for he was too valuable a hostage to be slain. On impulse, Morgan called out “My lord count!” and moved toward the other man. “I’ve a favor to ask,” he said as Henri turned in the saddle. “If I die today, will you tell the Lady Mariam that my last thoughts were of her?” He’d had enough combat experience to know that would not be true; a man would be thinking only of how to save himself. And Mariam was shrewd enough to know that. But the message might still be of some comfort to her. “You know how women are,” he said with a self-conscious smile. “They are sentimental creatures and set a store by such things.”
“They do, indeed.” Henri nodded in agreement, striving to match Morgan’s light tone. “I will convey the message should it come to that. And I’d have you convey the same message to my wife should the need arise.” They chuckled, affectionately indulgent of the foibles of their ladies, but neither man met the other’s eyes, shuttering the windows to the soul. And then Morgan hastened back to his fellow knights.
The waiting was over. They could see the golden banners of Saladin, could hear the ominous drumbeats that reminded them of their wretched march to Arsuf nigh on a year ago. The Saracens halted as they realized they’d lost the element of surprise, but they wasted no time in getting into battle formation. The crusaders blinked back the sweat trickling down into their eyes, took whiteknuckled grips upon their weapons, and sought reassurance in their king’s undaunted demeanor. “Hold fast!” he urged, sounding coolly confident. “We can do this!”
The Saracen drums had picked up their tempo, and then, with wild yells and the blare of trumpets, they charged. Morgan was accustomed to fighting on horseback; he discovered now that the ground beneath his feet actually vibrated with the thudding of thousands of hooves. The enemy bowmen were shooting arrows, displaying their remarkable proficiency at a skill the Franks had never mastered. But most of the arrows bounced off their shields. Richard waited until his arbalesters were squirming with impatience, their fingers twitching toward the triggers. When he gave the command, the air hummed as the bolts were loosed. Horses shrieked and stumbled; men were slammed back against their saddle cantles, crying out in pain. Still they came on and the crusaders braced for the impact, continuing to kneel behind their shields as horses and riders thundered down upon them, even though their every instinct was to run.
But at the very last moment, the Saracens veered off. Not a single man tried to breach that barbed wall. They swerved aside, racing their horses down the line of spears and shields, seeking in vain for a weak link in the defensive chain, and then they were in retreat, with the crossbowmen’s bolts continuing to find targets until they were out of range.
There was a stunned silence, broken by a burst of triumphant laughter. “Did I not tell you how it would be?” Richard exclaimed. “We need only hold fast, lads, and victory will be ours!”
Men began to breathe again, to measure their lives in more than minutes. They thanked God and laughed and looked at Richard with awestruck eyes. He let them savor the moment and then reminded them that it was not over yet. “We must not let down our guard. They’ll be back.”
RICHARD WAS RIGHT; a second charge soon followed. It was no more successful than the first, the men and horses either unable or unwilling to brave that menacing barricade. A third try to dislodge the crusaders failed, too, and even at a distance they could see the mounting frustration and fury of the Saracen commanders. The marksmanship of their arbalesters was taking a high toll; the field was strewn with the bodies of wounded or dying men and stricken horses. Their crossbowmen had none of the knights’ affection for horses and gleefully targeted them, for a dead one meant an injured or stranded rider.
Their own losses so far had been very light, men hit by the enemy’s showershooting tactics, which rained arrows down upon them but did not do serious damage because of their shields and armor. The temperature had soared as the sun climbed in the sky and their hair became matted and sodden underneath their helmets, their bodies drenched in sweat, their voices hoarse from breathing in so much dust. Steaming piles of manure from the knights’ mounts fouled the