The circle of Cypriote knights was wavering when de Mézzières got his round ship in close and leaped into the surf. The water came up to his neck – I have heard this from a hundred witnesses – and he had the banner of the King of Jerusalem in his fist, which had not flown in Outremer in a hundred years. And he walked slowly out of the waves, the white banner of Jerusalem trailing on the dirty water behind him, and twenty knights followed him. De Mézzières raised the banner of Jerusalem, and the knights of Cyprus and the handful of crusaders ashore shouted.
And the admirals of Genoa and of Venice, cursing, no doubt, began to manoeuvre to land their knights.
They were half an hour behind the action.
The king was doomed.
When we passed the sea wall, it was, as I have said, noon. The Egyptian sun, even in autumn, was impossibly brilliant, and the air was as warm as an English day in high summer. The dazzle of the noontide sun on the water of the bay was like a thousand-thousand points of light, so bright they burned the air like daggers.
The army of Alexandria lay before us on the dirty white sand. Now, I have heard men say that Alexandria was undefended, and they lie. This is the foolish jealousy of men who, having missed a great battle, seek to deride all those who were there.
They had a great army, and the governor’s lieutenant had the whole garrison of the Pharos Castle, and there was another lord under the walls with a strong force of cavalry.
But the very impetus that was about to win the battle for Islam, the sheer force of ten thousand against six hundred, had drawn them out of all formation into a great clump, a heaving, desperate mass at the centre of the bay of the old harbour’s arc. They had no formation, and the Mamluk bowmen, the Al-Halqua, non-Mamluk, troops of the garrison (as Sabraham later identified them) and the Sudanese spearmen – good troops, as I would have reason to know – were packed in like glasses in woodchips.
When the lord under the walls saw the Order, he led his cavalry at us. He had more horse than we, but not many more, and their horses, while beautiful, were small. Nor were they in wedges. He led his Mamluks forward, and again I gathered my reins short, and Fra Peter turned; his visor was still up.
‘Abide!’ he called.
I was too eager.
We walked along the sands. In my memory, our formation was perfect.
To my right front, where the king was, the banner of Jerusalem wavered. And fell.
The hosts of Alexandria let out a great roar that rang from the walls, and the people of the city echoed their cheer.
Fra Peter leaned back. He was speaking to the legate.
Chretien d’Albret cursed. ‘The fucking serf! He’s going to let the king die. Charge, Gold! Lead us!’
He began to push his mount forward.
We were formed very close. I turned and thumped the butt of my lance against his chest. ‘Abide!’ I shouted.
Fra Peter made a set of hand signals with his bridle hand – to the southernmost wedge. To me, he held up his hand – flat.
Halt.
I could not imagine why we should halt.
But Fra Peter and Fra William had been very clear about obedience, and despite d’Albret shouting that I was a coward, I raised my lance and reined in. My whole command halted. Horse shuffled – somewhere close at hand, a horse let out a long fart.
The southernmost wedge plodded along the sand.
The Mamluks let their horses have their heads, took up their bows, and loosed their first arrows. They were at long bowshot, perhaps three hundred yards. A light cane arrow fell from the sky and hit me in the helmet.