Lionheart (77 page)

Joanna opened her mouth, shut it again. During one of his last visits to Jaffa, Richard had confided in her about his constant struggles with Hugh of Burgundy and the French, admitting how exhausted and disheartened he was at times, even confessing that he doubted Jerusalem could ever be taken by force, that their only chance of regaining access to the Holy City was by a negotiated settlement with Saladin. He’d told her that he knew that would not go down well with his army, that his men would be bitterly disappointed if they failed to recapture Jerusalem. She wondered now if he realized his own wife would share that bitter disappointment. She briefly considered alerting him, but decided against it, for why add one more worry to the many burdens he already labored under?

RICHARD MOVED his army headquarters after Christmas to Bait Nūbā, just twelve miles from Jerusalem. The winter weather remained wretched, yet skirmishing continued. Richard interrupted a Saracen ambush on the third day of the new year, but they fled upon recognizing his banner. Not long afterward, he escorted his wife and sister back to the greater safety of Jaffa. By now he was convinced that it would be madness to advance upon Jerusalem under the circumstances and, upon his return to Bait Nūbā, he confronted the issue head-on.

THEY MET in Richard’s command tent during yet another pelting hailstorm, the wind keening in an eerie accompaniment to the rising voices. As soon as Richard broached the subject of turning back, he was assailed by his French allies, accused of betraying their holy quest. Determined to hold on to his temper, he sought to counter their passion with what he saw as irrefutable facts.

“Look at this,” he demanded, pointing toward the map he’d laid out upon a trestle table. “I asked men personally familiar with the city’s defenses to draw it for us. Jerusalem’s walls are more than two miles in circumference and enclose an area of over two hundred acres. We do not have enough men to securely encircle the city. We’d be stretched so thin that they’d be able to send out sorties and break through our lines whenever they wanted. Saladin has been preparing for a siege for months, so I daresay they have food stockpiled. Nor are they going to run out of water; their cisterns must be overflowing by now!” he said, with an angry, ironic gesture toward the rippling walls of the tent, billowing with each powerful gust of the storm battering Bait Nūbā. “Even if we had an army twice as large, it would be sheer folly to begin a siege in weather like this!”

“I cannot believe that you are balking again!” Hugh of Burgundy glanced disdainfully at the map, shaking his head. “We are twelve miles from the Holy City—only twelve miles!”

“Our men did not come so far to turn tail and run.” The Bishop of Beauvais had not even bothered to look at the map, keeping his eyes accusingly upon Richard. “Why did you take the cross if you were not willing to fight God’s enemies?” Henri and André both jumped to their feet. But for once the Angevin temper did not catch fire. Richard did not even bother to defend himself, overwhelmed by the futility of it. Christ’s Blood, he was so bone-weary of all this. No matter what he said, they’d not heed him. It was as if the past four months had never been and they were back at Jaffa, making the same arguments and aspersions that they’d made then.

He was wrong, though; this was not to be another repeat of their Jaffa confrontation. Hugues de Tiberias had been standing in the rear, but now he pushed his way to the front of the tent. “It is ridiculous to accuse the English king of lacking the heart to wage war against the Saracens,” he said scornfully. “If I thought you truly meant that, my lord bishop, I’d wonder if you’d been afflicted by some malady that scrambles a man’s wits. Who got us safely to Jaffa? Who won the battle of Arsuf? Not you, my lord bishop or you, my lord duke. Why must we constantly waste time with these petty squabbles instead of talking about what truly matters? Can we take Jerusalem?”

When they would have interrupted, he flung up a hand for silence. “No, by God, you’ll hear me out! Some of you use the term
‘poulain’
as an insult, at least behind our backs. Well, I am proud to call myself
poulain
. I know far more about fighting in the Holy Land than men who’ve lived all their lives in the fat, green fields of France, and I say the answer is no. We cannot take Jerusalem. Now are you going to accuse me, too, of not wanting to win this war? This is my home, not yours, and after you’ve all gone back to your own lands, I’ll still be here, struggling to survive against a foe who is not going anywhere, either.”

“We do not doubt your good faith or your courage,” Hugh insisted. “But we cannot give up now. Jerusalem is within our grasp!”

“No, my lord duke, it is not.” Garnier de Nablus remained seated on a coffer, arms folded across his chest, but his voice carried; the Grand Master of the Hospitallers was accustomed to dominating gatherings of other men. “The problems we faced in September are still unresolved. We still risk having our supply lines to the coast cut by Saladin, finding ourselves stranded in enemy territory, caught between Saladin’s army and the garrison in Jerusalem. Nothing has changed since we last discussed this, except to get worse. Now we have an army weakened by sickness and desertions and we are in the midst of one of the most severe winters in memory. There is a reason why fighting in the Holy Land is seasonal, and you need only stick your heads out of this tent to understand why that is so.”

Before he could be refuted, the Grand Master of the Templars added his voice in support of Garnier. Robert de Sablé argued that even if they somehow managed to capture Jerusalem, they could not hope to hold it, for all the men who’d taken the cross would then depart, their vows fulfilled. “We’d be gambling more than the lives of our men. We’d be risking the very survival of the kingdom, for if our army suffers another defeat like Ḥaṭṭīn, . Outremer is doomed. I say we withdraw to the coast and rebuild Ascalon, as the English king wanted us to do last September.”

The French were not convinced. They infuriated all the Templars by implying that Robert de Sablé was Richard’s puppet because he was a vassal of the English king. They dismissed the concerns of the Hospitallers and
poulains
by arguing that a holy war was not like ordinary warfare, insisting it was God’s Will that they besiege Jerusalem and He would reward them with victory. This was the reasoning that had carried the day at Jaffa. But on this cold January night at Bait Nūbā, it did not. Much to the dismay of the French, their fellow crusaders were no longer willing to disregard their military training and experience in favor of such a great leap of faith. It was agreed that the army would not attempt to capture Jerusalem now and instead would seize the ruins of Ascalon, rebuilding it to threaten Saladin’s power base in Egypt.

The French departed with dire predictions of disaster and veiled and notso-veiled threats to abandon the crusade. Hugh of Burgundy paused in the entrance of the tent to glare at Richard, whom he saw as the architect of this shameful surrender. “Our men will never forgive you for this,” he warned, “for they will never understand why we did not even try to seize the Holy City.”

Richard said nothing, for although he truly believed they’d just averted a calamity that would have reverberated throughout Christendom, he knew that Hugh was right. Their men would not understand and he would be the one they blamed.

CHAPTER 30

JANUARY 1192

Ascalon , Outremer

When they were told there would be no attack upon Jerusalem, the army’s morale plummeted. Men had been willing to endure severe hardships if their sacrifice would mean the recapture of the Holy City. Now they were shocked, bewildered, and angry to be told they were returning to the coast, for their suffering suddenly seemed pointless. Richard was no less troubled, feeling that he’d let them down even as he’d saved their lives. He did what he could for them, providing carts to transport all the sick and wounded back to Jaffa, and the eyewitness chroniclers took note of it. Ambroise reported that many of “the lesser folk” would have been left behind if not for the English king, and the author of the
Itinerarium
acknowledged that the ailing would otherwise have died since they were unable to care for themselves. But they also reported that each man “cursed the day he was born,” that the heartbroken soldiers could not be comforted.

When the dispirited, bedraggled army reached Ramla, it fell apart. Most of the French refused to serve under Richard’s command any longer and scattered, some heading to Jaffa, others to Acre, some even vowing to join Conrad at Tyre. Henri and his men remained loyal, though, and they accompanied Richard on a grim march to Ascalon along roads so mired in mud that they’d become death traps. Battered by the worst weather of the winter—snow, hail, and icy, torrential rains—they finally reached Ascalon on January 20. There the exhausted men sought shelter midst the wreckage of this once thriving city, the storms so intense that Richard’s galleys dared not enter the dangerous harbor for more than a week. Just as their food was running out, the raging sea calmed enough for a few ships to land and unload provisions. The weather soon turned foul again, and when supply galleys attempted another landing, they were dashed upon the rocks, most of their crews drowning.

Richard somehow managed to keep the crusaders from utter despair, and put them to work clearing away the stones and rubble. They all shared the labor, the king, his lords, bishops, and knights joining the men-at-arms in carrying away rocks and debris and slabs of sandstone. After hiring local masons out of his own dwindling funds, Richard then sent word to Hugh of Burgundy, urging the French not to abandon the crusade. Hugh was also pressured by some of his own men, those who’d not decamped for Acre or Tyre, and reluctantly agreed to come to Ascalon, although he refused to commit his troops beyond Easter. Richard was infuriated with Hugh’s intransigence, but he took what he could get.

HENRI HAD TAKEN some of his disheartened knights to Jaffa for a few days of rest and recreation with the whores who’d relocated from Acre. While there, he visited with Joanna and Berengaria, assuring them that Richard would fetch them as soon as they’d made more progress in the rebuilding. He made it sound as if all was going well at long last, in part because he did not want them to worry and in part because he was an optimist by nature. But when he returned to Ascalon, he discovered that Richard and Hugh’s fragile détente had already ruptured. The French duke had asked Richard for another loan, and when the English king refused, Hugh had gone back to Jaffa in high dudgeon, heading along the coast road just as Henri’s galley had cruised south.

THE DAY AFTER Henri’s return to Ascalon, Richard decided to reconnoiter Dārūm, a Saracen castle twenty miles to the south; if the crusaders could control both Ascalon and Dārūm, they’d be able to clamp a stranglehold upon Salah al-Dīn’s supply lines to Egypt. Henri volunteered to come along, and seized his first opportunity to learn the gory details of Hugh and Richard’s latest quarrel.

“So . . . what happened? Say what you will of Hugh, he has brass ballocks. I can scarcely believe he dared to ask you for more money. The man has done his utmost to thwart you at every turn!”

“He claimed his men were insisting upon being paid and he did not have the money. I told him I could not afford to give him any more. He’s not repaid a denier of the five thousand silver marks I lent him at Acre, and I’m already covering three-quarters of the cost of rebuilding Ascalon. He did not want to hear that, said he was going to Acre and we could go to Hell.”

Henri said nothing and they rode in silence for a time. He did not like Richard’s uncharacteristically calm recital of yet another desertion; his uncle should be raving about Burgundy’s sheer gall, drawing upon his considerable command of invective and obscenities to curse the duke till the end of his wretched days. To Henri, Richard had always been a force of nature, immune to the fears and misgivings that preyed upon lesser men. But it seemed to him now that the English king was being worn down by the constant strife with his own allies, losing heart and hope, and that alarmed Henri exceedingly. What would befall them if Richard gave up the fight and went home as Philippe had done?

He was racking his brain for a conversational gambit that might dispel his uncle’s morose mood, and when his gaze fell upon Richard’s sleek dun stallion, he had it. “I hear you were busy adding to your legend whilst I was in Jaffa,” he said breezily. “I was in camp less than an hour ere I was told about your latest adventure. But surely the part about jumping over that boar cannot be true!”

As he’d hoped, Richard took the bait, for he was never averse to boasting about his exploits. “Well, actually it is,” he said with a smile. “I rode out with some of my knights to scout around Blanchegarde. On our way back, we encountered a very large wild boar. It stood its ground, making ready to attack. I used my lance as if it were a hunting spear and embedded it in the beast’s chest. But it broke in half and the boar charged right at me. So I did the only thing I could—I spurred Fauvel and he soared over it as if he had wings. The only damage done was a rip to his rear trappings where the tusks caught the material. That gave me time to draw my sword and when it charged again, I struck it in the neck, which stunned it enough for me to complete the kill.”

Henri burst out laughing. “You make it sound like just another hunt. But I can tell you for certes that not one man in a hundred would have dared to jump over an enraged boar! That is quite a feat of horsemanship, Uncle, even for you.”

“Let’s give credit where due, Henri . . . to Fauvel.” Richard leaned over to pat the stallion fondly, and Henri laughed again, pleased that he’d been so successful in raising his uncle’s spirits. But it was then that one of their scouts came into view, with several Saracens in close pursuit.

They reined in at sight of the crusaders, wheeled their mounts, and made a hasty retreat. The scout, one of the Templar
turcopoles
, headed toward Richard. “There is a large infantry force camped outside the walls, my lord king, between the castle and the village. There seemed something odd about them, though, so I came closer to see—too close, obviously,” he said with a wry smile. “I cannot be sure, for I was still some distance away when I was spotted. But I think they are Christian prisoners.”

“Let’s go find out, then,” Richard said, and signaled to his knights to array in battle formation. Riding stirrup to stirrup, lances couched, they soon saw Dārūm Castle looming against the horizon. There were a number of white tents and smoldering campfires, some Saracen horsemen milling about in obvious agitation, but no sign of any Christian captives. “God curse them, we’re too late,” Richard swore. “They were taken into the castle.” For an angry moment, he considered an assault upon it, but they had no siege engines with them. At least they could exact vengeance on behalf of the prisoners, and they charged their foes, shouting the battle cry of the English Royal House.

The Saracens rode out to meet them, an act of undeniable courage, yet a foolhardy one, too, for they were badly outnumbered. When the fighting was done, several Muslims were dead and twenty of them had been compelled to surrender. While all were disappointed that they’d missed a chance to rescue some of their Christian brethren, the knights were pleased that they’d profit so handsomely from this scouting mission, already counting the horses seized and speculating about the ransom demands. Richard was puzzled, though, that the castle garrison had not sallied forth to join in the fray. He was searching the battlements for signs of activity when one of his men let out a shout, pointing toward the village.

It had appeared deserted, for its inhabitants, both Muslims and Christians, had either fled at their approach or barricaded themselves in their houses. But now the door of the church opened and men burst out, laughing and weeping. Some of them had managed to cut their bindings; others were still roped together. They were ragged and dirty and gaunt, but they were also euphoric, all talking at once, thanking God and Richard for their deliverance. When he dismounted, he was mobbed, and it took a while before he could make himself heard above the din.

“Choose one to speak for you,” he ordered. “Are any of my soldiers amongst you?”

A few men shouldered their way toward him, identifying themselves as sergeants captured during a foraging expedition near Ramla in December. Gesturing at the others, they said these were men taken during the siege of Acre, unlucky pilgrims, and local Syrians.

“All Christians, though, my lord, even the ones who follow the Greek Church,” one of the sergeants assured him. “We’ve been held in Jerusalem, forced to labor for the infidels, digging ditches and strengthening the city walls. They no longer needed us for that and we were being taken to Egypt to be sold in the slave markets there. . . .” His voice thickened. “I admit I’d given up hope. But God had not forsaken us. . . .” He choked up then, unable to continue, and Richard raised a hand for silence.

“I do not understand why you were not taken into the castle. How did you get away from your guards?”

“It was because of you, sire.” Richard knew this new speaker was a soldier, too, just by the look of him; he bore too many visible scars to be a civilian. He’d obviously been a prisoner for some time, for he was noticeably thinner than the sergeants captured near Ramla. But his smile was bright enough to rival the sun. “They recognized your banner, came racing back into camp screaming,
‘Malik Ric! Malik Ric!’
The next thing we knew, most of our guards bolted. They mounted their horses and fled into the castle, leaving us to fend for ourselves. You ought to have heard what the other Saracens called them, the ones who had the guts to stay and fight you!” He laughed hoarsely, and gratefully accepted a wineskin from one of the knights. “So we ran—stumbled is more like it—and took shelter in the church, where some of us were able to cut our bonds.”

Others were pressing forward, eager to tell their stories, too, to bear witness. Many of them were weeping joyfully and it proved contagious; some of the knights had begun to tear up, too. Henri shoved his way to Richard’s side, unashamedly swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. He was not surprised to see that his uncle was one of the few not overcome with emotion. He’d beckoned to several of the
turcopoles
, was instructing them to take word back to Ascalon that they’d be returning with twenty Saracen captives, some wounded knights, and at least a thousand freed prisoners, so they’d need horses and carts sent out to meet them. Turning toward Henri, he said, “I want to get us away from the castle ere some of those fugitive guards have second thoughts and decide they’d rather face me than explain their flight to Saladin.”

“What an amazing day, Uncle.” Henri was so exhilarated that he embraced the older man exuberantly, undeterred by the fact that they both were splattered with blood and mud. “I was so happy when Acre fell, but I think this is an even more glorious victory. When I’m an old man, I’ll be bouncing my grandsons on my knee and boring them to tears as I relate yet again the story of the great Dārūm rescue!”

Richard glanced at Henri, then at the jubilant men still clustered around them. “It was a good day’s work,” he acknowledged. “But do you know why we were successful?”

To the freed prisoners, it was a puzzling question, for they thought the answer was obvious—God had wrought a miracle on their behalf. Richard’s knights agreed with them, although they felt they’d also benefited from the growing legend of
Malik Ric
. But when they said as much, Richard shook his head.