of Blanchegarde, a castle razed by Salah al-Dīn after the fall of Acre, and he thought it would be a good site to lay an ambush. His nephew Henri and some of his household knights rode off with him, but most of the men were content to remain in camp, repairing their rusted hauberks, getting deloused by the laundresses, and playing games of chance.
Morgan had recently adopted the poulain clean-shaven fashion, for it reminded him of home; the Welsh were beardless, confining their facial hair to mustaches. After shaving, he played chess with Warin Fitz Gerald, half listening as the men nearby discussed the women they’d encountered since leaving Marseille a year and a half ago. The consensus was that the whores of Outremer were younger and prettier than their wanton sisters in Naples, Sicily, and Cyprus, and they agreed it was a pity the king had made them stay in Jaffa. Morgan’s thoughts were turning toward Jaffa, too. Richard had decided his wife and sister were safer behind its newly rebuilt walls, but Morgan had heard he might fetch them for his Christmas court, and if so, Mariam would accompany them. He was eager for their reunion, though it would have to remain circumspect; there was no privacy in an army camp, not the sort a highborn lady like Mariam would expect.
Warin had just put the chess set away when the raid was launched. The Saracen bowmen did not actually invade the camp, but they fired off a shower of arrows, accompanied by taunts and catcalls. The Earl of Leicester and some of his knights had been about to go on patrol. Now they hastily mounted their horses and rode out to chase the intruders off. Warin and Morgan were members of Richard’s household, not Leicester’s, but they were bored and so they hurried to arm themselves, as did other men eager for adventure.
The Saracens retreated before Leicester’s charge, withdrawing across the River Ayalon and heading back toward the Judean hills. This had become a ritual by now, with both sides knowing their roles, and the young earl prudently halted pursuit as they approached the west bank of the stream. But three of his men had forged ahead, caught up in the exhilaration of the chase, and they suddenly found themselves surrounded by the enemy. When another knight alerted the earl that they’d been captured, Leicester let out a scalding burst of profanity that even Richard might have envied, calling the knights bloody fools, misbegotten dolts, and accursed half-wits. He still felt honor bound to rescue them and gave the command to advance. By now Warin and Morgan had caught up, and they exchanged troubled glances, the same thought in both their minds, their Michaelmas skirmish that had actually been bait for an ambush.
The crusaders overtook their foes on the other side of the river and for a brief time, it looked as if they’d be able to free their men and retreat to safety. But then the trap was sprung. More Saracens swept in behind them, cutting off escape. Almost at once, a well-aimed arrow brought down Leicester’s stallion and as he scrambled to his feet, he stumbled and slid down the bank into the water. It was not deep, but as he splashed to the surface, he was struck by a Saracen wielding a mace and went under. He came up sputtering, only to be hit again. By then, several of his men had reached him, and as they held off his attackers, another knight performed an act of loyalty that none would ever forget. Robert de Newburgh dismounted and offered the earl his own horse.
Leicester had already won himself a reputation for courage; indeed, he’d surprised some by his prowess, for he’d not been blessed with the physical advantages that men like Richard and Guillaume des Barres enjoyed. Never had he fought as fiercely as he did now, wielding his sword so savagely that he managed to keep his enemies at bay. But they were greatly outnumbered, and all around the earl, his men were being struck down. Warin Fitz Gerald had been unhorsed at the same time as Leicester, and he’d slumped to the ground after taking several blows by Saracens brandishing flanged maces. Fighting his way toward Warin, Morgan leaned from the saddle and held out his hand. “Swing up behind me,” he urged, for a man on foot was surely doomed.
Before Warin could reach him, a Saracen was there, thrusting at Morgan’s stallion