Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 25

AUGUST 1191

Acre, Outremer





Richard had set up camp outside the city walls and for two R days he’d labored to round up reluctant crusaders, men loath to leave the sinful comforts of Acre. Now on this fourth Thursday in August, the army was finally moving out and the women had gathered on the flat roof of the royal citadel so they could watch. It was a stirring sight—the sun slanting off mail hauberks and shields, pennons and Richard’s great dragon banner billowing with each gust of the southerly Arsuf winds, dust already rising in clouds as the dry summer soil was dislodged by thousands of marching feet and plodding hooves. All the roofs near the palace were crowded with spectators, too, and people cheered and waved as the columns of cavalry, infantrymen, and supply carts slowly disappeared into the distance.

Some of the rooftop onlookers were soldiers, and Sophia scowled, heaping a few Greek curses upon the heads of these men who’d chosen whores and wine over their vows to liberate the Holy City. Did they suffer no conscience pangs, knowing what their friends and comrades would be facing? Almost eighty miles lay between Acre and Richard’s objective—the port city of Jaffa—eighty miles, eight rivers, and the army of the Sultan of Egypt, Salah al-Dīn. A few feet away, Bertrand de Verdun, the new governor of Acre, was doing his best to assuage Berengaria and Anna’s fears, and Sophia edged closer to hear.

Berengaria was shading her eyes against the sun, straining to keep the rear guard in view, for Richard was among their ranks. “I am not as ignorant of war as I once was,” she said, objecting with quiet dignity to Bertrand’s attempts to downplay the dangers. “I’ve heard my lord husband’s men talking, Sir Bertrand, so I know an army is at its most vulnerable when it is on the march in enemy territory.”

“That is true, Madame. But King Richard has gone to great lengths to minimize the risks for his men. They will be marching along the coast, so their right flank will be protected by the sea. That is where they will place the baggage carts and wagons. The knights will ride next to them, their left flank shielded by the men-at-arms, who will keep the Saracens at a distance with their crossbow fire. And the king has designated several rendezvous points, where the fleet will be awaiting them to replenish supplies. This is truly a blessing, for it means each man must carry only enough food and firewood for ten days. Moreover, smaller ships will be keeping pace with the army offshore, ready to evacuate the wounded or send messages back to the fleet. Not only is this the largest army ever mustered in the Holy Land, it is the best equipped for victory, led by the greatest battle commander in Christendom.”

Richard’s queen and Anna murmured their assent to that, but Sophia noticed that Joanna was standing apart from the other women, her expression guarded, and she sidled over. “Bertrand’s reassurances seem to be ringing hollow for you,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Is he lying to us?”

“No,” Joanna said softly, “Richard has indeed done all he could to minimize the risks for ‘his men.’ But when it comes to his own safety, he can be quite mad at times. You did not hear about the raid on their camp yesterday?” When Sophia shook her head, Joanna drew her aside, out of hearing range of the other women. “Saracen horsemen raced into the camp, shooting and yelling and creating havoc. Richard says they are amazing bowmen, able to fire from a gallop. Some of the knights took off in pursuit, and naturally Richard was in the forefront. It turned out to be a trap, meant to lure them away from the safety of the camp. One of Richard’s marshals and a Hungarian nobleman, Count Nicholas of Szatmar, were both captured and borne away. Richard chased after them in a vain rescue attempt. He was very upset afterward that he’d not been able to free them and did not want Berengaria to know, so say nothing to her, Sophia.”

Sophia was horrified that Richard had come so close to disaster. “What if he’d been captured instead of Count Nicholas?”

Joanna smiled, though without much humor. “To hear his friends tell it, Richard is all but invincible in close combat, so they sought easier prey. But even Richard’s vaunted prowess cannot protect him from a crossbow bolt or a javelin. He well knows that if evil befalls him, the war would be lost. Yet he will continue to gamble his life with reckless abandon . . . until the day his luck runs out.”

Sophia glanced over at her stepdaughter, flirting now with several of Joanna’s household knights, and felt a protective pang. If the English king was slain or captured, what would happen to the women he’d left behind in Acre?



IN THREE DAYS, the army traveled only four miles, camping near the River Acre as they waited for more men to straggle out of the city and join them. Finally on Sunday, the twenty-fifth, they began their march along the sea, hoping to cover the eleven miles to Haifa. Richard led the vanguard, and the rear guard was entrusted to the Duke of Burgundy and the French. They were shadowed by the sultan’s advance guard, for he had instructed his brother al-Malik al-’Ᾱdil to watch for a gap in their ranks. At first they maintained the tight formation ordered by Richard, but as the day wore on, the road narrowed and the rear guard began to lag behind. Late in the afternoon, the sky turned overcast, the first time they’d seen a cloud in three months. They plodded on, casting glances at those ghostly riders occasionally visible in the sand dunes to their left. When fog began to drift in from the sea, it created confusion in the rear guard and they slowed down, losing even more ground. It was then that al-’Ᾱdil struck.



THIS EERIE HAZE was making the men uneasy, for such sudden mists were much more common in early morning. Richard refused to let them slow their pace, though, keeping a sharp eye out for laggards. When André joked that he was like a shepherd with a flock of errant sheep, he summoned up a smile, but he thought there was too much truth in that jest for humor. As accustomed as he was to command, never had he faced such a daunting challenge, for it would not be easy to keep an army like this under control, men of different nationalities and alien tongues, with nothing in common but their Christian faith. He would have to find a way to hold their rivalries in check, to stifle their natural instincts to hit back when they were attacked, for if he did not, they’d not reach Jaffa, much less Ascalon or the holy grail of Jerusalem.

He dropped back to ride beside the Grand Master of the Hospitallers, meaning to share the latest scouting report. But he never got the chance. It was then that the shouting began. Catching the words “the king,” he wheeled Fauvel and rode to intercept the rider galloping past the infantrymen on their left flank. The man was close enough now for recognition—an English knight named John Fitz Luke. “Sire, the rear is under attack! They fell behind and the Saracens swept down and cut them off!” He started to tell the king more, but Richard was already gone, his household knights strung out behind him, outrun by the Cypriot stallion.

Fauvel seemed to sense his rider’s urgency and pricked his ears as he lengthened stride. Several miles separated the vanguard from the beleaguered rear guard, and Richard and his knights plunged in and out of the swirling sea mist as they rode, loosening swords in scabbards and making sure their aventails were tightly drawn across their throats, for some had unfastened the mail flaps as they marched. Emerging from one last patch of fog, they came upon a scene of utter pandemonium. Several carts had been overturned and looted, others bogged down in the sand, for the Saracens had ridden down the men-at-arms and scattered the knights in their push toward the vulnerable baggage train. It had been a well-coordinated attack, and had come perilously close to surrounding the rear guard and cutting off escape. Some of the French knights had managed to rally in time to prevent their encirclement, and there was fierce fighting on the beach, some of the horses actually knee-deep in water by now.

Richard was not sure his command could be heard above the din of battle, but his household mesnie was composed of knights who’d been with him for years, men who would know what to do without need of words. Just as some of the Saracen soldiers turned and saw them materializing from the mist, they couched their lances and charged. As Richard closed in on a horseman with his bow slung over his shoulder, the startled Saracen tried to raise his shield. But by then Fauvel was upon him, and the lance, with the full weight of Richard’s body behind it, drove through the man’s lamellar armor with such force that the weapon lodged between his ribs. He reeled back in the saddle and then began to vomit blood. As he slid to the ground, still impaled on the lance, Richard unsheathed his sword.

The combat that followed was bloody but brief, for the Saracens were soon in retreat. To Richard, it was not so much a victory as a reprieve, and as he looked around at the crumpled bodies, the plundered wagons, and broken lances, he was infuriated when some of the French knights raised a cheer. “Keep vigilant,” he instructed his own knights, “for they may well hit us again if they see us letting down our guard.” Spotting a familiar face, he rode over to the Count of St Pol, who had dismounted and was examining his stallion’s foreleg.

“I feared he might be lamed,” he said as Richard drew rein, “but it seems he just took a misstep—”

“What in Christ’s Name happened here, St Pol?”

Bridling at the English king’s tone, the count straightened up. “Ask Burgundy. He has the command, not me!”

Another French lord was more forthcoming. Drogo d’Amiens overheard this testy exchange and came over to tell Richard that the Saracens had attacked once they saw the rear guard had fallen behind the rest of the army. “It looked like it would turn into an utter rout,” he said soberly. “But thank God for Guillaume des Barres, for he managed to rally his knights and they staved off disaster until your arrival, my liege. It was too close for comfort, though.”

Richard was in complete accord with that; had things gone differently, their entire rear guard could have been destroyed on the first day of the march. When he rejoined some of his friends and knights, he was still seething. “One of the Templars told me that the Saracen strategy for victory can be summed up in three words: harass, encircle, annihilate. They might want to add a fourth maxim: Fight the French. Where is Burgundy?” He began to snap out orders then, and his men hastened to obey. But André, Baldwin, and Morgan shared grins, thinking that Hugh of Burgundy’s encounter with the Saracens was going to seem downright benign after his confrontation with the English king.



GUILLAUME DES BARRES was so exhausted that it took an effort just to stay upright. He was returning from the surgeon’s tent, for toward the end of the fighting, he’d taken a blow to his forearm by a Saracen mace. It throbbed with the slightest movement, but he was greatly relieved that he’d broken no bones. Seeing that his squires were still setting up his tent, he sank down next to one of the supply wagons and braced his aching body against its wheel. He knew he should seek out the duke to learn how many casualties they’d suffered, but he could not muster up the energy to move. From time to time, other men came over and lauded him for his prowess that day. Ordinarily, such acclaim would have been very pleasing; now he was too tired to appreciate it. Despite his uncomfortable position, he was falling asleep when Mathieu de Montmorency squatted beside him.

“You’re the talk of the camp,” he exclaimed, looking at the older man with bright, admiring eyes. “Men are saying that you saved the day for us, that there’ll likely be songs written about your deeds.”

“I doubt that Richard will be writing any of them,” Guillaume said dryly, smothering a yawn. “Anyway, it was his arrival that tipped the scales in our favor.”

“Yes, but it was your action that enabled us to hold on until he got here. Mind you, he did make quite an entrance,” Mathieu said, grinning. “He struck the Saracen line like a thunderbolt! Then he . . .” He stopped then, realizing it might not be tactful to be praising the man who’d treated Guillaume so unfairly at Messina.

“I do not mind, lad,” Guillaume assured him, for Mathieu’s was an easy face to read. “He is indeed a superb fighter—as he’d be the first to tell you.”

Mathieu grinned again. “He is over in the duke’s tent now, berating Hugh for letting the rear guard lag behind like that. Hugh looked like he’d swallowed a whole lemon!”

“Good,” Guillaume muttered, for he’d warned the duke repeatedly that they were courting disaster. Mathieu was still chattering on about the battle, relating a story he’d heard about a sergeant of the Bishop of Salisbury: Supposedly, he’d had his hand cut off by a Turkish blade, but had coolly snatched up his sword in his left hand and continued fighting. Guillaume had often seen limbs severed on the battlefield, had severed a few of them himself, and he very much doubted that a man so maimed would be able to carry on with such sangfroid. He saw no reason to inject reality into Mathieu’s account, though. Looking at the teenager through drooping eyelids, he found himself thinking it was miraculous that the lad still retained so much boyish enthusiasm after four months in the killing fields of the Holy Land.

He must have dozed then, for the next thing he knew, Mathieu was jabbing him in the ribs, saying that the English king was leaving. It was that muted twilight hour between day and night and Guillaume was glad the light was fading, glad he’d not chosen to sit by one of the campfires. During their stay in Acre, he’d done his best to keep out of Richard’s way, and on the few occasions when their paths had crossed, the other man had stared right through him as if he did not exist. The last thing he wanted tonight was to be called to Richard’s attention. But Richard had stopped to speak to one of the crossbowmen and, to Guillaume’s dismay, the man nodded and then pointed toward the wagon. Seeing that the English king was heading now in his direction, he struggled to his feet, his heart thudding faster than it had at any time during the battle. He’d taken the cross and that mattered far more than any petty grudge. There was no way he’d disavow such a sacred oath. But what would he do if this accursed, arrogant king banished him from the march?

Mathieu had scrambled to his feet, too, and watched in alarm as the English king bore down upon them. Coming to a halt a sword’s length away, Richard regarded the other man, his face inscrutable. Just when the suspense had become intolerable, he said, “You fought very well today.”

Guillaume had not realized he’d been holding his breath. “So did you,” he said laconically, and thought he saw the corner of Richard’s mouth twitch.

“It is passing strange, but the climate of Outremer seems to be affecting my memory. For the life of me, I cannot recall anything that happened between us in bygone days.”

“It is indeed odd,” Guillaume agreed gravely, “for I am suffering from the same malady.”

“Well, then, we’ll just have to start anew from this day. Come on back to my tent and we’ll eat and refight the battle,” Richard said, and this time Guillaume was sure he caught the hint of a smile. He accepted the invitation as casually as it was offered, revealing his relief only in the smile he sent winging Mathieu’s way. The youth was beaming, thrilled to see his two heroes reconciling their differences. And when Richard then glanced over his shoulder and said, “You, too, Mathieu,” he looked positively beatific as he hurried to catch up with them.

By now they’d drawn a crowd, for Guillaume was well liked by his fellow Frenchmen, and they were smiling, too, gladdened that the English king had acted to make peace with the man he’d wronged. The only two men not caught up in this surge of goodwill were the two standing in the entrance of the duke’s command tent. The Bishop of Beauvais shook his head and then spat into the dirt at his feet. “Whatever that whoreson said to des Barres, you can be sure it was no apology. He’d sooner have his tongue cut out with a spoon than admit regret or remorse or, God forbid, a mistake.”

“Apologies are for lesser men,” Hugh said bitterly. “Not for the likes of Lionheart.”



THE ARMY REMAINED at Haifa the next day, where they left piles of belongings behind on the beach, the soldiers jettisoning those possessions that weren’t essential. When they resumed the march on Tuesday, the twenty-seventh, they maintained the tight formation that Richard demanded. He would not trust the French again with the rear guard, and from then on, the Templars and Hospitallers rotated that command. He sought, too, to keep morale up by alternating duties for the infantrymen. On one day they guarded the exposed left flank, theirs the daunting and dangerous task of protecting the knights’ vulnerable horses from Saracen arrows; on the next, they were allowed to travel with the baggage carts, protected by the sea. The men were finding that the scorching summer heat was as much their enemy as Salah al-Dīn. Richard did what he could to mitigate their misery. They marched only in the mornings, set up camp at noon, and rested every other day, but toiling under that burning sun was taking its toll. Men became ill, and some died from sunstroke. The sick were transported to the small ships, the dead buried where they fell.

It was slow going, for they were following an old Roman road, badly overgrown by scrub, thorns, and myrtle, and the infantry sometimes found themselves wading through chest-high brush. For the four days following the attack on the rear guard, they were spared any skirmishing with the Saracens, for Salah al-Dīn had been forced to lead his army inland as the crusaders made their way around Mount Carmel. But when they reached the deserted town called Merle by the Franks and al-Mallāha by the Saracens, they came under attack again, and Richard was nearly captured when he led a charge to drive the invaders off.

The last day of August found them making a short march from Merle to another town razed by Salah al-Dīn, Caesarea. This was the worst day so far, for the temperatures soared, and the sun claimed as many victims as the Saracens. When they were finally able to pitch their tents on the bank of the River of Crocodiles, they were exhausted, both physically and mentally. But their spirits were bolstered by the arrival of the fleet, which had been delayed by contrary winds, for it brought provisions and fresh troops, men coaxed or coerced from the taverns and brothels of Acre.

The next morning they covered only three miles, camping by a stream so choked with reeds that they called it the Dead River, but they’d had to fight off Saracen attacks for much of the march. They rested there the next day, treating the wounded and sunsick, and wondering how many of them would live to see the Holy City of Jerusalem. Most of them were battle-seasoned soldiers, but they were uneasily aware that they were aliens in an unforgiving land, one that they’d never call home.

They hated the enemy, who’d not fight fairly, swooping in to strike like hawks and then flying out of reach. They loathed the day’s heat and dust and bleachedbone skies, and they feared the poisonous snakes, scorpions, and tarantulas that crept out at dark. They tried to chase the latter away with noise, banging on shields and pots and pans, but the racket only kept sleep at bay. Lying wakeful and restive, they found themselves listening for the priest to cry out his nightly blessing, “Sanctum Sepulcrum Adjuva!” The comforting chant reverberated throughout the camp, coming from thousands of throats in unison, surely loud enough to reach the Gates of Heaven itself: “Holy Sepulchre, help us!” It would be repeated three times, reminding them that they were in this hellish place to do God’s Bidding and if they died on crusade, they’d be shriven of their mortal sins and promised entry into Paradise. As the last echoes of the prayer faded away, they stretched out and tried to sleep, tried not to think about what the morrow could bring.



SALAH AL-DīN HAD HOPED to goad the Franks into breaking ranks, for then they were at their most vulnerable. But so far he’d been thwarted by their discipline, and by now they were only thirty-four miles from Jaffa. The daily skirmishing continued, with casualties on both sides. Whenever a crusader was captured, he was brought before Salah al-Dīn, interrogated, and then executed; in the past, the sultan had usually shown mercy toward prisoners, but the massacre of the Acre garrison cried out for blood. Entrusting command to his brother, he personally rode out to search for suitable battle sites, for he was determined to force a fight before they could reach the safety of Jaffa.



TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, exposed the crusaders to their greatest danger since departing Acre, for they discovered that the old Roman coastal road had become impassible, an overgrown track that would never support an army of fifteen thousand men, six thousand horses, and heavy baggage carts. For the first time, they were compelled to leave the sea, following the Dead River until they reached an inland road that ran parallel to the coast. They soon found themselves under heavy attack by three divisions of the sultan’s army, led by Salah al-Dīn himself.



THE SUN WAS NOT YET high in the sky, but Richard was already fatigued, for he’d been pushing himself without surcease, trying to be everywhere at once. He and his knights galloped up and down their lines, making sure that the army continued on the move, in such a tight formation that it was impossible to throw a stone into their ranks without hitting a man or horse. His crossbowmen did their best to keep the deadly Saracen horse archers at a distance, and when they swooped in for hit-and-run attacks, Richard and his household mesnie raced to the rescue, scattering their foes—until the next time.

Riding back to his standard, Richard swung from the saddle and told his squires to fetch Fauvel, for his Spanish stallion was lathered with sweat. When his cousin Morgan appeared at his side, holding out a flask, he took it gratefully and drank as if it were ambrosia, not warm, stale water. He wished he could pour it over his head, but he dared not remove his helmet with Saracen bowmen within range. He’d entrusted the rear guard to the Hospitallers this day, and he told Morgan now that they’d already lost a score of horses. “It is a strange sight to see knights walking with the men-at-arms, carrying their lances. I’ve seen men weep over a slain stallion whilst remaining dry-eyed over the deaths of their fellow knights.”

“The Count of St Pol has lost a goodly number of horses, too, and has been complaining loudly about it,” Morgan said, coughing as he inhaled dust kicked up by so many tramping feet. Unlike their armor-clad riders, the horses had no protection from Turkish arrows. By placing the knights behind a bristling wall of crossbow- and spearmen, they’d hoped to shelter the animals, for they were naturally the first target of every Saracen assault. “This is no fit land for either man or beast,” Morgan muttered, suddenly homesick for the green valleys and cooling mists of Wales. But when Richard mounted Fauvel and made ready to resume his patrolling, Morgan still asked to go with him.

They were only about two miles from the Salt River, where they planned to make camp. The vanguard had already begun to pitch its tents when the Saracens launched one last attack upon the rear guard, a desperate attempt to provoke the Hospitallers into a reckless charge. But when Richard and his knights reached the rear, they found the men marching on in close order, even though many of them had so many arrows caught in their armor that they resembled hedgehogs. Richard paused only long enough to shout a “Well done!” to Garnier de Nablus, and then he and his knights set about chasing off their attackers.

When they charged, the Saracens fled, as they’d done before. Only this time they surged back as soon as the knights wheeled their mounts to return to the march. Morgan’s lance struck a Saracen shield a glancing blow, but then another Turk was suddenly there, wielding a flanged mace. There was no time to react, not even time for fear. The weapon never completed its downward swing, though. Instead the man’s face contorted and he cried out in a foreign tongue, the mace slipping from his fingers. It was only when he toppled from the saddle that Morgan saw the lance that had buried itself between his shoulder blades. “Diolch yn fawr,” he whispered, thanking both the Almighty and André de Chauvigny for his reprieve. André had already turned away to find another foe. Spurring his stallion, Morgan followed after him.

Ahead, Richard was pursuing an enemy bowman. Glancing over his shoulder, the man looked shocked to see the king closing fast, and Morgan gave a triumphant shout, as if he were the one riding Fauvel, who could likely outrun the wind. He was startled, then, when the Saracen began to pull away again. Looking over to see what had happened, he saw Fauvel come to an abrupt, shuddering stop, sending sand and dust flying in all directions. He heard André cry out, “Christ Jesus!” But it was only when he reined in his mount next to Richard that he saw the shaft protruding from the king’s side.

André, who never showed any fear for himself in battle, was now ashen. “How bad is it?”

Richard shook his head, saying it was nothing. But neither man believed him, knowing he’d not have halted the pursuit for an arrow merely embedded in his hauberk. Morgan was close enough now to see it was a crossbow bolt and his breath caught in his throat, for he knew the fate of the Holy Land and Richard’s fate were one and the same, inextricably entwined for better or worse. After a moment of panic, common sense reasserted itself and he realized that the injury could not be lethal, for Richard had managed to stay in the saddle. Unless the wound festered, of course—a thought so unwelcome that he hastily sought to banish it by making the sign of the cross.

André had drawn the same conclusion and expressed his relief in anger, scowling and demanding to know why Richard was fighting without a shield. Richard looked at him as if he’d suddenly gone stark mad. “When I unhorsed a Saracen with my lance, the guige strap broke. What was I supposed to do, André—call a halt to the battle whilst I sent a squire to fetch a new one?”

André’s emotions were still roiling, and he was not about to admit he was being unfair or illogical. Richard had diced with Death so often that even if he did not deserve a reprimand this time, he’d earned it for his past recklessness. “The Turks say a cat has seven lives. How many do you think you have, Richard?”

“As many as it takes to free the Holy City,” Richard said, managing to sound both flippant and utterly serious, and as usual, he got the last word.



“FOR GOD’S SAKE, man, take care with my hauberk!”

Master Ralph Besace was accustomed to dealing with a truculent royal patient; he’d been the king’s physician since Richard’s coronation. “If you will hold still, sire, you’ll make my task much easier.” Removing a hauberk was never easy in such circumstances, though. Ignoring Richard’s protest, he widened the torn links enough to slide the mail up and over the shaft. Richard would have pulled the hauberk over his head then, but his friends were waiting for just such a move and insisted that they be the ones to remove it. They could see now that the bolt had pierced the padded gambeson, too. Asking for a sharp knife, Master Ralph cut it away around the wound and then stood back while André and Henri helped Richard peel off the garment. It was soaked with sweat, but no blood; puncture wounds rarely bled much. Holding up an oil lamp, the doctor leaned in to examine the injury.

He was admittedly uneasy about what he might find. Arrow wounds were among those most commonly treated by battlefield surgeons, but they were still among the most challenging, for if the arrow could not easily be extracted, the remaining choices were not good ones. The doctor would have to try to push it through the man’s body or else wait a few days until the tissue around the arrow began to putrefy. The first option was not feasible, for he’d risk damaging the king’s internal organs, and the second was not doable either, not for a man who’d insist upon fighting on the morrow. But as he studied the wound, he felt a great rush of relief, thinking that Richard’s fabled luck had held up once again.

“You were fortunate, my liege. The bolt does not seem to have penetrated too deeply. Your hauberk and gambeson absorbed most of the impact.”

“Good. Get it out, then.”

Master Ralph signaled for a tenaille and clamped the forceps around the shaft. A moment later, he was basking in the grateful approval of the king’s friends. The king himself was much more stoic, but then the physician expected just such a reaction, for he knew Richard was determined to make his injury seem as trivial as possible. He was cleansing the wound with vinegar when there was a sudden uproar outside. Richard was all for going to investigate himself, but André was too quick for him. “I’ll go, you sit,” he insisted and ducked under the tent flap.

Richard was in a foul temper, vexed with his friends for making much ado about nothing and with himself for being so careless. He ungraciously accepted a cup of wine from his nephew, unamused when Henri joked that they’d had to post guards to keep all the well-wishers away. “Guy de Lusignan wanted to see for himself that you’re not at Death’s door and half the bishops are offering up prayers on your behalf. Even Hugh of Burgundy bestirred himself, sending a man to ask if the rumors were true. I really ought to have a public crier assure the camp that you’re not seriously wounded.”

“Of course I am not! I suffered worse hurts learning to use the quintain as a lad.” Richard finished his wine in several gulps, an indication he did not feel as fine as he claimed, but Henri was not foolish enough to comment on it, merely refilling the cup. And by then André was back.

“Another brawl over dead horses,” he said glumly, for this was becoming more and more of a problem. Soldiers quite understandably preferred meat over their daily rations of hard biscuit and a soup of beans and salt pork, so competition was keen to buy the horses slain by the Saracens. But the knights were pricing them beyond the reach of most men, and this was generating resentment and ill will. When André told him how much horsemeat was now selling for, Richard shook his head impatiently.

“I am putting a stop to this now. Get the word out that I will replace any knight’s horse slain in combat—provided that he then donates the dead animal to the men-at-arms.”

“Even French knights?” Henri asked mischievously. “That is an excellent idea, Uncle, and the soldiers will love you for it. I’ll see to it straightaway.”

They were interrupted then by the arrival of Guy de Lusignan, followed by the Bishop of Salisbury, Jacques d’Avesnes, the Earl of Leicester, and other visitors too highborn to be turned away. Hours passed before Richard was finally able to get to bed. And there he found himself unable to sleep, for although his body was utterly exhausted, his brain continued to race. After passing through sand dunes and hill country, the terrain was changing. Ahead lay more than twelve miles of oak woods, known as the Forest of Arsuf, and to get back to the coast, they would have to pass through it. It would be an ideal opportunity for an ambush and he thought Saladin would likely take advantage of it. They were locked into a war of wills as well as weapons, the sultan set upon battle and he just as determined to avoid one. So far his men had shown remarkable discipline under constant provocation. But how much longer could their restraint last? He tossed and turned for hours, wincing every time he forgot and rolled onto his side. Did Saladin lie awake, too, this night? Did he also feel overwhelmed at times, knowing how much was at stake?



THE NEXT MORNING Richard was much more stiff and sore than he was willing to admit, and he was glad Wednesday was to be a day of rest. He made a point, though, to be a very visible presence in the camp, reassuring his men that his injury had been a minor one. He soon discovered that they were uneasy about the Forest of Arsuf, too, and when he learned rumors were rampant that the Saracens would set fire to the woods once they’d entered it, he knew he had to act. That afternoon he summoned Humphrey de Toron and instructed him to ride out to the enemy under a flag of truce, telling them that the English king wanted to discuss peace terms with the sultan’s brother.

Humphrey was astounded, but he did as he was bidden and carried the message to Salah al-Dīn’s advance guard. Their commander, Alam al-Dīn Sulaymān ibn Jandar, wasted no time relaying word to the sultan. Salah al-Dīn was no less startled than Humphrey had been, but he was quite willing to accede to the request, telling his brother, “Try to protract the negotiations with the Franks and keep them where they are until we receive the Turcoman reinforcements we are expecting.” It was agreed therefore that Richard and al-Ᾱdil would meet the following day at dawn.



THE SKY WAS the shade of misty pearl as Richard and Humphrey rode out of camp with only a handful of knights, heading for the designated meeting place with al Malik al-’Ᾱdil. When they saw Saracen riders approaching, Richard told his men to wait, and he and Humphrey slowed their mounts to a walk. “I was surprised that Saladin did not insist upon an interpreter of his own,” Richard said, after some moments of silence. “He must consider you very trustworthy, lad.”

Humphrey was sorry the English king had brought the subject up, but it never occurred to him to lie. “I was captured at Ḥaṭṭīn my liege,” he said quietly. “My lady mother offered to yield her castles at Kerak and Montreal if Saladin would set me free. He agreed, but the castle garrisons would not obey her command. Since we’d not fulfilled our part of the bargain, I returned and surrendered to the sultan. He said I’d acted honorably and freed me without a ransom a few months later.” He looked over at the other man then, bracing for mockery, but Richard was smiling.

“Well done,” he said, and Humphrey flushed, so unaccustomed was he to praise.

“Some . . . others insisted that an oath given to an infidel counted for naught,” he confided, “and they called me a fool for honoring my pledge.”

“They are the fools. Ah, here he comes.”

Al-’Ᾱdil was mounted on a chestnut as mettlesome as Fauvel and clad in an elegant tunic of scarlet silk brocade; Richard had been told it was called a kazaghand and was lined with mail. He looked to be close in years to Conrad of Montferrat, in his mid-forties. His hair was covered by a mail coif, his skin bronzed by the sun, his dark eyes glittering with intelligence, caution, and curiosity. He was obviously a skilled rider, for he easily handled his spirited stallion, who pinned his ears back at the sight of the other horses. When Humphrey offered a formal greeting, he answered at some length, watching Richard all the while.

“We observed the usual courtesies,” Humphrey explained, “but then he said that you and he almost met ten days ago, on the first of Sha’ban. The Muslim calendar is different from ours; that would be . . .”

He paused to calculate the date but Richard had already guessed it. “Sunday, August twenty-fifth. So the command was his, then. Tell him he could have made my acquaintance had he only lingered awhile longer.”

Although Humphrey spoke fluent French and Arabic, this sort of barbed banter had always eluded him; he’d never learned how to communicate in the sardonic, sometimes cryptic language of men like this. For reasons only the Almighty knew, he’d been born utterly without the swagger, the bravado that seemed essential for survival in their world. Glancing from one man to the other, he felt certain that the English king and the sultan’s brother were enjoying this verbal jousting, and that, too, he did not understand. He obediently continued to translate, but he was genuinely puzzled by al-’Ᾱdil’s next comment.

“He asks if your stallion is the famous Fauvel, my lord.”

Richard’s expression remained unrevealing, but his eyes gleamed with amusement. “He is letting me know how much they know about us. Tell him I am flattered that they find my activities so interesting, but I think it is time we speak of peace. Brave men have died on both sides. If we can come to terms, no more need die.”

Al-’Ᾱdil’s response was brief and to the point. “He wants to know what your terms are.”

“Tell him they are simple—that his brother the sultan withdraw from Outremer and return to his own lands in Egypt and Syria.”

Humphrey swung around in the saddle to stare at Richard. His obvious astonishment alerted al-’Ᾱdil, but he was still caught off balance when Humphrey slowly translated Richard’s demands. He stared at the English king incredulously and then his brown eyes blazed with anger. “He says that if this is Frankish humor, he does not find it amusing.”

“Well, mayhap he’ll see the humor in it once he has gone home to Cairo or Damascus.”

Al-’Ᾱdil wheeled his stallion, flung a terse retort over his shoulder, and galloped off to his waiting men. “Do I want you to translate that?” Richard asked and grinned when Humphrey shook his head. He then turned Fauvel, and Humphrey hastily followed. Catching up to the English king, he did something he’d never done before. He demanded an answer.

“I think I have earned the right to ask, my lord. What was the purpose of that meeting? For certes, it was not to talk peace!”

“I suppose you’d not believe me if I said I was simply curious to meet the man?” Richard gave him a sly smile before saying, “What is the Arabic word for ‘diversion,’ Humphrey? As soon as we get back to camp, we move out. We’re all packed and ready to go. Whilst Saladin’s brother goes to report the results of our meeting, we head into the Forest of Arsuf.”



SALAH AL-DīN had not expected the crusaders to set such a slow, deliberate pace, and provisions had become a problem, for he’d not anticipated having to keep an army in the field so long. Continuing to scout for a suitable battle site, he’d gone back and forth with such speed that some of his men became stranded in the Forest of Arsuf and he was forced to wait for them to catch up the next day. He’d ordered his baggage train to head south while he waited to hear about al-’Ᾱdil’s meeting with the English king, then changed his mind and called them back, not sure whether his enemy would remain in camp or continue the march south, and Bahā ’ al-Dīn reported that there was much confusion in their camp all that night.



RICHARD’S PLOY WORKED, the crusaders safely passing through the Forest of Arsuf and halting by the River Rochetaille, where their flank was protected by an impassable swamp. They were now less than twenty miles from Jaffa. They knew, though, that ahead of them lay an open plain, an ideal site for battle. They remained by the river the next day, and when dusk fell, they could see the enemy campfires in the distance. Few men in either army would sleep well that night.