us!” and charged toward them.
Guilhem did the same. But it was no battle cry he was screaming. As he closed with two of the Saracens, he shouted, “Anaa Malik Ric! Anaa Malik Ric!”
The reaction of the Saracens was immediate and dramatic. Heads whipped around in his direction and he was encircled within moments, men snatching at his reins, others leveling swords threateningly at his chest. He did not struggle, dropping his sword to the ground and raising his right hand in the Syrian gesture of surrender. Having taken him prisoner, his guards yelled to their comrades as they bore him away. And as suddenly as that, the battle was over, Richard and the other crusaders watching in stunned disbelief as their foes shied off and raced away, leaving them alone on a field with their dead and wounded.
Morgan was the only one who understood what had just happened and he was still in shock. There was no time for fear when men were fighting for their lives, but now they could acknowledge it, could admit they’d been doomed and then given an inexplicable reprieve. Once they were sure the Saracens had truly gone, they turned their attention to the men on the ground. Richard swung from the saddle, dropping to his knees beside Renier de Maron. The poulain lord’s eyes were open, but they did not see him. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and his breath came in rasping gulps as the king grasped his hand. After a moment, Richard made the sign of the cross, closed those staring eyes, and rose to his feet. “How many?” he asked huskily, and winced when a shaken Warin Fitz Gerald told him they had four dead and several more were wounded.
Gazing down at the bodies of the L’Etable brothers, who’d been throwing dice with him and joking less than an hour ago, Warin found himself shivering despite the stifling heat. “Renier de Maron’s nephew is dead, too. His head was bashed in. Gilbert Talbot’s wound seems the worst.... And one of the horses broke his leg. God and His good angels looked after us this day, sire. But why? Why did they stop the fight?”
“I do not know,” Richard admitted, sounding just as mystified, “I do not know. . . .”
“I do.” As they all turned toward him, Morgan slid from his horse and leaned for a moment against the stallion’s heaving side, for he knew the blow he was about to inflict upon Richard. “It was Guilhem de Préaux who saved us, my liege. He shouted out that he was Malik Ric. The Saracens rode off because they thought they’d captured our king.”
There were exclamations from the men, cries of admiration for Guilhem’s courage mixed with fear for his likely fate. Richard said nothing, but all the color had drained from his face. It was only when he realized that they were looking to him for guidance that he pulled himself together and began to issue orders. They had to make the difficult decision to leave their dead for later retrieval; the slain knights’ horses had been seized and led off by the Saracen soldiers. After putting the thrashing stallion out of his misery, they assisted their wounded to mount and rode toward Jaffa at as fast a pace as the injured could endure.
They’d only covered a mile or so before they saw plumes of dust along the horizon. As the riders came into view, Morgan gave thanks again to the Almighty, for not only had Fulk gotten to their camp, he’d sent out a rescue party. André and Henri were in the lead, with the Earl of Leicester and Guillaume des Barres close behind. They were greatly relieved to see Richard was unhurt, but he cut off their rejoicing with a terse account of Guilhem’s capture, and as soon as the wounded were sent on to Jaffa, the others followed Richard as he wheeled Fauvel and led a pursuit of the Saracens that all knew was futile. But after glancing at Richard’s bone-white face, none of them argued with him and they continued on until he was ready to admit defeat.
By the time they got back to Jaffa, the camp was in an uproar, and they were mobbed by men wanting to see for themselves that the king was unharmed. The wounded knights had told of Guilhem’s heroic sacrifice and there was much talk of his bravery, but it was sorrowful praise, for all knew what had