Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 35

JULY 1192

Off the Coast of Haifa





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 Jaffa 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.

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.