Around noon, the Saracens tried another stratagem. During a lull in the fighting, Richard got an urgent message from the castle garrison. The enemy had gotten into the town, they reported, and people had panicked and were fleeing to the ships. Leaving Henri and Leicester in command, Richard took André, a few knights, and some crossbowmen, and hurried off to deal with this new crisis. With him gone, his men suddenly felt vulnerable again, but no attacks were launched; as far as they could tell, the Saracen forces seemed to be in disarray.
To no one’s surprise, Richard was soon back, with three captured horses, a fresh supply of bolts for his arbalesters, and bloodstains on his surcote that were not his. The crossbowmen who’d accompanied him were happy to boast about it to their comrades, saying the Turks had fled as soon as they saw him take on and defeat three Mamluks; he’d then hastened to the shore, where he convinced the fugitives to return to the town and dispatched most of the galley crews to help defend Jaffa, leaving only five men to watch over each ship. And on the seventh day, he rested, they chortled, for their brief respite from the claustrophobic confines of their cordon had greatly improved their morale.
The Saracens were taking longer and longer to muster their men for another assault, and when it did come, it lacked the energy or intensity of the first charges. It was becoming apparent to the crusaders that the enemy was growing discouraged, upset by their lack of success against a much smaller force, and fatigued by their exertions under a hot sun. This was what Richard had been waiting for, and he called his mounted knights to him.
“They’ve worn themselves out,” he said. “Look how lathered their horses are. They are being prodded on by their commanders, but they have no more heart for it. It takes a lot out of a man to watch his friends die, and all for naught. So . . . now it is our turn.”
Despite the audacity of what he was proposing—their small band of knights against Saladin’s army—his men did not even blink, for they’d known that sooner or later, their king would take the offensive. And any doubts were easy to drown in the rising tide of enthusiasm; after having to remain passive for nigh on nine hours, they were eager to hit back. Once they were lined up, stirrup to stirrup, lances couched, Richard signaled to his spearmen, who hastily cleared an open space, and under cover of heavy crossbow fire, the knights charged.
They caught their foes by surprise, never expecting that they’d dare to go on the attack. They hit the Saracen lines with such force that they broke through, scattering men like leaves on the wind, and actually penetrating as far as the Turkish rear guard. To those left behind, it was an odd experience, war transformed into a spectator sport. Accustomed to being in the midst of the fighting, they’d been relegated to the status of bystanders and that did not come easily to them. But they were under orders to hold the line, and so they could only watch from a distance and pray that their king had not overreached himself.
Richard was easy to pick out, identified by his crimson surcote, his loyal standard-bearer, and the way so many of his adversaries would sheer off rather than cross swords with him. At one point, he disappeared from view and his soldiers were faced with an impossible choice: rushing to his aid or obeying his command to maintain their formation. His discipline held and they waited anxiously until he eventually fought his way free. By now, they were cheering like men watching a tournament mêlée, and when they saw the Earl of Leicester’s horse stumble and throw him, they began to shout warnings as if they could be heard. Richard noticed Leicester’s plight, though, and rode to his rescue, holding their foes off long enough for the earl to remount. Again and again he recklessly charged into the Turkish lines, yet somehow he always emerged unscathed. When Raoul de Mauléon was surrounded and captured, Richard was the one who saved him. When the Saracens sought to rally around one of their emirs, it was Richard who spurred to meet him. And after Richard struck with such ferocity that his sword decapitated the other man, he soon found himself alone on the field with his knights and the dead.
Once they realized the battle was over and they’d actually won, Richard’s men went wild. Their jubilant celebration stopped abruptly, though, when they saw Richard galloping his stallion toward the enemy. As they watched, first in alarm and then in delighted disbelief, he rode the entire length of the Saracen line and none dared to accept his challenge.
ALL AROUND HENRI, men had slumped to the ground. Soon they would tend to the wounded, put any suffering horses out of their misery, search the bodies of the slain Saracens for valuables, and eat and drink their fill while cursing their enemy anew for smashing all of those wine kegs. But for now, they wanted only to rest their weary bodies and to give thanks to their God and their king, for this was a victory even more miraculous than their successful landing upon Jaffa’s beach four days ago.
Henri was willing to defer the duties of command, too, and just exult in their deliverance. He and Morgan and several other knights were seated on the trampled grass, sharing waterskins and trying to motivate themselves to move. Every now and then someone would mention the battle, marveling at Richard’s bravura performance and their own survival. They laughed loudly when Henri speculated how the French would react once they heard that the English king had saved Jaffa without their help. They did not stir, though, until Richard and André rode up.
Sliding from the saddle, Richard took a step, staggered, and sank to the ground. When Henri offered him a waterskin, he drank as if he could never quench his thirst, then unfastened his helmet and poured the rest of the water over his head. His face was etched with exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot, and his hauberk was bristling with arrows, so many that André joked he looked like a human hedgehog. He grimaced, for he’d not be able to remove his armor until they’d been extracted. “They are going to have to bring my tent to me,” he confessed, “for I could not stir from this spot even if a dagger were put to my throat.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Uncle,” Henri said with a grin, “for some of your feats today had us doubting that you are mere flesh-and-blood like the rest of us.”
“Oh, I am flesh-and-blood, Henri,” Richard said with a tired smile, and then showed them the evidence. Knights sought to protect their hands by wearing mail mittens called “mufflers,” usually attached to their hauberks, with split leather palms so a man could slide his hand out when not fighting. As Richard did that now, they saw that the muffler had been of little use, for he’d wielded his sword so constantly that his hand was swollen, the skin cracked and blistered and bleeding from the force of his blows.
HENRI OCCASIONALLY FELT as if he’d inherited another man’s life, for he had claimed Conrad’s wife, Conrad’s crown, even Conrad’s child. He’d also acquired Conrad’s espionage system and was delighted to discover that his spies were even better informed about Saladin’s court than those who served his uncle. On this Wednesday, a week after their narrow escape, he’d learned some fascinating details about that thwarted attack and was looking forward to sharing them with Richard.
As he walked through their camp, he could not stifle memories of that day; they came upon him unexpectedly, like sudden flashes of lightning in a clear sky. He found himself remembering his fear, a visceral dread of death that he’d not experienced before, despite facing constant danger since his arrival in the Holy Land. It had taken him a while to understand that it was because of Isabella, that she was his hostage to fortune now and he would always fear for her future and that of their children as much as he feared for his own safety. He would never be able to emulate Richard’s last gesture of defiance—gallant, glorious, and quite mad.
After a moment to reflect upon that, he began to laugh, realizing that he’d never have done it before his marriage, either. What man would? Only the Lionheart, whose Angevin empire now encompassed the realm of legend, too. Like all of the soldiers who’d watched Richard’s prowess that afternoon, Henri had been bedazzled. Nothing was more admired, more valued in their world than bravery on the battlefield. War was a king’s vocation, and at that
his uncle excelled. But as he went in search of Richard on this August afternoon, Henri could not help thinking that even if a man did not fear Death, he still ought to accord it some small measure of respect.
Just then he heard his name called and paused for André to catch up with him. “Wait until you hear what I’ve learned, Cousin! We truly were in God’s Keeping last week. Saladin meant to strike whilst we were still sleeping. But his Kurds began to quarrel with some of his Mamluks over who should go in on foot to seize the king and who should remain on horseback to make sure none of us could escape into Jaffa’s castle. By the time they came to an agreement, dawn was nigh and that sharp-eyed Genoese with a full bladder caught sight of them.” His amusement ebbing, Henri said somberly, “Think how it would have turned out had they attacked in the middle of the night.”
André, ever the pragmatist, merely shrugged. “You might as well ask why Richard did not die when he was afflicted with Arnaldia back at Acre. Or what would have happened if Guilhem de Préaux had not learned a bit of Arabic. Just be glad, Henri, that Richard’s luck has so far kept pace with his boldness.”
Henri thought that race was often too close for comfort. “I have more to tell you,” he said. “As we suspected, Saladin himself was in command last week. He was outraged when his men were unable to break through our lines and kept urging them on, promising that they’d be well rewarded for their efforts. But when they were thwarted time after time, they began to balk. Finally, when he demanded that they charge again, only one of his sons was willing to obey. The others refused, and my spy says that the brother of al-Mashtūb even dared to remind Saladin that he’d sent in his Mamluks to try to stop the looting in Jaffa, saying he should send those Mamluks against us.”
André was laughing. “You deny soldiers their booty and they get testy! We were lucky we took that caravan or our lads might have been ripe for mutiny, too.”
“That is what my spy said,” Henri agreed. “Saladin’s men were angry that he’d offered terms for the surrender of Jaffa, feeling cheated of their just due, for they’d not had an opportunity for plunder in many months. He said Saladin was so wroth that some feared he might order the crucifixions of those who’d dared to disobey him. But he realized that he’d lose face if his men continued to be repelled by‘a handful of Franks,’ and so he ordered a retreat.” Pleased by André’s response to his revelation, he said eagerly, “Let’s go tell Richard. With luck, he’ll not have heard it from his own spies yet!”
As they approached Richard’s tent, they stopped to admire two finely boned horses cropping grass nearby. After winning his improbable victory on August 5, Richard had opened peace talks again, and three days later Abū-Bakr had ridden into their camp with a letter from the ailing al-’Ādil and these magnificent Arab stallions. They were a gift from the sultan’s brother, Abū-Bakr explained, in recognition of the English king’s great courage. Richard had been delighted and his knights envious, for Arabs were superior steeds. Henri had taken one out for a gallop and had been very impressed by the horse’s smooth gait and cat-like agility. “I tried to coax my uncle into sharing,” he told André, “pointing out that he has Fauvel, after all, but he just laughed at me.”
“That’s like asking a man to give you his concubine because he has a beautiful wife.” André’s grin faded as he caught sight of Jehan, one of Richard’s squires. The youth was hovering by the entrance of the tent, so obviously worried that André quickened his pace.
As soon as he saw them, Jehan heaved a sigh of relief. “The king is still abed. I know he slept poorly last night, for I heard him tossing and turning for hours. But this is so unlike him, as the sun has been up for hours—”
André parted the tent flap and darted inside, with Henri right behind him. The same disquieting thought was in both their minds; a number of their men had sickened in the past week and they were convinced Jaffa had become as unhealthy as a cesspit because of all the noxious odors. One glance at the man in the bed confirmed that Richard had been stricken, too. His sheet was soaked in sweat, his chest glistening with a sheen of perspiration, and his face was deeply flushed. He struggled to sit up as they approached the bed, and they could see that his eyes were glazed, unnaturally bright. “Jesu,” he mumbled, his voice very husky, “I’ve never felt so wretched. . . .”
“You’re giving off enough heat to set the tent afire.” André looked around for a washing basin, dipped a towel in the water, and put it on Richard’s forehead. “Is it the quartan fever again?”
Richard swallowed with an effort. “Yes. The chills came in the night, then the fever. . . .”
André explained tersely for Henri’s benefit that Richard had been laid low by quartan fevers in the past, the last attack happening during their stopover at Rhodes. “I’m not surprised you’ve taken ill. It is a wonder you’re still amongst the living, given the way you push yourself. This is what we are going to do. We’re sending a galley to Caesarea to fetch Master Besace. In the meantime, I’ll find a Jaffa doctor to tend to you, and yes, you’ll have to stay in bed—even if I have to tie you to it, Cousin.”
He braced himself then for the inevitable argument. When it did not come, when Richard merely nodded, André and Henri exchanged troubled looks. If Richard, a notoriously difficult patient, was suddenly cooperative and reasonable, that meant he was much sicker than they’d realized.
CHAPTER 37
AUGUST 1192
Jaffa, Outremer
As the distant walls of Jaffa came into view, Henri found himself tensing, just as he had three weeks ago, not knowing what he’d find. Then, he’d feared that the city had fallen; now he feared that his uncle had died during his brief trip to Caesarea, for it had soon become obvious that Richard was gravely ill, so ill that he’d dispatched Henri to convince the French to join them at Jaffa. Henri had done his best, employing all of his eloquence and powers of persuasion; he’d thought it was a hopeful sign that they’d ventured as far as Caesarea, and he could see that some of the French knights wanted to answer the summons. But the Bishop of Beauvais was now in command, Hugh of Burgundy having returned to Acre after falling ill, and Beauvais forbade them to join Richard at Jaffa. Few dared to defy him, for he wielded the French king’s name like a club and they all knew he’d pour poison into Philippe’s ear upon their return to France. So Henri was sailing back to Jaffa with just a handful of men, those who had the courage to value their crusading vows more than their king’s favor. While he was not surprised that Guillaume des Barres was one of them, he was surprised that Jaufre of Perche was one, too, and as he glanced at the young count standing beside him at the gunwale, he wondered if Jaufre realized he’d made a dangerous enemy in the bishop.
“How bad is it?” Jaufre asked, his eyes tracking the sleek forms of several dolphins keeping pace with their galley; every now and then there’d be a silvery splash as they leaped clear of the water. “I’m guessing things must be dire indeed if the king was willing to swallow his pride and seek French aid again.”
“We cannot lose Jaffa,” Henri said resolutely. “Some of the poulain lords arrived by galley in the past fortnight, but we are still greatly outmanned. We have less than three hundred knights, and Saladin’s army is growing by the day. He has gotten reinforcements from Mosul and our spies say more are expected from Egypt. We’ve been trying to repair the town walls, but so many are sick. And they’ve all been shaken by the king’s illness. . . .”
“Does Saladin know the king is ailing?”
Jaufre’s naïve question earned him a wry smile from Henri. “He probably knew it ere Richard did. The man has more spies than there are priests in Rome. Richard has been yearning for pears and plums, all he seems able to eat, so Saladin has been sending baskets of fruit and snow from Mount Hermon to ease his fever. If Beauvais and Burgundy knew that, they’d see it as proof that my uncle and the sultan are partners in a vast conspiracy to conquer Christendom for Islam.”
“They do not care about proof,” Jaufre sa
id, with enough bitterness to show Henri that some of the French crusaders were very unhappy with their commanders. By now they were approaching the harbor and Henri felt a vast relief when he saw men waving and smiling at the sight of his blue, white, and gold banner, for there was none of the panic that he’d have seen on their faces if his uncle had died while he was at Caesarea.
SOME OF THE SOLDIERS still camped in tents, convinced that the air of Jaffa was unhealthy. But Richard had been moved into the castle for greater safety; they feared the ailing king might have proven to be an irresistible target for his Saracen foes. As Henri was escorted into his uncle’s chamber, he came to an abrupt halt, for the atmosphere was stifling. Despite the summer’s heat, several coal braziers were smoldering, and one glance at the blanketed figure in the bed was enough to explain it. The cycle had begun again—severe chills, to be followed by a high fever and sweating. Richard was shaking so badly that his teeth were chattering, but he put out a trembling hand to beckon Henri forward.
“No . . . luck?” The voice did not sound like Richard’s at all, slurred and indistinct.
“I’m so sorry, Uncle. I truly tried. But Beauvais ordered them in Philippe’s name to remain in Caesarea. Whilst I doubt Hugh of Burgundy would have been any more reasonable, he’d gone back to Acre after taking sick.” Hoping it might cheer Richard up, Henri embellished the truth, saying that he’d heard Burgundy had been “puking his guts out” and had made the trip to Acre “clutching a chamber pot as if it were the Holy Grail.”