Lionheart (91 page)

“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.