The armies of the Crusaders were drawn up on the dusty plains that surrounded the city of Acre. The banners of Philip Augustus, Leopofld of Austria and the other monarchs flew high and proud above the gathered troops. And, in the midst of them, under the gold and scarlet standard of Richard the Lionheart, was Richard of Warwick - the Golden Knight. He had ridden for many days to be here, to see the sight that lay before him.

On the plains before them were gathered the host of Salah'a'din. They formed a crescent of blue, white and red as they stood, waiting for the coming storm. Glimmers of light came and went as the great army shifted and their weapons caught the morning sun. Beyond them, beyond the great walls and minarets of Acre itself, was the Mediterranean Sea. From where Richard of Warwick stood, the sea was like a polished mirror, reflecting the sky above it. Where there were clouds, the waters below were covered in the sails of the great fleets.

"Beautiful," John of Chester murmured. "We are blessed before God that we saw this."

"Aye." Richard of Warwick smiled at his friend and companion. "And we will be doubly blessed if we see this day out."

"Blessed?" John laughed. "I intend to ride close by you, yelling out that heathen phrase - what was it?"

"Al faris al dhahabiu."

"That was it." John shifted in his saddle, hoping to reduce the pressure on his seat. "I shall call that out, announcing your presence to all around. Then our enemies will be struck with fear, and they shall run leaving only their dung behind. Right, lads?" This last remark was addressed to the body of men behind Richard and John, who responded with a ribald cheer. "As long as we are with this great warrior - ," John clapped Richard across the shoulders with an open palm, "- then we are content to ride in his wake."

"I hope you are right."

Richard's eye was drawn to some movement in the great mass of man. The ranks that surrounded Richard the Lionheart's pavilion were parting and reforming. At their centre of this, Richard could see a regal figure - His Majesty - mounting a steed and being handed weapons. "I think we shall be riding soon," he muttered.

"So, His Majesty has recovered sufficiently to lead us into battle? Good." John raised his sword. "The King! For King Richard and God!" The men behind them began to cheer, raising their weapons in salute. The great noise swept across the army, and 10,000 men roared for their monarch. In the distance, the armies of the defenders of Acre seemed to shift uneasily.

Then there was silence.

The Golden Knight watched as King Richard rode through the ranks, his guard forming up around him, and took his place in the vanguard of his army.

And then chaos broke loose.

Richard of Warwick's memories of that day were fragmented and atomic. He remembered riding forward, at the head of his men, the hooves of their horses thundering behind him as they churned the desert sands and turned the air brown with dust. He remembered the screaming war cries of the dervishes as they ran to meet the assault. He remembered the shock of impact as his greatsword sliced through the air and bit deep into the flesh of an armoured warrior, shattering the rings of chain that swaddled his body. But there was no time to stop. Instead, the Golden Knight had to press the attack, use the shock of the cavalry charge, before retreating back to their lines.

Time and time again, the Crusader army struck forward - hammer blows against the army of Salah'a'din. With each attack, the ranks of the Muslims fell back, closer and closer to the walls of Acre. They left behind them the corpses of men and beasts. Those who were too wounded to reach the safety of their comrades before the next charge were trampled into the stony ground. And, in the wake of each charge, the leaders of the Christian armies sent in fresh men to fight, to kill and to hold the ground that had been dearly won.

As they rested, John of Chester gazed across the littered plain from the relative safety of a raised sandstone bluff. "One more charge, and they will finally break."

Richard coughed to clear the cloying desert dust from his throat. Even the native robes he and many of the other knights had adopted did nothing to stop him breathing in the fine particles of sand that filled the air. "You sound sure."

"Well, if they don't, then I certainly will. My arse is sore, and I think that I may have torn something in that melee." John fingered his dented armour and grunted. "But my innards are still where they should be - praise God."

"I pray you are - ." But Richard's tired retort was lost in a distant blare of trumpets, and once more a thousand riders burst forth to race across the sand. "Come! We ride again! Aux armes! Aux armes!"

Once more the Golden Knight led his men towards the grand melée. Now the fighting was concentrated around the gates of Acre, where the remaining defenders had fallen back. Richard knew what had to be done. He guided his men around the sides of the battle and into the undefended flanks of the defenders. They passed through the ranks without opposition and began to lay waste to all around them. Richard slashed and stabbed. He didn't care what at. For now he just wanted the day to be over and - most importantly - for him to be alive at the end of it all! It took a minute for him to realise that the remnants of the defending army had broken and were fleeing.

"Victory!" John of Chester called out, raising a bloodied sword above him. "Victory!"

The gates of Acre began to close, despite the crowds of men and horses still streaming towards them. Now the defenders turned on each other, eager to avoid being shut out and left to the mercy of the attackers. But they could not escape their fates as the gates of Acre shut, each one booming a note in a carillon of despair and defeat.

Richard looked down at the fallen warrior, staring up at him in fear. "Effendi!" the warrior called up. "Surrender! Ransom!" The moment of hesitation was just enough for Richard to remember that they were both men, thrown into this slaughter. He lowered his sword, but kept its point towards the warrior.

"I accept your surrender," he said. "Come."