awake until one of his knights rushed into his tent, crying out that they were under attack.
Henri had never armed himself so quickly, not bothering with his mail chausses in his rush to put on his gambeson, hauberk, and helmet. Hastening outside, he came upon a chaotic scene. Men were dashing about, some halfdressed, a few not even wearing their braies, clad only in their padded aketons, all clutching their weapons and looking about frantically for the enemy. Catching sight of Morgan and Raoul de Mauléon, Henri ran toward them. As they fumbled to fasten their aventails and buckle their scabbards, they told him what little they knew. Morgan had heard that a Genoese crossbowman had ventured from camp to take a piss and saw the dawning sun reflecting off the helmets and shields of an approaching army. Raoul reported rumors that the Saracens had split into two bands, one intent upon capturing the king, the other meaning to retake Jaffa and deny them that refuge. They were joined now by the Préaux brothers, who said Saladin himself was leading his troops, so many thousands that they were surely doomed. Henri did not know whom to believe and he began to search for his uncle.
He finally found Richard surrounded by crossbowmen and men-at-arms. Like Henri, he was bare-legged, but that was the only evidence that he’d been torn rudely from sleep. He seemed to be an island of calm in the midst of a storming sea, and his composure alone drew men to him, straining to hear what he was saying.
“This is what I want each one of you to do. Brace yourself with your right knee on the ground, your left leg bent. Hold your shield in your left hand, your spear in your right hand. Drive the butt of the shaft into the ground so it is anchored at an angle with the spearhead aimed at the height of a horse’s chest.” Richard directed his attention then to his arbalesters, addressing himself to the Genoese and Pisan sergeants who could translate for their men. “I want a crossbowman standing behind each two spearmen so he can be sheltered by their shields, and another of your men right behind him, both of them with their bows spanned. As soon as the first man shoots, he’ll switch bows so he can keep shooting.”
Richard would not normally have spelled out his orders in such detail, but he knew men’s wits could be clouded by fear, and their only hope of survival depended upon them understanding exactly what was expected of them. That seemed to be the case; they were exchanging glances and nodding, some even smiling as they grasped what he had in mind. He was turning to summon his knights when a quavering voice from the ranks of the spearmen cried out, “Will . . . will this truly work, my lord?”
Glancing back impatiently, Richard saw that the speaker was very young, so pale that his freckles stood out like scars, round blue eyes filled with entreaty and barely controlled panic. “Of course it will work, lad,” he said heartily, as if surprised the question could even be raised. “Horses have eyes and brains, do they not? You think they’ll want to impale themselves on your spear? If you were a horse, would you?” Clapping the youngster on the back with a wink and a grin, he was relieved when the boy mustered up a weak smile of his own, for nothing was as contagious as fear.
As he swung away from the arbalesters and spearmen, he was thankful to see André, Leicester, and Henri standing a few feet away, for there was no time to search for them; every passing moment brought Saladin’s army closer to their camp. “You heard, then? I want the knights to array themselves like the spearmen and those who are mounted to anchor our line near St Nicholas Church—” They were staring at him so oddly that he paused. “What?”
“A barricade of bodies, bristling with spears. That is bloody brilliant.” André was looking at Richard as if seeing a stranger. “How did you ever come up with it?”
“I did not. It is a Saracen defense tactic.” Richard smiled grimly. “I am not too proud to learn from an enemy.” Beckoning them to step in, he lowered his voice. “We have fifty-four knights, but only eleven horses. The ones taken from Saracens are battle-worthy, but the others are palfreys, cart horses, and nags. Still, better than