Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,230

troubled.

“Uncle!” Henri was so close now that Richard could see he was fighting back tears. “Jacques d’Avesnes is missing. No one has seen him since the battle.”

THE MAN ON THE BLANKETS was young, blessed with a handsome face and robust body. But he was dying, for his injuries were beyond the healing skills of the Hospitallers’ surgeons. Two kings were keeping watch at his deathbed, and so many barons and bishops that there was barely room for them all in the tent, for he’d been recognized as one of Jacques d’Avesnes’s household knights, and they hoped that he’d be able to tell them what had befallen his lord.

As they waited, they spoke quietly among themselves. The soldiers who’d gone back to the battlefield in search of booty had reported that they’d encountered some of Saladin’s men, come to collect their wounded. Both sides had ignored one another, by common consent, and there’d been no more blood spilled. They’d reported, too, that at least thirty-two emirs had been slain and there were more than seven hundred Saracen bodies. But they’d found no survivors, and Jacques d’Avesnes’s fate remained a mystery—unless this mortally wounded Flemish youth could speak in the little time left to him.

Richard and Guy had been summoned when the knight had shown signs of regaining consciousness, and as they watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest, Guy confided how much he owed to Jacques, who’d arrived at Acre soon after the start of the siege. “Not only did he bring desperately needed men and supplies, he did much to raise our spirits. He never doubted that we would prevail and his faith was contagious.”

“Do you know if Jacques has a son?” Richard asked, gazing down at the Fleming and finding himself overwhelmed with sadness, even though he knew that a man who died fighting for God would have all his sins remitted as a martyr to the True Faith.

“Yes, four sons,” Guy said, “and four daughters, too. He often joked about the difficulty of finding husbands for them—” He stopped abruptly and Richard saw why; the young knight’s lashes were fluttering again.

Supported by one of the surgeons, he managed to swallow some wine. His eyes were dulled with pain, but he was lucid, and he wanted to bear witness. He was too weak to summon up his French, gasping in his native Flemish as Baldwin de Bethune leaned over to translate those labored, whispered words.

“He says it happened when the Saracens made that second attack. They were cut off and surrounded. They still hoped to break free, but then his lord’s stallion stumbled and threw him. He says Lord Jacques fought with great courage, even though he knew he was doomed. His knights were struck down as they sought to reach him. . . .”

Jacques’s friends and fellow crusaders had known the news would be bad and thought they were braced for it. They were discovering now that they were not, and there were tears, a few muffled sobs, and the anguished cursing of men struggling to accept God’s Will. The Bishop of Salisbury was about to offer the comfort of prayer when Baldwin leaned over the dying man again. Straightening up, he raised a hand for quiet.

“There is more. He says a lord was nearby, a man Jacques knew well. When he was unhorsed, he cried out to his friend for aid. Instead this man rode away with his own knights, leaving them to be slain by the infidel Turks.”

This was a serious accusation, and there was an immediate outcry, demands to know the name of the craven cur who’d abandoned another Christian lord to save his own skin. “He says . . .” Baldwin paused, his eyes searching the tent until he found the one he sought, standing in the rear. “He says it was the Count of Dreux who refused to help his lord.”

Robert of Dreux’s face flooded with color. “That . . . that is not true! He lies!” His gaze shifted frantically from one man to another, seeking allies, seeking champions. He found none. They all were regarding him with shock and disgust, even Hugh of Burgundy and his own brother, Beauvais. No one spoke as he continued to protest his innocence, swearing that this Flemish whoreson was lying. Seeing their disbelief, he switched tactics, insisting that the man was out of his wits with fever and pain. But their continued, stony silence told him that his frenzied denials were a waste