to approach him, for he put them in mind of a smoldering fire, one that could flare up at any moment. But the Préaux brothers were deeply grateful that Richard had taken such pains to bolster their spirits in the months since Guilhem’s capture, periodically summoning them to offer reassurances that he still lived and promising to find a way to secure his freedom. They felt they owed it to Richard to try to ease his troubled mind, and when he finally halted his pacing, they moved to his side.
“Jaffa still holds out, sire. Their faith in you will give them the courage to resist, for they know nothing short of death could keep you from coming to their rescue.”
They’d meant well, but their comfort only salted Richard’s wounds. Jaffa’s fall would be a devastating blow to Outremer’s survival. Its loss would cut the kingdom in half, shattering crusader morale and causing Saracen spirits to soar, resulting in the swelling of Saladin’s army just as the French were defecting. Richard was well aware of that, for he’d always been one for strategic planning. For now, though, what he found hardest to bear was that he’d failed the men who’d trusted him. Would they pass up chances to make a peaceful surrender, sure that he was on the way as Jean de Préaux insisted? God help them if so, for if the town and castle were then taken by storm, they could expect no mercy. Their faith in him could doom them all.
It was then that André lurched into Pierre de Préaux; he rode like a centaur, but he was always clumsy on the deck of a pitching ship. “May I have a private word with you, my liege?” He didn’t wait for a response, turning toward their tent, and Richard had no choice but to follow. As soon as they were inside, André said, “I have a favor to ask of you, Cousin. For the love of God, lie down and try to get some rest. Since we left Acre, you’ve slept less than a cat treed by a pack of dogs, and not only are you wearing yourself out with all this pacing and fuming, you are wearing us out just watching you!”
Richard objected, more from contrariness than anything else. But André was right; he was tired. Sitting down on the bed, he rubbed his eyes and then his temples, hoping to head off a dull, throbbing headache. When he looked up again, André was gone. After a time, he dropped to his knees by the bed. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.” The Latin phrases came unthinkingly to his lips, but what followed was not so much a prayer as a desperate cry from the heart.
“Lord God, why dost Thou keep me here when I am going in Thy Service?” There was no answer, of course. He knew what the priests said, that the Ways of the Almighty were beyond the understanding of mortal men. But why would God not send the winds to bring him to Jaffa? How could He want Jaffa to fall to the Saracens? And why had He ever allowed Jerusalem to be lost? Getting to his feet, Richard lay down on the bed, bringing his arm up to shield his eyes from the sun streaming through the open tent flap. Not my will, but Thine, be done. Easy enough to say, but so hard to accept. And yet such acceptance was the cornerstone of their Christian faith. Thy Will be done.
He hadn’t expected to sleep, but after a while, he dozed, lulled by the rocking movement of the ship and the rhythmic splashing of waves against its hull. When he awoke, André and the Earl of Leicester were bending over the bed, their faces so joyful that he knew at once what they’d come to tell him. Sitting up, he heard what was surely the sweetest of all sounds—the flapping of canvas as the sails were unfurled. “The winds have changed!”
“Yes, they are blowing now from the north!”
“Thank God!” Richard closed his eyes for a moment. “Thank God and all His good angels!”
BY SEA, IT WAS ONLY forty-six miles from Haifa to Jaffa, and the ship’s master assured Richard that they’d be there sometime that night. The wind continued to pick up, though, and within hours, their small fleet was scattered. Richard refused to despair; at least they were being swept in the right direction. After midnight, the moon rose. It