Henri decided that he and Isabella would found a chantry to pray for the souls of those who’d died in the Jaffa siege. “I cannot even imagine their joy when your sails appeared on the horizon,” he said, reaching for a chunk of cheese, his first food of the day.
“I wish it had been that simple. Saladin got word Friday eve that I was on the way and, according to several prisoners, he tried to get his men to take the castle ere I arrived. They balked, though, some exhausted by the fighting and their wounds, others more interested in plundering the town, especially once they discovered that many of the caravan’s goods had been brought there. When Saladin heard that my ships were approaching the next morning, he sent Bahā’ al-Dīn—you remember him from our first meeting with al-’Ādil—to coax the garrison out. By now they’d seen the ships, too. There were only three galleys at first, so forty-seven men and their families agreed to come out. The rest of the garrison decided to resist now that rescue might be nigh. But as the morning wore on and we stayed offshore, they despaired, and the patriarch and castellan went to entreat Saladin to restore the original terms of surrender.”
Anticipating Henri’s question, Richard explained that they’d thought they were too late. “But then a brave priest swam out to my ship. We landed on the beach, cleared it, and I led men up a Templar stairway into the lower town. Once the garrison saw my banner, they sallied forth and we soon had them on the run. With his army in such disarray, Saladin had no choice but to withdraw to Yāzūr, taking the patriarch and castellan with him as prisoners. A pity about Bishop Ralph. But I was told the castellan had tried to flee at the start of the siege, had to be shamed into coming back and doing his duty, so he well deserves to end up in a Damascus dungeon.”
Henri started to ask how Richard had known about the stairs, but then remembered something Morgan had told him—that when they took Messina, Richard had led them to a hidden postern gate he’d discovered during an earlier reconnaissance of the city. Much of his uncle’s success as a battle commander was due to his meticulous preparations, his eye for the smallest detail. But that still did not explain how a small force of knights had been able to prevail against such overwhelming odds. “You make it sound like just another day’s work, Uncle. I wonder if Caesar or Roland or Alexander the Great were equally casual about their conquests.”
Richard laughed, always pleased to have his military skills lauded. “I will gladly take full credit for our victory at Jaffa, especially if there are any French within earshot. But we benefited greatly from the low morale of Saladin’s army. His men have been campaigning for years, are tired, homesick, and frustrated, for they’ve had few opportunities for booty since my arrival at Acre, and even soldiers fighting a holy war still expect to profit from it.”
Leaning over, Richard helped himself to a handful of pine nuts. “The men we faced had no interest in fighting, Henri, were so busy ransacking the town that they did not even realize we’d gotten ashore. We were lucky in so many ways yesterday, but I do not know how long it will hold. Jaffa’s defenses could now be overrun by a band of determined monks!”
“Not if Malik Ric stands astride the battlements,” André joked. Getting a skeptical look from Richard, he insisted, “No false modesty, Cousin. You’ve earned such a reputation for lunatic courage and battlefield mayhem that no sensible man wants to take you on. Even I would not!”
“I’d rather not wager our survival on that, André. The truth is that we’re in a deep hole and we can only pray Saladin’s own woes will keep him busy as we try to dig ourselves out.” Richard shifted uncomfortably; like all of his men, he was stiff and sore, his body bruised and battered from yesterday’s struggles. Catching the troubled expression on his nephew’s face, he acted quickly to reassure him. “I’m nothing if not stubborn, Henri. I’ll find a way to make this right—for you, for me, for my men. I have no intention of failing or of dying in the Holy Land. I’d never give those French malcontents that satisfaction!”
ABŪ-BAKR BROUGHT Richard’s message back to Salah al-Dīn and the bargaining began. The sultan argued that since Jaffa was now laid waste, Richard should have the lands only from Caesarea to Tyre. Richard countered with an imaginative proposal, explaining that the Frankish custom was for a lord to give land to a vassal, who then agreed to serve him in time of need; if he held Ascalon and Jaffa from the sultan, he would promise to return if requested and offer his military services, “of which you know the value.” Salah al-Dīn then offered to share the two towns, Jaffa for Richard and Ascalon for himself. Richard thanked him for agreeing to cede Jaffa, but insisted he must hold Ascalon, too, for he’d spent a king’s ransom to rebuild it. Moreover, if the sultan would agree to this, he promised that peace could be made in just six days and he would leave then for his own lands. But if not, he would have to remain through the winter and the war would go on. Salah al-Dīn responded that he could not agree to yield Ascalon. And if Richard was willing to be far from his family and homeland when he was a young man in the flower of his youth, at a time when he sought his pleasures, “how much easier is it for me to spend a winter, a summer, then another winter in the midst of my own lands, surrounded by my sons and my family.” He was an old man, he said, and he’d had his fill of worldly pleasures. He could outwait the English king, for he was serving God and what could be more important than that?
With Ascalon still blocking the road to peace, the talks sputtered to a halt. By now the sultan had learned that the Frank reinforcements were at Caesarea, with no plans to advance farther. When he was told that Richard was camped outside Jaffa with a small force of knights, he realized that he was being presented with a rare opportunity. If the English king were to be captured or killed, their war would be won.
CHAPTER 36
AUGUST 1192
Jaffa, Outremer
Henri was normally a light sleeper. But for the past two days, they’d been trying to repair the town walls. Every physically fit man from Richard on down had taken part in the labor, and Henri had gone to his bed Tuesday night feeling as if every muscle in his weary body ached. So when the shouting began, he at first merged it into his dream and did not come fully awake until one of his knights rushed into his tent, crying out that they were under attack.
Henri had never armed himself so quickly, not bothering with his mail chausses in his rush to put on his gambeson, hauberk, and helmet. Hastening outside, he came upon a chaotic scene. Men were dashing about, some halfdressed, a few not even wearing their braies, clad only in their padded aketons, all clutching their weapons and looking about frantically for the enemy. Catching sight of Morgan and Raoul de Mauléon, Henri ran toward them. As they fumbled to fasten their aventails and buckle their scabbards, they told him what little they knew. Morgan had heard that a Genoese crossbowman had ventured from camp to take a piss and saw the dawning sun reflecting off the helmets and shields of an approaching army. Raoul reported rumors that the Saracens had split into two bands, one intent upon capturing the king, the other meaning to retake Jaffa and deny them that refuge. They were joined now by the Préaux brothers, who said Saladin himself was leading his troops, so many thousands that they were surely doomed. Henri did not know whom to believe and he began to search for his uncle.
He finally found Richard surrounded by crossbowmen and men-at-arms. Like Henri, he was bare-legged, but that was the only evidence that he’d been torn rudely from sleep. He seemed to be an island of calm in the midst of a storming sea, and his composure alone drew men to him, straining to hear what he was saying.
“This is what I want each one of you to do. Brace yourself with your right knee on the ground, your left leg bent. Hold your shield in your left hand, your spear in your right hand. Drive the butt of the shaft into the ground so it is anchored at an angle with the spearhead aimed at the height of a horse’s chest.” Richard directed his attention then to his arbalesters, addressing himself to the Genoese and Pisan sergeants who could translate for their men. “I want a crossbowman standing beh
ind each two spearmen so he can be sheltered by their shields, and another of your men right behind him, both of them with their bows spanned. As soon as the first man shoots, he’ll switch bows so he can keep shooting.”
Richard would not normally have spelled out his orders in such detail, but he knew men’s wits could be clouded by fear, and their only hope of survival depended upon them understanding exactly what was expected of them. That seemed to be the case; they were exchanging glances and nodding, some even smiling as they grasped what he had in mind. He was turning to summon his knights when a quavering voice from the ranks of the spearmen cried out, “Will . . . will this truly work, my lord?”
Glancing back impatiently, Richard saw that the speaker was very young, so pale that his freckles stood out like scars, round blue eyes filled with entreaty and barely controlled panic. “Of course it will work, lad,” he said heartily, as if surprised the question could even be raised. “Horses have eyes and brains, do they not? You think they’ll want to impale themselves on your spear? If you were a horse, would you?” Clapping the youngster on the back with a wink and a grin, he was relieved when the boy mustered up a weak smile of his own, for nothing was as contagious as fear.
As he swung away from the arbalesters and spearmen, he was thankful to see André, Leicester, and Henri standing a few feet away, for there was no time to search for them; every passing moment brought Saladin’s army closer to their camp. “You heard, then? I want the knights to array themselves like the spearmen and those who are mounted to anchor our line near St Nicholas Church—” They were staring at him so oddly that he paused. “What?”
“A barricade of bodies, bristling with spears. That is bloody brilliant.” André was looking at Richard as if seeing a stranger. “How did you ever come up with it?”
“I did not. It is a Saracen defense tactic.” Richard smiled grimly. “I am not too proud to learn from an enemy.” Beckoning them to step in, he lowered his voice. “We have fifty-four knights, but only eleven horses. The ones taken from Saracens are battle-worthy, but the others are palfreys, cart horses, and nags. Still, better than nothing. I want them to go to the best riders. You three, of course, then Hugh de Neville, Guillaume d’Etang, Raoul de Mauléon, Gerard de Furnival, Roger de Sathy . . . ”
He reeled off the names without hesitation and Henri marveled at his powers of concentration; his own thoughts were darting hither and yon like swallows at dusk. Richard was mounted now, gesturing and shouting as he sought to rally his troops, and Henri hastened to mount his own horse, adding his voice to his uncle’s even as his eyes kept straying toward the horizon. The dawn sky was scattered with clouds; they’d absorbed the vibrant hues of sunrise, several as red as Richard’s galley, Sea-Cleaver, a few reflecting the deep lilac that was Isabella’s favorite color, and he could not help wondering if he’d be alive to see the sunset.
THEIR SHIELDS AND SPEARS firmly rooted in the dry Outremer dirt, their backs protected by the sand cliffs leading down to the sea, the men turned toward their king, astride a restive black stallion. With all eyes upon him, Richard tore his own gaze from the dust clouds being kicked up to the east; time was running out. Raising his hand for quiet, he began to speak. “I know you are fearful. But we are not defeated. If we hold fast, we can prevail over our foes. Yet to do that, every man must do his part. If even one of you gives in to your fear and tries to flee, you doom us all. Rather than let that happen, I will personally kill anyone who seeks to run.”
He paused to let his warning sink in. “We are all going to die, but in God’s Time, not Saladin’s. For most people, their deaths have no meaning. If we die this day, we die for the Lord Christ and the Holy Sepulchre. Can there be a greater glory than that?” Again he paused, his gaze moving intently from man to man. “When we took the cross, we pledged our lives. In return, we were promised remission of our earthly transgressions. It does not matter how dark your sins are—and I’d wager some of them are very dark indeed.” As he’d hoped, that bit of gallows humor elicited some tight smiles. “So our salvation is assured. But our defeat is not. If we hold firm, they will not be able to penetrate our defenses. You are brave men and I am proud to fight alongside you. I know you can do this. You need only have faith—in God, in your own courage, and in me.”
In the past, when he’d sought to embolden his men before combat, they’d often responded with raucous cheers, their blood already surging with the apprehensive excitement of battle-seasoned soldiers. This exhortation was met with a subdued silence, but he was encouraged by what he saw on their faces—they looked resolute. Still fearful, yet eager to clutch at hope, and desperate. That was good, for he knew desperate men would fight like fiends. “Holy Sepulchre, aid us!” he shouted and they began to shout it, too, the war cry of the third crusade echoing on the humid August air like a defiant, despairing prayer.
RICHARD HAD WARNED the men to take their waterskins, saying they’d have need of them as the day wore on. Morgan unhooked his and took a sip, just enough to wet his dry mouth. They could see the enemy in the distance, their approach heralded by so much dust that it seemed as if a vast army was swooping down upon them. An unnatural silence had settled over their ranks, each man alone with his own thoughts. All around Morgan, knights were getting into position, securing their shields and lances. He was sure that they felt as he did, wishing they were on horseback. He glanced toward the mounted knights, his gaze lingering upon Henri as he silently repeated the latter’s words. You do not have to believe in miracles, Morgan. Just believe in my uncle. God knows, he wanted to. But Henri had told him they only had fifty-four knights, four hundred crossbowmen, and two thousand men-at-arms. By any calculation, they were greatly outnumbered. How could they hope to hold out against such odds?
As he looked around, he wondered how many of these men were doomed. He very much doubted that Richard would be taken alive; the only way to overcome him would be to kill him. But Henri was likely to be captured, for he was too valuable a hostage to be slain. On impulse, Morgan called out “My lord count!” and moved toward the other man. “I’ve a favor to ask,” he said as Henri turned in the saddle. “If I die today, will you tell the Lady Mariam that my last thoughts were of her?” He’d had enough combat experience to know that would not be true; a man would be thinking only of how to save himself. And Mariam was shrewd enough to know that. But the message might still be of some comfort to her. “You know how women are,” he said with a self-conscious smile. “They are sentimental creatures and set a store by such things.”
“They do, indeed.” Henri nodded in agreement, striving to match Morgan’s light tone. “I will convey the message should it come to that. And I’d have you convey the same message to my wife should the need arise.” They chuckled, affectionately indulgent of the foibles of their ladies, but neither man met the other’s eyes, shuttering the windows to the soul. And then Morgan hastened back to his fellow knights.
The waiting was over. They could see the golden banners of Saladin, could hear the ominous drumbeats that reminded them of their wretched march to Arsuf nigh on a year ago. The Saracens halted as they realized they’d lost the element of surprise, but they wasted no time in getting into battle formation. The crusaders blinked back the sweat trickling down into their eyes, took whiteknuckled grips upon their weapons, and sought reassurance in their king’s undaunted demeanor. “Hold fast!” he urged, sounding coolly confident. “We can do this!”
The Saracen drums had picked up their tempo, and then, with wild yells and the blare of trumpets, they charged. Morgan was accustomed to fighting on horseback; he discovered now that the ground beneath his feet actually vibrated with the thudding of thousands of hooves. The enemy bowmen were shooting arrows, displaying their remarkable proficiency at a skill the Franks had never mastered. But most of the arrows bounced off their shields. Richard waited until his arbalesters were squirming with impatience, their fingers twitching toward the triggers. When he gave the command, the air hummed as the bolts
were loosed. Horses shrieked and stumbled; men were slammed back against their saddle cantles, crying out in pain. Still they came on and the crusaders braced for the impact, continuing to kneel behind their shields as horses and riders thundered down upon them, even though their every instinct was to run.
But at the very last moment, the Saracens veered off. Not a single man tried to breach that barbed wall. They swerved aside, racing their horses down the line of spears and shields, seeking in vain for a weak link in the defensive chain, and then they were in retreat, with the crossbowmen’s bolts continuing to find targets until they were out of range.
There was a stunned silence, broken by a burst of triumphant laughter. “Did I not tell you how it would be?” Richard exclaimed. “We need only hold fast, lads, and victory will be ours!”
Men began to breathe again, to measure their lives in more than minutes. They thanked God and laughed and looked at Richard with awestruck eyes. He let them savor the moment and then reminded them that it was not over yet. “We must not let down our guard. They’ll be back.”
RICHARD WAS RIGHT; a second charge soon followed. It was no more successful than the first, the men and horses either unable or unwilling to brave that menacing barricade. A third try to dislodge the crusaders failed, too, and even at a distance they could see the mounting frustration and fury of the Saracen commanders. The marksmanship of their arbalesters was taking a high toll; the field was strewn with the bodies of wounded or dying men and stricken horses. Their crossbowmen had none of the knights’ affection for horses and gleefully targeted them, for a dead one meant an injured or stranded rider.
Their own losses so far had been very light, men hit by the enemy’s showershooting tactics, which rained arrows down upon them but did not do serious damage because of their shields and armor. The temperature had soared as the sun climbed in the sky and their hair became matted and sodden underneath their helmets, their bodies drenched in sweat, their voices hoarse from breathing in so much dust. Steaming piles of manure from the knights’ mounts fouled the air, mingling with the smell of urine, for men had to relieve themselves where they were. They were all thirsty, rationing their water at Richard’s insistence, constantly slapping away buzzing insects and shifting to ease their cramped muscles. But none complained, for they were still alive.