In a few moments, the Berbers were all dead or gone from the field and I heard the brassy song of our trumpets sounding the recall. Looking around the field, I saw that many of the dead wore the black robes with the white cross of the Hospitallers — touchingly their horses seemed the most loyal of beasts, many standing beside their dead masters, and nuzzling at them, urging the corpse to rise — but that there were still three score or so of the black-clad Christian warriors alive, and several dozen French knights, and they, like our men, were trotting over to the great white banner with the snarling wolf’s head, which was our rallying point.
Our own horsemen had not suffered too badly in that desperate fight, and I could see at least seventy of Sir James’s men, joining Robin and the Scottish knight by the flag. We formed up again but this time in two ranks; those who still had their lances, or who had thought to pick up discarded ones from the field, were placed in the front rank. The rest of us would follow the front rank in with our swords. From my position in the second rank, I looked forward over the heads of the lance-men and at the ranks of the enemy’s right wing a mere four hundred yards away. Immediately in front of us was a thick line of foot soldiers hundreds strong, each holding a long sword and small round shield; their chests were bare, their loins wrapped in brilliant white cloth, their faces were grim as they awaited out attack — and their skins were as dark as midnight. These were the fearsome warriors from Egypt — the mighty leapers, the drinkers of human blood. Behind them was another mass of Turkish cavalry, bows already in their hands. I shivered as I looked on the enemy host that we were shortly to charge; the sword hilt was sweaty in my hand, and I found I was gripping my shield tighter to my left shoulder. Another trumpet blast, and we were moving forward, sword in my moist fist, shield strapped tightly to my left forearm. The arrows from the horse archers began to fall on us, rattling against my shield and helmet as I crouched under their lash. I tried to ignore the stinging rain of deadly shafts and concentrate on keeping Ghost in line with the rest of the conroi. And we did not have to endure for long. We rose to the canter, then the gallop, and then we were upon them. The front rank spearing into the lines of dark-skinned men hurling them backwards, and we in the second rank following hard on their heels. A huge half-naked black man rushed at me from my left, howled some dreadful pagan war cry and then leapt at me, springing high in the air, higher than I sat on Ghost, and swinging his long blade at my head in the same movement. More by luck than skill, I caught it on the top of my shield and deflected it in a hissing flash over my head, and my own sword lanced out and took him in his muscular belly. He fell away, off my sword, screaming and spraying blood from his wound. But two of his fellows were running at me, one from the left again, and more dangerously, one from the right. I heard Robin shouting: ‘On, on, take the cavalry, take the cavalry,’ from somewhere close by but I was too busy to heed him. Instead of leaping at me, the dark man on my left crouched and swung his long grey blade in an upward strike at Ghost’s belly, hoping to eviscerate my faithful beast, but I dropped the pointed end of my shield, and parried his low blow before swinging overhand, across my body with the sword, clipping his shield, which was held above his head, with my blade’s edge and driving it past to chop into the gap between his neck and shoulder, slicing deep and dropping him with a nearly severed head. For a few moments my blade stuck in his collar bone, and I had to twist and tug to free it as his hot blood pissed up my face and right arm. I was off balance, having leaned far out of the saddle to my left hand side to strike the blow, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other dark man, just yards away, bringing back his arm for a massive strike at my twisted waist.
The world seemed to slow; I could feel every heartbeat as if it were the boom of a mournful funeral drum. I knew what would happen next. I could not swing my sword round in time to parry his blow, and his long, heavy blade would arc into my side, smash through the chainmail, and cut deep into the side of my belly. I was a dead man.
And then a miracle occurred. There was a rumble of hoofbeats, a big horse thundered past; a long spear took the Nubian full in the chest, lifted him off his feet and hurled him away, his naked body crumpling to the turf with his arm still raised, sword cocked and ready for the blow that would have killed me.
The horseman reined in a dozen yards away. He pulled out his sword and raised it in salute and grinned at me: it was Robin. I straightened in the saddle and lifted my own blade in return. ‘Come on, Alan,’ he said, ‘no more slacking. We can’t hang around here, we have to push the cavalry off that ridge.’ And he gestured over his shoulder to where a huge mass of Turkish horsemen was milling about uncertainly on a low rise between us and the centre of Saladin’s vast army. ‘And on your best behaviour, too, Alan,’ Robin continued, ‘the King will be watching.’ And he grinned at me again. He cupped one hand around his mouth and bellowed: ‘On me, form on me,’ in his brass battle voice. ‘Trumpeter, sound “re-form”.’
At the mention of the King, I turned and looked back at our lines, and saw a wonderful sight: the King, his golden ringed helmet marking him out of the crowd, was advancing at speed up the centre of the field. And behind him were a thousand fresh knights from England and Normandy. Their armour gleamed, lance points glittered, pennants fluttered gaily in the air, and their big horses shook the ground with the thunder of their hooves. They were headed straight for the centre of the enemy line. In a flashing moment, I saw why Richard had delayed his advance. He had let our men bleed the strength from the centre, sucking regiments to the right flank to face us, and the left, where the Templars and Angevins were still engaged in a furious melee. With the centre thinned by attacks either side, Richard was now about to strike it a powerful hammer blow. Would he succeed? It was too soon to say: Saladin still commanded a mighty host, and if Richard was pushed back, and Saladin counter-attacked, every man in the whole Christian army would be fleeing for his life by nightfall.
Our cavalry, Robin’s men, the Flemings and what was left of the Hospitallers and French, were scattered all over the field. The brave Nubian footmen had died where they stood, cut down in droves by our horsemen. But the half-naked tribesmen had exacted a dreadful price for their deaths: scarcely a hundred mounted men were able to answer Robin’s call. I offered up a quick prayer for Richard’s success, and ours, and added a humble request that my life would be spared, too. And then we were off again: no neat lines this time, just the big, jostling crowd of Christian horsemen that Robin had gathered, bloodied swords drawn, grinning like wolves with the wild joy of battle and galloping madly up the hill any old how to savage the crowd of Turkish light cavalry at the ridge.
I will not say the Turks were cowards; they had faced these same blood-hungry men three times already that day and been mauled in each encounter. It was in their nature as light cavalry not to stand and face the heavy horse of Christendom, but to sting and run, regroup and return, to harass and kill from afar. But nevertheless, when a hundred exhausted, gore-flecked knights rampaged into their front ranks, swords swinging, shouting ‘St George,’ and ‘The Holy Sepulchre’ and one lone voice hoarsely crying ‘Westbury!’ — the Turks fled, turning their neat little ponies and riding east as fast as they could. The dust boiled around them and thousands of fine horsemen showed their backs and galloped from the field.
It was the beginning of the end for Saladin that day. Richard’s knights had smashed into the centre and the King and his men were busily chopping their way through the Sultan’s elite guards towards the man Richard most wanted to duel with face to face. But it was not to be. Under the combined assaults on the left, right and centre, the great Muslim warlord ordered the retreat, and with a pig-squeal of trumpets and a cacophony of cymbals, leaving the regiments of his loyal bodyguard to cover the withdrawal, he quit the field in a cloud of churning dust.