Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,321

When the Saracens sought to rally around one of their emirs, it was Richard who spurred to meet him. And after Richard struck with such ferocity that his sword decapitated the other man, he soon found himself alone on the field with his knights and the dead.

Once they realized the battle was over and they’d actually won, Richard’s men went wild. Their jubilant celebration stopped abruptly, though, when they saw Richard galloping his stallion toward the enemy. As they watched, first in alarm and then in delighted disbelief, he rode the entire length of the Saracen line and none dared to accept his challenge.

ALL AROUND HENRI, men had slumped to the ground. Soon they would tend to the wounded, put any suffering horses out of their misery, search the bodies of the slain Saracens for valuables, and eat and drink their fill while cursing their enemy anew for smashing all of those wine kegs. But for now, they wanted only to rest their weary bodies and to give thanks to their God and their king, for this was a victory even more miraculous than their successful landing upon Jaffa’s beach four days ago.

Henri was willing to defer the duties of command, too, and just exult in their deliverance. He and Morgan and several other knights were seated on the trampled grass, sharing waterskins and trying to motivate themselves to move. Every now and then someone would mention the battle, marveling at Richard’s bravura performance and their own survival. They laughed loudly when Henri speculated how the French would react once they heard that the English king had saved Jaffa without their help. They did not stir, though, until Richard and André rode up.

Sliding from the saddle, Richard took a step, staggered, and sank to the ground. When Henri offered him a waterskin, he drank as if he could never quench his thirst, then unfastened his helmet and poured the rest of the water over his head. His face was etched with exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot, and his hauberk was bristling with arrows, so many that André joked he looked like a human hedgehog. He grimaced, for he’d not be able to remove his armor until they’d been extracted. “They are going to have to bring my tent to me,” he confessed, “for I could not stir from this spot even if a dagger were put to my throat.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Uncle,” Henri said with a grin, “for some of your feats today had us doubting that you are mere flesh-and-blood like the rest of us.”

“Oh, I am flesh-and-blood, Henri,” Richard said with a tired smile, and then showed them the evidence. Knights sought to protect their hands by wearing mail mittens called “mufflers,” usually attached to their hauberks, with split leather palms so a man could slide his hand out when not fighting. As Richard did that now, they saw that the muffler had been of little use, for he’d wielded his sword so constantly that his hand was swollen, the skin cracked and blistered and bleeding from the force of his blows.

HENRI OCCASIONALLY FELT as if he’d inherited another man’s life, for he had claimed Conrad’s wife, Conrad’s crown, even Conrad’s child. He’d also acquired Conrad’s espionage system and was delighted to discover that his spies were even better informed about Saladin’s court than those who served his uncle. On this Wednesday, a week after their narrow escape, he’d learned some fascinating details about that thwarted attack and was looking forward to sharing them with Richard.

As he walked through their camp, he could not stifle memories of that day; they came upon him unexpectedly, like sudden flashes of lightning in a clear sky. He found himself remembering his fear, a visceral dread of death that he’d not experienced before, despite facing constant danger since his arrival in the Holy Land. It had taken him a while to understand that it was because of Isabella, that she was his hostage to fortune now and he would always fear for her future and that of their children as much as he feared for his own safety. He would never be able to emulate Richard’s last gesture of defiance—gallant, glorious, and quite mad.

After a moment to reflect upon that, he began to laugh, realizing that he’d never have done it before his marriage, either. What man would? Only the Lionheart, whose Angevin empire now encompassed the realm of legend, too. Like all of the soldiers who’d watched Richard’s prowess that