Chapter 86: Assault On The City!
Baldwin could not help cursing nonstop in his heart.
He wanted to curse William Marshal. God knows, when he talked to them about that little prince around their age, he used the words shy and cute.
He really wanted to drag William Marshal from London and let him see with his own eyes if this guy charging back and forth on the battlefield like a wild boar had even one letter in common with shy and cute.
He also wanted to curse Richard. That’s right, the red-haired Arthur was the fourth son of Henry II. He disguised himself as Arthur of Aquitaine, an ordinary French knight, holding a letter of introduction from Marshal（ The prince suspected Marshal did not know this was one Richard wrote for himself）, crossing half a continent and several nations to reach Ayyarasa Road, just to join this holy war.
Baldwin truly did not know what great attraction war held for people. As the future king of Ayyarasa, Baldwin of course knew that most of these knights coming to fight for his father had no territory or title to inherit. They came here intending to exchange their strength, bodies, and lives—those who joined the holy war could not only redeem all their sins but also become honored guests at the tables of lords and kings upon return, just like William Marshal.
He had not even truly clashed with the Saracens yet. People heard he went to Ayyarasa and fought for King Amalric I, so they assumed he was a knight of Christ, a pious good person. Before, some mocked him for failing to redeem himself immediately after capture; now people either avoided mentioning it or saw it as an example of honesty and steadfastness…
But Arthur—no, Richard—what kind of person was he? Born into the upper crust, his eldest brother Young Henry had lived in his father’s court after leaving his mother’s embrace, and above him were only two sisters whose relationship with their mother was not good either, so he was deeply favored by his mother Eleanor of Aquitaine. At just eleven years old, he was enfeoffed as Duke of Aquitaine and betrothed to Alice, daughter of Louis VII of France.
In 72, he also became Count of Poitou and received the spear and banner emblem symbolizing his position.
Not long ago, he even fought his own father with the support of Louis VII—seemingly lost, but calculating the time, he might have already packed up and run from Francia all the way to Ayyarasa before King Henry II of England and King Louis VII of France reached their truce agreement.
In other words, he had a title, territory, and property. Moreover, since his territory and title came from his mother and his father’s enemy Louis VII, he did not need to worry about them being stripped away.
Baldwin simply could not figure out why he came here to fight a bunch of Saracens—could he become the king of a fifth holy kingdom?
But clearly, Richard was enjoying himself. His weapon was not a long sword—though Saint Paul was said to have used a sword in legend—but this time Richard brought his favorite and most handy weapon, a battle axe.
When he wielded this battle axe, it bore traces of several weapons: cleaving like a long sword, striking like a hammer, throwing and sweeping like a flail.
Wherever he went, it was a horrifying mess of blood and flesh. And as if to make up for past regrets, he ran incredibly fast, pulling Baldwin and Caesar along to break away from the main group.
“Where is he going?” Baldwin asked during a brief gap.
Caesar knocked aside a crossbow bolt shot by a Saracen, breathing slightly heavily, and said, “He’s running upward. He… might want to…”
They looked up together and immediately understood Richard’s intent. What else could he be doing?
He wanted to charge to the fortress’s uppermost level, where there was a drawbridge connected to Fustat.
“Have you asked him how long his saint’s favor can last?” Caesar asked.
“I asked the others. He said it could last at least one full day without issue.”
“Hope he’s not bragging,” Caesar said.
How do people react to a fierce and brutal enemy? They retreat, they flee, but some are stirred to savagery or driven by fear and despair to struggle and resist recklessly. They could feel the surrounding Saracens falling into this mood.
If it were someone else, they might retain some reason and not pursue those fleeing or already surrendered, but Richard did not care if the enemies before him wanted to kneel or swing swords. He shouted loudly, his face flushed red, and even laughed when enemies charged up—clearly, he was the kind of “knight” praised by the priests. To him, Saracens were not fellow humans but beasts and devils.
Killing them brought Richard no guilt; rather, as the priests said, slaying these heathens was work for the Lord, a precious merit.
He was relentlessly fulfilling this oath, charging and killing all the way, leaving countless corpses.
When Richard suddenly shook off a Saracen biting his arm dead, the space before him cleared—they had reached the destination: an empty platform connected to a swaying drawbridge, with more Saracens surging toward them…
——————
By now, people had also seen more and more Saracens charging onto the drawbridge connected to Laudae Island. They shouted in anger, wanting to retake this fortress from the Crusaders, but they faced what seemed an insurmountable barrier—and this barrier was just three young knights.
They said this because someone had already recognized Baldwin and Caesar standing before the group of Saracens, along with that… no, that Arthur of Aquitaine.
Amalric I immediately stood up from his chair.
He knew his son was not the reckless impulsive type, and Caesar was always steady and cautious, but who knew—perhaps a bout of success on the battlefield had bred undue arrogance in this young man. He was displeased that Caesar had not stopped Baldwin—he had not even thought of Arthur of Aquitaine.
But the news brought by Heraclius soon made him realize he had nearly been swayed again by a father’s stubbornness and prejudice.
“So it’s not Arthur of Aquitaine, but Richard?” Amalric I felt a splitting headache. “He actually hid his name to come onto the battlefield. Did his father not teach him to respect the host and king here?”
“I think he’s hardly the rule-following good boy,” Heraclius replied with full mockery. “A few months ago, he was still crossing swords with his father on the battlefield.
And from what I know, he has not yet received his father’s forgiveness. Henry II was furious to death. He had already forgiven his two other sons who betrayed him too, granting them territory and castles, yet swore to punish Richard harshly. He probably still does not know Richard has run to us.”
“I think Baldwin has probably found out.”
“He has found out. So he must stay by Richard’s side.” In such a war, Death never cares how young, noble, or valuable a person is. His scythe sweeps the battlefield like harvesting wheat, treating all equally—even if you wear a crown.
In the siege warfare that had lasted half a day before, many knights and lords had already died.
Some were struck by thrown stones, necks broken, lives lost; some had heads pierced by arrows, falling dead on the spot; others fell from war horses and were trampled by hooves, howling as they went to see God.
Just earlier, the king received more bad news: a siege tower made by a lord had collapsed.
While Amalric I was making various siege engines, this lord was not idle either. On a whim, he drew blueprints, paid out of pocket, and demanded craftsmen build him an incredibly sturdy siege tower. It did look very sturdy, surrounded by oak fences, covered in thick cowhide, dozens of feet high and about ten feet wide.
But something went wrong. The siege tower wobbled as soldiers pushed it to the city wall. Before the drawbridge could even drop, its excessive weight sank it into the mud beneath the wall, and it began to tilt. If it fell toward the wall, it would have been fine—but it did not. It toppled to the other side, and the people below scattered in panic.
Beams, pillars, platforms, leather pouches filled with sand and dirt—all the things piled inside came crashing down like hail, burying everyone within, including that clever lord, and taking nearly twenty knights with him.
Such a laughable mistake not only drew enemy mockery but also demoralized their own side. The king was annoyed but could hardly say anything, since the lord had died too.
Later, there was a young knight he valued, whom he had wanted to promote to a higher position. The knight had already learned of this from Amalric I—perhaps because of that, he wanted to quickly earn some merit. When a battering ram hammered a gap in the temporary barricade at the city gate, he grew overly excited at seeing the enemies beyond the gap.
He shouted loudly, urging people to widen the crack, but at that moment, several spears thrust through the gap, piercing his chest. He died instantly. Not only that, those vile Saracens even threw down hooks and chains from the wall, snagging his chainmail, hoisting him up, then cruelly humiliating his corpse. They cut off his head, loaded it into a catapult, and flung it outside the city, then hung his naked body on the wall.
People seeing this could not help crying out loudly. Only much later was his corpse thrown down. They sewed his head back onto his body, dressed him in his finest clothes. His face still bore anger and terror, but he remained brave and fearless. The king had decided to bury him on that most sacred slope, where he would ascend to heaven and keep company with the saints.
But inevitably, this young knight’s death made the king start worrying about his own child.
For a long time, he could not see him and did not know where he had gone— even though Laudae Island held just a fortress, it was not something to take in a moment, especially with a wooden bridge from which Saracens were reinforcing the garrison via that bridge and drawbridge.
The knights fought the Saracens for a long time before finally burning that wooden bridge. Only then did people gradually rush from inside the fortress to the platform with the hanging drawbridge—they were even startled at first, not knowing the prince, Caesar, and Arthur of Aquitaine were here.
Even counting from nine in the morning（ to two in the afternoon）, they had already held and fought for half a day. The platform could not even hold the corpses—they or the Saracens threw them directly below the tower or into the river. The three young warriors, including two novice knights, though deeply blessed by saint’s favor, were covered in blood, utterly exhausted. After being relieved, they collapsed to the ground and fell into deep sleep.
————
When Caesar woke, he found silence all around. He was so startled he nearly jumped from the bed, but a familiar hand immediately pressed him down.
“Teacher?”
Heraclius nodded, struck flint, and lit a candle.
He had just been treating Caesar, but Caesar’s wounds were not severe—just depleted strength. He had to protect Baldwin and also Richard, who might be Henry II’s son… while fighting Saracens.
Bearing the responsibility of three people alone, he was the last to wake. Heraclius could not complain about Baldwin but could complain about Richard—too bad this rough-and-tumble guy was somewhat sharp on the battlefield but a standard fool off it, unable to read Heraclius’s gaze.
“Baldwin, and… Arthur?”
“He was just here…” Heraclius said, then suddenly showed extreme annoyance—he heard heavy footsteps. The tent flap was thrown open, and “Arthur” dragged Baldwin in. They had both bathed and changed clothes. “Arthur” seemed no longer disguised, wearing attire befitting his true status.
White silk shirt, sleeveless crimson velvet coat, gold belt, orange trousers and brown deerskin boots, a large gold cross hanging on his chest embedded with a ruby, looking like an openable reliquary box.
“First, I must apologize to you, friend,” he said sincerely. “I hid my name and status because I preferred to come to the holy war battlefield as an ordinary warrior—I am Richard, son of King of England, Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou, and Duke of Aquitaine Henry II and the Queen of England, Duchess of Aquitaine.”
“Second, I thank you for your help and protection. You saved my life.”
“Finally,” he asked earnestly, “I have a good marriage prospect here. Do you want to give it a try?”
