Lionheart

  FROM THE HISTORY of Bahā’al-Dīn. “God alone knows the depth of grief which filled the sultan’s heart after this battle; our men were all wounded, some in their bodies, some in their spirits.”

  THE CRUSADERS broke camp on Monday, and though they were harried again by Salah al-Dīn’s men, Richard kept them in formation and they marched on. The following day they at last reached Jaffa, almost three weeks after leaving Acre.

  CHAPTER 27

  SEPTEMBER 1191

  Jaffa, Outremer

  They huddled together, the flaring torches revealing both their poverty and their fear. Richard assumed that they were a family—an older couple, a young wife or widow, and two small children peering out from behind her skirts. The Templar turcopole interpreter beside him looked aggrieved, but the story he’d related was so improbable that Richard wanted confirmation from Humphrey de Toron; he’d come to trust the young poulain even though they were as unlike as wine and buttermilk. When Humphrey finally arrived, obviously roused from bed, Richard drew him aside.

  “They told one of the turcopoles that they’ve come from Ascalon, that Saladin forced all the townspeople from their homes and set about destroying the city and castle. But I find that hard to believe, for Ascalon is one of the great jewels in the sultan’s crown. So I want you to question them for me.”

  He watched intently as Humphrey interrogated the family, his Arabic so fluent and his manner so courteous that some of their fright appeared to lessen. Even though he didn’t speak the language, Richard did read faces well—a king’s survival skill—and he soon concluded that they were either speaking the truth or were remarkably skilled liars. But how could it be true?

  When Humphrey was done, he shook his head, saddened but not surprised by yet more evidence of the suffering that war inflicted, usually upon the innocent and the helpless. “They say that Saladin arrived at Ascalon six days after the battle of Arsuf and personally supervised the destruction of their city. This created a panic, of course, as the townspeople sought desperately to sell what belongings they could not take with them. Their family was lucky enough to have a donkey cart, but many did not and the prices of horses soared, while the prices of household goods and livestock plummeted so low that a man could buy twelve chickens for only one dirham. Whilst some sought passage on ships to Egypt, most of the citizens did not know where to go, and there was much weeping and fear. The sultan opened the royal granary to the people, but most lost everything they owned. They had a candlemaking shop which is gone now, burned like much of the city. They say they are Christians, not Muslims, and so they hoped we would take pity on them.”

  Seeing a question forming on Richard’s lips, Humphrey said swiftly, wanting to protect these poor wretches if he could, “I suppose they may be lying, but it could well be true, for it is not unusual to find native-born Christians living in Saracen towns. In fact, Saladin encouraged the Syrian Christians and Jews to remain in Ascalon after he captured it four years ago.” Adding reluctantly, “I can find out for certes if you wish, see if they know the Pater Noster, the Ave Maria, and the Credo—”

  Richard cut him off impatiently, for he had more pressing concerns than the religious faith of these bedraggled refugees. “What would compel him to sacrifice such an important stronghold?”

  “They say Saladin was sorely grieved, so much so that he took sick when he saw the misery of the townspeople, and they heard he’d even said he would rather have lost all of his sons than demolish a single stone of their city. But his soldiers told them that he’d been advised he could not defend both Ascalon and Jerusalem, and he feared that no garrison could be trusted to hold firm after the killing of the men at Acre. So rather than have it fall intact into your hands, he chose to destroy it.”

  It was obvious to Richard that Humphrey believed them, but he was still not convinced that Saladin had truly taken a measure so desperate. “See that they are fed, Humphrey,” he said, and then looked around at the other crusaders, all of them dumbfounded, too, by what they’d just heard. “Take a galley at first light,” he told Joffroi de Lusignan, “and see if Ascalon is truly in flames.”

  AS SOON AS Joffroi de Lusignan had finished speaking, Richard moved to the center of his tent. “Well, we know it is indeed true. But the city is not fully razed to the ground yet, so there is still time. I will take part of the fleet on the morrow whilst the Duke of Burgundy follows along the coast road. It is only thirty miles from Jaffa, so we ought to be able to seize the city ere Saladin can complete its destruction.”

  “Attack Ascalon?” Hugh of Burgundy was staring at Richard in disbelief. “Why would we want to do that? Now that we hold Jaffa, we can march upon Jerusalem.”

  Richard was taken by surprise, for the advantages of taking Ascalon seemed so obvious to him that he hadn’t expected to have to argue about it. “Ascalon controls the road to Egypt,” he said, striving to hide his vexation beneath a matter-of-fact demeanor, “and Egypt is the base of Saladin’s power. If we hold Ascalon, we can cut off his communications and supplies from Alexandria. Moreover, Saladin will fear that we mean to strike into Egypt itself, and so we could—”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Hugh was on his feet now, but the Bishop of Beauvais was even quicker.

  “I cannot speak for the rest of you,” he said angrily, “but I did not take the cross to help Lord Lionheart add Egypt to his Angevin empire! Was Cyprus not enough for you, Richard? Are you lusting after the riches of the Nile now, too?”

  “I am not seeking to conquer it, you fool! It is enough if Saladin thinks we are, for if he believes his Egyptian domains are threatened, he’ll be all the more likely to agree to favorable peace terms—”

  “Now we come down to it,” Hugh interrupted. “I’ve been suspicious of your intentions from the first, for you opened talks with Saladin as soon as you arrived at Acre, treating this infidel as respectfully as if he were another Christian prince. But I can assure you that the rest of us did not come to the Holy Land to make peace with the enemies of God. We came to recover the city of Jerusalem!”

  “And how do you plan to do that, Hugh? We were able to reach Jaffa because we had the support of my fleet; they kept us supplied. When we head inland toward Jerusalem, we have to bring all our provisions with us. Have you even spared a thought to what a march like that would be like? We cannot put an army in the field to match Saladin’s; we cannot even replace the horses we lose!”

  “What are you saying, my lord king?” Even though he was from one of the noblest families of France, Mathieu de Montmorency usually kept quiet in such councils, acutely aware that he was only seventeen years old and a battle novice. But he was too distraught now to remain silent. “You mean we have no chance of retaking the Holy City?”

  “I am not saying that, Mathieu,” Richard assured the boy. “But we must first make sure we can protect our supply lines. If we had marched toward Jerusalem from Acre as some of you wanted, we would likely all be dead by now. We reached Jaffa because you listened to me, not the Bishop of Beauvais and his ilk. So heed me now. Ascalon is the key to Jerusalem, and if you doubt that, why would Saladin destroy it rather than risk its capture? It is not enough to take the Holy City. Then we must hold it. And if we have Ascalon, we just might be able to do that.”

  Richard had been focusing his attention upon Hugh and Beauvais. Turning toward the others, he was dismayed by what he saw—or did not see. They looked troubled, uncertain, ambivalent, not like men who understood the truth, his truth. Even some of his own lords seemed conflicted. “Listen to me,” he urged, in what was as close as he could come to an entreaty. “I cannot stay in Outremer indefinitely. None of us can. You think Saladin does not know that? All he has to do is to outlast us, wait for us to go back to our own lands. This is why we must come to terms with him. And to get him to agree to a peace that both sides can live with, we need leverage. We need Ascalon.”

  “You are giving the Saracens too much credit and our army too little.” Hugh had g
otten his temper under control, and his calm certitude was more convincing than his earlier antagonism; even Richard could see that. “This is not just another squabble between the kings of England and France. This is a holy war, sanctioned by Almighty God. Can you not see what a difference that makes? Our Lord Christ died on this hallowed soil. Do you think He has led us this far to fail? You talk of strategy and supplies. But what of God’s Will? I say we continue refortifying Jaffa and then use it as a base to recapture Jerusalem.”

  “The Almighty still expects us to do our part! By your logic, Hugh, Ḥaṭṭīn ought to have been a Christian victory since they had God on their side. Yet even God’s Army can be defeated if outmaneuvered and outnumbered.”

  “I am glad that you recognize it is God’s Army, not your own,” Beauvais jeered. “If you want to chase off to Ascalon, do so. But the rest of us are going to honor our vows to recover the Holy City.”

  Richard’s eyes glittered, his color rising. Before he could respond, Hugh seized the opportunity the bishop had given him. “Do you remember the question you posed to the French lords at Acre? You asked them whether they were going back to Paris with our king or going on to Jerusalem with you. I say we ask again. How many of you want to follow the English king to Ascalon? And how many of you would rather we lay siege to Jerusalem?”

  It was soon apparent that Hugh and Beauvais would win the vote count. Richard was backed up by the Templars, the Hospitallers, Guy de Lusignan and his brothers, the other poulain lords, and most of his barons and bishops. But the crusaders from Europe saw Ascalon as a needless detour on the road to Jerusalem. Virtually all of the French, Flemings, Bretons, and some of Richard’s own vassals wanted to recover the Holy City as soon as possible, eager to see the sacred Holy Sepulchre for themselves and to walk in the Lord Christ’s blessed footsteps, but eager, too, to fulfill their vows so they could return to their homes and families and the lives they’d left behind.

  Richard was shocked, for he’d honestly believed that his argument would carry the day. How could seasoned soldiers like Guillaume des Barres and the counts of St Pol, Chalons, and Clermont fail to see that he was in the right? Yet of the French lords, only Henri had loyally declared in favor of Ascalon; even Jaufre, looking stricken, had mumbled “Jerusalem.” For several moments, Richard considered going his own way, leading his men and Outremer’s lords south to seize Ascalon whilst letting the others fend for themselves. But that was the Devil whispering in his ear, for what could gladden Saladin more than such a schism in the Christian ranks?

  “So be it,” he said curtly, for he was damned if he’d be a good sport about it, not when so much was at stake. “But it is a mistake, one we are all going to regret.”

  HENRI AND ANDRÉ had been searching for Richard in growing concern, unable to understand how a king could suddenly disappear. They finally found him on the beach. The wine-dark sky was spangled with an infinity of shimmering stars, the moon silvering the whitecaps as they churned shoreward, a light, variable wind chasing away the last of the day’s heat. But the serenity of the night was at odds with the emotions unleashed by the scene in Richard’s command tent. He turned in the saddle as they rode toward him, and for a time they watched without speaking as the waves splashed onto the sand, receded, and surged back.

  “How can they be so blind?” Richard asked after a long silence. His mood had swung from fury to frustration to bafflement; now he just sounded tired. “They are not fools, not even those whoresons Burgundy and Beauvais. So why would they not heed me?”

  André had no answer for him, but Henri did. Reining in his horse beside Richard’s Spanish stallion, he said, “Because Hugh was right. A holy war is different. They are listening to their hearts, Uncle, and the heart is not always rational.”

  “Are you saying that Jerusalem matters more to them than it does to me? God’s Bones, Henri, I was one of the first to take the cross!”

  “No one doubts your devotion to our quest, Uncle. But you are a soldier, first and foremost, and most of them are now pilgrims, albeit armed ones. You want to win the war and secure a peace that Saladin will honor. They just want to recapture Jerusalem, whatever the cost. Try not to blame them for that.”

  “I do not,” Richard insisted, not altogether truthfully. “But as I told them tonight, this was a mistake, a great mistake.”

  They agreed, so emphatically that Richard took a small measure of comfort in their loyalty. But he remained convinced that they’d let a rare opportunity slip away, one that might not come again.

  THEY CONTINUED WITH the refortification of Jaffa, Richard occasionally taking a hand himself in the repair work, which astonished his barons and endeared him to his soldiers. By Michaelmas, they’d made so much progress that Richard felt he could spare a few hours to go hawking in the low hills south of Jaffa. He’d brought his own gyrfalcons on the crusade; they were used mainly against cranes, though, and required greyhounds for the kill once the falcon had brought down its much larger prey. But Saladin had sent him a saker during his illness at Acre, and he was curious to try it out, having been told it was the main hunting bird of the Saracen falconers. They had a successful hunt, catching partridges and even a red hare. Richard was still restless, and after sending the falcons and their game back to Jaffa, he headed out to do reconnaissance.

  This hunt was not as successful; they encountered no Saracen scouts or patrols. By now the enervating heat of midday was upon them, and when they found a small stream by a wild olive grove, they dismounted to water their horses and rest awhile. Bracing his back against a tree, Morgan was grateful to escape the Syrian sun, for he did not think he’d ever adjust to Outremer’s torrid climate. Off to his left, he could hear Richard talking with Renier de Maron, telling the poulain lord that they’d heard Conrad had been making overtures to Saladin and asking Renier if he thought Conrad was capable of such treachery. Under another tree, Warin Fitz Gerald had produced some dice and was playing a game of raffle with Alan and Lucas L’Etable. Morgan was half tempted to join in, but that would require moving. He was dozing when Guilhem de Préaux plopped down beside him, saying he’d like to learn some more Welsh curses.

  Morgan was happy to oblige, for he shared Guilhem’s interest in foreign languages; they’d both picked up a few useful Greek phrases in Sicily and Cyprus and were now doing their best to master a bit of the equally challenging Arabic. He taught the other knight a handful of Welsh obscenities, translating twll din as arsehole, and coc oen as lamb’s cock, assuring Guilhem that the latter was highly offensive in Wales. Guilhem repeated the words dutifully, committing them to memory, and then asked for the worst insult a Welshman could utter.

  “Well, it is a grievous affront to say that a man is incapable of protecting his wife, for that is a serious slur upon his manhood. But I think the greatest insult by far would be to call a Welshman a Sais,” Morgan said, straight-faced. He began to laugh, though, when Guilhem wanted a translation, admitting that Sais meant “Englishman.”

  “That does not offend me,” Guilhem said with a grin, “for I’m Norman. I have some new Arabic curses for you, if you’re interested?” Morgan was, and so was Renier de Maron’s nephew, Walter, who moved closer to hear better; it puzzled both Morgan and Guilhem that so few of the poulains bothered to learn any Arabic. Unhooking a wineskin from his belt, Guilhem shared it along with his newfound store of profanities. “Ya ibn el kalb means ‘You son of a dog,’ which is a serious insult since the Saracens think dogs are unclean. To say In’al yomak is to curse the day you were born; I like that one myself. And In’a’al mayteen means ‘Damn your dead.’ But my turcopole friend Adam says the deadliest insult in Arabic is to call a man a fatah, even worse than calling someone a Sais.”

  “Are you going to keep us in suspense? What does it mean?”

  Guilhem’s grin had now spread from ear to ear. “It means ‘foreskin’!” he declared, roaring with laughter at the baffled expressions on their faces. When he got his breath back, he explained
that the Saracens practiced circumcision as the Jews did, and the foreskin was the fold of skin cut off and cast aside.

  Morgan and Walter recoiled in mock horror, bringing their knees up to protect their family jewels, and soon all three were laughing so loudly that they attracted annoyed glances from others trying to nap. Reaching for Guilhem’s wineskin, Morgan pretended to ponder this new curse and then shook his head. “I cannot see that being a useful insult once we go back to our own lands. Now ‘Damn your dead,’ mayhap. But if I were to call a man a ‘foreskin’ in a tavern brawl, he’d just stare at me in bewilderment.”

  “But whilst he puzzled over it, you could hit him!” Guilhem insisted, and that set them off again. This time they made enough noise to vex all of the men who’d wanted to sleep, and Richard ordered the culprits to take turns standing guard. Walter volunteered to take the first watch, and Morgan and Guilhem drew further back into the shade. Soon they, too, were dozing.

  Morgan’s languid dream-state was broken by a sudden shout. He jerked upright just as an arrow thudded into the tree trunk, so close he actually felt the rush of air on his skin. He instinctively ducked, hearing the high-pitched thrumming as another arrow sped over his head and, then, a muffled cry as it struck its target. All around him was chaos. Richard was yelling for them to mount up, the enemy bowmen screaming “Allahu Akbar!” as the men scrambled to their feet. But as the knights hastened to follow Richard’s example—he was already astride Fauvel, his sword drawn—the Saracens broke off the attack. As Richard charged after them, Morgan ran toward his stallion. As he swung up into the saddle, he heard his name called out, and he glanced back to see Guilhem stooping over a man who’d taken an arrow in his shoulder.