Richard angrily cut off their entreaties. “I sent those men out there, promising that I would follow with aid. If they die without me, may I never again be called a king.” And with that, he couched his lance and charged the Saracens, shouting the battle cry of the English Royal House, “Dex aie!”
He impaled the first man to challenge him, flinging him from the saddle with such force that he was dead before he hit the ground. Dropping his broken lance, Richard then unsheathed his sword and urged Fauvel into the fray again, attacking so furiously that the enemy soldiers shied away, seeking easier prey. By now his men knew he was there, fighting with them, and not for the first time the presence of a king turned the tide of battle. They rallied, seizing the momentum Richard had given them, and drove the Saracens back, long enough for them to manage a retreat from the field.
It was not a victory, but for the men sure they were facing death or capture, it was even sweeter—a reprieve, a rescue against overwhelming odds. When word spread of Richard’s defiant vow that he’d never let them die alone, even those who usually disapproved of his bravura exploits were impressed, and to the disgust of Richard’s most implacable foes, the November 6 battle burnished the growing legend of the Lionheart even more brightly.
RICHARD HAD so exhausted himself with his exertions, though, that he had to be bled by his physicians the next day, and so it was not until the following day that he was able to meet with al-’Ādil at the latter’s camp.
ANDRÉ AND HENRI were among the very few whom Richard had taken into his confidence about the proposed marital alliance, and they accompanied him to the meeting. André was not completely comfortable to be drinking and eating with men who may have been among those seeking to kill him two days ago at Ibn Ibrak, but the bizarre aspects of the event appealed to Henri’s quirky sense of humor and he enjoyed himself thoroughly.
Al-’Ādil welcomed the English king and his companions as graciously as if they were esteemed allies and not men who’d shed so much Saracen blood. Richard had earlier sent al-’Ādil a magnificent stallion, and the sultan’s brother now reciprocated with seven camels and a splendid, spacious tent. The Saracens took the obligations of hospitality seriously and Henri would later tease Joanna that she’d be well fed if she married al-’Ādil, for he set a sumptuous table. He explained that he could not offer them wine, as it was haraam, forbidden by the Qur’an, but they were served delicious fruit drinks cooled with snow and rosewater julabs. His guests politely hid any disappointment over the lack of wine and complimented the variety of dishes put before them, grateful that al-’Ādil had remembered they could eat no meat, it being a Friday, and savoring cuisine they’d never tasted before: yogurt, couscous, a fried pistachio crepe called qatayif. Richard had brought samples of the food found on Frankish tables, assuring his host that he’d included no meat dishes since he knew their dietary laws held that animals had to be ritually slaughtered. Henri thought there was always some rivalry in any encounter involving royalty, and it amused him that his uncle and al-’Ādil seemed to be vying with each other to show how well they’d prepared for this occasion.
Humphrey de Toron was again acting as interpreter, seated between Richard and al-’Ādil so they could converse easily. He had one awkward moment early on, when Richard protested about his men being ambushed at a time when the two sides were conducting peace talks and al-’Ādil responded with a matter-of-fact reminder that they were at war, mentioning that they’d lost three Mamluks dear to Salah al-Dīn at Ibn Ibrak. Humphrey knew Richard had himself killed one of them during the battle, but he thought it wise to keep that to himself ; nor did he translate al-’Ādil’s comment about the slain men.
Otherwise, he thought the discussions were conducted with remarkable cordiality. He’d not expected the two men to have such a rapport, but for this one day at least, what they shared—a love of horses and hawking, a mutual respect for each other’s courage and battle skills, a similar ironic sense of humor—was enough to bridge the great gap that separated Christians and Muslims, men sworn to holy war and jihad.
They had a lively conversation about horse breeding and the different riding styles of the Franks and the Saracens, followed by a discussion of hunting; Richard was fascinated to learn al-’Ādil used trained cheetahs. Eventually, of course, the talk turned to a more controversial topic—the marriage proposal.
“I was desolate,” al-’Ādil said blandly, “to hear that your lovely sister is loath to become my wife.”
“All is not lost,” Richard assured him. “But she does have qualms about wedding a man not of her faith. Mayhap there is a way to resolve this, though. Would you consider becoming a Christian?”
Al-’Ādil nearly choked on his julab, but recovered quickly. “Mayhap the lady would consider becoming a Muslim,” he parried, and when his gaze met Richard’s, they shared a smile of perfect understanding.
“Alas, there have been further complications,” Richard confided. “Our bishops and priests are adamantly against the match, so it will be necessary to secure the approval of the Pope in Rome. It will take about three months to get his response, but if he consents and my sister is happy about it, then well and good.”
“And if he refuses?”
“We can still get it done. My sister, as you know, is a widow, and so we need papal consent for her marriage. That is not true, however, for a virgin maid. So I could offer you my niece as a bride. She is very young still, but of high birth, the child of my brother and the Duchess of Brittany.”
“I will pass your message on to my brother,” al-’Ādil promised, and Humphrey sighed with relief, hoping this would be the end of the marriage talk, for he’d been hard put to remain impassive as Richard lied about the supposed outrage of their clerics, none of whom knew anything about the marriage proposal, and then proceeded to rewrite Church canon law to suit his own purposes. Despite his fluency in Arabic, Humphrey had not often been called upon as a translator in such highlevel conferences, and he feared he might inadvertently give something away by his reaction to what was said. It was fortunate, he thought, that al-’Ādil and Richard were having too much fun with their verbal swordplay to pay him any mind.
Al-’Ādil finished his drink. “I hope we can come to terms, Malik Ric. For if we do not, the sultan may have to listen to other offers.”
Richard wished he knew precisely what that Judas in Tyre was offering. “Tell me this, my lord. Would you ever disavow your God?”
Al-’Ādil was no longer smiling. “No, I would not.”
“Nor would I. But a man who’d turn upon those of his own faith is doing just that. So why would you or your brother trust such a man?”
“An interesting question,” al-’Ādil said noncommittally. “I will pass that on to the sultan, too.”
“If we could meet as I’ve requested, I could ask him that myself,” Richard suggested.
“Ah, but as my lord brother has told you, kings ought not to meet with other kings until peace has been made between them.”
“Yet you and I are meeting.”
“I am not a king,” al-’Ādil pointed out amicably.
“You could be, if you accept my peace terms.”
The other man merely laughed, and clapped his hands, for Richard had earlier expressed an interest in hearing Saracen music. Much to the surprise of the Franks, their entertainment proved to be a young woman, carrying a harp. Richard had been told the Saracens were very protective of their women, shielding them from the eyes of other men, and he was curious about her appearance, unveiled, in their midst. He leaned over to ask Humphrey if there was a tactful way to find out, but the poulain had no need to put such a question to al-’Ādil, for he already knew the answer. “She is a slave, my liege,” he explained, so nonchalantly that Richard and his companions exchanged glances, reminded again that the Christians of Outremer were closer in some ways to the Saracens than to their European brethren.
Richard was delighted with the girl’s songs, and the visit ended o
n a high note, with an exchange of compliments and a promise to meet again. On the ride back to their camp, Henri speculated aloud about the lovely slave’s fate, suggesting that one of them ought to buy her and grinning when Richard asked if he’d have been so sympathetic had she not been so fair. He retaliated by teasing his uncle about his offer of a substitute bride, wondering aloud whom Constance of Brittany would find more objectionable as a husband for her young daughter—a Saracen or an Englishman.
“We are talking of a crown, Henri. What woman would not want to be Queen of Jerusalem?”
“Aunt Joanna,” Henri retorted, and they both laughed.
Humphrey was close enough to hear their conversation, but he found no humor in it. He’d been stunned when Richard had first confided in him, and then euphoric, for this was the first glimmer of hope he’d been given in two years. If Joanna were to wed al-’Ādil and become queen, then Isabella’s claim would be superseded. Since Conrad had twice discarded wives when they no longer were of use to him, surely it was possible that he might repudiate Isabella, too, if she could not secure him the crown. For a fortnight, Humphrey had allowed himself to believe in miracles—the restoration of his wife and his stolen life. But he’d slowly come to doubt the sincerity of Richard’s offer, and he’d found the sudden mention of the king’s niece to be troubling. It was true that Saracen girls could be wed at very young ages, with consummation usually postponed until she’d begun her flux, just as in Christian realms, so a marriage between al-’A-dil and the little Breton princess could still quash Conrad’s claim to the throne. He had not been reassured, though, by the tone of the colloquy between Richard and al-’Ādil, for it had not seemed to him that either man was taking the marriage proposal seriously.
Humphrey did not dare to question Richard directly about his intentions, but he’d always found the Count of Champagne to be very affable, and upon their return to Yāzūr, he sought Henri out. “May I ask you something, my lord count? Do you think the Lady Joanna’s marriage to al-’Ādil will ever come to pass?”
Henri had an unease of conscience where Humphrey was concerned. He’d supported Conrad’s marriage to Isabella because he’d been convinced by the poulains that the kingdom was doomed as long as Guy de Lusignan ruled over them. He could not help pitying Humphrey, though, for it had been obvious to anyone with eyes to see that he’d been in love with his beautiful young wife. It was obvious, too, what had motivated Humphrey’s question, and he hesitated, finally deciding that honesty was the greater kindness now.
“No,” he said, “I do not.” He turned away, then, giving Humphrey the only solace he could—privacy to grieve for a shattered dream.
THE FRENCH WERE NOT the only ones displeased by Richard’s cordial dealings with the sultan and his brother; many of his soldiers were also unhappy about it, and after his day-long visit with al-’Ādil, some were emboldened to speak out, saying it was not proper for a Christian king to exchange gifts and courtesies with the enemies of God. When he became aware of the growing criticism, even from men who’d always admired his prowess on the battlefield, Richard was both frustrated and angry, but he realized the danger in letting this sore go untreated. If it was allowed to fester, it could undermine his command. He chose to reassure his army with his sword, by adopting a bloody custom that had long been followed by both sides in the Holy Land. The chronicler of the Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi would report approvingly that “To remove the stain of disgrace which he had incurred, he brought back countless enemy heads to display that he had been falsely accused and that the gifts had not encouraged him to be slow in attacking the enemy.” But although he’d calmed the furor for now, the backlash had brought home to Richard a disturbing truth—that a holy war was indeed unlike other wars and he could not rely upon this motley mix of crusaders to give him the unquestioning loyalty he’d come to expect from his own vassals and lords.
THREE DAYS AFTER Richard’s meeting with al-’Ādil, Salah al-Dīn summoned his brother and his emirs to a council of war at Latrun. He told them that Conrad had offered to take Acre from the Franks in return for Sidon and Beirut and a guarantee of his possession of Tyre. He then informed them of Richard’s latest peace proposal. When he asked for their views, they concluded that if peace were to be made, it was better to make it with Malik Ric, for they were more likely to be betrayed by Conrad and the Syrian Franks. It was agreed to send word to the English king that they were not willing, though, to accept his niece in lieu of his sister as a bride for the sultan’s brother. The peace talks continued then, but so did the killing.
CHAPTER 29
DECEMBER 1191
Ramla , Outremer
When Richard moved the army to Ramla, Salah al-Dīn withdrew to Latrun and then, on December 12, to Jerusalem, leaving behind his advance guard to harass the Franks. The winter weather had set in by then, and the crusaders suffered greatly, forced to endure torrential icy rains, hailstorms, high winds, and the constant threat of flooding. The damp rusted their armor and their clothes rotted. Food went bad; biscuits crumbled, flour mildewed, and salted pork spoiled. Their pack animals sickened and died and soldiers came down with fevers, catarrh, and colic. But morale remained surprisingly high, for they were now less than twenty-five miles from Jerusalem.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 20, dawned with an overcast, ashen sky. But it was the first day in over a week that they’d not awakened to heavy rain, and Richard seized the opportunity. South of Ramla were the ruins of Blanchegarde, a castle razed by Salah al-Dīn after the fall of Acre, and he thought it would be a good site to lay an ambush. His nephew Henri and some of his household knights rode off with him, but most of the men were content to remain in camp, repairing their rusted hauberks, getting deloused by the laundresses, and playing games of chance.
Morgan had recently adopted the poulain clean-shaven fashion, for it reminded him of home; the Welsh were beardless, confining their facial hair to mustaches. After shaving, he played chess with Warin Fitz Gerald, half listening as the men nearby discussed the women they’d encountered since leaving Marseille a year and a half ago. The consensus was that the whores of Outremer were younger and prettier than their wanton sisters in Naples, Sicily, and Cyprus, and they agreed it was a pity the king had made them stay in Jaffa. Morgan’s thoughts were turning toward Jaffa, too. Richard had decided his wife and sister were safer behind its newly rebuilt walls, but Morgan had heard he might fetch them for his Christmas court, and if so, Mariam would accompany them. He was eager for their reunion, though it would have to remain circumspect; there was no privacy in an army camp, not the sort a highborn lady like Mariam would expect.
Warin had just put the chess set away when the raid was launched. The Saracen bowmen did not actually invade the camp, but they fired off a shower of arrows, accompanied by taunts and catcalls. The Earl of Leicester and some of his knights had been about to go on patrol. Now they hastily mounted their horses and rode out to chase the intruders off. Warin and Morgan were members of Richard’s household, not Leicester’s, but they were bored and so they hurried to arm themselves, as did other men eager for adventure.
The Saracens retreated before Leicester’s charge, withdrawing across the River Ayalon and heading back toward the Judean hills. This had become a ritual by now, with both sides knowing their roles, and the young earl prudently halted pursuit as they approached the west bank of the stream. But three of his men had forged ahead, caught up in the exhilaration of the chase, and they suddenly found themselves surrounded by the enemy. When another knight alerted the earl that they’d been captured, Leicester let out a scalding burst of profanity that even Richard might have envied, calling the knights bloody fools, misbegotten dolts, and accursed half-wits. He still felt honor bound to rescue them and gave the command to advance. By now Warin and Morgan had caught up, and they exchanged troubled glances, the same thought in both their minds, their Michaelmas skirmish that had actually been bait for an ambush.
The crusaders overtook
their foes on the other side of the river and for a brief time, it looked as if they’d be able to free their men and retreat to safety. But then the trap was sprung. More Saracens swept in behind them, cutting off escape. Almost at once, a well-aimed arrow brought down Leicester’s stallion and as he scrambled to his feet, he stumbled and slid down the bank into the water. It was not deep, but as he splashed to the surface, he was struck by a Saracen wielding a mace and went under. He came up sputtering, only to be hit again. By then, several of his men had reached him, and as they held off his attackers, another knight performed an act of loyalty that none would ever forget. Robert de Newburgh dismounted and offered the earl his own horse.
Leicester had already won himself a reputation for courage; indeed, he’d surprised some by his prowess, for he’d not been blessed with the physical advantages that men like Richard and Guillaume des Barres enjoyed. Never had he fought as fiercely as he did now, wielding his sword so savagely that he managed to keep his enemies at bay. But they were greatly outnumbered, and all around the earl, his men were being struck down. Warin Fitz Gerald had been unhorsed at the same time as Leicester, and he’d slumped to the ground after taking several blows by Saracens brandishing flanged maces. Fighting his way toward Warin, Morgan leaned from the saddle and held out his hand. “Swing up behind me,” he urged, for a man on foot was surely doomed.
Before Warin could reach him, a Saracen was there, thrusting at Morgan’s stallion with his spear. The horse reared up, hooves slipping on the muddy bank, and he and Morgan went over backward. Morgan managed to fling himself from the saddle, but his helmet’s chin strap snapped and it flew off as he fell. While his mail coif absorbed some of the impact, his temple struck the edge of a dropped Saracen shield. When he recovered his senses, Warin was pulling him to his feet, the battle was lost, and he was bleeding profusely from a deep gash above his eye.