Lionheart (94 page)

RICHARD WAS RIGHT; a second charge soon followed. It was no more successful than the first, the men and horses either unable or unwilling to brave that menacing barricade. A third try to dislodge the crusaders failed, too, and even at a distance they could see the mounting frustration and fury of the Saracen commanders. The marksmanship of their arbalesters was taking a high toll; the field was strewn with the bodies of wounded or dying men and stricken horses. Their crossbowmen had none of the knights’ affection for horses and gleefully targeted them, for a dead one meant an injured or stranded rider.

Their own losses so far had been very light, men hit by the enemy’s showershooting tactics, which rained arrows down upon them but did not do serious damage because of their shields and armor. The temperature had soared as the sun climbed in the sky and their hair became matted and sodden underneath their helmets, their bodies drenched in sweat, their voices hoarse from breathing in so much dust. Steaming piles of manure from the knights’ mounts fouled the air, mingling with the smell of urine, for men had to relieve themselves where they were. They were all thirsty, rationing their water at Richard’s insistence, constantly slapping away buzzing insects and shifting to ease their cramped muscles. But none complained, for they were still alive.

Around noon, the Saracens tried another stratagem. During a lull in the fighting, Richard got an urgent message from the castle garrison. The enemy had gotten into the town, they reported, and people had panicked and were fleeing to the ships. Leaving Henri and Leicester in command, Richard took André, a few knights, and some crossbowmen, and hurried off to deal with this new crisis. With him gone, his men suddenly felt vulnerable again, but no attacks were launched; as far as they could tell, the Saracen forces seemed to be in disarray.

To no one’s surprise, Richard was soon back, with three captured horses, a fresh supply of bolts for his arbalesters, and bloodstains on his surcote that were not his. The crossbowmen who’d accompanied him were happy to boast about it to their comrades, saying the Turks had fled as soon as they saw him take on and defeat three Mamluks; he’d then hastened to the shore, where he convinced the fugitives to return to the town and dispatched most of the galley crews to help defend Jaffa, leaving only five men to watch over each ship. And on the seventh day, he rested, they chortled, for their brief respite from the claustrophobic confines of their cordon had greatly improved their morale.

The Saracens were taking longer and longer to muster their men for another assault, and when it did come, it lacked the energy or intensity of the first charges. It was becoming apparent to the crusaders that the enemy was growing discouraged, upset by their lack of success against a much smaller force, and fatigued by their exertions under a hot sun. This was what Richard had been waiting for, and he called his mounted knights to him.

“They’ve worn themselves out,” he said. “Look how lathered their horses are. They are being prodded on by their commanders, but they have no more heart for it. It takes a lot out of a man to watch his friends die, and all for naught. So . . . now it is our turn.”

Despite the audacity of what he was proposing—their small band of knights against Saladin’s army—his men did not even blink, for they’d known that sooner or later, their king would take the offensive. And any doubts were easy to drown in the rising tide of enthusiasm; after having to remain passive for nigh on nine hours, they were eager to hit back. Once they were lined up, stirrup to stirrup, lances couched, Richard signaled to his spearmen, who hastily cleared an open space, and under cover of heavy crossbow fire, the knights charged.

They caught their foes by surprise, never expecting that they’d dare to go on the attack. They hit the Saracen lines with such force that they broke through, scattering men like leaves on the wind, and actually penetrating as far as the Turkish rear guard. To those left behind, it was an odd experience, war transformed into a spectator sport. Accustomed to being in the midst of the fighting, they’d been relegated to the status of bystanders and that did not come easily to them. But they were under orders to hold the line, and so they could only watch from a distance and pray that their king had not overreached himself.

Richard was easy to pick out, identified by his crimson surcote, his loyal standard-bearer, and the way so many of his adversaries would sheer off rather than cross swords with him. At one point, he disappeared from view and his soldiers were faced with an impossible choice: rushing to his aid or obeying his command to maintain their formation. His discipline held and they waited anxiously until he eventually fought his way free. By now, they were cheering like men watching a tournament mêlée, and when they saw the Earl of Leicester’s horse stumble and throw him, they began to shout warnings as if they could be heard. Richard noticed Leicester’s plight, though, and rode to his rescue, holding their foes off long enough for the earl to remount. Again and again he recklessly charged into the Turkish lines, yet somehow he always emerged unscathed. When Raoul de Mauléon was surrounded and captured, Richard was the one who saved him. When the Saracens sought to rally around one of their emirs, it was Richard who spurred to meet him. And after Richard struck with such ferocity that his sword decapitated the other man, he soon found himself alone on the field with his knights and the dead.

Once they realized the battle was over and they’d actually won, Richard’s men went wild. Their jubilant celebration stopped abruptly, though, when they saw Richard galloping his stallion toward the enemy. As they watched, first in alarm and then in delighted disbelief, he rode the entire length of the Saracen line and none dared to accept his challenge.

ALL AROUND HENRI, men had slumped to the ground. Soon they would tend to the wounded, put any suffering horses out of their misery, search the bodies of the slain Saracens for valuables, and eat and drink their fill while cursing their enemy anew for smashing all of those wine kegs. But for now, they wanted only to rest their weary bodies and to give thanks to their God and their king, for this was a victory even more miraculous than their successful landing upon Jaffa’s beach four days ago.

Henri was willing to defer the duties of command, too, and just exult in their deliverance. He and Morgan and several other knights were seated on the trampled grass, sharing waterskins and trying to motivate themselves to move. Every now and then someone would mention the battle, marveling at Richard’s bravura performance and their own survival. They laughed loudly when Henri speculated how the French would react once they heard that the English king had saved Jaffa without their help. They did not stir, though, until Richard and André rode up.

Sliding from the saddle, Richard took a step, staggered, and sank to the ground. When Henri offered him a waterskin, he drank as if he could never quench his thirst, then unfastened his helmet and poured the rest of the water over his head. His face was etched with exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot, and his hauberk was bristling with arrows, so many that André joked he looked like a human hedgehog. He grimaced, for he’d not be able to remove his armor until they’d been extracted. “They are going to have to bring my tent to me,” he confessed, “for I could not stir from this spot even if a dagger were put to my throat.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Uncle,” Henri said with a grin, “for some of your feats today had us doubting that you are mere flesh-and-blood like the rest of us.”

“Oh, I am flesh-and-blood, Henri,” Richard said with a tired smile, and then showed them the evidence. Knights sought to protect their hands by wearing mail mittens called “mufflers,” usually attached to their hauberks, with split leather palms so a man could slide his hand out when not fighting. As Richard did that now, they saw that the muffler had been of little use, for he’d wielded his sword so constantly that his hand was swollen, the skin cracked and blistered and bleeding from the force of his blows.

HENRI OCCASIONALLY FELT as if he’d inherited another man’s life, for he had claimed Conrad’s wife, Conrad’s crown, even Conrad’s child. He’d also acquired Conrad’s espionage system and was delighted to discover that his spies were even better informed about Saladin’s court than those who served his uncle. On this Wednesday, a week after their narrow escape, he’d learned some fascinating details about that thwarted attack and was looking forward to sharing them with Richard.

As he walked through their camp, he could not stifle memories of that day; they came upon him unexpectedly, like sudden flashes of lightning in a clear sky. He found himself remembering his fear, a visceral dread of death that he’d not experienced before, despite facing constant danger since his arrival in the Holy Land. It had taken him a while to understand that it was because of Isabella, that she was his hostage to fortune now and he would always fear for her future and that of their children as much as he feared for his own safety. He would never be able to emulate Richard’s last gesture of defiance—gallant, glorious, and quite mad.

After a moment to reflect upon that, he began to laugh, realizing that he’d never have done it before his marriage, either. What man would? Only the Lionheart, whose Angevin empire now encompassed the realm of legend, too. Like all of the soldiers who’d watched Richard’s prowess that afternoon, Henri had been bedazzled. Nothing was more admired, more valued in their world than bravery on the battlefield. War was a king’s vocation, and at that his uncle excelled. But as he went in search of Richard on this August afternoon, Henri could not help thinking that even if a man did not fear Death, he still ought to accord it some small measure of respect.

Just then he heard his name called and paused for André to catch up with him. “Wait until you hear what I’ve learned, Cousin! We truly were in God’s Keeping last week. Saladin meant to strike whilst we were still sleeping. But his Kurds began to quarrel with some of his Mamluks over who should go in on foot to seize the king and who should remain on horseback to make sure none of us could escape into Jaffa’s castle. By the time they came to an agreement, dawn was nigh and that sharp-eyed Genoese with a full bladder caught sight of them.” His amusement ebbing, Henri said somberly, “Think how it would have turned out had they attacked in the middle of the night.”

André, ever the pragmatist, merely shrugged. “You might as well ask why Richard did not die when he was afflicted with Arnaldia back at Acre. Or what would have happened if Guilhem de Préaux had not learned a bit of Arabic. Just be glad, Henri, that Richard’s luck has so far kept pace with his boldness.”

Henri thought that race was often too close for comfort. “I have more to tell you,” he said. “As we suspected, Saladin himself was in command last week. He was outraged when his men were unable to break through our lines and kept urging them on, promising that they’d be well rewarded for their efforts. But when they were thwarted time after time, they began to balk. Finally, when he demanded that they charge again, only one of his sons was willing to obey. The others refused, and my spy says that the brother of al-Mashtūb even dared to remind Saladin that he’d sent in his Mamluks to try to stop the looting in Jaffa, saying he should send those Mamluks against us.”

André was laughing. “You deny soldiers their booty and they get testy! We were lucky we took that caravan or our lads might have been ripe for mutiny, too.”

“That is what my spy said,” Henri agreed. “Saladin’s men were angry that he’d offered terms for the surrender of Jaffa, feeling cheated of their just due, for they’d not had an opportunity for plunder in many months. He said Saladin was so wroth that some feared he might order the crucifixions of those who’d dared to disobey him. But he realized that he’d lose face if his men continued to be repelled by‘a handful of Franks,’ and so he ordered a retreat.” Pleased by André’s response to his revelation, he said eagerly, “Let’s go tell Richard. With luck, he’ll not have heard it from his own spies yet!”

As they approached Richard’s tent, they stopped to admire two finely boned horses cropping grass nearby. After winning his improbable victory on August 5, Richard had opened peace talks again, and three days later Abū-Bakr had ridden into their camp with a letter from the ailing al-’Ādil and these magnificent Arab stallions. They were a gift from the sultan’s brother, Abū-Bakr explained, in recognition of the English king’s great courage. Richard had been delighted and his knights envious, for Arabs were superior steeds. Henri had taken one out for a gallop and had been very impressed by the horse’s smooth gait and cat-like agility. “I tried to coax my uncle into sharing,” he told André, “pointing out that he has Fauvel, after all, but he just laughed at me.”