Lionheart

  “Richard has gone to the harbor. He plans to sail tonight for Jaffa. He wants me to lead a land force on the morrow, the Templars, Hospitallers, poulains, and as many others as we can get. I’d better tell Berengaria and Joanna,” he said, steering her back to her dais seat before he headed toward Richard’s wife and sister, who were standing a few feet away, not wanting to intrude upon his time with Isabella.

  Isabella could not remember when she’d felt so bone-weary. She watched as Henri spoke with the other women, and although it did not seem right to worry about personal cares in the midst of such a calamity, she could not help being grateful that she’d have one more night with her husband. She felt a touch of pity for Berengaria, who could not even be sure if Richard would return to bid her farewell, but she felt admiration, too, for the other woman’s courage. How did she face each day, knowing she could go from wife to widow in the thrust of one well-aimed sword? Isabella, who’d gone from widow to wife in the span of a week, hoped that she’d be able to endure the waiting with Berengaria’s stoicism and grace. But with so much at stake, she could only pray that the Almighty would give her the strength she would need, as queen, wife, and mother-to-be.

  When Henri came back to her, she reached out and entwined her fingers in his. “Without the French, you will be greatly outnumbered,” she said, as steadily as she could. “Can Jaffa be saved?”

  He’d just been asked that very question by Berengaria and Joanna, had responded with a confident smile, reminding them that Richard thrived on such challenges. But as much as he wanted to reassure Isabella, too, he could not bring himself to lie to her. “I do not know, Bella,” he said at last. “God help us all, I do not know.”

  CHAPTER 35

  JULY 1192

  Off the Coast of Haifa

  Richard had sailed from Acre Tuesday night, hoping to reach Jaffa the next day. Butas their ships rounded Mount Carmel, the winds shifted suddenly and began to blow from the south. They were forced to furl their sails, dropping anchor in the shelter of Haifa’s bay to await a favorable wind. What followed were three of the worst days of Richard’s life. He was accustomed to facing death with utter sangfroid, was famed for his cool head in a crisis. By Friday, though, his nerves were fraying like well-worn hemp, for each passing hour made Jaffa’s downfall all the more likely.

  As he strode the deck, he was being watched with sympathetic eyes. Yet few of the men dared to approach him, for he put them in mind of a smoldering fire, one that could flare up at any moment. But the Préaux brothers were deeply grateful that Richard had taken such pains to bolster their spirits in the months since Guilhem’s capture, periodically summoning them to offer reassurances that he still lived and promising to find a way to secure his freedom. They felt they owed it to Richard to try to ease his troubled mind, and when he finally halted his pacing, they moved to his side.

  “Jaffa still holds out, sire. Their faith in you will give them the courage to resist, for they know nothing short of death could keep you from coming to their rescue.”

  They’d meant well, but their comfort only salted Richard’s wounds. Jaffa’s fall would be a devastating blow to Outremer’s survival. Its loss would cut the kingdom in half, shattering crusader morale and causing Saracen spirits to soar, resulting in the swelling of Saladin’s army just as the French were defecting. Richard was well aware of that, for he’d always been one for strategic planning. For now, though, what he found hardest to bear was that he’d failed the men who’d trusted him. Would they pass up chances to make a peaceful surrender, sure that he was on the way as Jean de Préaux insisted? God help them if so, for if the town and castle were then taken by storm, they could expect no mercy. Their faith in him could doom them all.

  It was then that André lurched into Pierre de Préaux; he rode like a centaur, but he was always clumsy on the deck of a pitching ship. “May I have a private word with you, my liege?” He didn’t wait for a response, turning toward their tent, and Richard had no choice but to follow. As soon as they were inside, André said, “I have a favor to ask of you, Cousin. For the love of God, lie down and try to get some rest. Since we left Acre, you’ve slept less than a cat treed by a pack of dogs, and not only are you wearing yourself out with all this pacing and fuming, you are wearing us out just watching you!”

  Richard objected, more from contrariness than anything else. But André was right; he was tired. Sitting down on the bed, he rubbed his eyes and then his temples, hoping to head off a dull, throbbing headache. When he looked up again, André was gone. After a time, he dropped to his knees by the bed. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.” The Latin phrases came unthinkingly to his lips, but what followed was not so much a prayer as a desperate cry from the heart.

  “Lord God, why dost Thou keep me here when I am going in Thy Service?” There was no answer, of course. He knew what the priests said, that the Ways of the Almighty were beyond the understanding of mortal men. But why would God not send the winds to bring him to Jaffa? How could He want Jaffa to fall to the Saracens? And why had He ever allowed Jerusalem to be lost? Getting to his feet, Richard lay down on the bed, bringing his arm up to shield his eyes from the sun streaming through the open tent flap. Not my will, but Thine, be done. Easy enough to say, but so hard to accept. And yet such acceptance was the cornerstone of their Christian faith. Thy Will be done.

  He hadn’t expected to sleep, but after a while, he dozed, lulled by the rocking movement of the ship and the rhythmic splashing of waves against its hull. When he awoke, André and the Earl of Leicester were bending over the bed, their faces so joyful that he knew at once what they’d come to tell him. Sitting up, he heard what was surely the sweetest of all sounds—the flapping of canvas as the sails were unfurled. “The winds have changed!”

  “Yes, they are blowing now from the north!”

  “Thank God!” Richard closed his eyes for a moment. “Thank God and all His good angels!”

  BY SEA, IT WAS ONLY forty-six miles from Haifa to Jaffa, and the ship’s master assured Richard that they’d be there sometime that night. The wind continued to pick up, though, and within hours, their small fleet was scattered. Richard refused to despair; at least they were being swept in the right direction. After midnight, the moon rose. It had been full upon their arrival at Acre and half of it was still visible, casting a soft glow upon the cresting waves as they rolled shoreward. The harbor of Jaffa was an anchorage on the northwestern side of the castle, sheltered by reefs, and it was not yet dawn when they saw the silhouette of the most famous one, Andromeda’s Rock. It was Saturday, the first of August, four days since the Saracens had launched their surprise attack upon the city.

  They anchored just north of the harbor and began the tense vigil until sunrise. Jaffa was divided into a lower town, the faubourg, and the citadel, located on higher ground to the southwest. From their galleys, they could not see the landward side, which would have borne the brunt of the Saracen assault, and so they could not tell if the walls were still intact. The city remained shrouded in shadows, giving up none of its secrets.

  They had only three galleys at first, but by the time the horizon finally began to lighten off to the east, four more had straggled in. Dawn in the Holy Land was usually resplendent, the sky splashed with molten gold as the sun began its celestial arc. This morning the men had eyes only for the looming walls of Jaffa. As the dark retreated, they squinted until the banners flying above the city slowly came into focus—streaming in the wind, the bright saffron colors of Salah al-Dīn.

  A muffled sound swept the decks of the galleys, a groan torn from multiple throats as they understood what they were seeing. Some cursed, most stared in stricken silence. Richard had been standing motionless in the prow of his galley, scarcely breathing as he awaited the moment of truth. When it came, he let out a hoarse cry. “We’re too late!” He slammed his fist down upon the gunwale, again and again. “Too late!”

  His men had never seen him so anguished and did not know w
hat to do. Only André moved, stepping forward to catch his wrist before he could strike again. “Not your sword hand,” he said, his voice oddly gentle. “You did all you could, Richard, all any man could do.”

  Richard saw nothing but those swirling golden banners. “Tell that to the dead of Jaffa.”

  AS THE SUN ROSE in the sky, they could see the tents of the Saracen army. Their little fleet was soon noticed and men on the beach began to jeer and shout, waving weapons, a few aiming arrows although they could penetrate armor only at close range. But most of them seemed unconcerned by the appearance of the enemy ships. Jubilant cries of “Allahu Akbar!” wafted across the water to the miserable men in the galleys. Even if Richard had not seen the sultan’s banners, he’d have known the town had fallen, for theirs was the swagger of the victorious.

  Some of his knights felt a shamed sense of relief that they’d arrived too late, for few operations were as dangerous as a sea landing in enemy territory. It was true Richard had managed it in Cyprus, but then they’d been confronted by the incompetent, hated Isaac Comnenus and his poorly trained routiers. Here at Jaffa, they faced the tough, battle-proven troops of Saladin, the victor of Ḥaṭṭīn. So there were men in the galleys who felt they’d been reprieved, even as they grieved for their slain brethren. By nine, the third hour of the day, their ships numbered fifteen, yet it was obvious to them all that they were still greatly outnumbered. They did not fear for their safety as long as they stayed offshore; Richard had controlled the sea since his seizure of Saladin’s fleet at Acre. It was not easy, though, to look upon their triumphant enemy, strutting along the beach, their laughter echoing on the wind, all the while knowing what horrors were hidden by the town walls, and many of them wished that Richard would give the order to depart.

  Richard had not moved for hours, unable to tear his gaze from the crowded beach and those banners flying proudly over the captured city. He seemed to see everything on a battlefield and had soon noticed that no flags flew over the castle itself. That wan hope quickly ebbed, for there was no sign of life, no indication that the citadel still resisted. Jaffa had held about four thousand souls, many of them convalescing soldiers, as well as the inevitable noncombatants caught up in siege warfare—merchants, priests, women, and children. How many of them had died when the town had fallen? Would any of them be able to avoid the slave markets in Cairo and Damascus by offering ransoms? Saladin had been vengeful on occasion, as when he executed the Templars and Hospitallers after Ḥaṭṭīn. But he was also known to be merciful, and Richard kept reminding himself of that as he watched the sultan’s soldiers celebrating a well-earned victory, one that would have reverberations throughout Christendom for years to come.

  When the Earl of Leicester and André finally joined him in the prow and asked what he wanted to do, he could not bring himself to give the order to raise their anchors, not yet. André, who knew him better than he knew himself, thought that by remaining on the scene, he was doing penance for failing to get there in time. He did not try to persuade Richard to go, though; that would be for naught.

  “Look!” Richard said suddenly, pointing toward the castle. Turning, they saw the figure of a man balancing upon the wall, waving his arms frantically; he was shouting, but his words were drowned out by the pounding of the surf and the cries of the Saracens on the beach. He appeared to be wearing a priest’s habit. As they watched, he made the sign of the cross and then leaped from the wall. Fortunately, his fall was cushioned by the sand and he scrambled to his feet, apparently unhurt. Pulling his ankle-length garment over his head, he sprinted toward the water. By now he’d been noticed by some of the Saracens. They seemed amused by the sight of this paunchy, pallid enemy clad only in braies and a shirt, and just one made an attempt to stop him, sending a poorly aimed arrow his way as he plunged into the sea and began to swim toward the ships.

  Richard whirled, but there was no need to give the command; they were already hauling on the anchor chains. His galley shot forward, the sailors straining at the oars. The priest’s flailing arms showed that he was not a strong swimmer and he had begun to tread water as the galley drew up alongside, grabbing gratefully at an outstretched oar. Once he’d been hauled aboard, he collapsed onto the deck, shivering so violently that one of the knights hastily fetched a blanket and draped it around his trembling shoulders.

  “My lord king, save us!” he gasped. “You are our only hope!”

  Richard’s hand closed on the priest’s arm in a grip that would leave bruises. “Some are still alive? Tell me—and quickly!”

  “You’d have been proud of them, sire, for they fought valiantly. For three days, we held them off. Even when part of the wall fell by the Jerusalem Gate, we built a bonfire in the gap to keep them out. But yesterday their sappers and trebuchets brought down a large section of the wall. We retreated into the castle and agreed to surrender today if no help had come by then. After your galleys were spotted this morning, Saladin said we must leave the citadel straightaway and some of the men agreed, for they did not think there were enough ships to make a landing. When you stayed offshore, the patriarch and castellan went to see Saladin, thinking all hope was lost. But then I realized why you’d not tried to land—you did not know the castle was still held by the garrison! So I . . . I committed myself to the Almighty’s Keeping and jumped from the wall,” he concluded, sounding astonished by his own courage.

  “You are a brave man. God will reward you for what you did today and so will I.” Richard had knelt to hear the priest’s story. As he rose to his feet, his eyes swept the deck, moving from one face to another. “I cannot promise victory,” he said. “But I will either prevail or die in the attempt. Eternal shame to any man who balks, for glory or martyrdom awaits us. God’s Will be done.” He gestured then to his trumpeter. The man at once blew the signal to advance, and as it echoed out across the water, the decks of the galleys erupted into frantic activity. Forgotten now, the priest huddled in his blanket and began to pray.

  Richard’s royal galley was as conspicuous as he could make it, painted a red hue brighter than blood; the canopy tent was crimson, too. Even the surcote Richard wore over his hauberk was a deep scarlet. Just as no one could ever overlook his presence on the battlefield, the Sea-Cleaver would draw all eyes, proclaiming that the English king was aboard. It led the way toward the shore and soon had the attention of the men on the beach. They did not seem alarmed; their faces reflected amazement and disbelief that the Franks would dare attempt a landing. There was something oddly lethargic about their reaction, but Richard did not have the time to puzzle over it, for the ship had reached the shallows.

  When he judged it safe, he leaped over the side into the sea. Water rose to his hips. Paying his knights the ultimate compliment—never once glancing back to be sure they were following—he began to wade toward the shore, a crossbow in one hand, his drawn sword in the other. As he emerged from the water, a man ran forward, shouting in a language he did not know; he thought it might be Kurdish. Richard was not fully armed, for there’d been no time to put on his mail chausses; this made his bare legs vulnerable to attack. He had been taught to watch his adversary’s eyes and he caught that quick downward glance as the Saracen soldier came within striking range. He was ready, therefore, when the man lunged, pivoting and then slashing at that outstretched arm. There was a scream, blood spurted over them both, and he turned to face his next foe. There was none. Men were standing as if rooted, staring at him, but none moved to the attack.

  For the first time, he looked back, saw his knights and crossbowmen struggling ashore. Pierre de Préaux was just a few feet away. Panting heavily, he had no breath for speaking and gestured with his sword. Richard spun around to see a horse and rider bearing down upon him. He’d dropped the crossbow when he’d confronted the Kurdish soldier and he quickly snatched it up. It was already loaded; he had only to aim and fire. The bolt hit the other man in the throat and he tumbled from the saddle. Richard made a grab for the reins, but th
e rider’s foot had caught in the stirrup, and as his body slammed into the horse’s legs, the animal panicked and bolted.

  Richard swore, for they had no horses with them. By now several knights had reached his side, offering lavish praise for that remarkable shot, laughing when Richard admitted he’d been aiming for the man’s chest. They were all a bit giddy, most not having expected to get this far, thinking they’d be cut down while they were still in the water. Some of the Saracens had begun to shoot at them, but their arrows were embedding themselves in the armor of the knights, doing no real damage. Richard’s Genoese and Pisan arbalesters, just now coming ashore, were much more effective. Taking turns, one man shooting while another loaded, they unleashed a barrage of bolts that soon had their foes in retreat. Richard still marveled at the half-hearted resistance they’d encountered so far, but he wasted no time taking advantage of it. Now that they’d established a beachhead, they needed to hold it, and he gave orders to scavenge driftwood, planks, barrels, wood from the half-buried hulks of wrecked galleys, whatever they could use to erect a barricade.

  Leaving his crossbowmen and men-at-arms to put up a makeshift shelter, Richard then led some of his knights toward the northeast wall, saying he knew a way into the town. None thought to question him; after their amazing success so far, they’d have believed him had he said they were going to fly over the walls. He had something more prosaic in mind—a stairway cut into the rocks that led up to a postern gate. The steps were so narrow that only one man at a time could climb them, making him so vulnerable to defenders up on the wall that it was easy to see why no Saracen had attempted it. Not having to fear an aerial assault, Richard and his men quickly reached the postern gate. A few blows with a battle-axe shattered the wood and they found it gave entry into a house built against the town wall. It belonged to the Templars, Richard said, his statement soon confirmed by the discovery of a body propped up in bed, still clutching a sword, his brown mantle with the red cross signifying him to have been a brother of the order, not a knight. His splinted leg explained why he’d died in bed, and the bloodstains on the bedding and floor gave evidence of the fight he’d put up, for they were obviously not all his. The men paused, honoring his sacrifice with an instinctive moment of silence, and then followed Richard as he headed for the outer door.