Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,311

of the order, not a knight. His splinted leg explained why he’d died in bed, and the bloodstains on the bedding and floor gave evidence of the fight he’d put up, for they were obviously not all his. The men paused, honoring his sacrifice with an instinctive moment of silence, and then followed Richard as he headed for the outer door.

What struck them first was the stench of death. It was an odor they were all familiar with, but it seemed particularly foul in such sweltering summer heat. The street ahead of them was littered with the bodies of men and animals. By the Templars’ door, a large dog was sprawled, lips still frozen in a snarl. A man was floating in a nearby horse trough; another lay curled up beside an overturned cart, his entrails spilling into a puddle of clotted dark blood. The air hummed with the droning of feasting insects, while two vultures circled overhead, waiting to resume their interrupted meal. And everywhere were the rotting carcasses of pigs. But there were no Saracens in sight, raising immediate suspicions in Richard’s mind of ambush.

They advanced cautiously. All around them were the signs of a violent assault. Many of the houses had damaged roofs and a few of the trebuchet rocks had dug craters in the street. Doors had been smashed in by men in search of plunder, and arrows carpeted the ground. There were incongruous sights, too. A basket of eggs left on a bench. A woman’s red hair ribbon snagged on a broken wheel. A costly mantle discarded, soaked in blood. A child’s toy dropped in the dirt. Someone’s pet parrot, shrieking from the wreckage of its owner’s home. Evidence of disrupted lives, ill fortune, the human suffering foretold in Scriptures—Man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble.

After glancing around, Richard summoned Henry le Tyois, his standard-bearer, and told him to unfurl his banner where it would be visible to those in the castle. Henry scrambled up onto the wall, tossed down the sultan’s eagle, and replaced it with the golden lion of the English king. One of the knights hastened over to snatch up the Saracen banner, thinking it would make a fine keepsake. Just then a young man emerged from a mercer’s shop, heavily laden with bolts of expensive silks and linens. It was hard to say who was the more surprised, the knight or the looter. For a moment, they gaped at each other, and then the Saracen sensibly dropped his booty and fled.

“Christ Jesus,” Richard said softly, suddenly understanding. No commander as astute as Saladin would have allowed his soldiers to continue looting the town in the midst of an enemy rescue mission. That plundering was still going on could have only one meaning—the sultan had lost control of his men. “Close ranks,” he ordered, and they continued on.

As they turned into Jaffa’s main street, they halted abruptly, staring at the red liquid filling the center gutter. There were gasps, for many of them knew the story of the capture of Jerusalem in God’s Year 1099; the Christian army had slaughtered most of the Muslim and Jewish inhabitants of the Holy City, killing men, women, and children alike, boasting that their men had waded in blood up to their ankles. But after a closer look, Richard was able to reassure them. “Not blood, wine,” he said, pointing toward the pyramid of smashed kegs.

There were murmurings of relief, and one of Richard’s Poitevin knights, Raoul de Mauléon, evoked edgy laughter by saying loudly, “I can forgive a lot, but not the waste of so much good wine!” The laughter stopped, though, when they saw what lay ahead. A group of Saracens waited for them, swords unsheathed, arrows nocked and bows drawn.

Richard’s men already had their own swords out. After a quick look to make sure they were ready, he gave the command and they charged forward. Most of them shouted “Holy Sepulchre, aid us!” though a few invoked “St George!” or the “Dex aie!” of the English Royal House. But it was André’s battle cry that swiveled Richard’s head in his direction, for he was bellowing “Malik Ric!” at the top of his lungs. As their eyes met, he grinned. “I thought it only fair to warn the Saracens that they’re facing Lionheart,” he explained, and Richard felt a surge of affection for this man who’d fought beside him for so many years, who was able to jest as