What struck them first was the stench of death. It was an odor they were all familiar with, but it seemed particularly foul in such sweltering summer heat. The street ahead of them was littered with the bodies of men and animals. By the Templars’ door, a large dog was sprawled, lips still frozen in a snarl. A man was floating in a nearby horse trough; another lay curled up beside an overturned cart, his entrails spilling into a puddle of clotted dark blood. The air hummed with the droning of feasting insects, while two vultures circled overhead, waiting to resume their interrupted meal. And everywhere were the rotting carcasses of pigs. But there were no Saracens in sight, raising immediate suspicions in Richard’s mind of ambush.
They advanced cautiously. All around them were the signs of a violent assault. Many of the houses had damaged roofs and a few of the trebuchet rocks had dug craters in the street. Doors had been smashed in by men in search of plunder, and arrows carpeted the ground. There were incongruous sights, too. A basket of eggs left on a bench. A woman’s red hair ribbon snagged on a broken wheel. A costly mantle discarded, soaked in blood. A child’s toy dropped in the dirt. Someone’s pet parrot, shrieking from the wreckage of its owner’s home. Evidence of disrupted lives, ill fortune, the human suffering foretold in Scriptures—Man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble.
After glancing around, Richard summoned Henry le Tyois, his standard-bearer, and told him to unfurl his banner where it would be visible to those in the castle. Henry scrambled up onto the wall, tossed down the sultan’s eagle, and replaced it with the golden lion of the English king. One of the knights hastened over to snatch up the Saracen banner, thinking it would make a fine keepsake. Just then a young man emerged from a mercer’s shop, heavily laden with bolts of expensive silks and linens. It was hard to say who was the more surprised, the knight or the looter. For a moment, they gaped at each other, and then the Saracen sensibly dropped his booty and fled.
“Christ Jesus,” Richard said softly, suddenly understanding. No commander as astute as Saladin would have allowed his soldiers to continue looting the town in the midst of an enemy rescue mission. That plundering was still going on could have only one meaning—the sultan had lost control of his men. “Close ranks,” he ordered, and they continued on.
As they turned into Jaffa’s main street, they halted abruptly, staring at the red liquid filling the center gutter. There were gasps, for many of them knew the story of the capture of Jerusalem in God’s Year 1099; the Christian army had slaughtered most of the Muslim and Jewish inhabitants of the Holy City, killing men, women, and children alike, boasting that their men had waded in blood up to their ankles. But after a closer look, Richard was able to reassure them. “Not blood, wine,” he said, pointing toward the pyramid of smashed kegs.
There were murmurings of relief, and one of Richard’s Poitevin knights, Raoul de Mauléon, evoked edgy laughter by saying loudly, “I can forgive a lot, but not the waste of so much good wine!” The laughter stopped, though, when they saw what lay ahead. A group of Saracens waited for them, swords unsheathed, arrows nocked and bows drawn.
Richard’s men already had their own swords out. After a quick look to make sure they were ready, he gave the command and they charged forward. Most of them shouted “Holy Sepulchre, aid us!” though a few invoked “St George!” or the “Dex aie!” of the English Royal House. But it was André’s battle cry that swiveled Richard’s head in his direction, for he was bellowing “Malik Ric!” at the top of his lungs. As their eyes met, he grinned. “I thought it only fair to warn the Saracens that they’re facing Lionheart,” he explained, and Richard felt a surge of affection for this man who’d fought beside him for so many years, who was able to jest as they were about to engage the enemy.
They could hear the words “Malik Ric” rippling through the Saracen ranks. But they held fast and a furious mêlée ensued, the street seething with thrashing bodies and flashing blades. It was then that what Richard had hoped would happen, did. The castle gate opened and men raced out, attacking from the rear. Caught between the garrison and Richard’s knights, those Saracens who could not flee were slain or surrendered, and it was soon over.
Once they realized they’d retaken the town, Richard’s knights erupted in wild cheering, and Richard himself was mobbed by the grateful garrison. They were all flying high, drunk on the sweet nectar of salvation, having expected to die in defense of the castle or as they staggered out of the surf. Richard shared the euphoria. He did not have the luxury of giving in to it, though, and once some of the jubilation began to ebb, he drew André and the Earl of Leicester aside.
“This is all well and good,” he said, “but it is no victory to celebrate. We’re trapped by Saladin’s army in a town that is in ruins, with not enough men to hold off another assault.”
“That is still better than bleeding to death on the beach,” André pointed out, “which seemed all too likely to me. If I may say so, my lord king, that was not one of your more rousing speeches to the troops. Follow me if you lust after martyrdom?”
Leicester’s eyes widened. Despite his own impressive exploits in the Holy Land, he still felt like a green stripling when measured against the battlefield fame of the older men, and he was too much in awe of Richard to treat him with André’s easy familiarity.
“I’ll try to do better next time,” Richard said dryly. He smiled, yet he was not altogether joking when he added, “Let’s hope that Henri does not loiter along the way, for if he does not arrive with the rest of our army soon, I’ll have no choice but to make that martyrdom speech again.”
AS HIS GALLEY headed south, its sails billowing in the wind, Henri stared at the passing shoreline, but he was not really seeing the rocky sea cliffs or the distant hills. He was so tense that he felt as if even his eyelashes were clenched, and he’d not eaten for hours, not trusting his stomach. Their march had gone well—until they’d reached Caesarea on Saturday. There they’d learned that a large Saracen force blocked the road ahead, commanded by Salah al-Dīn’s new ally, the son of the Assassin chieftain, Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān. After much heated discussion, it was decided that they dared not advance farther, for the loss of their army would be more calamitous to the kingdom than the loss of Jaffa. It was a painful lesson for Henri in the harsh realities of life in Outremer and the need to defer to the opinions of more experienced men, in this case the poulain lords and the Grand Masters of the Hospitallers and Templars. He understood their caution; the disaster at Ḥaṭṭīn had left them all with scars. But he could never have waited at Caesarea, not without losing his mind, and after he discovered a galley in the harbor, he filled it with knights and sailed on Sunday morning for Jaffa.
He was dreading what they would find, and by the time they passed the ruins of Arsuf, he was pacing the deck like a man possessed, for they were less than ten miles now from Jaffa. Did the town still hold out? Had his uncle launched an assault, thinking he had reinforcements on the way? His mental musings were so dark that he felt a rush of gratitude when Morgan joined him, hoping the Welshman’s voice could drown out his own thoughts. But Morgan’s mood was none too sanguine, either, and he said morosely, “Forget the threat of Hell’s infernal flames. The true torture would condemn a man to wait and wait and wait—for an eternity.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that.” The hollow sensation in Henri’s stomach got worse, for the church of St Nicholas had come into view. Jaffa lay just ahead. Closing his eyes, Henri said a silent prayer—for his uncle, for those trapped in the besieged city, for his new homeland.
One of the sailors had gone up into the rigging to keep watch and he suddenly let out a yell, standing precariously upon the mizzenmast. His words were incomprehensible to most of those on the deck below; only his fellow Genoese crewmen could comprehend the Ligurian dialect. But his excitement was so obvious that the knights crowded to the gunwale to join Henri’s vigil. And then they all were laughing and hugging and shouting, for the red and gold banner flying over Jaff
a was Richard’s.
Midst the clamor, Morgan had to shout, too, in order for Henri to hear him. “I confess that I’ve always been somewhat skeptical of miracle claims. But by God, no more!”
Henri’s smile was incandescent, brighter than all the gold in Montpelier. “You do not have to believe in miracles, Morgan. Just believe in my uncle.”
AS SOON AS THEY BEACHED their galley and waded ashore, Henri was surrounded by soldiers, eager to know when they could expect the rest of the army. He gave them a smile and a noncommittal “soon” and then asked for Richard. None seemed to know where he was, so when they said André de Chauvigny was in the town, Henri headed for the shattered Jerusalem Gate, trailed by his knights.
He’d never seen a city that had come so close to dying and he was shaken by the extent of the destruction. Even worse than the sights were the smells; it was like stumbling into a charnel house. He was not surprised that the men loading bodies into carts had their noses and mouths muffled by scarves. He found André by the east wall, climbing over the rubble to inspect the damage done by Saracen sappers and trebuchets. At the sight of Henri, he scrambled down so hastily that he turned his ankle and treated nearby bystanders to a burst of colorful cursing. Grabbing the younger man by the arm, he pulled Henri into the closest structure, a ruined, ransacked shop that had once been an apothecary. Standing in the wreckage of mortars, pestles, and smashed bottles and jars, Henri gave him the bad news, not even trying to soften his words for there was no way to make it palatable. The light was not good, but André seemed to lose color.
“Well, at least Richard will have his speech ready,” he muttered, kicking the broken glass and crockery aside to clear a path to a wooden bench. Sinking down upon it, he saw Henri’s puzzled look and forced a smile. “A private joke, lad.” Unhooking a wineskin from his belt, he drank deeply. “I suppose it is too much to hope that you brought wine with you? God curse them, the Saracens poured out every drop in the town.” He drank again before tossing the wineskin to Henri, and then got reluctantly to his feet. “We’d best get this over with. Let’s go find Richard.”
Henri was not looking forward to that conversation and took a long swallow before handing the wineskin back. “I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw Richard’s banner. How in God’s Name did he do it, André?”
“Damned if I know,” André said with a crooked smile, “and I was there. I used to joke that men would follow him into the depths of Hell. Yesterday they did.”
As they stepped outside, the stench caused Henri to gag. He soon saw why; another cart was lumbering by, loaded with bodies. But as he glanced into the cart, he frowned. “What in the world . . . ?”
“Oh, that.” André brought up his aventail flap to cover his lower face until the cart had passed. “The Saracens killed every single pig in the town, for their holy book says swine are unclean. They dragged most of them into a churchyard and then the whoresons threw the bodies of slain Franks in with them. It was meant to be a mortal insult, so our lads are returning the favor. We’re burying our own, but we’re dumping the pigs outside the walls with the corpses of any Saracens we can find.”
Henri watched the cart rumble down the street toward the Ascalon Gate. His father had liked to quote from Ecclesiastes, that there was a time for every purpose under the sun. A time for war and a time for peace. The Holy Land had seen more than its share of war. When would the time for peace come? “How many died, André?”
“We do not know yet. There is always much bloodshed when a town is taken by storm. Those who were able to get into the castle, survived. Those who could not, died. Saladin did not seek a bloodbath, for he wanted the castle garrison to surrender ere Richard could come to their rescue, and he tried to rein his men in, without much success. But I’ll let Richard tell you about that.”
He was clambering over the rocks toward a gaping hole in the wall and Henri followed. “Where is he?” When André said he was in his command tent, Henri felt a chill of alarm. “Is he ailing?” he exclaimed, for it was very unlike Richard to be in his tent in the middle of the afternoon. He was greatly relieved when André shook his head, for he thought a man could sicken merely from breathing the fetid air that overhung Jaffa. It was, he thought with a shudder, like a plague town.
“He’s well enough,” André said and then glanced over his shoulder with a grin. “He has guests.” And he laughed outright at the baffled expression on Henri’s face, refusing to explain as they made their way toward the camp set up outside the walls.
As they approached Richard’s tent, Henri could hear animated voices coming from within. When they entered, he was confronted by a scene that was surreal, for his uncle was entertaining some of Saladin’s emirs and Mamluks, seated cross-legged on cushions as they laughed and shared platters of figs, dates, pine nuts, and cheese. Richard sprang to his feet with a delighted cry. Welcoming Henri with an affectionate embrace, he took advantage of the hug to murmur a question pitched for his nephew’s ear alone, and flinched at the whispered answer. But when he turned back to his Saracen guests, his smile was steady, utterly unrevealing.
“You know my sister’s son, the Count of Champagne,” he said genially, “now the Lord of Jerusalem.”
Henri had met them all before, for these were men who’d remained on amicable terms with the English king even in the darkest days of the holy war between their two peoples. Abū-Bakr was the chamberlain of Saladin’s brother al-’Ādil; he and Richard had become quite friendly during the off-and-on peace talks. Aybak al-’Azīzī was a Mamluk who’d been escorting the caravan Richard had raided, but he apparently held no grudges. Sani’at al-Dīn was al-’Ādil’s scribe and Badr al-Dīn Dildirim al-Yārūqī was the lord of Tell Bāshir, an influential emir who stood high in the sultan’s favor. They greeted Henri affably and, not for the first time, it struck him that his uncle got on better with his Saracen enemies than he did with his French allies.
“I was just telling them that Islam has no greater prince than their sultan,” Richard explained to Henri, “so I did not understand why he’d departed as soon as I arrived. I said that I’d not even been fully armed, that I was still wearing my sea boots.”
“And how did they respond to that?” Henri asked, for he knew not all appreciated the Angevin sense of humor. For certes, Philippe had not.
“Oh, they laughed,” Richard said, and Henri marveled that they could be trading jests when yesterday they might have been trading sword thrusts. He found it heartening, for surely mutual respect was a good foundation for building a peace, and he very much wanted peace for Outremer, convinced that it was the only way to ensure the survival of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.
The conversation continued in this vein, half joking, half serious, Geoffrey, the Templar turcopole whom Richard used when Humphrey de Toron was unavailable, translating for both sides. Richard expressed concern when told that al-’Ādil had been taken ill and wished Abū-Bakr a speedy recovery when he revealed that his limp was due to an injury he’d suffered during the siege. They in turn complimented Richard upon the prowess he’d displayed in retaking Jaffa and joked that they’d have spared a few kegs of wine for him had they only known he’d be arriving so soon. The mood in the tent was polite and playful and held so many undercurrents that Henri thought a man might drown in them if he made a misstep.
But when his Saracen guests made ready to depart, Richard became serious. Turning to Abū-Bakr, he said, “Greet the sultan for me and tell him we must make peace. My lands over the sea are in peril and I know his people are suffering, too. This war is harming us both and it is up to us to put an end to it.”
Abū-Bakr responded with equal gravity, promising that he would convey Richard’s message to his sultan, his courtesy as polished as any courtier’s, his dark eyes giving away nothing of his inner thoughts, and it occurred to Henri that this was like watching a chess game come to life, one played for the highest of stakes.
As soon as they had gone, Richard exhaled a deep
breath, then seated himself on a coffer. Now that he was no longer playing the role of gracious host, Henri could see how weary he looked. “So,” he said, “tell me what happened to your army.” He listened without interrupting, and after Henri was done, he ducked his head for a moment, his face hidden. When he finally glanced up, it was with a faint smile. “So you left them at Caesarea and hastened to Jaffa to die with us?”
“Well, when you put it that way, it sounds quite mad,” Henri acknowledged wryly. “But I do not know how much longer I can endure the suspense. What happened here, Uncle?”
Over a light meal of bread, cheese, and fruit, Richard told him. “They fought fiercely, like men with nothing left to lose. But after the wall collapsed on Friday, they sought to save themselves and their families. Saladin agreed to let them surrender the next day and set terms for their ransom. Soldiers were to be freed for an imprisoned Saracen soldier of equal rank. For the townspeople, he demanded the same sums that he’d negotiated with Balian d’Ibelin when Jerusalem yielded: ten gold bezants for a man, five for a woman, and three for a child. But by then his men were running wild in the town, and he told them to remain in the citadel for their own safety.”
“Was the death toll very high?”
Richard nodded bleakly. Many of the dead were wounded or ailing knights and men-at-arms who’d remained behind in Jaffa to regain their health. Yet he knew his army would have done the same had their positions been reversed. War was war and soldiers were the same the world over, although killing came easier to some than others.