gates were swung open and the hostages were marched out, bound to one another by ropes. The sight of the garrison caused confusion and alarm in the Saracen ranks, and riders were dispatched to Saladin’s camp at Saffaram, for they did not know what the Franks meant to do.
Neither did the captive men of the Acre garrison. That was painfully obvious to Morgan, for he was close enough to see their faces as they were herded out onto the plain. Their emotions ran the gamut from rage to fear to hope, with some bracing for the worst and others believing that a deal had finally been struck for their release. No matter how many times Morgan reminded himself that these were infidels, his sworn enemies, he could not suppress a surge of pity as they passed by; most Welshmen had an instinctive sympathy for the underdog, being such underdogs themselves. Thankful that the killing would be done by the men-at-arms, he rode over to where Richard, Hugh of Burgundy, and Guy de Lusignan had reined in. “My liege,” he said when his cousin glanced his way, “are you sure the Saracens will attack?”
Richard looked from the prisoners to the men watching from the heights of Tell Kaysān. “We would if it were Christians being killed,” he said, “and they will, too. But it will be too late.”
Morgan marveled that he sounded so dispassionate, so matter-of-fact about the deaths of so many men, but he remembered then that Richard had shown no pity to routiers captured when his brothers Hal and Geoffrey had led an army into Poitou. No one mourned the deaths of mercenaries who sold their swords to the highest bidder. Many had been scandalized, though, when he’d also executed some of Geoffrey’s Breton knights. Richard had been indifferent to the criticism and protests, for when he fought, he fought to win. Morgan looked back at the Saracen prisoners, wishing that Saladin had been better informed about the mettle of the man he was now facing.
Morgan tensed then, for Richard had drawn his sword from its scabbard, holding it aloft so that the sun silvered its blade. It was a dramatic scene—the mounted knights with couched lances, the garrison encircled now by shouting and cursing men-at-arms, eager to begin, for there’d been no trouble finding volunteers for this task—and Morgan realized it had been deliberately staged out in the open like this, sending a message to Saladin that his bluff had been called, but not in the way he’d expected. When Richard’s sword swept downward, a trumpet blared, and then their soldiers rushed forward, weapons raised. Within moments, the plain resembled a killing field: blood soaking the ground, bodies sprawled in the sun, screams of pain mingling with despairing pleas to Allah. Mariam had taught Morgan a few Arabic phrases, so he knew the Saracens were dying with the name of their God on their lips, and he was surprised by the sadness he now felt, sorry these doomed men would be denied salvation and the redeeming love of the Holy Saviour.
Turning in the saddle, he saw that Richard was paying no heed to the slaughter going on behind him, keeping his eyes upon the distant figures of his Saracen foes. They were reacting as expected, with horror, shock, and rage, screaming threats none could hear, brandishing swords and bows, their stallions rearing up as they caught the scent of blood. “Here they come,” Richard said suddenly, and Morgan wheeled his horse around to see the Saracen advance guard racing toward them in a desperate rescue mission that would be, as Richard had predicted, too late.
Again and again Saladin’s outnumbered men tried to break through the ranks of armor-clad knights. Again and again they were repulsed. The battle raged throughout the afternoon as more Saracens arrived, dispatched from Saladin’s camp at Saffaram once he’d learned what was happening. Men died on both sides, and as usual, Richard was in the very thick of the fight. Morgan and his other household knights did their best to stay at his side, often horrified to find him surrounded by the enemy. He always cut his way free, dealing death with each thrust of his sword, now bloody up to the hilt. At last the Saracens abandoned their futile attempts to save men already dead. By then the sun was low in the sky and the plain was strewn with bodies. Richard’s men took their own dead and wounded back to Acre, leaving