Lionheart (64 page)

“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.