Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,248

soon found themselves surrounded. The knights then resorted to a desperate maneuver, dismounting and standing back to back as they prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible; their order prided itself upon never surrendering or paying ransom. It was then that André de Chauvigny and fifteen of his household knights arrived upon the scene, drawn by the commotion. Their charge temporarily scattered the Saracens, but they surged back in greater numbers, and the Franks realized this was a battle they were not going to win.

TWO MILES AWAY, Richard was supervising the rebuilding of the stronghold at Casal Maen, pleased by his men’s enthusiasm for their task. It helped that the days were cooler now, although still much warmer than November temperatures back in their homelands. They were lugging bags of sand and lime and barrels of water toward a trough, making ready to mix a new batch of mortar when the sentries began to yell for the king.

The boy seemed unhurt, but he was reeling from fatigue and had collapsed upon the ground as soon as he’d blurted out his news. He was too weak to rise as Richard broke through the throng of men encircling him, panting so heavily that his narrow chest heaved as if he were having convulsions. Richard could barely hear his gasping words, and one of the first sentries to reach the squire stepped forward. “An attack by the Turks, sire, near Ibn Ibrak. He said there were too many of them for the Templars. Then other knights rode up, but they are outnumbered, too. It sounds as if they need help straightaway.”

“Get him water,” Richard ordered, his eyes searching the crowd of bystanders for knights who were already armed. He directed the Earl of Leicester and the Count of St Pol to lead a rescue mission, and then ran toward his tent, calling for his squires. They armed him with record speed. It still took awhile, though, for him to summon his own knights and fetch their horses, so by the time they rode out of camp, they dreaded what they might find.

It was to be even worse than they’d feared. They could already hear the familiar clash of weapons, the screams that indicated men and horses were dying up ahead. As they galloped toward the clamor, they were hailed by several Flemish squires from the foraging party, who’d been hiding in the underbrush by a dry riverbed. The youths were almost incoherent and none of them spoke fluent French, but they managed to communicate the one word that mattered, “Ambush.” The attack upon the Templars had been bait for a trap, and Leicester and St Pol had ridden right into it.

Richard spurred Fauvel toward the sounds of combat, the others strung out behind him. Ahead of him was a surging mass of men and horses, a wild mêlée in which it was obvious that the Franks were greatly outnumbered. As Richard drew rein, his knights caught up with him, crying out in horror at the sight meeting their eyes. One glance was enough to tell them that the embattled knights were doomed, but they could not dwell upon that now, for they owed a greater duty to their king than to their cornered comrades. Gathering around Richard, they began to urge him to retreat, arguing that they did not have enough men to rescue the others and if Richard died in a futile attempt to save them, their hope of defeating Saladin would die with him.

Richard angrily cut off their entreaties. “I sent those men out there, promising that I would follow with aid. If they die without me, may I never again be called a king.” And with that, he couched his lance and charged the Saracens, shouting the battle cry of the English Royal House, “Dex aie!”

He impaled the first man to challenge him, flinging him from the saddle with such force that he was dead before he hit the ground. Dropping his broken lance, Richard then unsheathed his sword and urged Fauvel into the fray again, attacking so furiously that the enemy soldiers shied away, seeking easier prey. By now his men knew he was there, fighting with them, and not for the first time the presence of a king turned the tide of battle. They rallied, seizing the momentum Richard had given them, and drove the Saracens back, long enough for them to manage a retreat from the field.

It was not a victory, but for the men