Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,225

‘hellish day.’ But our suffering will be much worse if we march on like sheep to the slaughter. Why not hit back? If Saladin wants a battle, why not give him one?”

Richard stared at Beauvais in disgusted disbelief. “Because our scouts and spies say we’re outnumbered by nigh on two to one. We may be God’s army, but we are also Outremer’s only army, and another Hattīn would doom the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Are those enough reasons for you?”

Henri glanced from his uncle to the bishop, half expecting to see the air itself begin to smolder, so searing was the hatred that flared between the two men. Before Beauvais could retort, Henri said quickly, “They are enough reasons for me. But I see no harm in discussing this further if the bishop feels the need.” The look he got from Richard would have prickled the hairs on the backs of most men’s necks. He ignored it and forged ahead with a quizzical smile. “I was always taught that a battle should be the last resort—unless we had numerical superiority and could choose the site ourselves. Am I wrong?” Sounding as if he were genuinely seeking enlightenment, Henri looked about at the other men crowded into the tent.

As Henri had expected, none of them were willing to embrace the bishop’s rash insistence upon combat. Some were shaking their heads; a few seemed vexed that they were wasting time discussing one of the basic tenets of warfare—that pitched battles were too great a risk under most circumstances. Not even Robert de Dreux offered support, and finding himself abandoned by his brother, too, Beauvais lapsed into a sullen silence. Nor was his temper improved when Jacques sought to disperse any lingering tension with a joke. “Well, I’m for fighting on the morrow. After all, we have a two-to-one advantage.... Ah, wait, that is Saladin!”

Once the other men had departed and Richard was left alone with his nephew and a handful of friends, he confessed, “For a moment or two, Henri, I was intending to disown you.”

Henri grinned. “I could feel your fiery gaze burning into my back, Uncle, but I thought it would be better if I were the one to expose the good bishop for the malcontent we know him to be. If you and Beauvais had gotten into a serious altercation, the other French lords might have felt honor bound to support him. None of them were likely to agree that we ought to seek out a battle on the morrow, though. They know better than that.”

“So does that hellspawn,” Richard said bitterly. “Our bishop is no battle virgin. No virgin at all, I’d wager,” he added, unable to resist a swipe at Beauvais’s priestly vows. “The man may be a misbegotten, cankerous viper, but he’s spilled his share of blood. So he knows we’d be fools to fight unless forced to it. Nothing matters more to him, though, than making life as difficult for me as he can. And in that, he does not lack for allies—all of them French.”

“I am French!” Henri protested, with such mock outrage that the other men laughed and even Richard couldn’t help smiling.

“You show so much common sense that we tend to forget your unfortunate origins, Henri. And not all of your countrymen are malicious malcontents. My niece’s husband Jaufre is a man of honor.” Richard hesitated almost imperceptibly before admitting, “And I never thought to hear myself saying it, but so is Guillaume des Barres.”

Richard lay wakeful that night, for he knew how much he was asking of his men. Knights were trained to strike back when hit; to do otherwise was to court shame and dishonor. But a mounted charge was a double-edged sword. If launched at the right time, it guaranteed victory. If it was made too soon, they’d be vulnerable to a Saracen counterattack and the victory would be Saladin’s. Propping himself up on his elbow, he listened to the comforting nocturnal chant of their priests, invoking the aid of the Holy Sepulchre. Earlier, he’d heard the muezzins summoning Saladin’s soldiers to evening prayer, so close were the two army camps. Reminding himself that they were in God’s Hands, he finally slept.

THEY MOVED OUT at dawn, but it was already uncomfortably warm for men weighed down by armor, helmets, and padded gambesons. The sky was a pallid blue, as if faded by the sun, and the air was very still. Men tasting the salt of sweat on their lips were