Lionheart (68 page)

“I do not,” Richard insisted, not altogether truthfully. “But as I told them tonight, this was a mistake, a great mistake.”

They agreed, so emphatically that Richard took a small measure of comfort in their loyalty. But he remained convinced that they’d let a rare opportunity slip away, one that might not come again.

THEY CONTINUED WITH the refortification of Jaffa, Richard occasionally taking a hand himself in the repair work, which astonished his barons and endeared him to his soldiers. By Michaelmas, they’d made so much progress that Richard felt he could spare a few hours to go hawking in the low hills south of Jaffa. He’d brought his own gyrfalcons on the crusade; they were used mainly against cranes, though, and required greyhounds for the kill once the falcon had brought down its much larger prey. But Saladin had sent him a saker during his illness at Acre, and he was curious to try it out, having been told it was the main hunting bird of the Saracen falconers. They had a successful hunt, catching partridges and even a red hare. Richard was still restless, and after sending the falcons and their game back to Jaffa, he headed out to do reconnaissance.

This hunt was not as successful; they encountered no Saracen scouts or patrols. By now the enervating heat of midday was upon them, and when they found a small stream by a wild olive grove, they dismounted to water their horses and rest awhile. Bracing his back against a tree, Morgan was grateful to escape the Syrian sun, for he did not think he’d ever adjust to Outremer’s torrid climate. Off to his left, he could hear Richard talking with Renier de Maron, telling the
poulain
lord that they’d heard Conrad had been making overtures to Saladin and asking Renier if he thought Conrad was capable of such treachery. Under another tree, Warin Fitz Gerald had produced some dice and was playing a game of raffle with Alan and Lucas L’Etable. Morgan was half tempted to join in, but that would require moving. He was dozing when Guilhem de Préaux plopped down beside him, saying he’d like to learn some more Welsh curses.

Morgan was happy to oblige, for he shared Guilhem’s interest in foreign languages; they’d both picked up a few useful Greek phrases in Sicily and Cyprus and were now doing their best to master a bit of the equally challenging Arabic. He taught the other knight a handful of Welsh obscenities, translating
twll din
as arsehole, and
coc oen
as lamb’s cock, assuring Guilhem that the latter was highly offensive in Wales. Guilhem repeated the words dutifully, committing them to memory, and then asked for the worst insult a Welshman could utter.

“Well, it is a grievous affront to say that a man is incapable of protecting his wife, for that is a serious slur upon his manhood. But I think the greatest insult by far would be to call a Welshman a
Sais
,” Morgan said, straight-faced. He began to laugh, though, when Guilhem wanted a translation, admitting that
Sais
meant “Englishman.”

“That does not offend me,” Guilhem said with a grin, “for I’m Norman. I have some new Arabic curses for you, if you’re interested?” Morgan was, and so was Renier de Maron’s nephew, Walter, who moved closer to hear better; it puzzled both Morgan and Guilhem that so few of the
poulains
bothered to learn any Arabic. Unhooking a wineskin from his belt, Guilhem shared it along with his newfound store of profanities. “
Ya ibn el kalb
means ‘You son of a dog,’ which is a serious insult since the Saracens think dogs are unclean. To say
In’al yomak
is to curse the day you were born; I like that one myself. And
In’a’al mayteen
means ‘Damn your dead.’ But my
turcopole
friend Adam says the deadliest insult in Arabic is to call a man a
fatah
, even worse than calling someone a
Sais.
”

“Are you going to keep us in suspense? What does it mean?”

Guilhem’s grin had now spread from ear to ear. “It means ‘foreskin’!” he declared, roaring with laughter at the baffled expressions on their faces. When he got his breath back, he explained that the Saracens practiced circumcision as the Jews did, and the foreskin was the fold of skin cut off and cast aside.

Morgan and Walter recoiled in mock horror, bringing their knees up to protect their family jewels, and soon all three were laughing so loudly that they attracted annoyed glances from others trying to nap. Reaching for Guilhem’s wineskin, Morgan pretended to ponder this new curse and then shook his head. “I cannot see that being a useful insult once we go back to our own lands. Now ‘Damn your dead,’ mayhap. But if I were to call a man a ‘foreskin’ in a tavern brawl, he’d just stare at me in bewilderment.”

“But whilst he puzzled over it, you could hit him!” Guilhem insisted, and that set them off again. This time they made enough noise to vex all of the men who’d wanted to sleep, and Richard ordered the culprits to take turns standing guard. Walter volunteered to take the first watch, and Morgan and Guilhem drew further back into the shade. Soon they, too, were dozing.

Morgan’s languid dream-state was broken by a sudden shout. He jerked upright just as an arrow thudded into the tree trunk, so close he actually felt the rush of air on his skin. He instinctively ducked, hearing the high-pitched thrumming as another arrow sped over his head and, then, a muffled cry as it struck its target. All around him was chaos. Richard was yelling for them to mount up, the enemy bowmen screaming
“Allahu Akbar!”
as the men scrambled to their feet. But as the knights hastened to follow Richard’s example—he was already astride Fauvel, his sword drawn—the Saracens broke off the attack. As Richard charged after them, Morgan ran toward his stallion. As he swung up into the saddle, he heard his name called out, and he glanced back to see Guilhem stooping over a man who’d taken an arrow in his shoulder.

“Fulk? How bad is it?” He’d directed the question at Guilhem, but it was the wounded knight who answered, saying he thought he could ride if they’d help him up onto his horse. Morgan quickly dismounted and between the two of them, he and Guilhem managed to boost Fulk into his saddle. His face had contorted and he was sweating profusely, obviously in considerable pain. He assured them, though, that he could make it back to Jaffa on his own, and they had to take him at his word, for they thought Richard’s need was more urgent since they were all lightly armed, not having taken shields, lances, or helmets to go hawking. “Have them send a patrol out,” Morgan flung over his shoulder to Fulk as he and Guilhem spurred their mounts to catch up with the other knights.

Their companions were already out of sight, having disappeared into a copse of trees up ahead. Morgan made sure his sword would be easy to slide from its scabbard, for they could hear sounds of combat by now. But nothing had prepared him for the sight that met his eyes when they rounded a bend in the road. A savage battle was in progress. Bodies lay on the ground, a horse was down and screaming, another galloping in circles, his rider slumped over the saddle, and Richard and his knights were surrounded, fighting desperately against overwhelming odds.

“Mother of God,” Morgan whispered, horrorstruck, for it was obvious to him that they’d not be able to escape this trap; there were too many Saracens. But he could not ride away and leave his cousin the king and the others to die. As he unsheathed his sword, he saw Guilhem had made the same choice, for his sword was out now, too. Their arrival had been noticed and some of the Turks were turning their way. Morgan cried out, “Holy Sepulchre, aid us!” and charged toward them.

Guilhem did the same. But it was no battle cry he was screaming. As he closed with two of the Saracens, he shouted,
“Anaa Malik Ric! Anaa Malik Ric!”

The reaction of the Saracens was immediate and dramatic. Heads whipped around in his direction and he was encircled within moments, men snatching at his reins, others leveling swords threateningly at his chest. He did not struggle, dropping his sword to the ground and raising his right hand in the Syrian gesture of surrender. Having taken him prisoner, his guards yelled to their comrades as they bore him away. And as suddenly as that, the battle was over, Richard and the other crusaders watching in stunned disbelief as their foes shied off and raced away, leaving them alone on a field with their dead and wounded.

Morgan was the only one who understood what had just happened and he was still in shock. There was no time for fear when men were fighting for their lives, but now they could acknowledge it, could admit they’d been doomed and then given an inexplicable reprieve. Once they were sure the Saracens had truly gone, they turned their attention to the men on the ground. Richard swung from the saddle, dropping to his knees beside Renier de Maron. The
poulain
lord’s eyes were open, but they did not see him. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and his breath came in rasping gulps as the king grasped his hand. After a moment, Richard made the sign of the cross, closed those staring eyes, and rose to his feet. “How many?” he asked huskily, and winced when a shaken Warin Fitz Gerald told him they had four dead and several more were wounded.

Gazing down at the bodies of the L’Etable brothers, who’d been throwing dice with him and joking less than an hour ago, Warin found himself shivering despite the stifling heat. “Renier de Maron’s nephew is dead, too. His head was bashed in. Gilbert Talbot’s wound seems the worst.... And one of the horses broke his leg. God and His good angels looked after us this day, sire. But why? Why did they stop the fight?”

“I do not know,” Richard admitted, sounding just as mystified, “I do not know. . . .”

“I do.” As they all turned toward him, Morgan slid from his horse and leaned for a moment against the stallion’s heaving side, for he knew the blow he was about to inflict upon Richard. “It was Guilhem de Préaux who saved us, my liege. He shouted out that he was
Malik Ric
. The Saracens rode off because they thought they’d captured our king.”

There were exclamations from the men, cries of admiration for Guilhem’s courage mixed with fear for his likely fate. Richard said nothing, but all the color had drained from his face. It was only when he realized that they were looking to him for guidance that he pulled himself together and began to issue orders. They had to make the difficult decision to leave their dead for later retrieval; the slain knights’ horses had been seized and led off by the Saracen soldiers. After putting the thrashing stallion out of his misery, they assisted their wounded to mount and rode toward Jaffa at as fast a pace as the injured could endure.

They’d only covered a mile or so before they saw plumes of dust along the horizon. As the riders came into view, Morgan gave thanks again to the Almighty, for not only had Fulk gotten to their camp, he’d sent out a rescue party. André and Henri were in the lead, with the Earl of Leicester and Guillaume des Barres close behind. They were greatly relieved to see Richard was unhurt, but he cut off their rejoicing with a terse account of Guilhem’s capture, and as soon as the wounded were sent on to Jaffa, the others followed Richard as he wheeled Fauvel and led a pursuit of the Saracens that all knew was futile. But after glancing at Richard’s bone-white face, none of them argued with him and they continued on until he was ready to admit defeat.

By the time they got back to Jaffa, the camp was in an uproar, and they were mobbed by men wanting to see for themselves that the king was unharmed. The wounded knights had told of Guilhem’s heroic sacrifice and there was much talk of his bravery, but it was sorrowful praise, for all knew what had happened to Christian prisoners in the aftermath of the massacre of the Acre garrison. As soon as Richard dismounted, he ordered Guilhem’s brothers to be found and brought to his tent. He’d only taken a few steps, though, before the Duke of Burgundy blocked his path.

“Beauvais was wrong when he said you were lusting after the gold of Egypt. It is martyrdom you are lusting after, for there is no other explanation for the way you keep courting your own death!”

Richard’s eyes blazed with such fury that some of the other men instinctively drew back. “Christ, what a hypocrite you are, Burgundy! You expect me to believe your sudden concern for my well-being? We both know you’d like nothing better than to spit on my grave.”

“Not so. I’d much rather piss in your open coffin. But you cannot keep up this mad behavior, not when your death would likely end our hopes of recovering Jerusalem.”

“Get out of my way,” Richard snarled, and when Hugh held his ground, several of the bystanders hastily stepped between the two men, Guillaume des Barres pulling his duke away while the Bishop of Salisbury sought to calm his king’s rage. Henri was pushing through the crowd to reach his uncle’s side. He paused, though, as he heard Guillaume’s low-voiced urgings, telling Hugh that Richard was indeed too careless with his own safety but this was neither the time nor the place to argue that point. Agreeing wholeheartedly with the French knight, Henri sighed and hastened after Richard as he stormed off toward his tent.