Rotherwood: A Prequel to Ivanhoe by Thorndycroft Chris

Author:Thorndycroft, Chris [Thorndycroft, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER VIII

Jaffa, August 1192

As soon as they saw the saffron flags fluttering from the walls of Jaffa, all hope was sucked out of them. They were too late. Jaffa was lost.

“God’s legs, I thought Saladin would need at least two months to take Jaffa,” said King Richard as they gazed across the stretch of water at the fallen city. “And he has taken it in three days!”

They had been in Acre when word reached them that Saladin had launched a lightning strike against the port city. King Richard had quickly thrown together a relief force made up primarily of infantry and Genoese crossbowmen, loaded them onto thirty ships and set off against the wind in a desperate attempt to save the city. King Henry and the rest of the Christian army marched along the coast but it would be several days before they reached the besieged city and Richard couldn’t wait that long. Now that they were here, they realised they hadn’t a chance of retaking it.

Wilfred leant against the gunwale of the king’s crimson flagship and peered across the water at the fallen city. The Saracens were coming down to the beach north of the harbour and were jeering at the approaching Christian fleet. Some shot arrows but they were too far away to reach their marks. Smoke hung in a fug above the shattered walls and several houses in the city were burning. Wilfred glanced from the walls to the Great Tower of the citadel, proud and stern above the chaos below.

“Sire,” said Wilfred, glancing at the king who was also looking forlornly at the scene. “There are no banners flying from the citadel. Only from the city walls.”

“By God, he’s right!” said the Earl of Leicester.

“There are no banners flying from the citadel, it is true,” said the king, gloomily. “But there are no signs of life either.”

“No, look!” cried another knight. “On the wall of the citadel!”

They all squinted, shielding their eyes from the glare of the noonday sun off the water. High up on the western wall, a figure wearing nothing but his undershirt was scrambling over the battlements.

“Does he run mad?” the Earl of Leicester exclaimed. “He’ll break his neck!”

They watched as the figure plummeted to the wet sand below. He survived the fall, got up and ran towards the surf before plunging in and taking long strokes towards the fleet.

The nearest galley picked him up and conveyed him to the king’s ship. The man, dripping wet and heaving with exertion, appeared to be a priest and the news he brought from the citadel was good.

“We held out for as long as we could,” said the priest. “When the curtain wall fell we retreated into the citadel.”

“Are there any left alive?” the king asked, kneeling down in the puddle forming on the deck from the priest’s dripping garment.

“For now,” the priest replied. “But they await the butcher’s knife like lambs for the slaughter. They will all perish if you do not act now!”

“Head into the shallows!” the king said, rising quickly.

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