Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,229

were ready, and then couched his lance.

“Now!” As their infantry sprang aside with practiced coordination, Richard cried, “Holy Sepulchre, aid us!” and they charged. The Saracens unable to get out of the way were slain when the knights slammed into their ranks, for an armed knight on a galloping destrier had such momentum that a lance could run a man through like a pig on a spit, piercing armor, flesh, and bone with lethal ease. Overwhelmed by this iron onslaught, Salah al-Dīn’s soldiers fled back toward the safety of the forest, with the crusaders in close pursuit. Richard halted the chase before they could advance too far into the woods, for a Saracen army was never more dangerous than in retreat.

Leading his men back onto the bloodied battlefield, he gave orders to collect their wounded—the dead would have to wait. Once he was satisfied that his soldiers were on the alert for another Saracen attack, he rode toward the squadron of French knights who’d fought under Guillaume des Barres, and these two former enemies shared a moment that mattered more than grudges or grievances or royal rivalries, for there was a brotherhood of the battlefield that men like Richard and Guillaume honored above all else.

THE BATTERED CRUSADER ARMY resumed its march toward Arsuf. But as they approached the camp already set up by their vanguard, there was another attack upon their rear. Richard, with just fifteen of his own knights, led a third charge that drove them back toward a ridge of hills, and the battle of Arsuf was finally over.

ARSUF WAS SITUATED on a steep sandstone ridge overlooking the sea, but the abandoned town was in ruins, razed by the Saracens, and the crusaders had to camp in the surrounding orchards. They were exhausted but triumphant, all the more thankful when they discovered that their casualties had been only one-tenth that of the Saracen losses. There were many wounded, though, and the surgeons’ tents were soon crowded. Before darkness fell, men began to slip away to exercise a soldier’s prerogative—plundering the dead.

Richard was in some discomfort, for his exertions on the battlefield had done his wound no good. He still insisted upon making the rounds of the camp himself, confirming that sentinels were on the alert, checking upon the injured, and offering praise to his soldiers, knowing they valued that almost as much as the booty they’d collected from their slain foes. The camp was abuzz with the exploits of Guillaume des Barres, Richard himself, and the young Earl of Leicester, who’d led a charge that had cut off some of Salah al-Dīn’s right wing.

“Is it true that Saracens were leaping off the cliffs into the sea to escape Leicester’s knights?” the Grand Master of the Templars asked Richard. “I have to admit that I’d not expected Leicester to show such prowess on the field, for he is on the puny side, after all.”

Richard shrugged. “Sometimes a man’s heart is big enough to overcome his body’s shortcomings,” he said, thinking of another undersized warrior, Tancred of Sicily. “I’ve been told that Saladin is only of middling height and slight build, and for certes, he has never lacked for courage.” He stopped to banter for a moment with several Angevin crossbowmen and then rejoined Robert de Sablé. “What Saladin did today was remarkable. Once an army breaks and runs, it is well nigh impossible to halt the rout, much less rally them to fight again, and yet he managed it.”

The Templar was more interested in discussing the Hospitaller breach of discipline. “Will you punish their marshal for charging on his own?”

Richard found the sharp rivalry between the Templars and the Hospitallers to be yet one more needless complication in his quest to retake Jerusalem. “I talked to William Borrel and the other knight, Baldwin de Carew. They both swear they thought they’d heard the trumpets.” Robert de Sablé looked skeptical of that. Richard was skeptical, too, but since there was no way to prove they lied, he had to give them the benefit of the doubt. Despite his frustration that the charge had been launched too soon, he couldn’t help admiring their mad courage in making such an assault—two knights against the might of Saladin’s army.

He saw his nephew approaching with Guy and Joffroi de Lusignan and he moved to meet them, wanting publicly to commend them for fighting so bravely that day. But then he saw their faces. Henri and Guy looked distraught and even the phlegmatic Joffroi appeared