it is breached,” he said, so calmly that they both wanted to shake him. “His doctors advised against it, but the king insisted and had himself carried out on a silken quilt so he could take command.”
RICHARD HAD HIS CERCLEIA set up near the city’s defensive ditch. The crusaders had labored for weeks to fill it, and the camp was still talking about the heroic sacrifice by the wife of a sergeant. She’d been helping to lug rocks to the ditch when she’d been struck by a Saracen arrow. Dying in her husband’s arms, she’d begged him to throw her body into the ditch, so that even in death she could contribute to their holy cause. Today, the objective was to clear away some of the rubble from the collapsed section of wall. This was a highly dangerous task, for it exposed men to the fire of the enemy archers above them, yet there was no shortage of soldiers willing to accept this perilous undertaking. As they zigged and zagged toward the breach, they held shields aloft to deflect the arrows and spears raining down upon them.
Richard’s arbalesters were providing as much cover as they could, each one flanked by a second man holding a cocked crossbow. As soon as a man shot, he was handed the second crossbow, and by rotating like this, they were able to keep up a steady fire. Richard was doing the same, and when one of his bolts found its target, a Saracen leaning precariously over the wall to shoot down at the men below him, he gave a triumphant laugh, relieved that his lingering illness had not affected his aim. His men glanced over and grinned, for his presence on the front line had greatly boosted morale; they loved it that he was always ready to risk his life with theirs, that he’d been carried out here on a litter since he was not yet strong enough to walk.
Henri handed him a loaded crossbow. “This time aim for that tall one in the green turban.”
“What . . . you do not like his taste in clothes?” Richard asked, giving his nephew a curious look as he reached for the weapon.
“The hellspawn is wearing Aubrey Clement’s armor.”
Richard’s eyes flicked from his nephew’s grim face to the man up on the battlements. He’d been told of Aubrey’s death three days ago during the French assault. The marshal had been the first to reach the walls, but when other knights sought to follow, their ladder broke, flinging them into the ditch. Trapped alone on the battlements, Aubrey had fought fiercely until overwhelmed by sheer numbers, and his friends could only watch helplessly as he was stabbed multiple times.
“Are you sure, Henri?”
“Very sure. He is even wearing Aubrey’s surcote. Those dark splotches are his blood. The swine has been taunting us like this for the past two days, daring us to avenge Aubrey. But the man has the Devil’s own luck, for none of our bolts have even scratched him.”
Richard turned back to the wall and then swore, for the Saracen in the slain marshal’s armor was no longer there. “I see what you mean,” he said, and gestured toward a nearby flask.
André picked it up and flipped it over to Richard. His royal cousin’s pallor was so pronounced that he knew Richard ought to be back in bed. But he knew, too, that there was no point in suggesting it. Instead he reached for his own crossbow and resumed shooting up at the walls.
They were all soaked in sweat by now for the heat had become sweltering as the sun rose higher in the sky. Still, men continued to make that dangerous dash toward the walls, even as others ventured out to drag the wounded back to safety; the dead would have to wait till darkness for their recovery. Just before noon, they were taken by surprise by the arrival upon the scene of Conrad of Montferrat.
“My liege,” he said, in casual acknowledgment of Richard’s rank. “I’d heard you were out here, had to see for myself.” Making himself comfortable next to Richard, he murmured, “Trying to make Philippe look bad for staying in bed?”
Richard gave him a sharp look, but Conrad had already turned toward the Accursed Tower, staring in astonishment at the frantic activity around the breach. “Jesu, look at those crazy fools! In the past, we could not get men to volunteer for death-duty like that. How’d you do it?” His eyes searched