Lionheart (67 page)

“Is it true that Saracens were leaping off the cliffs into the sea to escape Leicester’s knights?” the Grand Master of the Templars asked Richard. “I have to admit that I’d not expected Leicester to show such prowess on the field, for he is on the puny side, after all.”

Richard shrugged. “Sometimes a man’s heart is big enough to overcome his body’s shortcomings,” he said, thinking of another undersized warrior, Tancred of Sicily. “I’ve been told that Saladin is only of middling height and slight build, and for certes, he has never lacked for courage.” He stopped to banter for a moment with several Angevin crossbowmen and then rejoined Robert de Sablé. “What Saladin did today was remarkable. Once an army breaks and runs, it is well nigh impossible to halt the rout, much less rally them to fight again, and yet he managed it.”

The Templar was more interested in discussing the Hospitaller breach of discipline. “Will you punish their marshal for charging on his own?”

Richard found the sharp rivalry between the Templars and the Hospitallers to be yet one more needless complication in his quest to retake Jerusalem. “I talked to William Borrel and the other knight, Baldwin de Carew. They both swear they thought they’d heard the trumpets.” Robert de Sablé looked skeptical of that. Richard was skeptical, too, but since there was no way to prove they lied, he had to give them the benefit of the doubt. Despite his frustration that the charge had been launched too soon, he couldn’t help admiring their mad courage in making such an assault—two knights against the might of Saladin’s army.

He saw his nephew approaching with Guy and Joffroi de Lusignan and he moved to meet them, wanting publicly to commend them for fighting so bravely that day. But then he saw their faces. Henri and Guy looked distraught and even the phlegmatic Joffroi appeared troubled.

“Uncle!” Henri was so close now that Richard could see he was fighting back tears. “Jacques d’Avesnes is missing. No one has seen him since the battle.”

THE MAN ON THE BLANKETS was young, blessed with a handsome face and robust body. But he was dying, for his injuries were beyond the healing skills of the Hospitallers’ surgeons. Two kings were keeping watch at his deathbed, and so many barons and bishops that there was barely room for them all in the tent, for he’d been recognized as one of Jacques d’Avesnes’s household knights, and they hoped that he’d be able to tell them what had befallen his lord.

As they waited, they spoke quietly among themselves. The soldiers who’d gone back to the battlefield in search of booty had reported that they’d encountered some of Saladin’s men, come to collect their wounded. Both sides had ignored one another, by common consent, and there’d been no more blood spilled. They’d reported, too, that at least thirty-two emirs had been slain and there were more than seven hundred Saracen bodies. But they’d found no survivors, and Jacques d’Avesnes’s fate remained a mystery—unless this mortally wounded Flemish youth could speak in the little time left to him.

Richard and Guy had been summoned when the knight had shown signs of regaining consciousness, and as they watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest, Guy confided how much he owed to Jacques, who’d arrived at Acre soon after the start of the siege. “Not only did he bring desperately needed men and supplies, he did much to raise our spirits. He never doubted that we would prevail and his faith was contagious.”

“Do you know if Jacques has a son?” Richard asked, gazing down at the Fleming and finding himself overwhelmed with sadness, even though he knew that a man who died fighting for God would have all his sins remitted as a martyr to the True Faith.

“Yes, four sons,” Guy said, “and four daughters, too. He often joked about the difficulty of finding husbands for them—” He stopped abruptly and Richard saw why; the young knight’s lashes were fluttering again.

Supported by one of the surgeons, he managed to swallow some wine. His eyes were dulled with pain, but he was lucid, and he wanted to bear witness. He was too weak to summon up his French, gasping in his native Flemish as Baldwin de Bethune leaned over to translate those labored, whispered words.

“He says it happened when the Saracens made that second attack. They were cut off and surrounded. They still hoped to break free, but then his lord’s stallion stumbled and threw him. He says Lord Jacques fought with great courage, even though he knew he was doomed. His knights were struck down as they sought to reach him. . . .”

Jacques’s friends and fellow crusaders had known the news would be bad and thought they were braced for it. They were discovering now that they were not, and there were tears, a few muffled sobs, and the anguished cursing of men struggling to accept God’s Will. The Bishop of Salisbury was about to offer the comfort of prayer when Baldwin leaned over the dying man again. Straightening up, he raised a hand for quiet.

“There is more. He says a lord was nearby, a man Jacques knew well. When he was unhorsed, he cried out to his friend for aid. Instead this man rode away with his own knights, leaving them to be slain by the infidel Turks.”

This was a serious accusation, and there was an immediate outcry, demands to know the name of the craven cur who’d abandoned another Christian lord to save his own skin. “He says . . .” Baldwin paused, his eyes searching the tent until he found the one he sought, standing in the rear. “He says it was the Count of Dreux who refused to help his lord.”

Robert of Dreux’s face flooded with color. “That . . . that is not true! He lies!” His gaze shifted frantically from one man to another, seeking allies, seeking champions. He found none. They all were regarding him with shock and disgust, even Hugh of Burgundy and his own brother, Beauvais. No one spoke as he continued to protest his innocence, swearing that this Flemish whoreson was lying. Seeing their disbelief, he switched tactics, insisting that the man was out of his wits with fever and pain. But their continued, stony silence told him that his frenzied denials were a waste of breath. They believed this dying knight, and they would not forgive such a blatant breach of the code by which they lived. His honor would be tattered and tarnished until the day he drew his last breath.

AT DAWN, the Templars and Hospitallers went out and conducted a thorough search of the battlefield, at last finding the bodies of Jacques d’Avesnes and three of his kinsmen, who’d died with him. His mutilated corpse was washed and prayed over and then buried with great honor in the Minster of Our Holy Lady in Arsuf. Their army remained in camp on that Sunday, which was one of the most sacred holy days in the Christian calendar, the Feast of the Blessed Lady Mary, Mother of God. It was also Richard’s thirty-fourth birthday.

FROM THE HISTORY of Bahā’al-Dīn. “God alone knows the depth of grief which filled the sultan’s heart after this battle; our men were all wounded, some in their bodies, some in their spirits.”

THE CRUSADERS broke camp on Monday, and though they were harried again by Salah al-Dīn’s men, Richard kept them in formation and they marched on. The following day they at last reached Jaffa, almost three weeks after leaving Acre.

CHAPTER 27

SEPTEMBER 1191

Jaffa, Outremer

They huddled together, the flaring torches revealing both their poverty and their fear. Richard assumed that they were a family—an older couple, a young wife or widow, and two small children peering out from behind her skirts. The Templar
turcopole
interpreter beside him looked aggrieved, but the story he’d related was so improbable that Richard wanted confirmation from Humphrey de Toron; he’d come to trust the young
poulain
even though they were as unlike as wine and buttermilk. When Humphrey finally arrived, obviously roused from bed, Richard drew him aside.

“They told one of the
turcopoles
that they’ve come from Ascalon, that Saladin forced all the townspeople from their homes and set about destroying the city and castle. But I find that hard to believe, for Ascalon is one of the great jewels in the sultan’s crown. So I want you to question them for me.”

He watched intently as Humphrey interrogated the family, his Arabic so fluent and his manner so courteous that some of their fright appeared to lessen. Even though he didn’t speak the language, Richard did read faces well—a king’s survival skill—and he soon concluded that they were either speaking the truth or were remarkably skilled liars. But how
could
it be true?

When Humphrey was done, he shook his head, saddened but not surprised by yet more evidence of the suffering that war inflicted, usually upon the innocent and the helpless. “They say that Saladin arrived at Ascalon six days after the battle of Arsuf and personally supervised the destruction of their city. This created a panic, of course, as the townspeople sought desperately to sell what belongings they could not take with them. Their family was lucky enough to have a donkey cart, but many did not and the prices of horses soared, while the prices of household goods and livestock plummeted so low that a man could buy twelve chickens for only one
dirham
. Whilst some sought passage on ships to Egypt, most of the citizens did not know where to go, and there was much weeping and fear. The sultan opened the royal granary to the people, but most lost everything they owned. They had a candlemaking shop which is gone now, burned like much of the city. They say they are Christians, not Muslims, and so they hoped we would take pity on them.”

Seeing a question forming on Richard’s lips, Humphrey said swiftly, wanting to protect these poor wretches if he could, “I suppose they may be lying, but it could well be true, for it is not unusual to find native-born Christians living in Saracen towns. In fact, Saladin encouraged the Syrian Christians and Jews to remain in Ascalon after he captured it four years ago.” Adding reluctantly, “I can find out for certes if you wish, see if they know the
Pater Noster
, the
Ave Maria
, and the
Credo
—”

Richard cut him off impatiently, for he had more pressing concerns than the religious faith of these bedraggled refugees. “What would compel him to sacrifice such an important stronghold?”

“They say Saladin was sorely grieved, so much so that he took sick when he saw the misery of the townspeople, and they heard he’d even said he would rather have lost all of his sons than demolish a single stone of their city. But his soldiers told them that he’d been advised he could not defend both Ascalon and Jerusalem, and he feared that no garrison could be trusted to hold firm after the killing of the men at Acre. So rather than have it fall intact into your hands, he chose to destroy it.”

It was obvious to Richard that Humphrey believed them, but he was still not convinced that Saladin had truly taken a measure so desperate. “See that they are fed, Humphrey,” he said, and then looked around at the other crusaders, all of them dumbfounded, too, by what they’d just heard. “Take a galley at first light,” he told Joffroi de Lusignan, “and see if Ascalon is truly in flames.”

AS SOON AS Joffroi de Lusignan had finished speaking, Richard moved to the center of his tent. “Well, we know it is indeed true. But the city is not fully razed to the ground yet, so there is still time. I will take part of the fleet on the morrow whilst the Duke of Burgundy follows along the coast road. It is only thirty miles from Jaffa, so we ought to be able to seize the city ere Saladin can complete its destruction.”

“Attack Ascalon?” Hugh of Burgundy was staring at Richard in disbelief. “Why would we want to do that? Now that we hold Jaffa, we can march upon Jerusalem.”

Richard was taken by surprise, for the advantages of taking Ascalon seemed so obvious to him that he hadn’t expected to have to argue about it. “Ascalon controls the road to Egypt,” he said, striving to hide his vexation beneath a matter-of-fact demeanor, “and Egypt is the base of Saladin’s power. If we hold Ascalon, we can cut off his communications and supplies from Alexandria. Moreover, Saladin will fear that we mean to strike into Egypt itself, and so we could—”

“Have you lost your mind?” Hugh was on his feet now, but the Bishop of Beauvais was even quicker.

“I cannot speak for the rest of you,” he said angrily, “but I did not take the cross to help Lord Lionheart add Egypt to his Angevin empire! Was Cyprus not enough for you, Richard? Are you lusting after the riches of the Nile now, too?”

“I am not seeking to conquer it, you fool! It is enough if Saladin thinks we are, for if he believes his Egyptian domains are threatened, he’ll be all the more likely to agree to favorable peace terms—”

“Now we come down to it,” Hugh interrupted. “I’ve been suspicious of your intentions from the first, for you opened talks with Saladin as soon as you arrived at Acre, treating this infidel as respectfully as if he were another Christian prince. But I can assure you that the rest of us did not come to the Holy Land to make peace with the enemies of God. We came to recover the city of Jerusalem!”

“And how do you plan to do that, Hugh? We were able to reach Jaffa because we had the support of my fleet; they kept us supplied. When we head inland toward Jerusalem, we have to bring all our provisions with us. Have you even spared a thought to what a march like that would be like? We cannot put an army in the field to match Saladin’s; we cannot even replace the horses we lose!”

“What are you saying, my lord king?” Even though he was from one of the noblest families of France, Mathieu de Montmorency usually kept quiet in such councils, acutely aware that he was only seventeen years old and a battle novice. But he was too distraught now to remain silent. “You mean we have no chance of retaking the Holy City?”

“I am not saying that, Mathieu,” Richard assured the boy. “But we must first make sure we can protect our supply lines. If we had marched toward Jerusalem from Acre as some of you wanted, we would likely all be dead by now. We reached Jaffa because you listened to me, not the Bishop of Beauvais and his ilk. So heed me now. Ascalon is the key to Jerusalem, and if you doubt that, why would Saladin destroy it rather than risk its capture? It is not enough to take the Holy City. Then we must hold it. And if we have Ascalon, we just might be able to do that.”

Richard had been focusing his attention upon Hugh and Beauvais. Turning toward the others, he was dismayed by what he saw—or did not see. They looked troubled, uncertain, ambivalent, not like men who understood the truth, his truth. Even some of his own lords seemed conflicted. “Listen to me,” he urged, in what was as close as he could come to an entreaty. “I cannot stay in Outremer indefinitely. None of us can. You think Saladin does not know that? All he has to do is to outlast us, wait for us to go back to our own lands. This is why we must come to terms with him. And to get him to agree to a peace that both sides can live with, we need leverage. We need Ascalon.”

“You are giving the Saracens too much credit and our army too little.” Hugh had gotten his temper under control, and his calm certitude was more convincing than his earlier antagonism; even Richard could see that. “This is not just another squabble between the kings of England and France. This is a holy war, sanctioned by Almighty God. Can you not see what a difference that makes? Our Lord Christ died on this hallowed soil. Do you think He has led us this far to fail? You talk of strategy and supplies. But what of God’s Will? I say we continue refortifying Jaffa and then use it as a base to recapture Jerusalem.”

“The Almighty still expects us to do our part! By your logic, Hugh, Ḥaṭṭīn ought to have been a Christian victory since they had God on their side. Yet even God’s Army can be defeated if outmaneuvered and outnumbered.”

“I am glad that you recognize it is God’s Army, not your own,” Beauvais jeered. “If you want to chase off to Ascalon, do so. But the rest of us are going to honor our vows to recover the Holy City.”

Richard’s eyes glittered, his color rising. Before he could respond, Hugh seized the opportunity the bishop had given him. “Do you remember the question you posed to the French lords at Acre? You asked them whether they were going back to Paris with our king or going on to Jerusalem with you. I say we ask again. How many of you want to follow the English king to Ascalon? And how many of you would rather we lay siege to Jerusalem?”

It was soon apparent that Hugh and Beauvais would win the vote count. Richard was backed up by the Templars, the Hospitallers, Guy de Lusignan and his brothers, the other
poulain
lords, and most of his barons and bishops. But the crusaders from Europe saw Ascalon as a needless detour on the road to Jerusalem. Virtually all of the French, Flemings, Bretons, and some of Richard’s own vassals wanted to recover the Holy City as soon as possible, eager to see the sacred Holy Sepulchre for themselves and to walk in the Lord Christ’s blessed footsteps, but eager, too, to fulfill their vows so they could return to their homes and families and the lives they’d left behind.

Richard was shocked, for he’d honestly believed that his argument would carry the day. How could seasoned soldiers like Guillaume des Barres and the counts of St Pol, Chalons, and Clermont fail to see that he was in the right? Yet of the French lords, only Henri had loyally declared in favor of Ascalon; even Jaufre, looking stricken, had mumbled “Jerusalem.” For several moments, Richard considered going his own way, leading his men and Outremer’s lords south to seize Ascalon whilst letting the others fend for themselves. But that was the Devil whispering in his ear, for what could gladden Saladin more than such a schism in the Christian ranks?

“So be it,” he said curtly, for he was damned if he’d be a good sport about it, not when so much was at stake. “But it is a mistake, one we are all going to regret.”

HENRI AND ANDRÉ had been searching for Richard in growing concern, unable to understand how a king could suddenly disappear. They finally found him on the beach. The wine-dark sky was spangled with an infinity of shimmering stars, the moon silvering the whitecaps as they churned shoreward, a light, variable wind chasing away the last of the day’s heat. But the serenity of the night was at odds with the emotions unleashed by the scene in Richard’s command tent. He turned in the saddle as they rode toward him, and for a time they watched without speaking as the waves splashed onto the sand, receded, and surged back.

“How can they be so blind?” Richard asked after a long silence. His mood had swung from fury to frustration to bafflement; now he just sounded tired. “They are not fools, not even those whoresons Burgundy and Beauvais. So why would they not heed me?”

André had no answer for him, but Henri did. Reining in his horse beside Richard’s Spanish stallion, he said, “Because Hugh was right. A holy war
is
different. They are listening to their hearts, Uncle, and the heart is not always rational.”

“Are you saying that Jerusalem matters more to them than it does to me? God’s Bones, Henri, I was one of the first to take the cross!”

“No one doubts your devotion to our quest, Uncle. But you are a soldier, first and foremost, and most of them are now pilgrims, albeit armed ones. You want to win the war and secure a peace that Saladin will honor. They just want to recapture Jerusalem, whatever the cost. Try not to blame them for that.”