are growing short. Fights break out daily over small, unimportant issues. We ride much more quietly now. All the usual good humor and banter are gone. Men sit their horses in grim silence. We are all tormented by the flies. They descend on us in hordes, feeding off our sweat. The fleas in this land seem to have particularly voracious appetites, but perhaps it is only because I cannot scratch beneath this cursed leather jerkin. Hawks circle ominously overhead. The Turks did not attack us today. I would welcome this, except that the king feels it is a sign that Salah-ud-Din is preparing for a major battle.

The fifth day of September

We are approaching a wooded area known as the Forest of Arsuf. We will be crossing through it tomorrow. There is a rumor going around that theforest will be set ablaze by the Turks while we are in it. We have seen no sign at all of Salah-ud-Din's army. My hand shakes as I write this. I think I will dream of fire this night.

The sixth day of September

We crossed through the forest without incident. As we emerged from it the men sent up shouts of relief and good spirits and I joined in most heartily, but our voices died away as we saw what lay on the other side.

We rode out onto a wide plain and there, on the far side of it, was a vast army in battle array. We pulled up in shock and stared. I have never seen such a fearsome sight. For several moments King Richard sat his horse, seemingly immobilized. Then incredibly he broke into a wide smile.

“At last!” he shouted. “At last we will be done with this infernal harassment!” He turned to face his men. “We will have our battle now, my comrades, and the Saracens will know the might of God!”

The cheers broke out again, but this time it was the cry of the crusade.

“God wills it!” the king shouted and “God wills it!” we cried back. For a moment I even forgot my fear, but it has returned. Dear God protect us, it has returned.

The king ordered camp struck on our side of the plain. Only the king's pavilion was erected—the rest of the soldiers slept in their armor, their weapons close at hand. The king gave orders that extra provisions were to be distributed, and everyone feastedwell. After the meal I was summoned to King Richard's tent. All of his nobles were there. Duke Hugh of Burgundy stood to one side of King Richard, King Guy of Jerusalem on the other. Conrad of Montserrat sulked in the background. He is still angered over the king's decision that Guy is the rightful king of Jerusalem.

“Write,” the king commanded me, and I hastened to set up my inkhorn and parchments on a small table. The king then proceeded to lay out the order of battle for the next day. My hand was shaking again, but I gritted my teeth and forced the trembling to stop.

We are to ride out tomorrow morning in a column with the first light of dawn, straight toward Salah-ud-Din's forces. The Knights Templar will ride at the head of the army, one of the most dangerous positions. Next will come the Bretons and the men of Anjou, King Richard's own men, then King Guy of Jerusalem with the Poitevins. In the fourth division will march the Normans and the English guarding King Richard's dragon standard, and after them the French contingents. In the rear, the other position of greatest danger, will be the Knights Hospitaler.

“We will be under constant attack as soon as we set foot on the plain,” the king said, frowning at us all. “But we will not fight back.”

Eyebrows rose at this and I was so surprised I stopped writing and stared with the rest. The king glared at me and I bent quickly to my task again.

“We will let them hurl themselves at us until theirhorses are exhausted,” the king went on. “Then, and only then, will I give the signal for attack. It will be six blasts of a trumpet, two in the van of our column, two in the center and two in the rear. Then, my friends, we will attack, and then Salah-ud-Din will know the full might of a Frankish charge.”

There was some murmuring. I heard Duke Hugh mutter that restraining the knights from fighting back would be near impossible, but in the end all the nobles agreed.

But what about me? King Richard had said nothing about me and I wanted to know where I would be placed. As soon as the plans were drawn up, however, the king dismissed me.

“Sire …” I stammered, but got no further.

“Off with you, Matthew,” he ordered. “I have more business to attend to. This will be a long night.”

And a long night it is. I can see the fires of Salah-ud-Din's camp flickering on the other side of the plain. Shadows move back and forth. It seems that no one sleeps there either.

The seventh day of September

I am in such shock that my hand refuses to obey my mind. It spasms and the ink blots the words as I pen them. I must be weeping. Tears are falling upon the parchment and mixing with the ink in rivulets that run off like streams of black blood. I have seen much blood today. I am still stained with it. I cannot write of what has happened. But I must.

Yesterday I sat and stared at the Saracen campthroughout all the hours of the night. I was not alone. Many of the other soldiers shared my vigil, including one of the Knights Hospitaler. I would have thought him used to battle, but he sat as still and silent and staring as I. We heard the Muslim call to prayer in the darkest hours before the sun began to touch the skies and then a flurry of activity began in the Saracen encampment.

As the sun rose our camp began to come to life as well. The priests said mass. The crusaders—noble knights and soldiers alike—made their confessions, myself among them. Our cooks were serving hot gruel, but I could not eat. All I could do was watch the others and wonder who would be alive after the day and who would be dead. Would I be writing in this journal or lying lifeless on the field of battle?

King Richard emerged from his pavilion. Mercadier shouted orders and the men began to form up, but all in a strange kind of silence. Nowhere did I hear any of the usual bantering and curses. When the whole army was assembled, the king and the duke of Burgundy rode up and down the line, inspecting it and checking the formation. King Richard seemed to be in high good spirits. He shouted to the men, jested, and forced them to respond to him. Slowly I could see the mood changing. By the time he had ridden back and forth twice the men were returning his cheers. Their shoulders straightened, and in the light of the dawning sun I could see blazing eyes and grinning faces. It was an impossible feat, but soon the whole army appeared alive with enthusiasm and impatience. Not a manthere seemed to doubt that we would ride over the Saracens and obliterate them. Truly, King Richard is the greatest leader our world has ever known. Finally I was able to catch the king's attention just long enough to ask, “And I, Sire? Where should I ride?”

The question must have caught him off guard. Clearly he hadn't given me a thought. He hesitated for a moment, then said quickly, “With the standard bearers, boy. They will be well protected. Ride with them.”

That suited me not at all. In my ignorance I was as caught up in the battle fever as the rest, my fears totally forgotten. I determined that I would not be so far back. The king paid me no further attention and when he took his place at the head of the nobles I maneuvered my horse into the crowd behind him. Mercadier saw me and frowned, but there was no time to do anything about it.

The foot soldiers arrayed themselves on either side of us, a command rang out and the column began to move. Across the plain the Turkish army waited.

We marched at a steady pace. We reached the halfway mark, but still the Turkish army made no move. I kept my hand on the pommel of my sword. It gave me reassurance. It also gave me something to hang onto. My false bravado was ebbing quickly.

Then suddenly the Saracens attacked.

A blare of trumpets shattered the air. Drums and tambourines blasted out. Salah-ud-Din's army surged forward in a screaming wave of brilliant color. Pennons, flags and banners streamed above them.

As they closed in upon us our infantry greeted them with a barrage of spears and arrows, but the Turkish army seemed to be everywhere. I saw long-robed men of the desert amongst their troops. I had seen them before and marveled at their horsemanship. Then I saw men with skin so dark it was almost black. Nubians, they are called. I have heard of such people, but never before seen them. The Turkish archers swept by and a rain of arrows flew at us so thickly that for a moment the hard brightness of the sun was dimmed. The Saracen forces attacked, then wheeled around and attacked again. We marched grimly forward. The sun rose and passed its zenith. The Saracens attacked and attacked yet again. The Master of the Hospitalers rode up to the front, his horse in a frenzy of sweat. The Hospitalers in the rear were bearing the brunt of the strikes and he begged the king to give permission to charge. King Richard refused, even though it was plain that we were losing men and horses at an alarming rate. The heat was almost unbearable. The noise of the Turkish drums and cymbals was driving us mad.

The assaults continued. Several more of the nobles spurred their horses forward to beg the king to give the signal to attack, but still he refused. He rode on, his jaw set. I saw King Guy plead with him, but all the king of Jerusalem got was a curt shake of the head. Around me men were cursing and swearing with every arrow that fell.

Then a commotion broke out in our rear. The king turned to see what was happening, but beforehe could shout out a command to stop them, the Marshal of the Order of Hospitalers and another knight broke ranks and charged the Turks. At once the rest of the Hospitalers and the French knights galloped after them.

“God's legs!” King Richard cursed as we saw our own infantry being run down in the attack, but it was too late. He could do nothing to stop it. He shouted out an order for the general assault to be sounded and then stormed after them. The whole Frankish army galloped after him and I was swept along.

I must stop here for a while. My mind is overwhelmed with memories and I cannot control my tears.