pushed, some splashing to the surface midst spreading pools of crimson, others sinking like stones. The galleys hovered as close to the buss as they could get, the crews leaning over the gunwales to rescue their own men while their crossbowmen aimed at the Turks floundering in the water. More sailors had managed to climb over the bulwarks, and for a time it seemed as if they would prevail. But then other Saracens burst out of the ship’s hold, charging at the invaders with the reckless boldness of men who had nothing left to lose. Swords flashed, cutting off arms, hands, even heads, and eventually Richard’s men were forced to retreat toward the stern, jumping into nearby galleys or diving into the sea and grabbing at oars to keep themselves afloat. Shouting defiance and curses, the Saracens reached for their bows again and began to heave bodies over the side. But their victory was ephemeral and they knew it, for they were trapped on a crippled ship, surrounded by sea wolves.
Knights were accustomed to fighting with swords or lances, and few of them were able to follow Richard’s example. But he could handle a crossbow as skillfully as he did other weapons, and even when some of the crossbowmen stopped firing, afraid of hitting their own during the assault, he’d continued to shoot, confident of his aim. He did not put his crossbow down until all of his galleys were out of Saracen arrow range. His knights kept their distance, for they could feel the fury radiating from him, the black-bile rage that was the accursed legacy of the Angevins, giving rise to those legends that the counts of Anjou traced their descent from Lucifer himself.
He surprised them, though, when some of the galleys made ready to return to the attack, for he called them back. “I’d hoped to capture it,” he said angrily, “for its hold is likely to be filled with weapons and food, mayhap even Greek fire. But there are too many of them and they are not going to surrender. Enough good Christians have died this day already. No more.” He paused to cough, for his throat was sore from shouting orders and curses, and then he said hoarsely, “Sink it.”
Though they’d never have admitted it, most of his men were relieved to be spared another assault upon the Saracen ship. But they also wanted revenge for the deaths of their comrades, and they responded eagerly to this new command. The galleys once more encircled the buss, waiting for the signal. A trumpet blasted, and when the drums began to sound, the sailors strained at their oars, seeking to gain as much speed as possible before their iron spurs slammed into the hull. The impact flung men to their knees, even those who’d been braced for the collision, and they shouted in triumph when the vessel was gashed open in several places. They were preparing to ram the wounded ship again when it seemed to shudder and then began to sink.
The death throes of the huge Saracen ship were astonishingly swift, baffling the watching sailors. They’d barely gotten safely away from the undertow when the buss tilted and slid, prow first, under the waves. Most of its crew drowned; others died at the hands of their Christian enemies. The knights unsheathed their swords to strike at any Saracens within reach and the crossbowmen found such easy targets for their bolts that the sea was soon streaked with blood. Richard decided to save some, wanting to interrogate them about the siege weapons they’d carried, and the thirty-five men pulled into the galleys would be the only survivors.
Emotions were raw and overlapping for most of the men; relief that they were alive mingled with grief for dead friends and a surging sense of triumph. Morgan was still shaken several hours after the battle, unable to join the other knights on the Sea-Cleaver in celebration of their victory. He was not sure why he felt so unsettled, finally deciding that there was something particularly frightening about death by drowning. He’d asked one of the sailors why the Saracens had died in silence, not even crying out to their God as they disappeared beneath the waves. He was soon sorry he did, for the sailor related his own near-drowning experience in gruesome detail, explaining that a drowning man rarely called for help, too caught up in a panicked struggle to get air into his lungs. He also volunteered that a