Lionheart
He must have dozed then, for the next thing he knew, Mathieu was jabbing him in the ribs, saying that the English king was leaving. It was that muted twilight hour between day and night and Guillaume was glad the light was fading, glad he’d not chosen to sit by one of the campfires. During their stay in Acre, he’d done his best to keep out of Richard’s way, and on the few occasions when their paths had crossed, the other man had stared right through him as if he did not exist. The last thing he wanted tonight was to be called to Richard’s attention. But Richard had stopped to speak to one of the crossbowmen and, to Guillaume’s dismay, the man nodded and then pointed toward the wagon. Seeing that the English king was heading now in his direction, he struggled to his feet, his heart thudding faster than it had at any time during the battle. He’d taken the cross and that mattered far more than any petty grudge. There was no way he’d disavow such a sacred oath. But what would he do if this accursed, arrogant king banished him from the march?
Mathieu had scrambled to his feet, too, and watched in alarm as the English king bore down upon them. Coming to a halt a sword’s length away, Richard regarded the other man, his face inscrutable. Just when the suspense had become intolerable, he said, “You fought very well today.”
Guillaume had not realized he’d been holding his breath. “So did you,” he said laconically, and thought he saw the corner of Richard’s mouth twitch.
“It is passing strange, but the climate of Outremer seems to be affecting my memory. For the life of me, I cannot recall anything that happened between us in bygone days.”
“It is indeed odd,” Guillaume agreed gravely, “for I am suffering from the same malady.”
“Well, then, we’ll just have to start anew from this day. Come on back to my tent and we’ll eat and refight the battle,” Richard said, and this time Guillaume was sure he caught the hint of a smile. He accepted the invitation as casually as it was offered, revealing his relief only in the smile he sent winging Mathieu’s way. The youth was beaming, thrilled to see his two heroes reconciling their differences. And when Richard then glanced over his shoulder and said, “You, too, Mathieu,” he looked positively beatific as he hurried to catch up with them.
By now they’d drawn a crowd, for Guillaume was well liked by his fellow Frenchmen, and they were smiling, too, gladdened that the English king had acted to make peace with the man he’d wronged. The only two men not caught up in this surge of goodwill were the two standing in the entrance of the duke’s command tent. The Bishop of Beauvais shook his head and then spat into the dirt at his feet. “Whatever that whoreson said to des Barres, you can be sure it was no apology. He’d sooner have his tongue cut out with a spoon than admit regret or remorse or, God forbid, a mistake.”
“Apologies are for lesser men,” Hugh said bitterly. “Not for the likes of Lionheart.”
THE ARMY REMAINED at Haifa the next day, where they left piles of belongings behind on the beach, the soldiers jettisoning those possessions that weren’t essential. When they resumed the march on Tuesday, the twenty-seventh, they maintained the tight formation that Richard demanded. He would not trust the French again with the rear guard, and from then on, the Templars and Hospitallers rotated that command. He sought, too, to keep morale up by alternating duties for the infantrymen. On one day they guarded the exposed left flank, theirs the daunting and dangerous task of protecting the knights’ vulnerable horses from Saracen arrows; on the next, they were allowed to travel with the baggage carts, protected by the sea. The men were finding that the scorching summer heat was as much their enemy as Salah al-Dīn. Richard did what he could to mitigate their misery. They marched only in the mornings, set up camp at noon, and rested every other day, but toiling under that burning sun was taking its toll. Men became ill, and some died from sunstroke. The sick were transported to the small ships, the dead buried where they fell.
It was slow going, for they were following an old Roman road, badly overgrown by scrub, thorns, and myrtle, and the infantry sometimes found themselves wading through chest-high brush. For the four days following the attack on the rear guard, they were spared any skirmishing with the Saracens, for Salah al-Dīn had been forced to lead his army inland as the crusaders made their way around Mount Carmel. But when they reached the deserted town called Merle by the Franks and al-Mallāha by the Saracens, they came under attack again, and Richard was nearly captured when he led a charge to drive the invaders off.
The last day of August found them making a short march from Merle to another town razed by Salah al-Dīn, Caesarea. This was the worst day so far, for the temperatures soared, and the sun claimed as many victims as the Saracens. When they were finally able to pitch their tents on the bank of the River of Crocodiles, they were exhausted, both physically and mentally. But their spirits were bolstered by the arrival of the fleet, which had been delayed by contrary winds, for it brought provisions and fresh troops, men coaxed or coerced from the taverns and brothels of Acre.
The next morning they covered only three miles, camping by a stream so choked with reeds that they called it the Dead River, but they’d had to fight off Saracen attacks for much of the march. They rested there the next day, treating the wounded and sunsick, and wondering how many of them would live to see the Holy City of Jerusalem. Most of them were battle-seasoned soldiers, but they were uneasily aware that they were aliens in an unforgiving land, one that they’d never call home.
They hated the enemy, who’d not fight fairly, swooping in to strike like hawks and then flying out of reach. They loathed the day’s heat and dust and bleachedbone skies, and they feared the poisonous snakes, scorpions, and tarantulas that crept out at dark. They tried to chase the latter away with noise, banging on shields and pots and pans, but the racket only kept sleep at bay. Lying wakeful and restive, they found themselves listening for the priest to cry out his nightly blessing, “Sanctum Sepulcrum Adjuva!” The comforting chant reverberated throughout the camp, coming from thousands of throats in unison, surely loud enough to reach the Gates of Heaven itself: “Holy Sepulchre, help us!” It would be repeated three times, reminding them that they were in this hellish place to do God’s Bidding and if they died on crusade, they’d be shriven of their mortal sins and promised entry into Paradise. As the last echoes of the prayer faded away, they stretched out and tried to sleep, tried not to think about what the morrow could bring.
SALAH AL-DīN HAD HOPED to goad the Franks into breaking ranks, for then they were at their most vulnerable. But so far he’d been thwarted by their discipline, and by now they were only thirty-four miles from Jaffa. The daily skirmishing continued, with casualties on both sides. Whenever a crusader was captured, he was brought before Salah al-Dīn, interrogated, and then executed; in the past, the sultan had usually shown mercy toward prisoners, but the massacre of the Acre garrison cried out for blood. Entrusting command to his brother, he personally rode out to search for suitable battle sites, for he was determined to force a fight before they could reach the safety of Jaffa.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, exposed the crusaders to their greatest danger since departing Acre, for they discovered that the old Roman coastal road had become impassible, an overgrown track that would never support an army of fifteen thousand men, six thousand horses, and heavy baggage carts. For the first time, they were compelled to leave the sea, following the Dead River until they reached an inland road that ran parallel to the coast. They soon found themselves under heavy attack by three divisions of the sultan’s army, led by Salah al-Dīn himself.
THE SUN WAS NOT YET high in the sky, but Richard was already fatigued, for he’d been pushing himself without surcease, trying to be everywhere at once. He and his knights galloped up and down their lines, making sure that the army continued on the move, in such a tight formation that it was impossible to throw a stone into their ranks without hitting a man or horse. His crossbowmen did their best to keep the deadly Saracen horse archers at a distance, and when they swooped in for hit-and-run attacks, Richa
rd and his household mesnie raced to the rescue, scattering their foes—until the next time.
Riding back to his standard, Richard swung from the saddle and told his squires to fetch Fauvel, for his Spanish stallion was lathered with sweat. When his cousin Morgan appeared at his side, holding out a flask, he took it gratefully and drank as if it were ambrosia, not warm, stale water. He wished he could pour it over his head, but he dared not remove his helmet with Saracen bowmen within range. He’d entrusted the rear guard to the Hospitallers this day, and he told Morgan now that they’d already lost a score of horses. “It is a strange sight to see knights walking with the men-at-arms, carrying their lances. I’ve seen men weep over a slain stallion whilst remaining dry-eyed over the deaths of their fellow knights.”
“The Count of St Pol has lost a goodly number of horses, too, and has been complaining loudly about it,” Morgan said, coughing as he inhaled dust kicked up by so many tramping feet. Unlike their armor-clad riders, the horses had no protection from Turkish arrows. By placing the knights behind a bristling wall of crossbow- and spearmen, they’d hoped to shelter the animals, for they were naturally the first target of every Saracen assault. “This is no fit land for either man or beast,” Morgan muttered, suddenly homesick for the green valleys and cooling mists of Wales. But when Richard mounted Fauvel and made ready to resume his patrolling, Morgan still asked to go with him.
They were only about two miles from the Salt River, where they planned to make camp. The vanguard had already begun to pitch its tents when the Saracens launched one last attack upon the rear guard, a desperate attempt to provoke the Hospitallers into a reckless charge. But when Richard and his knights reached the rear, they found the men marching on in close order, even though many of them had so many arrows caught in their armor that they resembled hedgehogs. Richard paused only long enough to shout a “Well done!” to Garnier de Nablus, and then he and his knights set about chasing off their attackers.
When they charged, the Saracens fled, as they’d done before. Only this time they surged back as soon as the knights wheeled their mounts to return to the march. Morgan’s lance struck a Saracen shield a glancing blow, but then another Turk was suddenly there, wielding a flanged mace. There was no time to react, not even time for fear. The weapon never completed its downward swing, though. Instead the man’s face contorted and he cried out in a foreign tongue, the mace slipping from his fingers. It was only when he toppled from the saddle that Morgan saw the lance that had buried itself between his shoulder blades. “Diolch yn fawr,” he whispered, thanking both the Almighty and André de Chauvigny for his reprieve. André had already turned away to find another foe. Spurring his stallion, Morgan followed after him.
Ahead, Richard was pursuing an enemy bowman. Glancing over his shoulder, the man looked shocked to see the king closing fast, and Morgan gave a triumphant shout, as if he were the one riding Fauvel, who could likely outrun the wind. He was startled, then, when the Saracen began to pull away again. Looking over to see what had happened, he saw Fauvel come to an abrupt, shuddering stop, sending sand and dust flying in all directions. He heard André cry out, “Christ Jesus!” But it was only when he reined in his mount next to Richard that he saw the shaft protruding from the king’s side.
André, who never showed any fear for himself in battle, was now ashen. “How bad is it?”
Richard shook his head, saying it was nothing. But neither man believed him, knowing he’d not have halted the pursuit for an arrow merely embedded in his hauberk. Morgan was close enough now to see it was a crossbow bolt and his breath caught in his throat, for he knew the fate of the Holy Land and Richard’s fate were one and the same, inextricably entwined for better or worse. After a moment of panic, common sense reasserted itself and he realized that the injury could not be lethal, for Richard had managed to stay in the saddle. Unless the wound festered, of course—a thought so unwelcome that he hastily sought to banish it by making the sign of the cross.
André had drawn the same conclusion and expressed his relief in anger, scowling and demanding to know why Richard was fighting without a shield. Richard looked at him as if he’d suddenly gone stark mad. “When I unhorsed a Saracen with my lance, the guige strap broke. What was I supposed to do, André—call a halt to the battle whilst I sent a squire to fetch a new one?”
André’s emotions were still roiling, and he was not about to admit he was being unfair or illogical. Richard had diced with Death so often that even if he did not deserve a reprimand this time, he’d earned it for his past recklessness. “The Turks say a cat has seven lives. How many do you think you have, Richard?”
“As many as it takes to free the Holy City,” Richard said, managing to sound both flippant and utterly serious, and as usual, he got the last word.
“FOR GOD’S SAKE, man, take care with my hauberk!”
Master Ralph Besace was accustomed to dealing with a truculent royal patient; he’d been the king’s physician since Richard’s coronation. “If you will hold still, sire, you’ll make my task much easier.” Removing a hauberk was never easy in such circumstances, though. Ignoring Richard’s protest, he widened the torn links enough to slide the mail up and over the shaft. Richard would have pulled the hauberk over his head then, but his friends were waiting for just such a move and insisted that they be the ones to remove it. They could see now that the bolt had pierced the padded gambeson, too. Asking for a sharp knife, Master Ralph cut it away around the wound and then stood back while André and Henri helped Richard peel off the garment. It was soaked with sweat, but no blood; puncture wounds rarely bled much. Holding up an oil lamp, the doctor leaned in to examine the injury.
He was admittedly uneasy about what he might find. Arrow wounds were among those most commonly treated by battlefield surgeons, but they were still among the most challenging, for if the arrow could not easily be extracted, the remaining choices were not good ones. The doctor would have to try to push it through the man’s body or else wait a few days until the tissue around the arrow began to putrefy. The first option was not feasible, for he’d risk damaging the king’s internal organs, and the second was not doable either, not for a man who’d insist upon fighting on the morrow. But as he studied the wound, he felt a great rush of relief, thinking that Richard’s fabled luck had held up once again.
“You were fortunate, my liege. The bolt does not seem to have penetrated too deeply. Your hauberk and gambeson absorbed most of the impact.”
“Good. Get it out, then.”
Master Ralph signaled for a tenaille and clamped the forceps around the shaft. A moment later, he was basking in the grateful approval of the king’s friends. The king himself was much more stoic, but then the physician expected just such a reaction, for he knew Richard was determined to make his injury seem as trivial as possible. He was cleansing the wound with vinegar when there was a sudden uproar outside. Richard was all for going to investigate himself, but André was too quick for him. “I’ll go, you sit,” he insisted and ducked under the tent flap.
Richard was in a foul temper, vexed with his friends for making much ado about nothing and with himself for being so careless. He ungraciously accepted a cup of wine from his nephew, unamused when Henri joked that they’d had to post guards to keep all the well-wishers away. “Guy de Lusignan wanted to see for himself that you’re not at Death’s door and half the bishops are offering up prayers on your behalf. Even Hugh of Burgundy bestirred himself, sending a man to ask if the rumors were true. I really ought to have a public crier assure the camp that you’re not seriously wounded.”
“Of course I am not! I suffered worse hurts learning to use the quintain as a lad.” Richard finished his wine in several gulps, an indication he did not feel as fine as he claimed, but Henri was not foolish enough to comment on it, merely refilling the cup. And by then André was back.
“Another brawl over dead horses,” he said glumly, for this was becoming more and more of a problem. Soldiers quite understandably pr
eferred meat over their daily rations of hard biscuit and a soup of beans and salt pork, so competition was keen to buy the horses slain by the Saracens. But the knights were pricing them beyond the reach of most men, and this was generating resentment and ill will. When André told him how much horsemeat was now selling for, Richard shook his head impatiently.
“I am putting a stop to this now. Get the word out that I will replace any knight’s horse slain in combat—provided that he then donates the dead animal to the men-at-arms.”
“Even French knights?” Henri asked mischievously. “That is an excellent idea, Uncle, and the soldiers will love you for it. I’ll see to it straightaway.”
They were interrupted then by the arrival of Guy de Lusignan, followed by the Bishop of Salisbury, Jacques d’Avesnes, the Earl of Leicester, and other visitors too highborn to be turned away. Hours passed before Richard was finally able to get to bed. And there he found himself unable to sleep, for although his body was utterly exhausted, his brain continued to race. After passing through sand dunes and hill country, the terrain was changing. Ahead lay more than twelve miles of oak woods, known as the Forest of Arsuf, and to get back to the coast, they would have to pass through it. It would be an ideal opportunity for an ambush and he thought Saladin would likely take advantage of it. They were locked into a war of wills as well as weapons, the sultan set upon battle and he just as determined to avoid one. So far his men had shown remarkable discipline under constant provocation. But how much longer could their restraint last? He tossed and turned for hours, wincing every time he forgot and rolled onto his side. Did Saladin lie awake, too, this night? Did he also feel overwhelmed at times, knowing how much was at stake?