all of Saladin’s army is engaged against us. We have to be sure that they’ll bear the full brunt of our charge. If not . . .” Richard didn’t bother to finish the sentence, for there was no need. They all knew what would happen to them if their charge failed to sweep the Saracens from the field. They’d be cut off, surrounded, and overwhelmed by sheer numbers.
HENRI WAS PROUD of the fortitude shown by the infantry under his command. They had performed heroically for hours, the crossbowmen doing their best to keep their Saracen foes at a distance, the spearmen defending them while they reloaded their weapons. He and his knights rode between the men-at-arms and the baggage wagons, occasionally making brief forays to chase the enemy away when they got too close. Henri wasn’t sure if he ought to admire the valor of infidels, but he did, nonetheless. They may be risking their lives and souls for a false god, yet they did so with courage and conviction. Would that offer any consolation—knowing that he’d die at the hands of brave men? This was such an incongruous thought that he laughed softly, earning himself a sharp glance from Jaufre.
“If you can find any humor in our plight, Henri, tell me—please.”
“A private jest, a very perverse one, too. Jaufre, do you think—Jesu!”
Jaufre swung around in the saddle at Henri’s exclamation, and his jaw dropped at the sight meeting his eyes. Two knights had leveled their lances and were spurring their stallions toward the Saracens, screaming a defiant battle cry, “Saint George, aid us!” As Henri and Jaufre watched, the Hospitallers wheeled their mounts and followed, nearly trampling their own infantrymen, who had to scramble to get out of the way. The French knights saw the Hospitallers go on the attack and after some confusion, they also joined in.
Henri turned toward Jaufre, his shock evident. “Did you hear the trumpets?” Jaufre shook his head, equally shocked. But Henri was already yelling and their men-at-arms hastily scattered, opening gaps in their ranks for the knights as they, too, charged the Saracens.
RICHARD AND HIS MESNIE had just driven off an attack by Salah al-Dīn’s Bedouins when they were alerted by the clouds of dust and screaming. Richard gasped, quick to comprehend what was happening, and shouted for the trumpets to sound. As the knights of the center and vanguard responded to the signal and charged, he raced for the rear guard, his knights spurring their stallions in a vain attempt to keep up with Fauvel.
The sudden charge by the Hospitallers had caught the Saracens by surprise and they took heavy casualties, particularly since some of their bowmen had dismounted to take better aim. By the time Richard got there, Salah al-Dīn’s right wing was either dead or in flight. He at once sought to halt the pursuit into the woods, for the Saracens excelled at ambush tactics; he himself had almost fallen into such a trap barely a fortnight ago. It was not easy to rein in soldiers still half drunk on that most potent of brews—an uneasy blend of rage, fear, and excitement—but he managed it, mainly by sheer force of will. The field was strewn with weapons and the bodies of men and horses, but he knew it was not over yet.
Recognizing the rider on a blood-splattered roan stallion, Richard called out and then waited for Henri to reach him. “Who led the charge?”
“Two knights broke ranks, shouting for St George, and then the rest followed after them. I assumed I’d not heard the trumpets midst all the noise, think the others did, too. You did not order the attack, Uncle?”
“I was waiting till Saladin had thrown his reserves into the battle. But when the charge began, of course I committed the rest of our army.” Even as he spoke to Henri, Richard’s eyes were sweeping the battlefield. “Do you hear that?” When the younger man looked puzzled, Richard pointed behind him, toward the Forest of Arsuf. “The drums. Saladin’s drums are still beating. He is trying to rally his men.”
“Sire!” Garnier de Nablus drew rein beside them. “Thank the Lord Christ that you changed your mind—” The Grand Master stopped, for he was adept at reading other men’s faces; his office required political as well as military skills. “You did not order the attack? But one of the men was William Borrel, our marshal! He would never have done that on his own, for discipline is one of the