Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,312

they were about to engage the enemy.

They could hear the words “Malik Ric” rippling through the Saracen ranks. But they held fast and a furious mêlée ensued, the street seething with thrashing bodies and flashing blades. It was then that what Richard had hoped would happen, did. The castle gate opened and men raced out, attacking from the rear. Caught between the garrison and Richard’s knights, those Saracens who could not flee were slain or surrendered, and it was soon over.

Once they realized they’d retaken the town, Richard’s knights erupted in wild cheering, and Richard himself was mobbed by the grateful garrison. They were all flying high, drunk on the sweet nectar of salvation, having expected to die in defense of the castle or as they staggered out of the surf. Richard shared the euphoria. He did not have the luxury of giving in to it, though, and once some of the jubilation began to ebb, he drew André and the Earl of Leicester aside.

“This is all well and good,” he said, “but it is no victory to celebrate. We’re trapped by Saladin’s army in a town that is in ruins, with not enough men to hold off another assault.”

“That is still better than bleeding to death on the beach,” André pointed out, “which seemed all too likely to me. If I may say so, my lord king, that was not one of your more rousing speeches to the troops. Follow me if you lust after martyrdom?”

Leicester’s eyes widened. Despite his own impressive exploits in the Holy Land, he still felt like a green stripling when measured against the battlefield fame of the older men, and he was too much in awe of Richard to treat him with André’s easy familiarity.

“I’ll try to do better next time,” Richard said dryly. He smiled, yet he was not altogether joking when he added, “Let’s hope that Henri does not loiter along the way, for if he does not arrive with the rest of our army soon, I’ll have no choice but to make that martyrdom speech again.”

AS HIS GALLEY headed south, its sails billowing in the wind, Henri stared at the passing shoreline, but he was not really seeing the rocky sea cliffs or the distant hills. He was so tense that he felt as if even his eyelashes were clenched, and he’d not eaten for hours, not trusting his stomach. Their march had gone well—until they’d reached Caesarea on Saturday. There they’d learned that a large Saracen force blocked the road ahead, commanded by Salah al-Dīn’s new ally, the son of the Assassin chieftain, Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān. After much heated discussion, it was decided that they dared not advance farther, for the loss of their army would be more calamitous to the kingdom than the loss of Jaffa. It was a painful lesson for Henri in the harsh realities of life in Outremer and the need to defer to the opinions of more experienced men, in this case the poulain lords and the Grand Masters of the Hospitallers and Templars. He understood their caution; the disaster at Ḥaṭṭīn had left them all with scars. But he could never have waited at Caesarea, not without losing his mind, and after he discovered a galley in the harbor, he filled it with knights and sailed on Sunday morning for Jaffa.

He was dreading what they would find, and by the time they passed the ruins of Arsuf, he was pacing the deck like a man possessed, for they were less than ten miles now from Jaffa. Did the town still hold out? Had his uncle launched an assault, thinking he had reinforcements on the way? His mental musings were so dark that he felt a rush of gratitude when Morgan joined him, hoping the Welshman’s voice could drown out his own thoughts. But Morgan’s mood was none too sanguine, either, and he said morosely, “Forget the threat of Hell’s infernal flames. The true torture would condemn a man to wait and wait and wait—for an eternity.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that.” The hollow sensation in Henri’s stomach got worse, for the church of St Nicholas had come into view. Jaffa lay just ahead. Closing his eyes, Henri said a silent prayer—for his uncle, for those trapped in the besieged city, for his new homeland.

One of the sailors had gone up into the rigging to keep watch and he suddenly let out a yell, standing precariously upon the mizzenmast. His words were incomprehensible