Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 36

AUGUST 1192

Jaffa, Outremer





Henri was normally a light sleeper. But for the past two days, they’d been trying to repair the town walls. Every physically fit man from Richard on down had taken part in the labor, and Henri had gone to his bed Tuesday night feeling as if every muscle in his weary body ached. So when the shouting began, he at first merged it into his dream and did not come fully awake until one of his knights rushed into his tent, crying out that they were under attack.

Henri had never armed himself so quickly, not bothering with his mail chausses in his rush to put on his gambeson, hauberk, and helmet. Hastening outside, he came upon a chaotic scene. Men were dashing about, some halfdressed, a few not even wearing their braies, clad only in their padded aketons, all clutching their weapons and looking about frantically for the enemy. Catching sight of Morgan and Raoul de Mauléon, Henri ran toward them. As they fumbled to fasten their aventails and buckle their scabbards, they told him what little they knew. Morgan had heard that a Genoese crossbowman had ventured from camp to take a piss and saw the dawning sun reflecting off the helmets and shields of an approaching army. Raoul reported rumors that the Saracens had split into two bands, one intent upon capturing the king, the other meaning to retake Jaffa and deny them that refuge. They were joined now by the Préaux brothers, who said Saladin himself was leading his troops, so many thousands that they were surely doomed. Henri did not know whom to believe and he began to search for his uncle.

He finally found Richard surrounded by crossbowmen and men-at-arms. Like Henri, he was bare-legged, but that was the only evidence that he’d been torn rudely from sleep. He seemed to be an island of calm in the midst of a storming sea, and his composure alone drew men to him, straining to hear what he was saying.

“This is what I want each one of you to do. Brace yourself with your right knee on the ground, your left leg bent. Hold your shield in your left hand, your spear in your right hand. Drive the butt of the shaft into the ground so it is anchored at an angle with the spearhead aimed at the height of a horse’s chest.” Richard directed his attention then to his arbalesters, addressing himself to the Genoese and Pisan sergeants who could translate for their men. “I want a crossbowman standing behind each two spearmen so he can be sheltered by their shields, and another of your men right behind him, both of them with their bows spanned. As soon as the first man shoots, he’ll switch bows so he can keep shooting.”

Richard would not normally have spelled out his orders in such detail, but he knew men’s wits could be clouded by fear, and their only hope of survival depended upon them understanding exactly what was expected of them. That seemed to be the case; they were exchanging glances and nodding, some even smiling as they grasped what he had in mind. He was turning to summon his knights when a quavering voice from the ranks of the spearmen cried out, “Will . . . will this truly work, my lord?”

Glancing back impatiently, Richard saw that the speaker was very young, so pale that his freckles stood out like scars, round blue eyes filled with entreaty and barely controlled panic. “Of course it will work, lad,” he said heartily, as if surprised the question could even be raised. “Horses have eyes and brains, do they not? You think they’ll want to impale themselves on your spear? If you were a horse, would you?” Clapping the youngster on the back with a wink and a grin, he was relieved when the boy mustered up a weak smile of his own, for nothing was as contagious as fear.

As he swung away from the arbalesters and spearmen, he was thankful to see André, Leicester, and Henri standing a few feet away, for there was no time to search for them; every passing moment brought Saladin’s army closer to their camp. “You heard, then? I want the knights to array themselves like the spearmen and those who are mounted to anchor our line near St Nicholas Church—” They were staring at him so oddly that he paused. “What?”

“A barricade of bodies, bristling with spears. That is bloody brilliant.” André was looking at Richard as if seeing a stranger. “How did you ever come up with it?”

“I did not. It is a Saracen defense tactic.” Richard smiled grimly. “I am not too proud to learn from an enemy.” Beckoning them to step in, he lowered his voice. “We have fifty-four knights, but only eleven horses. The ones taken from Saracens are battle-worthy, but the others are palfreys, cart horses, and nags. Still, better than nothing. I want them to go to the best riders. You three, of course, then Hugh de Neville, Guillaume d’Etang, Raoul de Mauléon, Gerard de Furnival, Roger de Sathy . . . ”

He reeled off the names without hesitation and Henri marveled at his powers of concentration; his own thoughts were darting hither and yon like swallows at dusk. Richard was mounted now, gesturing and shouting as he sought to rally his troops, and Henri hastened to mount his own horse, adding his voice to his uncle’s even as his eyes kept straying toward the horizon. The dawn sky was scattered with clouds; they’d absorbed the vibrant hues of sunrise, several as red as Richard’s galley, Sea-Cleaver, a few reflecting the deep lilac that was Isabella’s favorite color, and he could not help wondering if he’d be alive to see the sunset.



THEIR SHIELDS AND SPEARS firmly rooted in the dry Outremer dirt, their backs protected by the sand cliffs leading down to the sea, the men turned toward their king, astride a restive black stallion. With all eyes upon him, Richard tore his own gaze from the dust clouds being kicked up to the east; time was running out. Raising his hand for quiet, he began to speak. “I know you are fearful. But we are not defeated. If we hold fast, we can prevail over our foes. Yet to do that, every man must do his part. If even one of you gives in to your fear and tries to flee, you doom us all. Rather than let that happen, I will personally kill anyone who seeks to run.”

He paused to let his warning sink in. “We are all going to die, but in God’s Time, not Saladin’s. For most people, their deaths have no meaning. If we die this day, we die for the Lord Christ and the Holy Sepulchre. Can there be a greater glory than that?” Again he paused, his gaze moving intently from man to man. “When we took the cross, we pledged our lives. In return, we were promised remission of our earthly transgressions. It does not matter how dark your sins are—and I’d wager some of them are very dark indeed.” As he’d hoped, that bit of gallows humor elicited some tight smiles. “So our salvation is assured. But our defeat is not. If we hold firm, they will not be able to penetrate our defenses. You are brave men and I am proud to fight alongside you. I know you can do this. You need only have faith—in God, in your own courage, and in me.”

In the past, when he’d sought to embolden his men before combat, they’d often responded with raucous cheers, their blood already surging with the apprehensive excitement of battle-seasoned soldiers. This exhortation was met with a subdued silence, but he was encouraged by what he saw on their faces—they looked resolute. Still fearful, yet eager to clutch at hope, and desperate. That was good, for he knew desperate men would fight like fiends. “Holy Sepulchre, aid us!” he shouted and they began to shout it, too, the war cry of the third crusade echoing on the humid August air like a defiant, despairing prayer.



RICHARD HAD WARNED the men to take their waterskins, saying they’d have need of them as the day wore on. Morgan unhooked his and took a sip, just enough to wet his dry mouth. They could see the enemy in the distance, their approach heralded by so much dust that it seemed as if a vast army was swooping down upon them. An unnatural silence had settled over their ranks, each man alone with his own thoughts. All around Morgan, knights were getting into position, securing their shields and lances. He was sure that they felt as he did, wishing they were on horseback. He glanced toward the mounted knights, his gaze lingering upon Henri as he silently repeated the latter’s words. You do not have to believe in miracles, Morgan. Just believe in my uncle. God knows, he wanted to. But Henri had told him they only had fifty-four knights, four hundred crossbowmen, and two thousand men-at-arms. By any calculation, they were greatly outnumbered. How could they hope to hold out against such odds?

As he looked around, he wondered how many of these men were doomed. He very much doubted that Richard would be taken alive; the only way to overcome him would be to kill him. But Henri was likely to be captured, for he was too valuable a hostage to be slain. On impulse, Morgan called out “My lord count!” and moved toward the other man. “I’ve a favor to ask,” he said as Henri turned in the saddle. “If I die today, will you tell the Lady Mariam that my last thoughts were of her?” He’d had enough combat experience to know that would not be true; a man would be thinking only of how to save himself. And Mariam was shrewd enough to know that. But the message might still be of some comfort to her. “You know how women are,” he said with a self-conscious smile. “They are sentimental creatures and set a store by such things.”

“They do, indeed.” Henri nodded in agreement, striving to match Morgan’s light tone. “I will convey the message should it come to that. And I’d have you convey the same message to my wife should the need arise.” They chuckled, affectionately indulgent of the foibles of their ladies, but neither man met the other’s eyes, shuttering the windows to the soul. And then Morgan hastened back to his fellow knights.

The waiting was over. They could see the golden banners of Saladin, could hear the ominous drumbeats that reminded them of their wretched march to Arsuf nigh on a year ago. The Saracens halted as they realized they’d lost the element of surprise, but they wasted no time in getting into battle formation. The crusaders blinked back the sweat trickling down into their eyes, took whiteknuckled grips upon their weapons, and sought reassurance in their king’s undaunted demeanor. “Hold fast!” he urged, sounding coolly confident. “We can do this!”

The Saracen drums had picked up their tempo, and then, with wild yells and the blare of trumpets, they charged. Morgan was accustomed to fighting on horseback; he discovered now that the ground beneath his feet actually vibrated with the thudding of thousands of hooves. The enemy bowmen were shooting arrows, displaying their remarkable proficiency at a skill the Franks had never mastered. But most of the arrows bounced off their shields. Richard waited until his arbalesters were squirming with impatience, their fingers twitching toward the triggers. When he gave the command, the air hummed as the bolts were loosed. Horses shrieked and stumbled; men were slammed back against their saddle cantles, crying out in pain. Still they came on and the crusaders braced for the impact, continuing to kneel behind their shields as horses and riders thundered down upon them, even though their every instinct was to run.

But at the very last moment, the Saracens veered off. Not a single man tried to breach that barbed wall. They swerved aside, racing their horses down the line of spears and shields, seeking in vain for a weak link in the defensive chain, and then they were in retreat, with the crossbowmen’s bolts continuing to find targets until they were out of range.

There was a stunned silence, broken by a burst of triumphant laughter. “Did I not tell you how it would be?” Richard exclaimed. “We need only hold fast, lads, and victory will be ours!”

Men began to breathe again, to measure their lives in more than minutes. They thanked God and laughed and looked at Richard with awestruck eyes. He let them savor the moment and then reminded them that it was not over yet. “We must not let down our guard. They’ll be back.”



RICHARD WAS RIGHT; a second charge soon followed. It was no more successful than the first, the men and horses either unable or unwilling to brave that menacing barricade. A third try to dislodge the crusaders failed, too, and even at a distance they could see the mounting frustration and fury of the Saracen commanders. The marksmanship of their arbalesters was taking a high toll; the field was strewn with the bodies of wounded or dying men and stricken horses. Their crossbowmen had none of the knights’ affection for horses and gleefully targeted them, for a dead one meant an injured or stranded rider.

Their own losses so far had been very light, men hit by the enemy’s showershooting tactics, which rained arrows down upon them but did not do serious damage because of their shields and armor. The temperature had soared as the sun climbed in the sky and their hair became matted and sodden underneath their helmets, their bodies drenched in sweat, their voices hoarse from breathing in so much dust. Steaming piles of manure from the knights’ mounts fouled the air, mingling with the smell of urine, for men had to relieve themselves where they were. They were all thirsty, rationing their water at Richard’s insistence, constantly slapping away buzzing insects and shifting to ease their cramped muscles. But none complained, for they were still alive.

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.