Lionheart (63 page)

“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.”