Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,265

sire.” Richard knew this new speaker was a soldier, too, just by the look of him; he bore too many visible scars to be a civilian. He’d obviously been a prisoner for some time, for he was noticeably thinner than the sergeants captured near Ramla. But his smile was bright enough to rival the sun. “They recognized your banner, came racing back into camp screaming, ‘Malik Ric! Malik Ric!’ The next thing we knew, most of our guards bolted. They mounted their horses and fled into the castle, leaving us to fend for ourselves. You ought to have heard what the other Saracens called them, the ones who had the guts to stay and fight you!” He laughed hoarsely, and gratefully accepted a wineskin from one of the knights. “So we ran—stumbled is more like it—and took shelter in the church, where some of us were able to cut our bonds.”

Others were pressing forward, eager to tell their stories, too, to bear witness. Many of them were weeping joyfully and it proved contagious; some of the knights had begun to tear up, too. Henri shoved his way to Richard’s side, unashamedly swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. He was not surprised to see that his uncle was one of the few not overcome with emotion. He’d beckoned to several of the turcopoles, was instructing them to take word back to Ascalon that they’d be returning with twenty Saracen captives, some wounded knights, and at least a thousand freed prisoners, so they’d need horses and carts sent out to meet them. Turning toward Henri, he said, “I want to get us away from the castle ere some of those fugitive guards have second thoughts and decide they’d rather face me than explain their flight to Saladin.”

“What an amazing day, Uncle.” Henri was so exhilarated that he embraced the older man exuberantly, undeterred by the fact that they both were splattered with blood and mud. “I was so happy when Acre fell, but I think this is an even more glorious victory. When I’m an old man, I’ll be bouncing my grandsons on my knee and boring them to tears as I relate yet again the story of the great Dārūm rescue!”

Richard glanced at Henri, then at the jubilant men still clustered around them. “It was a good day’s work,” he acknowledged. “But do you know why we were successful?”

To the freed prisoners, it was a puzzling question, for they thought the answer was obvious—God had wrought a miracle on their behalf. Richard’s knights agreed with them, although they felt they’d also benefited from the growing legend of Malik Ric. But when they said as much, Richard shook his head.

“We prevailed,” he said bitterly, “because there were no French here to hinder us.”

RICHARD’S NEXT MOVE was an attempt to reach an understanding with Conrad of Montferrat, again asking the marquis to join the army. Conrad flatly refused to come to Ascalon. He did consent, though, to talk with Richard, and it was agreed that the two men would meet at Casal Imbert, halfway between Tyre and Acre.

ANDRÉ WAS NOT THERE to insist that Richard take a safe escort with him on his way to the rendezvous with Conrad. He’d been gone for more than a fortnight, having volunteered to make a risky January sailing to Italy. Since he could not fight whilst his blasted arm healed, he’d grumbled, he might as well do something useful and see what he could learn at the papal court. Richard was reluctant to let him go; in the parlance of soldiers everywhere, he and André had always had each other’s backs. But his need for information was urgent, especially now that Philippe was back in France, and he could not very well object to the dangers of the sea voyage when André faced equal dangers on a daily basis in Outremer. So he’d agreed, but his cousin’s absence was one more discontent in this winter of so many.

After passing a few days in Jaffa with his wife and sister, he headed north, accompanied by a large contingent of knights and a sizable force of Templars, for he’d learned that his nephew could be as blunt-spoken as André when it came to berating him for taking needless risks. Their coastal journey stirred memories of their march to Arsuf nigh on six months ago; to all of them, it seemed much longer.

By February 19, they’d reached Caesarea. Back in September, it had been deserted,