hauberk was a deep scarlet. Just as no one could ever overlook his presence on the battlefield, the Sea-Cleaver would draw all eyes, proclaiming that the English king was aboard. It led the way toward the shore and soon had the attention of the men on the beach. They did not seem alarmed; their faces reflected amazement and disbelief that the Franks would dare attempt a landing. There was something oddly lethargic about their reaction, but Richard did not have the time to puzzle over it, for the ship had reached the shallows.
When he judged it safe, he leaped over the side into the sea. Water rose to his hips. Paying his knights the ultimate compliment—never once glancing back to be sure they were following—he began to wade toward the shore, a crossbow in one hand, his drawn sword in the other. As he emerged from the water, a man ran forward, shouting in a language he did not know; he thought it might be Kurdish. Richard was not fully armed, for there’d been no time to put on his mail chausses; this made his bare legs vulnerable to attack. He had been taught to watch his adversary’s eyes and he caught that quick downward glance as the Saracen soldier came within striking range. He was ready, therefore, when the man lunged, pivoting and then slashing at that outstretched arm. There was a scream, blood spurted over them both, and he turned to face his next foe. There was none. Men were standing as if rooted, staring at him, but none moved to the attack.
For the first time, he looked back, saw his knights and crossbowmen struggling ashore. Pierre de Préaux was just a few feet away. Panting heavily, he had no breath for speaking and gestured with his sword. Richard spun around to see a horse and rider bearing down upon him. He’d dropped the crossbow when he’d confronted the Kurdish soldier and he quickly snatched it up. It was already loaded; he had only to aim and fire. The bolt hit the other man in the throat and he tumbled from the saddle. Richard made a grab for the reins, but the rider’s foot had caught in the stirrup, and as his body slammed into the horse’s legs, the animal panicked and bolted.
Richard swore, for they had no horses with them. By now several knights had reached his side, offering lavish praise for that remarkable shot, laughing when Richard admitted he’d been aiming for the man’s chest. They were all a bit giddy, most not having expected to get this far, thinking they’d be cut down while they were still in the water. Some of the Saracens had begun to shoot at them, but their arrows were embedding themselves in the armor of the knights, doing no real damage. Richard’s Genoese and Pisan arbalesters, just now coming ashore, were much more effective. Taking turns, one man shooting while another loaded, they unleashed a barrage of bolts that soon had their foes in retreat. Richard still marveled at the half-hearted resistance they’d encountered so far, but he wasted no time taking advantage of it. Now that they’d established a beachhead, they needed to hold it, and he gave orders to scavenge driftwood, planks, barrels, wood from the half-buried hulks of wrecked galleys, whatever they could use to erect a barricade.
Leaving his crossbowmen and men-at-arms to put up a makeshift shelter, Richard then led some of his knights toward the northeast wall, saying he knew a way into the town. None thought to question him; after their amazing success so far, they’d have believed him had he said they were going to fly over the walls. He had something more prosaic in mind—a stairway cut into the rocks that led up to a postern gate. The steps were so narrow that only one man at a time could climb them, making him so vulnerable to defenders up on the wall that it was easy to see why no Saracen had attempted it. Not having to fear an aerial assault, Richard and his men quickly reached the postern gate. A few blows with a battle-axe shattered the wood and they found it gave entry into a house built against the town wall. It belonged to the Templars, Richard said, his statement soon confirmed by the discovery of a body propped up in bed, still clutching a sword, his brown mantle with the red cross signifying him to have been a brother