Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,320

air, mingling with the smell of urine, for men had to relieve themselves where they were. They were all thirsty, rationing their water at Richard’s insistence, constantly slapping away buzzing insects and shifting to ease their cramped muscles. But none complained, for they were still alive.

Around noon, the Saracens tried another stratagem. During a lull in the fighting, Richard got an urgent message from the castle garrison. The enemy had gotten into the town, they reported, and people had panicked and were fleeing to the ships. Leaving Henri and Leicester in command, Richard took André, a few knights, and some crossbowmen, and hurried off to deal with this new crisis. With him gone, his men suddenly felt vulnerable again, but no attacks were launched; as far as they could tell, the Saracen forces seemed to be in disarray.

To no one’s surprise, Richard was soon back, with three captured horses, a fresh supply of bolts for his arbalesters, and bloodstains on his surcote that were not his. The crossbowmen who’d accompanied him were happy to boast about it to their comrades, saying the Turks had fled as soon as they saw him take on and defeat three Mamluks; he’d then hastened to the shore, where he convinced the fugitives to return to the town and dispatched most of the galley crews to help defend Jaffa, leaving only five men to watch over each ship. And on the seventh day, he rested, they chortled, for their brief respite from the claustrophobic confines of their cordon had greatly improved their morale.

The Saracens were taking longer and longer to muster their men for another assault, and when it did come, it lacked the energy or intensity of the first charges. It was becoming apparent to the crusaders that the enemy was growing discouraged, upset by their lack of success against a much smaller force, and fatigued by their exertions under a hot sun. This was what Richard had been waiting for, and he called his mounted knights to him.

“They’ve worn themselves out,” he said. “Look how lathered their horses are. They are being prodded on by their commanders, but they have no more heart for it. It takes a lot out of a man to watch his friends die, and all for naught. So . . . now it is our turn.”

Despite the audacity of what he was proposing—their small band of knights against Saladin’s army—his men did not even blink, for they’d known that sooner or later, their king would take the offensive. And any doubts were easy to drown in the rising tide of enthusiasm; after having to remain passive for nigh on nine hours, they were eager to hit back. Once they were lined up, stirrup to stirrup, lances couched, Richard signaled to his spearmen, who hastily cleared an open space, and under cover of heavy crossbow fire, the knights charged.

They caught their foes by surprise, never expecting that they’d dare to go on the attack. They hit the Saracen lines with such force that they broke through, scattering men like leaves on the wind, and actually penetrating as far as the Turkish rear guard. To those left behind, it was an odd experience, war transformed into a spectator sport. Accustomed to being in the midst of the fighting, they’d been relegated to the status of bystanders and that did not come easily to them. But they were under orders to hold the line, and so they could only watch from a distance and pray that their king had not overreached himself.

Richard was easy to pick out, identified by his crimson surcote, his loyal standard-bearer, and the way so many of his adversaries would sheer off rather than cross swords with him. At one point, he disappeared from view and his soldiers were faced with an impossible choice: rushing to his aid or obeying his command to maintain their formation. His discipline held and they waited anxiously until he eventually fought his way free. By now, they were cheering like men watching a tournament mêlée, and when they saw the Earl of Leicester’s horse stumble and throw him, they began to shout warnings as if they could be heard. Richard noticed Leicester’s plight, though, and rode to his rescue, holding their foes off long enough for the earl to remount. Again and again he recklessly charged into the Turkish lines, yet somehow he always emerged unscathed. When Raoul de Mauléon was surrounded and captured, Richard was the one who saved him.