Lionheart (74 page)

THREE DAYS AFTER Richard’s meeting with al-’Ādil, Salah al-Dīn summoned his brother and his emirs to a council of war at Latrun. He told them that Conrad had offered to take Acre from the Franks in return for Sidon and Beirut and a guarantee of his possession of Tyre. He then informed them of Richard’s latest peace proposal. When he asked for their views, they concluded that if peace were to be made, it was better to make it with
Malik Ric
, for they were more likely to be betrayed by Conrad and the Syrian Franks. It was agreed to send word to the English king that they were not willing, though, to accept his niece in lieu of his sister as a bride for the sultan’s brother. The peace talks continued then, but so did the killing.

CHAPTER 29

DECEMBER 1191

Ramla , Outremer

When Richard moved the army to Ramla, Salah al-Dīn withdrew to Latrun and then, on December 12, to Jerusalem, leaving behind his advance guard to harass the Franks. The winter weather had set in by then, and the crusaders suffered greatly, forced to endure torrential icy rains, hailstorms, high winds, and the constant threat of flooding. The damp rusted their armor and their clothes rotted. Food went bad; biscuits crumbled, flour mildewed, and salted pork spoiled. Their pack animals sickened and died and soldiers came down with fevers, catarrh, and colic. But morale remained surprisingly high, for they were now less than twenty-five miles from Jerusalem.

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 20, dawned with an overcast, ashen sky. But it was the first day in over a week that they’d not awakened to heavy rain, and Richard seized the opportunity. South of Ramla were the ruins of Blanchegarde, a castle razed by Salah al-Dīn after the fall of Acre, and he thought it would be a good site to lay an ambush. His nephew Henri and some of his household knights rode off with him, but most of the men were content to remain in camp, repairing their rusted hauberks, getting deloused by the laundresses, and playing games of chance.

Morgan had recently adopted the
poulain
clean-shaven fashion, for it reminded him of home; the Welsh were beardless, confining their facial hair to mustaches. After shaving, he played chess with Warin Fitz Gerald, half listening as the men nearby discussed the women they’d encountered since leaving Marseille a year and a half ago. The consensus was that the whores of Outremer were younger and prettier than their wanton sisters in Naples, Sicily, and Cyprus, and they agreed it was a pity the king had made them stay in Jaffa. Morgan’s thoughts were turning toward Jaffa, too. Richard had decided his wife and sister were safer behind its newly rebuilt walls, but Morgan had heard he might fetch them for his Christmas court, and if so, Mariam would accompany them. He was eager for their reunion, though it would have to remain circumspect; there was no privacy in an army camp, not the sort a highborn lady like Mariam would expect.

Warin had just put the chess set away when the raid was launched. The Saracen bowmen did not actually invade the camp, but they fired off a shower of arrows, accompanied by taunts and catcalls. The Earl of Leicester and some of his knights had been about to go on patrol. Now they hastily mounted their horses and rode out to chase the intruders off. Warin and Morgan were members of Richard’s household, not Leicester’s, but they were bored and so they hurried to arm themselves, as did other men eager for adventure.

The Saracens retreated before Leicester’s charge, withdrawing across the River Ayalon and heading back toward the Judean hills. This had become a ritual by now, with both sides knowing their roles, and the young earl prudently halted pursuit as they approached the west bank of the stream. But three of his men had forged ahead, caught up in the exhilaration of the chase, and they suddenly found themselves surrounded by the enemy. When another knight alerted the earl that they’d been captured, Leicester let out a scalding burst of profanity that even Richard might have envied, calling the knights bloody fools, misbegotten dolts, and accursed half-wits. He still felt honor bound to rescue them and gave the command to advance. By now Warin and Morgan had caught up, and they exchanged troubled glances, the same thought in both their minds, their Michaelmas skirmish that had actually been bait for an ambush.

The crusaders overtook their foes on the other side of the river and for a brief time, it looked as if they’d be able to free their men and retreat to safety. But then the trap was sprung. More Saracens swept in behind them, cutting off escape. Almost at once, a well-aimed arrow brought down Leicester’s stallion and as he scrambled to his feet, he stumbled and slid down the bank into the water. It was not deep, but as he splashed to the surface, he was struck by a Saracen wielding a mace and went under. He came up sputtering, only to be hit again. By then, several of his men had reached him, and as they held off his attackers, another knight performed an act of loyalty that none would ever forget. Robert de Newburgh dismounted and offered the earl his own horse.

Leicester had already won himself a reputation for courage; indeed, he’d surprised some by his prowess, for he’d not been blessed with the physical advantages that men like Richard and Guillaume des Barres enjoyed. Never had he fought as fiercely as he did now, wielding his sword so savagely that he managed to keep his enemies at bay. But they were greatly outnumbered, and all around the earl, his men were being struck down. Warin Fitz Gerald had been unhorsed at the same time as Leicester, and he’d slumped to the ground after taking several blows by Saracens brandishing flanged maces. Fighting his way toward Warin, Morgan leaned from the saddle and held out his hand. “Swing up behind me,” he urged, for a man on foot was surely doomed.

Before Warin could reach him, a Saracen was there, thrusting at Morgan’s stallion with his spear. The horse reared up, hooves slipping on the muddy bank, and he and Morgan went over backward. Morgan managed to fling himself from the saddle, but his helmet’s chin strap snapped and it flew off as he fell. While his mail coif absorbed some of the impact, his temple struck the edge of a dropped Saracen shield. When he recovered his senses, Warin was pulling him to his feet, the battle was lost, and he was bleeding profusely from a deep gash above his eye.

THEY’D BEEN DISARMED, their reins cut, and their horses were being led on ropes by their captors. The Earl of Leicester had no fears for his own life, for he’d make a valuable hostage. His household knights did not doubt that he’d do his best to ransom them, too, just as Warin and Morgan knew Richard would pay whatever was demanded for their freedom. There were several Flemish knights among them, though, and their lord lay dead in an Arsuf church. Without Jacques d’Avesnes to pay for their release, they might end up in the slave markets of Damascus or Cairo, and their dazed expressions showed that they understood how precarious their future was. Yet all of them were concentrating upon staying in the saddle, for any man who could not keep up was a liability.

This was Morgan’s greatest concern. Despite applying pressure to his wound with the palm of his hand, he’d been unable to staunch the bleeding and he was feeling very lightheaded. If he lost consciousness, he could expect no mercy, and he clung to his saddlebow so tightly that his fingers grew numb. He was seeing the world through a red haze when he attracted the attention of one of their guards. He signaled a halt and reined in beside Morgan’s horse, drawing a dagger from his boot. The closest knights began to shout and Morgan froze, trying to brace himself for the coming blow. The Saracen ignored the protests of the other prisoners. Reaching out, he grabbed the edge of Morgan’s surcote. With one deft slash of his blade, he cut off a wide swatch of cloth and handed it to the stunned Welshman. Morgan folded it and clasped it to his wound, huskily giving thanks, first to his God and then to his captor, surprising the latter by expressing his gratitude in halting Arabic.

While it was difficult to gauge direction without the sun, Morgan guessed they were heading south toward Latrun, for that was where the Saracen advance guard was camped. The makeshift bandage had finally stopped the bleeding, but his head was still spinning and he found himself fighting off nausea. Although he was beginning to doubt that he’d be able to hang on until they reached Latrun, he refused to despair. He was not going to die on this desolate, muddy plain so far from home. Surely God had not brought him all the way to Outremer only to deny him even a glimpse of the Holy City.

During the summer, dust clouds would have warned of approaching riders before they could actually be seen. Now both captors and captives were taken by surprise. The Saracens tightened their grips on their spears and the hilts of their swords. The earl’s men no longer slouched in their saddles. All eyes were upon those distant horsemen. Were they Turkish reinforcements? Or a Frank rescue party? They were almost within recognition range now, moving fast. A sudden glimmer of sun broke through the cloud cover, illuminating the scarlet and silver colors of a streaming banner, and a knight with keener eyesight than the others let out a joyful shout. “It’s de Chauvigny!”

The Saracens did not recognize André’s cognizance, but their captives’ excitement told them all they needed to know. A tense, terse discussion followed, the prisoners assuming they were arguing whether to fight or flee. When they unsheathed their swords, it was obvious the decision had been made.

“St George!” The battle cry was still echoing on the chill December air when the knights couched their lances and charged. Men were yelling in Arabic and French, but the noise seemed oddly muffled to Morgan, for there was a strange ringing in his ears. From the corner of his eye, he saw Leicester try to grab a Saracen spear. When one of the knights’ horses bolted, Morgan’s mount shied sideways, almost unseating him. He felt a jolt of fear, for he knew if he fell under those plunging hooves, he’d likely be trampled to death; as weak as he was, he’d never be able to regain his feet. His head was throbbing and the dull morning light was suddenly so bright that he had to squint. Someone was beside him. He felt a hand clamp down on his arm, and after that, nothing.

MORGAN HAD BEEN LOST in a shadow world of strange, fragmented dreams, none of which made any sense to him. Waking up was not much of an improvement, for he felt wretched. His head ached, his mouth was dry, and his stomach was heaving as if he were back on a galley in the middle of the Greek Sea. Most troubling was his confusion; he wasn’t sure at first where he was or how he’d gotten there. As he studied his surroundings, he realized he was in a hospital tent. All around him, injured men were lying on blankets, some of them moaning. Others were sitting on stools or walking around. He could hear a familiar voice close at hand; after a moment or so, he recognized it as André de Chauvigny’s. André was seated on a coffer, arguing with the surgeons. But as Morgan watched, his shoulders slumped and he nodded. He went white as they manipulated his right arm, biting his lip until it bled while they realigned the bones and then applied pulped comfrey root to the fracture. One of the surgeons was bending over Morgan now. He started to speak, but instead slid back into sleep.

When he awoke again, the scene was calmer, quieter, lit by flickering oil lamps. As soon as he stirred, a voice said, “About time! I thought you were going to sleep all day.”

This voice seemed familiar, too; after a pause, he said tentatively, “Warin?”

“Who else?” The other knight was stretched out on a pallet beside him. He shifted toward Morgan and then winced. “Holy Mother! They say I cracked a couple of ribs. But the way it hurts, I think every blasted one of them could be broken. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve . . . been better. . . .”

“We can all say that. At least your skull was not fractured. When the doctor examined you, he said there were no indentations, no protruding bone. So he just applied an ointment of feverwort ere he bandaged . . .” Seeing the blank look on Morgan’s face, he stopped. “You do not remember any of that?”