Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,135

The ground trembled under the hooves of their stallions, such thick clouds of dust kicked up in their wake that they seemed to be trailing smoke. Archers watched in dismay as their arrows bounced off shields or embedded themselves harmlessly in mail hauberks. There was disbelief at first, shock that these lunatic barbarians would actually dare to attack when they were vastly outnumbered. Even as some of their equally astonished captains rallied and began to shout orders, most of the routiers continued to gape at the oncoming wave and then, self-preservation prevailing over training, they scattered to avoid being trampled underfoot.

Richard had already selected his opponent, a man on a raw-boned chestnut, and leveled his lance as he braced himself for the impact. It struck the other rider in the chest, flinging him backward in a spray of crimson. Dropping his shattered lance, Richard slid his left arm through the straps of his shield and unsheathed his sword. A soldier ran at him, axe raised high. He smashed his attacker in the face with his shield and, as he went down, Richard’s destrier rode right over him, screaming in rage at the sight of another stallion. This horseman was swinging a sword with a curved blade. He missed. Richard did not.

All around him, his knights were either closing with foes or looking for men to attack, for the ragged Cypriot line had broken just as he’d expected it would. Once they discovered that staving off these battle-seasoned veterans was not as enjoyable as terrorizing defenseless civilians, many of Isaac’s routiers lost interest in fighting and fled. His crossbowmen had already sensibly faded away, as had the local men forced to fight for the emperor. Ahead of Richard loomed the emperor’s luxurious pavilion, but that was not his target. Spurring his destrier, he struck down the banner-bearer who’d courageously held his ground in defense of the imperial standard. Reining in before the wooden cart that anchored it, Richard grasped the staff, jerked, and cast the flag to the ground as nearby knights cheered.

Guilhem de Préaux appeared beside him. He was drenched in other men’s blood; even the nasal guard of his helmet was splattered. But his smile was jubilant. “Well done, sire! We’ve got them on the run. Can we claim our rewards now?”

Richard’s gaze swept the Cypriot camp, by now empty of all but bodies, trampled tents, smoldering fires, a few riderless horses, and dropped or discarded shields, swords, and slings. At the head of the valley, rising puffs of dust signaled the imminent arrival of the rest of their men. “Yes, you’ve earned it, Guilhem, all of you. But not the standard. That is mine, so guard it well.”

“I will, my liege,” Guilhem promised. “You were right about Isaac’s hired men—a worthless lot. No tears will be shed for them—” But Richard was no longer there, for he’d spotted the small band of riders cutting across the battlefield, protectively surrounding a man on a tall dun stallion. With a defiant yell, Richard took off after them, his destrier responding gallantly to his urging, and at first the distance seemed to be narrowing. But after that one brief spurt, his mount faltered, shortening stride, and he was forced to ease up, realizing the horse was in no condition for an all-out pursuit after a month at sea. Reaching over to stroke the animal’s lathered neck, he watched and cursed as Isaac’s destrier bore him to safety, his hooves skimming the ground so smoothly he seemed to be flying.

“Sire?” The Earl of Leicester had ridden after Richard, and now pulled up alongside him. “Is that the emperor?”

“Yes, God rot him,” Richard said savagely. “If I’d just seen him sooner . . .” Leicester didn’t think the king had any reason to reproach himself, not after winning two such spectacular victories in the span of one day. “Our men have never been so happy,” he said, gesturing around the camp, “for never have they found such rich booty. Horses, oxen, cows, sheep, goats, weapons, armor, wine, food, and in Isaac’s tent, gold and silver plate, fine clothes, silken bedding. I had no idea that Cyprus was so wealthy.”

“My liege!” This time it was Baldwin de Bethune and Morgan. Coming from the direction of Isaac’s plundered tent, they were prodding a man forward with their swords. Reaching Richard, they forced their prisoner to his knees. “This one claims to be a magistros, one of Isaac’s court officials, so we thought he’d be worth