Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,216

and the rear guard was entrusted to the Duke of Burgundy and the French. They were shadowed by the sultan’s advance guard, for he had instructed his brother al-Malik al-’Ᾱdil to watch for a gap in their ranks. At first they maintained the tight formation ordered by Richard, but as the day wore on, the road narrowed and the rear guard began to lag behind. Late in the afternoon, the sky turned overcast, the first time they’d seen a cloud in three months. They plodded on, casting glances at those ghostly riders occasionally visible in the sand dunes to their left. When fog began to drift in from the sea, it created confusion in the rear guard and they slowed down, losing even more ground. It was then that al-’Ᾱdil struck.

THIS EERIE HAZE was making the men uneasy, for such sudden mists were much more common in early morning. Richard refused to let them slow their pace, though, keeping a sharp eye out for laggards. When André joked that he was like a shepherd with a flock of errant sheep, he summoned up a smile, but he thought there was too much truth in that jest for humor. As accustomed as he was to command, never had he faced such a daunting challenge, for it would not be easy to keep an army like this under control, men of different nationalities and alien tongues, with nothing in common but their Christian faith. He would have to find a way to hold their rivalries in check, to stifle their natural instincts to hit back when they were attacked, for if he did not, they’d not reach Jaffa, much less Ascalon or the holy grail of Jerusalem.

He dropped back to ride beside the Grand Master of the Hospitallers, meaning to share the latest scouting report. But he never got the chance. It was then that the shouting began. Catching the words “the king,” he wheeled Fauvel and rode to intercept the rider galloping past the infantrymen on their left flank. The man was close enough now for recognition—an English knight named John Fitz Luke. “Sire, the rear is under attack! They fell behind and the Saracens swept down and cut them off!” He started to tell the king more, but Richard was already gone, his household knights strung out behind him, outrun by the Cypriot stallion.

Fauvel seemed to sense his rider’s urgency and pricked his ears as he lengthened stride. Several miles separated the vanguard from the beleaguered rear guard, and Richard and his knights plunged in and out of the swirling sea mist as they rode, loosening swords in scabbards and making sure their aventails were tightly drawn across their throats, for some had unfastened the mail flaps as they marched. Emerging from one last patch of fog, they came upon a scene of utter pandemonium. Several carts had been overturned and looted, others bogged down in the sand, for the Saracens had ridden down the men-at-arms and scattered the knights in their push toward the vulnerable baggage train. It had been a well-coordinated attack, and had come perilously close to surrounding the rear guard and cutting off escape. Some of the French knights had managed to rally in time to prevent their encirclement, and there was fierce fighting on the beach, some of the horses actually knee-deep in water by now.

Richard was not sure his command could be heard above the din of battle, but his household mesnie was composed of knights who’d been with him for years, men who would know what to do without need of words. Just as some of the Saracen soldiers turned and saw them materializing from the mist, they couched their lances and charged. As Richard closed in on a horseman with his bow slung over his shoulder, the startled Saracen tried to raise his shield. But by then Fauvel was upon him, and the lance, with the full weight of Richard’s body behind it, drove through the man’s lamellar armor with such force that the weapon lodged between his ribs. He reeled back in the saddle and then began to vomit blood. As he slid to the ground, still impaled on the lance, Richard unsheathed his sword.

The combat that followed was bloody but brief, for the Saracens were soon in retreat. To Richard, it was not so much a victory as a reprieve, and as he looked around at the crumpled bodies, the plundered wagons, and broken lances, he was infuriated when some