Lionheart (66 page)

HENRI WAS PROUD of the fortitude shown by the infantry under his command. They had performed heroically for hours, the crossbowmen doing their best to keep their Saracen foes at a distance, the spearmen defending them while they reloaded their weapons. He and his knights rode between the men-at-arms and the baggage wagons, occasionally making brief forays to chase the enemy away when they got too close. Henri wasn’t sure if he ought to admire the valor of infidels, but he did, nonetheless. They may be risking their lives and souls for a false god, yet they did so with courage and conviction. Would that offer any consolation—knowing that he’d die at the hands of brave men? This was such an incongruous thought that he laughed softly, earning himself a sharp glance from Jaufre.

“If you can find any humor in our plight, Henri, tell me—please.”

“A private jest, a very perverse one, too. Jaufre, do you think—Jesu!”

Jaufre swung around in the saddle at Henri’s exclamation, and his jaw dropped at the sight meeting his eyes. Two knights had leveled their lances and were spurring their stallions toward the Saracens, screaming a defiant battle cry, “Saint George, aid us!” As Henri and Jaufre watched, the Hospitallers wheeled their mounts and followed, nearly trampling their own infantrymen, who had to scramble to get out of the way. The French knights saw the Hospitallers go on the attack and after some confusion, they also joined in.

Henri turned toward Jaufre, his shock evident. “Did you hear the trumpets?” Jaufre shook his head, equally shocked. But Henri was already yelling and their men-at-arms hastily scattered, opening gaps in their ranks for the knights as they, too, charged the Saracens.

RICHARD AND HIS MESNIE had just driven off an attack by Salah al-Dīn’s Bedouins when they were alerted by the clouds of dust and screaming. Richard gasped, quick to comprehend what was happening, and shouted for the trumpets to sound. As the knights of the center and vanguard responded to the signal and charged, he raced for the rear guard, his knights spurring their stallions in a vain attempt to keep up with Fauvel.

The sudden charge by the Hospitallers had caught the Saracens by surprise and they took heavy casualties, particularly since some of their bowmen had dismounted to take better aim. By the time Richard got there, Salah al-Dīn’s right wing was either dead or in flight. He at once sought to halt the pursuit into the woods, for the Saracens excelled at ambush tactics; he himself had almost fallen into such a trap barely a fortnight ago. It was not easy to rein in soldiers still half drunk on that most potent of brews—an uneasy blend of rage, fear, and excitement—but he managed it, mainly by sheer force of will. The field was strewn with weapons and the bodies of men and horses, but he knew it was not over yet.

Recognizing the rider on a blood-splattered roan stallion, Richard called out and then waited for Henri to reach him. “Who led the charge?”

“Two knights broke ranks, shouting for St George, and then the rest followed after them. I assumed I’d not heard the trumpets midst all the noise, think the others did, too. You did not order the attack, Uncle?”

“I was waiting till Saladin had thrown his reserves into the battle. But when the charge began, of course I committed the rest of our army.” Even as he spoke to Henri, Richard’s eyes were sweeping the battlefield. “Do you hear that?” When the younger man looked puzzled, Richard pointed behind him, toward the Forest of Arsuf. “The drums. Saladin’s drums are still beating. He is trying to rally his men.”

“Sire!” Garnier de Nablus drew rein beside them. “Thank the Lord Christ that you changed your mind—” The Grand Master stopped, for he was adept at reading other men’s faces; his office required political as well as military skills. “You did not order the attack? But one of the men was William Borrel, our marshal! He would never have done that on his own, for discipline is one of the cornerstones of our order. He must have thought he heard the trumpets.”

Richard did not dispute that, for he thought it was possible. But when Garnier continued to defend his marshal, declaring that it did not matter if the charge had been premature since they’d had the victory, Richard felt a flicker of weary anger. “No,” he said, “it did matter. Had we waited as I wanted, we could have won our own Ḥaṭṭīn. Instead we had half a victory, for much of Saladin’s army is still intact.”

The Grand Master was quite willing to settle for half a victory after all they’d endured that morning. He thought it prudent to keep that to himself, however, and was glad when Henri tactfully interceded at that point, gesturing off to the south where their cart with Richard’s dragon was coming into view. The standard-bearers had obeyed orders not to join in the battle, for Richard had wanted to hold his Normans in reserve. They’d followed slowly so they could serve as a rallying point; as long as the king’s banner flew, his men would keep fighting. Some of the wounded now headed toward it and other knights began to withdraw from the field and rode in that direction, too.

But Salah al-Dīn had accomplished a miracle of sorts. His army was in a rout, his right wing almost destroyed and his left wing broken. As they fled into the forest, though, they encountered their sultan and his brother. Bahā’ al-Dīn, who fought that day, would later write, “All those who saw that the sultan’s squadron was still at its post, and who heard the drum beating, were ashamed to go on, and, dreading the consequences if they continued their flight, they came up and joined that body of troops.” When they saw the crusaders appearing to retreat toward the king’s standard, they seized their chance and surged from the woods, led by al-’Ᾱdil.

The knights who’d been savoring their victory suddenly found themselves embroiled in savage combat. Henri struck down a Turk with long, black braids, but then took a numbing blow on his leg from a man wielding a mace. They were in too close quarters for his lance to be of any use, so he swung his stallion away to give himself time to draw his sword. There was so much dust that it was not easy to tell friend from foe. A horse reared up ahead, screaming as an arrow pierced his throat, and Henri’s destrier almost fell when the other animal went down, swerving away in the nick of time. He turned back to help the unhorsed knight, but he was too late; the man had been crushed when his mount fell on him. From the corner of his eye, Henri could see their dragon banner was still aloft, being desperately defended by the Norman standard-bearers. He could not find the king, though. When he finally did locate Richard, he was appalled to see his uncle utterly encircled by Saracens in what looked like a sea of saffron, for he knew those were the colors of Saladin’s elite guard. But even as he spurred his horse toward them, he saw Richard break free, decapitating a burly Mamluk and then maiming another one half blinded by the spray of blood.

“Fall back!” Richard’s voice was hoarse from shouting, but urgency gave it enough resonance to be heard above the din of battle. “Fall back! To me!”

The men within hearing distance obeyed, fighting their way toward the standard’s cart. By now their infantry had reached the cart, too, and as the knights gathered around Richard, the crossbowmen unleashed a devastating fire to keep the Saracens at bay. Richard had broken his lance, but a soldier found one on the field and offered it to him, grinning when Richard tapped him on the shoulder with it as if dubbing a knight. By now the knights had lined up, lances leveled or swords drawn. Off to his left, Richard saw a group of French knights had taken shelter behind their men-at-arms and were also assembling for a countercharge, led by Guillaume des Barres. The battle was still continuing, for not all of the crusaders had been able to join in the retreat. Bodies lay crumpled as far as the eye could see, the dead and the wounded of both sides, and the Saracen drums continued to pound, summoning the sultan’s fugitive troops back into the fray. Richard glanced from side to side, making sure that they were ready, and then couched his lance.

“Now!” As their infantry sprang aside with practiced coordination, Richard cried, “Holy Sepulchre, aid us!” and they charged. The Saracens unable to get out of the way were slain when the knights slammed into their ranks, for an armed knight on a galloping destrier had such momentum that a lance could run a man through like a pig on a spit, piercing armor, flesh, and bone with lethal ease. Overwhelmed by this iron onslaught, Salah al-Dīn’s soldiers fled back toward the safety of the forest, with the crusaders in close pursuit. Richard halted the chase before they could advance too far into the woods, for a Saracen army was never more dangerous than in retreat.

Leading his men back onto the bloodied battlefield, he gave orders to collect their wounded—the dead would have to wait. Once he was satisfied that his soldiers were on the alert for another Saracen attack, he rode toward the squadron of French knights who’d fought under Guillaume des Barres, and these two former enemies shared a moment that mattered more than grudges or grievances or royal rivalries, for there was a brotherhood of the battlefield that men like Richard and Guillaume honored above all else.

THE BATTERED CRUSADER ARMY resumed its march toward Arsuf. But as they approached the camp already set up by their vanguard, there was another attack upon their rear. Richard, with just fifteen of his own knights, led a third charge that drove them back toward a ridge of hills, and the battle of Arsuf was finally over.

ARSUF WAS SITUATED on a steep sandstone ridge overlooking the sea, but the abandoned town was in ruins, razed by the Saracens, and the crusaders had to camp in the surrounding orchards. They were exhausted but triumphant, all the more thankful when they discovered that their casualties had been only one-tenth that of the Saracen losses. There were many wounded, though, and the surgeons’ tents were soon crowded. Before darkness fell, men began to slip away to exercise a soldier’s prerogative—plundering the dead.

Richard was in some discomfort, for his exertions on the battlefield had done his wound no good. He still insisted upon making the rounds of the camp himself, confirming that sentinels were on the alert, checking upon the injured, and offering praise to his soldiers, knowing they valued that almost as much as the booty they’d collected from their slain foes. The camp was abuzz with the exploits of Guillaume des Barres, Richard himself, and the young Earl of Leicester, who’d led a charge that had cut off some of Salah al-Dīn’s right wing.