Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,253

with his spear. The horse reared up, hooves slipping on the muddy bank, and he and Morgan went over backward. Morgan managed to fling himself from the saddle, but his helmet’s chin strap snapped and it flew off as he fell. While his mail coif absorbed some of the impact, his temple struck the edge of a dropped Saracen shield. When he recovered his senses, Warin was pulling him to his feet, the battle was lost, and he was bleeding profusely from a deep gash above his eye.

THEY’D BEEN DISARMED, their reins cut, and their horses were being led on ropes by their captors. The Earl of Leicester had no fears for his own life, for he’d make a valuable hostage. His household knights did not doubt that he’d do his best to ransom them, too, just as Warin and Morgan knew Richard would pay whatever was demanded for their freedom. There were several Flemish knights among them, though, and their lord lay dead in an Arsuf church. Without Jacques d’Avesnes to pay for their release, they might end up in the slave markets of Damascus or Cairo, and their dazed expressions showed that they understood how precarious their future was. Yet all of them were concentrating upon staying in the saddle, for any man who could not keep up was a liability.

This was Morgan’s greatest concern. Despite applying pressure to his wound with the palm of his hand, he’d been unable to staunch the bleeding and he was feeling very lightheaded. If he lost consciousness, he could expect no mercy, and he clung to his saddlebow so tightly that his fingers grew numb. He was seeing the world through a red haze when he attracted the attention of one of their guards. He signaled a halt and reined in beside Morgan’s horse, drawing a dagger from his boot. The closest knights began to shout and Morgan froze, trying to brace himself for the coming blow. The Saracen ignored the protests of the other prisoners. Reaching out, he grabbed the edge of Morgan’s surcote. With one deft slash of his blade, he cut off a wide swatch of cloth and handed it to the stunned Welshman. Morgan folded it and clasped it to his wound, huskily giving thanks, first to his God and then to his captor, surprising the latter by expressing his gratitude in halting Arabic.

While it was difficult to gauge direction without the sun, Morgan guessed they were heading south toward Latrun, for that was where the Saracen advance guard was camped. The makeshift bandage had finally stopped the bleeding, but his head was still spinning and he found himself fighting off nausea. Although he was beginning to doubt that he’d be able to hang on until they reached Latrun, he refused to despair. He was not going to die on this desolate, muddy plain so far from home. Surely God had not brought him all the way to Outremer only to deny him even a glimpse of the Holy City.

During the summer, dust clouds would have warned of approaching riders before they could actually be seen. Now both captors and captives were taken by surprise. The Saracens tightened their grips on their spears and the hilts of their swords. The earl’s men no longer slouched in their saddles. All eyes were upon those distant horsemen. Were they Turkish reinforcements? Or a Frank rescue party? They were almost within recognition range now, moving fast. A sudden glimmer of sun broke through the cloud cover, illuminating the scarlet and silver colors of a streaming banner, and a knight with keener eyesight than the others let out a joyful shout. “It’s de Chauvigny!”

The Saracens did not recognize André’s cognizance, but their captives’ excitement told them all they needed to know. A tense, terse discussion followed, the prisoners assuming they were arguing whether to fight or flee. When they unsheathed their swords, it was obvious the decision had been made.

“St George!” The battle cry was still echoing on the chill December air when the knights couched their lances and charged. Men were yelling in Arabic and French, but the noise seemed oddly muffled to Morgan, for there was a strange ringing in his ears. From the corner of his eye, he saw Leicester try to grab a Saracen spear. When one of the knights’ horses bolted, Morgan’s mount shied sideways, almost unseating him. He felt a jolt of fear, for he knew if he fell under those plunging hooves, he’d likely