Fra Robert Hales laughed aloud. ‘I’m glad the Saracens suffer from all the same sins as we,’ he said.
Raymond Bérenger, the new Master of the Order, nodded. ‘Let us have a go at this gate.’
Father Pierre sighed. ‘I mislike the – the fractures. Many of our men are wandering like sheep without shepherds.’
‘Like wolves without older wolves,’ muttered Fra William Midleton.
The Count of Turenne, the greatest nobleman present, had fought brilliantly the day before. Now he shook his head. ‘My lords, we have won a great battle and surely shown these Saracen dogs our worth. Should we not withdraw?’
Up until that moment, no one had suggested withdrawal.
The king looked up at his banner. ‘My lord, for myself, I go to Jerusalem.’
Turenne nodded. ‘As you say, your Grace.’ He was not sincere.
Percival de Coulanges had been utterly wrong about the Old Harbour and the landing, but he had the Customs Gate dead to rights. We rode widdershins round the city until we came to the point where the pillars of Pompey could most clearly be seen, and there was a small gate and an empty market in front of it. Yet behind the gate were two immense towers and a set of walls.
I have said that the king was not in command of our ‘army,’ but many of the wolves followed us when we moved. The Scots came with us, and some of the French under Turenne and others with de la Voulte. The king had the Order and the legate had all the English under Lord Grey. And hundreds of Venetian sailors and oarsmen came with us, scenting something.
The king made an excellent plan. He brought up two small scorpions and men who could use them from the Casteleto, and flammables – pitch and naphtha taken at the Pharos. That was, I think, the first time I saw the black powder that men use in cannons. We had had it with the king’s army in the year of Black April, but while I had smelled its hellish scent I had never used it. But the king ordered the captured powder brought forward, and while Cypriote pioneers and Venetian oarsmen wrestled with the barrels and the machines, the king gave us orders.
‘The Scots and the English will assault the gate,’ he said. ‘The mounted men will make two bodies, one with me, and one with the Grand Master. We will keep any Saracens from taking the assault to the flanks.’ He looked back and forth among us. ‘If we get the gate open, then summon the army. But in that case, all the mounted men – on me. We will fight our way through the city to the bridge at the Cairo Gate.’
‘I know it,’ I said.
‘Ah, Sir William! So you will help get us there.’ He watched the gate for as long as it takes to say a Paternoster. ‘And we will use the powder to knock the bridge down. I have seen this done. Eh?’
I had my doubts. I had seen the bridge, and it was big and broad and beautifully built. But dark was an hour or two away and the light was failing. And I didn’t imagine we’d win through, anyway.
But God, as Father Pierre likes to say, moves in mysterious ways. Sir Walter, determined to avenge the death of his brother, and supported by a dozen Scottish knights, with some wild Irish among them for good measure, assaulted the gate. They were brave, and for some time, while they tried to kindle fire against the wooden doors of the outer sally port, we thought that the gate might be un-garrisoned. But after about ten minutes, there was a sally from the next gate, and we charged them. They were no match for our armour or our horses, and they ran. I began to wonder if the garrison was already having problems of spirit – it seemed to me that only their leader had shown any courage, and he was lying face down in the sand, dead by the hand of King Peter.
When we got back to the gate, the towers above it were manned, and arrows and javelins rained on our Scottish knights. Sir Walter was wounded, and so was Lord St Clair, and one of the Irish knights took a blow to the helmet that knocked him unconscious. But the other men stayed at their task.