John stood on the ridge of a long line of dusty, brown hills and looked down upon the Christian army as it moved through the narrow valley below, heading south alongside the silvery ribbon of the Jordan River. The Franks marched in a square formation, with foot-soldiers on the periphery providing protection for the horses of the mounted knights at the centre. But the ranks were loose. A constant stream of men left their places to go to the river and refill their skins. Most of the men marched with their helmets off and their shields strapped to their backs. A few had even removed their armour to better enjoy the beautiful spring day. Multicoloured pennants flapped gaily overhead in a cool breeze, giving the army a festive appearance. They had reason to celebrate, only three days before they had driven the Saracens from Banyas.
John turned his back on the Frankish army to look down the opposite side of the ridge, where thousands of mounted Saracen warriors were gathered out of sight of the Christians. John knew that Nur ad-Din was waiting with an equal number of men behind the hills on the other side of the valley. After leaving Banyas, Nur ad-Din had only pretended to retreat before turning south to shadow the Christians. Yesterday, he had driven his army through the night in order to lay a trap for the Franks.
John picked out Yusuf’s eagle standard amongst the men below. He would not ride with his friend today. Since taking the town of Banyas, John had been troubled by bloody nightmares. Fighting Reynald’s bandits was one thing; Reynald was a savage who had betrayed him. But John knew that he had put his soul in jeopardy by killing his fellow Christians. He did not wish to die in battle before he had received absolution.
‘The Franks have reached the ford,’ Imad ad-Din noted. He and a dozen other scribes had joined John atop the ridge, ready to record the coming battle for posterity. They sat on the ground around him, their writing tables across their laps, quills ready.
John turned back towards the Frankish army. They had reached the shallow waters of Jacob’s Ford, the safest crossing point over the Jordan River. The first foot-soldiers were already wading across, the water reaching up to their waists at the deepest point. Behind them, the army had broken its square formation, forming a column in order to cross the narrow ford. John’s stomach tightened with nervous tension. When half the foot-soldiers had reached the far bank, the first of the mounted knights entered the water, the standard of the King of Jerusalem flying above them. They were halfway across when a horn sounded from the hills on the far side of the river. As the low, mournful cry of the horn faded, the Christian army stopped, knights and foot-soldiers looking about nervously. In the silence, John could hear the distant Frankish horses, their anxious whinnies borne to him on the wind.
The blast of another horn sounded behind John, drowning out the sounds of the Frankish army. He turned to see the Saracen army on the move, Yusuf’s eagle standard flying at their head. They headed for a gap in the hills that led out to the valley.
‘Look!’ Imad ad-Din cried.
John turned to see the other half of the Saracen army pouring from the hills on the far side of the river, the sound of the pounding horses’ hooves rolling like thunder across the plain. There was disorder in the Christian ranks as the mounted knights hurried to cross the river to meet the threat. But the narrow ford slowed their efforts. Some entered the river south of the ford to avoid the bottleneck and were swept away by the current. Meanwhile, the foot-soldiers hurriedly formed a line, pikes out.
The horsemen led by Nur ad-Din split in two as they reached the foot-soldiers, riding parallel to the Christian lines and shooting arrows into their enemies. Christians fell by the dozen, but the line did not break. Behind the foot-soldiers, the last of the mounted knights were crossing the river to group around the standard of the Frankish king. A horn blast sounded out from the Christian ranks as the knights prepared to charge. Then, behind them, the other half of the Saracen army galloped forth from the hills, Yusuf’s banner at their head. Shooting arrows as they rode, they cut through the Frankish foot-soldiers who had not yet crossed the river and then splashed across the ford to attack the Christian knights from behind. Trapped between the two halves of the Saracen army, the Franks panicked. Individual knights attempted to ride to safety, but their horses were shot out from under them. The line of foot-soldiers dissolved as men fled, only to be ridden down from behind. Hundreds of Franks stripped off their armour and leapt into the river, swimming downstream to safety.
A piercing horn sounded again and again as the Frankish king sought to rally his men. Only two hundred or so knights remained, encircled by the Saracen army, which closed in to finish them. John spotted Yusuf’s standard at the heart of the fighting, pushing towards Baldwin’s banner. If the king fell, the battle would be over. And then, after a final, long blast of the horn, the Frankish knights charged, heading straight towards Yusuf. Nothing could stand in the way of the Franks’ plate armour and strong horses. They crashed through the Saracen ranks, spearing men off horses with their long lances and then crushing them underfoot. For a moment Yusuf’s standard stayed aloft as he and a handful of mamluks held their ground. John thought he spotted Yusuf at the head of the mamluks, his sword flashing in the sunlight. And then the mamluks were swept away and Yusuf’s standard fell. Yusuf was nowhere to be seen.
‘ Allah! Allah! Allah!’ Yusuf stood in the saddle, screaming as he slashed out at the Frankish knights streaming past. Then a knight’s lance hit Yusuf’s horse directly in the chest, killing it instantly. Yusuf managed to jump free of the saddle as his horse collapsed. He landed in the path of a charging warhorse and rolled to the side. Another horse was bearing down, and Yusuf curled into a ball as the horse galloped straight over him. He sprang to his feet and jumped to his right to avoid a knight’s lance. As the Frank rode past, Yusuf knelt and slashed out, slicing through the girth that held the knight’s saddle in place. The saddle slid off and the knight crashed to the ground, to be trampled. Yusuf ran after the horse, which had slowed to a walk. He grabbed its mane and swung himself on to its back. The last of the Christian knights were now flying past, and Yusuf kicked his mount’s sides, urging it after them.
Yusuf’s horse kicked up plumes of sand as it raced alongside the river. Two banners flew over the fleeing Franks: one a gold cross with four smaller crosses on a white background, the other royal blue and scarlet. Four knights rode under the blue and scarlet flag, surrounding a tall man in shining plate armour. That had to be King Baldwin.
‘ Yalla!’ Yusuf cried, urging his horse forward. He pulled alongside the rearmost knight. The knight slashed at Yusuf, who veered away to avoid the blow. Yusuf urged his horse back towards the knight and thrust out, stabbing the Frank in the side. With a cry of pain, the man slid from the saddle, taking Yusuf’s sword with him.
Yusuf rode on. The king was just ahead now, with two knights flanking him. ‘ Yalla! Yalla!’ Yusuf cried as he surged forward into the narrow gap between the king and the knight on his right. The knight swung for Yusuf’s head, but Yusuf ducked the blow. He jumped from his horse, throwing himself at the king and dragging him from the saddle. Yusuf rolled as he hit the ground and sprang to his feet. A few feet away, the king lay on his back with sword in hand, struggling to rise in his heavy plate armour. The other Frankish knights were galloping away along the Jordan. None turned to come back for their fallen comrade.
Yusuf drew his eagle-hilt dagger and approached the king. The Frank swung at him, but Yusuf jumped the blow. He stepped on the king’s sword arm, pinning it, then kicked the weapon away. Yusuf knelt on the man’s chest and raised his dagger. ‘I yield!’ the knight roared and pushed back his visor. Yusuf blinked in surprise. It was not the Frankish king. It was Reynald.
‘You,’ Yusuf whispered. He raised his dagger to strike.
‘Do not kill me!’ Reynald begged. ‘I am the Prince of Antioch. My ransom will be worth a fortune.’
‘I do not want your gold,’ Yusuf growled as he put his dagger against Reynald’s throat. ‘Only justice for my friend.’
‘What have we here, Yusuf?’ a voice called, and Yusuf froze. He looked up to see Nur ad-Din approaching on horseback.
‘I am the Prince of Antioch!’ Reynald cried. ‘I am your prisoner. I beg your mercy.’
Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘Let him be, Yusuf.’ Reluctantly, Yusuf stepped away and sheathed his dagger. Two mamluks came forward and pulled Reynald to his feet. ‘You shall be our guest in Aleppo until you are ransomed,’ Nur ad-Din told him. ‘Take him away.’ The mamluks marched Reynald off to join the other Frankish prisoners. Nur ad-Din turned to Yusuf. ‘You led your men well, Yusuf, and Reynald will be worth his weight in gold.’
‘I had hoped to capture King Baldwin.’
‘In good time, Yusuf. The Frankish army is broken. Baldwin will beg for peace, but I will not grant it. I will drive him and his people into the sea!’