Lionheart (65 page)

“Well done,” he said, and Humphrey flushed, so unaccustomed was he to praise.

“Some . . . others insisted that an oath given to an infidel counted for naught,” he confided, “and they called me a fool for honoring my pledge.”

“They are the fools. Ah, here he comes.”

Al-’Ᾱdil was mounted on a chestnut as mettlesome as Fauvel and clad in an elegant tunic of scarlet silk brocade; Richard had been told it was called a
kazaghand
and was lined with mail. He looked to be close in years to Conrad of Montferrat, in his mid-forties. His hair was covered by a mail coif, his skin bronzed by the sun, his dark eyes glittering with intelligence, caution, and curiosity. He was obviously a skilled rider, for he easily handled his spirited stallion, who pinned his ears back at the sight of the other horses. When Humphrey offered a formal greeting, he answered at some length, watching Richard all the while.

“We observed the usual courtesies,” Humphrey explained, “but then he said that you and he almost met ten days ago, on the first of
Sha’ban
. The Muslim calendar is different from ours; that would be . . .”

He paused to calculate the date but Richard had already guessed it. “Sunday, August twenty-fifth. So the command was his, then. Tell him he could have made my acquaintance had he only lingered awhile longer.”

Although Humphrey spoke fluent French and Arabic, this sort of barbed banter had always eluded him; he’d never learned how to communicate in the sardonic, sometimes cryptic language of men like this. For reasons only the Almighty knew, he’d been born utterly without the swagger, the bravado that seemed essential for survival in their world. Glancing from one man to the other, he felt certain that the English king and the sultan’s brother were enjoying this verbal jousting, and that, too, he did not understand. He obediently continued to translate, but he was genuinely puzzled by al-’Ᾱdil’s next comment.

“He asks if your stallion is the famous Fauvel, my lord.”

Richard’s expression remained unrevealing, but his eyes gleamed with amusement. “He is letting me know how much they know about us. Tell him I am flattered that they find my activities so interesting, but I think it is time we speak of peace. Brave men have died on both sides. If we can come to terms, no more need die.”

Al-’Ᾱdil’s response was brief and to the point. “He wants to know what your terms are.”

“Tell him they are simple—that his brother the sultan withdraw from Outremer and return to his own lands in Egypt and Syria.”

Humphrey swung around in the saddle to stare at Richard. His obvious astonishment alerted al-’Ᾱdil, but he was still caught off balance when Humphrey slowly translated Richard’s demands. He stared at the English king incredulously and then his brown eyes blazed with anger. “He says that if this is Frankish humor, he does not find it amusing.”

“Well, mayhap he’ll see the humor in it once he has gone home to Cairo or Damascus.”

Al-’Ᾱdil wheeled his stallion, flung a terse retort over his shoulder, and galloped off to his waiting men. “Do I want you to translate that?” Richard asked and grinned when Humphrey shook his head. He then turned Fauvel, and Humphrey hastily followed. Catching up to the English king, he did something he’d never done before. He demanded an answer.

“I think I have earned the right to ask, my lord. What was the purpose of that meeting? For certes, it was not to talk peace!”

“I suppose you’d not believe me if I said I was simply curious to meet the man?” Richard gave him a sly smile before saying, “What is the Arabic word for ‘diversion,’ Humphrey? As soon as we get back to camp, we move out. We’re all packed and ready to go. Whilst Saladin’s brother goes to report the results of our meeting, we head into the Forest of Arsuf.”

SALAH AL-DīN had not expected the crusaders to set such a slow, deliberate pace, and provisions had become a problem, for he’d not anticipated having to keep an army in the field so long. Continuing to scout for a suitable battle site, he’d gone back and forth with such speed that some of his men became stranded in the Forest of Arsuf and he was forced to wait for them to catch up the next day. He’d ordered his baggage train to head south while he waited to hear about al-’Ᾱdil’s meeting with the English king, then changed his mind and called them back, not sure whether his enemy would remain in camp or continue the march south, and Bahā ’ al-Dīn reported that there was much confusion in their camp all that night.

RICHARD’S PLOY WORKED, the crusaders safely passing through the Forest of Arsuf and halting by the River Rochetaille, where their flank was protected by an impassable swamp. They were now less than twenty miles from Jaffa. They knew, though, that ahead of them lay an open plain, an ideal site for battle. They remained by the river the next day, and when dusk fell, they could see the enemy campfires in the distance. Few men in either army would sleep well that night.

CHAPTER 26

SEPTEMBER 1191

Camp on River Rochetaille

Richard strode to the center of his tent, where his battle commanders had assembled: the Grand Masters and marshals of the Templars and Hospitallers, the de Lusignans and those
poulain
lords who’d not defected to Conrad, his cousins Henri and André, the Préaux brothers, who’d been entrusted with the royal standard, and barons and bishops of England, Normandy, Anjou, Brittany, Flanders, and France. He imagined Saladin and his brother were having a war council this night, too.

“We’ll be setting out at dawn,” he said, wasting no time upon preliminaries. “It is six miles to Arsuf and we ought to reach it by midday. From Arsuf, it will be just eleven miles or so to Jaffa, so this may well be Saladin’s last chance to force a battle. If our roles were reversed, this is where I’d choose to fight—the lay of the land favors an attacking army. There are cliffs between the road and the sea which will keep us from hugging the coast, so there is a danger of being outflanked. And there is a broad plain running parallel to the road and forest, an ideal open space for Saracen horsemen. So we can expect a hellish day on the morrow and courage alone will not get us through safely to Arsuf. Our only chance will be to maintain a tight formation and to keep moving, no matter the provocation.”

Richard paused then, but no one spoke. “This will be the order of march. Our army will be organized into twelve squadrons and divided into five battalions. The Templars will have the vanguard. The second battalion will consist of Bretons and Angevins. King Guy and his brothers will lead my Poitevins. The Normans and English will guard the cart with my standard, followed by the French. The Hospitallers will command the rear guard.”

He paused again. “The Count of Champagne will guard our left flank.” This was a great responsibility for one who’d only recently turned twenty-five, and Henri flushed with pleasure, taking it for the honor it was. Richard’s gaze shifted from Henri to the others, to the young Earl of Leicester, his nephew Jaufre, the Fleming Jacques d’Avesnes, and his new ally, Guillaume des Barres, men he liked or respected. His eyes flicked then to those he loathed or mistrusted—the Duke of Burgundy, the Bishop of Beauvais and his brother, the Count of Dreux. A pity they had not skulked back to Paris with Philippe. Given a choice, he’d rather have fought beside al-’Ᾱdil than Beauvais or Robert de Dreux. “You will, of course, lead your own squadrons of knights,” he said, “riding with the center and the rear guard. The Duke of Burgundy and I will each take a squadron and ride up and down the line, as I’ve been doing in past days.”

Some of the men began to murmur among themselves once Richard was done. But they fell silent when Jacques d’Avesnes got to his feet, for he’d been at the siege since its start and was that rarity in this maelstrom of fierce national rivalries, a man universally respected and liked by his fellow crusaders. “You say we must ‘keep moving, no matter the provocation.’ But what if their attacks become too much to bear?”

“I am placing six trumpeters in the vanguard, the center, and the rear guard. If they sound, that will be the signal to charge. But no knight or lord is to do so until I give that signal. The decision will be mine and mine alone.”

That answer satisfied Jacques and most of the men. It grated on the nerves of some of the French lords, though, that they should have to take orders from an English king, particularly this one. The Bishop of Beauvais did not even bother to mask his resentment. “Naturally the decision will be yours,” he said sarcastically. “If you had your way, all decisions throughout Christendom would be yours. And it will indeed be a ‘hellish day.’ But our suffering will be much worse if we march on like sheep to the slaughter. Why not hit back? If Saladin wants a battle, why not give him one?”

Richard stared at Beauvais in disgusted disbelief. “Because our scouts and spies say we’re outnumbered by nigh on two to one. We may be God’s army, but we are also Outremer’s only army, and another Hattīn would doom the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Are those enough reasons for you?”

Henri glanced from his uncle to the bishop, half expecting to see the air itself begin to smolder, so searing was the hatred that flared between the two men. Before Beauvais could retort, Henri said quickly, “They are enough reasons for me. But I see no harm in discussing this further if the bishop feels the need.” The look he got from Richard would have prickled the hairs on the backs of most men’s necks. He ignored it and forged ahead with a quizzical smile. “I was always taught that a battle should be the last resort—unless we had numerical superiority and could choose the site ourselves. Am I wrong?” Sounding as if he were genuinely seeking enlightenment, Henri looked about at the other men crowded into the tent.

As Henri had expected, none of them were willing to embrace the bishop’s rash insistence upon combat. Some were shaking their heads; a few seemed vexed that they were wasting time discussing one of the basic tenets of warfare—that pitched battles were too great a risk under most circumstances. Not even Robert de Dreux offered support, and finding himself abandoned by his brother, too, Beauvais lapsed into a sullen silence. Nor was his temper improved when Jacques sought to disperse any lingering tension with a joke. “Well, I’m for fighting on the morrow. After all, we have a two-to-one advantage.... Ah, wait, that is Saladin!”

Once the other men had departed and Richard was left alone with his nephew and a handful of friends, he confessed, “For a moment or two, Henri, I was intending to disown you.”

Henri grinned. “I could feel your fiery gaze burning into my back, Uncle, but I thought it would be better if I were the one to expose the good bishop for the malcontent we know him to be. If you and Beauvais had gotten into a serious altercation, the other French lords might have felt honor bound to support him. None of them were likely to agree that we ought to seek out a battle on the morrow, though. They know better than that.”

“So does that hellspawn,” Richard said bitterly. “Our bishop is no battle virgin. No virgin at all, I’d wager,” he added, unable to resist a swipe at Beauvais’s priestly vows. “The man may be a misbegotten, cankerous viper, but he’s spilled his share of blood. So he knows we’d be fools to fight unless forced to it. Nothing matters more to him, though, than making life as difficult for me as he can. And in that, he does not lack for allies—all of them French.”

“I am French!” Henri protested, with such mock outrage that the other men laughed and even Richard couldn’t help smiling.

“You show so much common sense that we tend to forget your unfortunate origins, Henri. And not all of your countrymen are malicious malcontents. My niece’s husband Jaufre is a man of honor.” Richard hesitated almost imperceptibly before admitting, “And I never thought to hear myself saying it, but so is Guillaume des Barres.”

Richard lay wakeful that night, for he knew how much he was asking of his men. Knights were trained to strike back when hit; to do otherwise was to court shame and dishonor. But a mounted charge was a double-edged sword. If launched at the right time, it guaranteed victory. If it was made too soon, they’d be vulnerable to a Saracen counterattack and the victory would be Saladin’s. Propping himself up on his elbow, he listened to the comforting nocturnal chant of their priests, invoking the aid of the Holy Sepulchre. Earlier, he’d heard the
muezzins
summoning Saladin’s soldiers to evening prayer, so close were the two army camps. Reminding himself that they were in God’s Hands, he finally slept.

THEY MOVED OUT at dawn, but it was already uncomfortably warm for men weighed down by armor, helmets, and padded gambesons. The sky was a pallid blue, as if faded by the sun, and the air was very still. Men tasting the salt of sweat on their lips were soon wishing for a breeze, even a hot one. They drank from wineskins hooked onto their belts, made rude jests as empty of humor as the sky was of clouds, and their breakfast biscuits lay in their bellies like lead, for off to their left, they could see the vast Saracen army arrayed along the plain overlooking the road.

Salah al-Dīn sent his skirmishers in first—the hit-and-run tactics that the crusaders found so frustrating. They kept marching, though, and the sultan committed more of his troops to the attack. The air was soon thick with the dust kicked up by the agile Saracen horses and the sky seemed to be raining Saracen arrows, for their skilled bowmen employed a tactic called “shower shooting.” Most of the arrows were deflected by shields or snagged in the links of mail hauberks. But their stallions had no such protection and before long, they began to die.

Still the Franks continued on, transferring their wounded to the baggage carts, marching so closely that men rubbed shoulders and knights rode stirrup to stirrup, only their crossbowmen’s lethal fire keeping them from being overrun. But the Saracen attacks grew bolder and more urgent, striking hardest at the beleaguered rear guard.

BY NINE O’CLOCK, Richard’s vanguard was approaching the orchards on the outskirts of Arsuf. They were so close, he thought, so damnably close! But he was no longer sure they would make it, for the Saracen onslaught was relentless now, fueled by desperation. They’d made several attempts to outflank the rear guard, and only the marshy ground between the road and the sea cliffs kept the Hospitallers from being assaulted on three sides. Garnier de Nablus had sent one of his knights to Richard, warning him that they were taking too much punishment. Richard refused to permit them to launch a charge, telling them they must endure it. As the man took that unwelcome message back to the Grand Master, André maneuvered his stallion alongside Fauvel. “Can we reach Arsuf?”

Because André was closer to him than any of his brothers had ever been, Richard gave him an unsparingly honest answer. “In truth, I do not know.”

Survivors of the Arsuf march would long remember the heat, the dust, the fear. But above all, they would remember the noise. The Saracen drums kept up an ominous, throbbing beat, and the emirs had in their ranks men whose only duties were to raise a fearsome din with trumpets, clarions, flutes, and cymbals. Assailed by the incessant blaring of horns, the banging of tambours, the screaming of the stallions, and the battle cries of the archers and Salah al-Dīn’s elite Mamluks, many of the crusaders found the deafening clamor to be almost as demoralizing as the storm of arrows, crossbow bolts, and javelins. Yet they marched on, clinging to their faith that God and the English king would get them to safety at Arsuf.

Richard had returned to the cart that held his standard, for he’d shattered his lance on a Saracen shield. Waiting for his squire to fetch another one, he found his gaze drawn to the great dragon above his head, said to be the banner of the legendary Arthur. It had been hanging limply from its mast, but as he watched, it caught a vagrant breeze and unfurled in a swirl of red and gold. Taking that as a good omen, he reached for the new lance. It was then that he saw the rider galloping toward him. He recognized the arms on the shield, a silver cross on a black background, and assumed the Grand Master of the Hospitallers was sending him another messenger. But as the man reined in beside him, he was surprised to see a familiar face half shadowed by the wide nasal bar. Garnier de Nablus had come in person to plead his case.

“My lord king, hear me. We’re losing so many horses that half my knights will soon be on foot. It has gotten so bad that the crossbowmen have to march backward to protect themselves. We cannot hold on much longer.”

“You must.”

“My knights are distraught, saying they’ll bring eternal dishonor upon themselves if they do not fight back!”

“Tell them I understand. But they must be patient. It is not yet time.”

The Grand Master seemed about to argue further. Instead, he agreed tersely and turned his mount. Richard watched him ride off, his expression so grim that André and Baldwin nudged their horses closer. “Will you order a charge, then?”

“I must, André. But not until all of Saladin’s army is engaged against us. We have to be sure that they’ll bear the full brunt of our charge. If not . . .” Richard didn’t bother to finish the sentence, for there was no need. They all knew what would happen to them if their charge failed to sweep the Saracens from the field. They’d be cut off, surrounded, and overwhelmed by sheer numbers.