Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,219

scrub, thorns, and myrtle, and the infantry sometimes found themselves wading through chest-high brush. For the four days following the attack on the rear guard, they were spared any skirmishing with the Saracens, for Salah al-Dīn had been forced to lead his army inland as the crusaders made their way around Mount Carmel. But when they reached the deserted town called Merle by the Franks and al-Mallāha by the Saracens, they came under attack again, and Richard was nearly captured when he led a charge to drive the invaders off.

The last day of August found them making a short march from Merle to another town razed by Salah al-Dīn, Caesarea. This was the worst day so far, for the temperatures soared, and the sun claimed as many victims as the Saracens. When they were finally able to pitch their tents on the bank of the River of Crocodiles, they were exhausted, both physically and mentally. But their spirits were bolstered by the arrival of the fleet, which had been delayed by contrary winds, for it brought provisions and fresh troops, men coaxed or coerced from the taverns and brothels of Acre.

The next morning they covered only three miles, camping by a stream so choked with reeds that they called it the Dead River, but they’d had to fight off Saracen attacks for much of the march. They rested there the next day, treating the wounded and sunsick, and wondering how many of them would live to see the Holy City of Jerusalem. Most of them were battle-seasoned soldiers, but they were uneasily aware that they were aliens in an unforgiving land, one that they’d never call home.

They hated the enemy, who’d not fight fairly, swooping in to strike like hawks and then flying out of reach. They loathed the day’s heat and dust and bleachedbone skies, and they feared the poisonous snakes, scorpions, and tarantulas that crept out at dark. They tried to chase the latter away with noise, banging on shields and pots and pans, but the racket only kept sleep at bay. Lying wakeful and restive, they found themselves listening for the priest to cry out his nightly blessing, “Sanctum Sepulcrum Adjuva!” The comforting chant reverberated throughout the camp, coming from thousands of throats in unison, surely loud enough to reach the Gates of Heaven itself: “Holy Sepulchre, help us!” It would be repeated three times, reminding them that they were in this hellish place to do God’s Bidding and if they died on crusade, they’d be shriven of their mortal sins and promised entry into Paradise. As the last echoes of the prayer faded away, they stretched out and tried to sleep, tried not to think about what the morrow could bring.

SALAH AL-DīN HAD HOPED to goad the Franks into breaking ranks, for then they were at their most vulnerable. But so far he’d been thwarted by their discipline, and by now they were only thirty-four miles from Jaffa. The daily skirmishing continued, with casualties on both sides. Whenever a crusader was captured, he was brought before Salah al-Dīn, interrogated, and then executed; in the past, the sultan had usually shown mercy toward prisoners, but the massacre of the Acre garrison cried out for blood. Entrusting command to his brother, he personally rode out to search for suitable battle sites, for he was determined to force a fight before they could reach the safety of Jaffa.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, exposed the crusaders to their greatest danger since departing Acre, for they discovered that the old Roman coastal road had become impassible, an overgrown track that would never support an army of fifteen thousand men, six thousand horses, and heavy baggage carts. For the first time, they were compelled to leave the sea, following the Dead River until they reached an inland road that ran parallel to the coast. They soon found themselves under heavy attack by three divisions of the sultan’s army, led by Salah al-Dīn himself.

THE SUN WAS NOT YET high in the sky, but Richard was already fatigued, for he’d been pushing himself without surcease, trying to be everywhere at once. He and his knights galloped up and down their lines, making sure that the army continued on the move, in such a tight formation that it was impossible to throw a stone into their ranks without hitting a man or horse. His crossbowmen did their best to keep the deadly Saracen horse archers at a distance, and when they swooped in for hit-and-run attacks, Richard