‘You Grace, we came here to be rich, and if we cannot take the city, at least we can loot these towns,’ Sir Walter said.
Gascons, French, Scots — they ran riot over the countryside, looted a caravan they caught coming in, killing the animals where they stood. The Venetians stormed the Pharos again, and found it empty. The town’s lieutenant had stripped it of men and valuables and slipped away after the attack the night before, convinced he could not hold it.
As I say, the Saracens had troubles of their own. One was that the lieutenant was himself shattered by defeat. I have seen this in other places; he had a larger army and a magnificent defensive position, but defeat robbed him of his will to resist.
And we had neglected the most simple precautions, and so the Alexandrines were able to send messengers to Cairo. On the other hand, with all the harbour castles in our hands, the Venetians and Genoese were suddenly sanguine. Their ships were safe, and any ships that remained in the old harbour were rowed around to the New.
By mid-afternoon, the king had perhaps two thousand men-at-arms under his hand. He had all the English — perhaps the habit of obedience was better among the English, but I think it is that there were more lords and fewer routiers. At any rate, the English stayed together as a body, and the Scots, despite Leslie’s comments in the late morning, came back to the beach and remained part of the ‘army’. But the French, the Gascons, the Bretons, the Savoyards and the sailors were uncontrollable.
Nor were they the only ones uncontrolled. In the town, a riot set the Christian quarter afire and the heads of a dozen Christian men appeared on spikes over the Sea Gate that the locals called Bab al-Bahr. The French routiers got barrels of pitch from the Venetians and tried to burn the gate and the garrison drove them off with heavy losses.
No one knows what happened in those hours. But we saw the smoke rising in the town, and as the French threw themselves against the Sea Gate, we covered their flanks. Parties of Saracens would emerge from the sally ports along the waterfront to kill the attackers, and we — mounted — would trap them against the walls. In fact, mostly we trapped air and sand because they were too quick for us.
Late in the afternoon, the Scots had a go at the Sea Gate. Sir Walter Leslie led them forward, and they rolled barrels of flammables to the base of the gate. But the Naffatun had come, and they rained fire on the earth. Sir Norman Leslie died in his harness, so burned that the plates buckled, and many another Scot died with him. But they got the gates afire, or possibly the naptha that killed the Scots also caught the gate.
The infidels made a mounted sortie, trying to clear the gate so that they could put out the fire and we charged them, and for the first time we were sword to sword with Mamluks. I was by the king for he did me the honour of riding with my contingent of volunteers, and we had a sharp fight, but the Mamluks didn’t linger. We pressed them hard into their sally port, but they got away.
Mostly I remember being tired, hot, and miserable.
Sunset was close when the king summoned all his counsellors.
‘Well, my lords,’ he said. ‘Here we are at the walls of Alexandria.’ The smell of smoke was everywhere. There was a fire inside the city, still burning. We didn’t know that Janghara, the cowardly lieutenant, had ordered the Christians killed and then snuck out of the city. We had no idea that there were more Alexandrines fighting the fire than fighting our armies.
King Peter was never greater than that hour. Tall and slim even in harness, he seemed fired by the same energy that animated Father Pierre, who stood by his side. ‘Now is the time to take the city, my lords,’ the king insisted. ‘Advise me.’
Percival de Coulanges, the same who had called Sabraham and me liars, stepped forward without hesitation. ‘I know the right gate to attack. This one is too obvious because it is close to our camp. Let’s take ladder and try the Bab al-Diwan. The customs house gate.’
The king had a heavy gold link-belt on his hips, and his hands rested on it. ‘My lord, you are a good and loyal vassal,’ he said. ‘But your advice on the Old Harbour left something to be desired, and we all almost bleached our bones on your beach.’ He laughed. ‘Are you sure?’
Percival shook his head. ‘No, my lord,’ he admitted. ‘But when I was a slave here, the Lord of the Customs cast the army forth and said that his gate was his alone, and only his own men could be there. He was such a corrupt bastard that he couldn’t have the Sultan’s men watching him.’
Fra Robert Hales laughed aloud. ‘I’m glad the Saracens suffer from all the same sins as we,’ he said.
Raymond Berenger, 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.