“What you said about St Bernard . . . Richard does not believe that,” she insisted and was pleased when he did not dispute her.
“I know, and I confess I was surprised. I’d heard he was the first Christian prince to take the cross, so I’d assumed he was afire with holy zeal. I’d not expected him to be so interested in the Saracens, so genuinely curious. No, I do not doubt that his decision yesterday was a military one. I still regret it.”
“What else could Richard have done?” she asked, but without her earlier hostility ; she truly wanted to know what he thought.
“He could not stay much longer at Acre; I agree with that. And he was justified to act when Saladin did not pay the ransom. But I think he ought to have sold the men as slaves instead of putting them to death.”
Joanna was startled. “That would not have occurred to Richard, for slavery is no longer known in western kingdoms. I remember being shocked by the slave markets in Palermo, for I’d never encountered anything like that before.”
“But it is known in the east. The Saracens sell captives into slavery all the time, and that is what they expected Richard to do if it came to that. I am not saying they’d have been happy about it. They’d have understood, though.”
Joanna felt a fleeting regret, wondering if things might have been different had Balian taken part in yesterday’s council. The sun had shifted and they were losing the shade, but she was not ready to go, for this poulain lord was a very interesting man, not at all what she’d expected. What a pity he was so closely allied to Conrad of Montferrat, for he’d have made a much more valuable ally for Richard than those infernal de Lusignans. At least now she understood why she’d been so uncomfortable about the killings of the garrison. Without even realizing it, she’d been seeing these Saracen soldiers as men, too, men who’d surrendered in good faith, men with mothers, wives, children.
“I heard some of Richard’s knights saying that Saladin deliberately sacrificed the garrison, that the two hundred thousand dinars were worth more to him than the lives of those soldiers, who were not men of rank, after all. Do you believe that?”
“Only Saladin could answer that with certainty, my lady. But based upon my experience with him, I’d say no. Yes, he probably needed the money more than the men to continue the war, and may have had trouble raising so much in such a short time, too. I do not think, though, that he expected your brother to do what he did. You must remember that he does not know Richard yet, is accustomed to facing foes like that dolt de Lusignan. So it is only natural that he’d test this unknown English king, and I daresay he got more than he’d bargained for.”
Rising then, he kissed her hand. “It has been a pleasure, my lady Joanna. God keep you safe.”
He’d taken only a few steps before she rose, too. “My lord, wait!” As he turned back toward her, she said, “I have one last question for you. I gather your objections to the killing of the garrison are political, not personal, no?”
He looked surprised and then faintly amused. “That is so, Madame. They were brave men, yes. But in my years on God’s Earth, I’ve seen many brave men die, some of them by my sword. Blood does not trouble me. What does is the future of our kingdom. Your brother will be going home eventually. For me, this is home, and so it matters more to me if the wells are poisoned.”
“Is that what you think Richard did—poisoned the wells?”
“Only time will tell. I fear that in the long run, the killing of the Acre garrison will be one more grudge borne against the Christians. It is over ninety years since Jerusalem was taken and the Muslims and Jews in the city massacred, yet to hear Saracens speak of it, you’d think it happened yesterday. But in the short run, it might well work to your brother’s benefit. After yesterday, how many Saracen garrisons will be willing to hold firm when they hear Malik Ric is marching on their castles or towns?” He suspected this had occurred to Richard, too, but kept that suspicion to himself. “If you truly want to aid Outremer, my lady, persuade your brother that Guy de Lusignan could not be trusted to govern a bawdy house or bordel.” And having coaxed an answering smile from the English king’s sister, he left her alone in the sun-drenched courtyard, marveling that she’d found a kindred spirit in one of Richard’s enemies.
FROM THE CHRONICLE of Bahā’ al-Dīn, discussing the slaughter of the Acre garrison : “Various motives have been assigned for this massacre. According to some, the prisoners were killed to avenge the deaths of those slain previously by the Muslims. Others say that the King of England, having made up his mind to try and take Ascalon, did not think it prudent to leave so many prisoners behind in Acre. God knows what his reason really was.”
FROM A LETTER written by King Richard to the Abbot of Clairvaux: “However, the time having expired, and the stipulation which he had agreed to being utterly disregarded, we put to death about two thousand six hundred of the Saracens whom we held in our hands, as we were bound to do, retaining a few of the more noble ones, in return for whom we trusted to recover the Holy Cross and certain of the Christian captives.”
CHAPTER 25
AUGUST 1191
Acre, Outremer
Richard had set up camp outside the city walls and for two R days he’d labored to round up reluctant crusaders, men loath to leave the sinful comforts of Acre. Now on this fourth Thursday in August, the army was finally moving out and the women had gathered on the flat roof of the royal citadel so they could watch. It was a stirring sight—the sun slanting off mail hauberks and shields, pennons and Richard’s great dragon banner billowing with each gust of the southerly Arsuf winds, dust already rising in clouds as the dry summer soil was dislodged by thousands of marching feet and plodding hooves. All the roofs near the palace were crowded with spectators, too, and people cheered and waved as the columns of cavalry, infantrymen, and supply carts slowly disappeared into the distance.
Some of the rooftop onlookers were soldiers, and Sophia scowled, heaping a few Greek curses upon the heads of these men who’d chosen whores and wine over their vows to liberate the Holy City. Did they suffer no conscience pangs, knowing what their friends and comrades would be facing? Almost eighty miles lay between Acre and Richard’s objective—the port city of Jaffa—eighty miles, eight rivers, and the army of the Sultan of Egypt, Salah al-Dīn. A few feet away, Bertrand de Verdun, the new governor of Acre, was doing his best to assuage Berengaria and Anna’s fears, and Sophia edged closer to hear.
Berengaria was shading her eyes against the sun, straining to keep the rear guard in view, for Richard was among their ranks. “I am not as ignorant of war as I once was,” she said, objecting with quiet dignity to Bertrand’s attempts to downplay the dangers. “I’ve heard my lord husband’s men talking, Sir Bertrand, so I know an army is at its most vulnerable when it is on the march in enemy territory.”
“That is true, Madame. But King Richard has gone to great lengths to minimize the risks for his men. They will be marching along the coast, so their right flank will be protected by the sea. That is where they will place the baggage carts and wagons. The knights will ride next to them, their left flank shielded by the men-at-arms, who will keep the Saracens at a distance with their crossbow fire. And the king has designated several rendezvous points, where the fleet will be awaiting them to replenish supplies. This is truly a blessing, for it means each man must carry only enough food and firewood for ten days. Moreover, smaller ships will be keeping pace with the army offshore, ready to evacuate the wounded or send messages back to the fleet. Not only is this the largest army ever mustered in the Holy Land, it is the best equipped for victory, led by the greatest battle commander in Christendom.”
Richard’s queen and Anna murmured their assent to that, but Sophia noticed that Joanna was standing apart from the other women, her expression guarded, and she sidled over. “Bertrand’s reassurances seem to be ringing hollow for you,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Is he lying to us?”
“No,” Joanna said softly, “Richard has indeed do
ne all he could to minimize the risks for ‘his men.’ But when it comes to his own safety, he can be quite mad at times. You did not hear about the raid on their camp yesterday?” When Sophia shook her head, Joanna drew her aside, out of hearing range of the other women. “Saracen horsemen raced into the camp, shooting and yelling and creating havoc. Richard says they are amazing bowmen, able to fire from a gallop. Some of the knights took off in pursuit, and naturally Richard was in the forefront. It turned out to be a trap, meant to lure them away from the safety of the camp. One of Richard’s marshals and a Hungarian nobleman, Count Nicholas of Szatmar, were both captured and borne away. Richard chased after them in a vain rescue attempt. He was very upset afterward that he’d not been able to free them and did not want Berengaria to know, so say nothing to her, Sophia.”
Sophia was horrified that Richard had come so close to disaster. “What if he’d been captured instead of Count Nicholas?”
Joanna smiled, though without much humor. “To hear his friends tell it, Richard is all but invincible in close combat, so they sought easier prey. But even Richard’s vaunted prowess cannot protect him from a crossbow bolt or a javelin. He well knows that if evil befalls him, the war would be lost. Yet he will continue to gamble his life with reckless abandon . . . until the day his luck runs out.”
Sophia glanced over at her stepdaughter, flirting now with several of Joanna’s household knights, and felt a protective pang. If the English king was slain or captured, what would happen to the women he’d left behind in Acre?
IN THREE DAYS, the army traveled only four miles, camping near the River Acre as they waited for more men to straggle out of the city and join them. Finally on Sunday, the twenty-fifth, they began their march along the sea, hoping to cover the eleven miles to Haifa. Richard led the vanguard, and the rear guard was entrusted to the Duke of Burgundy and the French. They were shadowed by the sultan’s advance guard, for he had instructed his brother al-Malik al-’Ᾱdil to watch for a gap in their ranks. At first they maintained the tight formation ordered by Richard, but as the day wore on, the road narrowed and the rear guard began to lag behind. Late in the afternoon, the sky turned overcast, the first time they’d seen a cloud in three months. They plodded on, casting glances at those ghostly riders occasionally visible in the sand dunes to their left. When fog began to drift in from the sea, it created confusion in the rear guard and they slowed down, losing even more ground. It was then that al-’Ᾱdil struck.
THIS EERIE HAZE was making the men uneasy, for such sudden mists were much more common in early morning. Richard refused to let them slow their pace, though, keeping a sharp eye out for laggards. When André joked that he was like a shepherd with a flock of errant sheep, he summoned up a smile, but he thought there was too much truth in that jest for humor. As accustomed as he was to command, never had he faced such a daunting challenge, for it would not be easy to keep an army like this under control, men of different nationalities and alien tongues, with nothing in common but their Christian faith. He would have to find a way to hold their rivalries in check, to stifle their natural instincts to hit back when they were attacked, for if he did not, they’d not reach Jaffa, much less Ascalon or the holy grail of Jerusalem.
He dropped back to ride beside the Grand Master of the Hospitallers, meaning to share the latest scouting report. But he never got the chance. It was then that the shouting began. Catching the words “the king,” he wheeled Fauvel and rode to intercept the rider galloping past the infantrymen on their left flank. The man was close enough now for recognition—an English knight named John Fitz Luke. “Sire, the rear is under attack! They fell behind and the Saracens swept down and cut them off!” He started to tell the king more, but Richard was already gone, his household knights strung out behind him, outrun by the Cypriot stallion.
Fauvel seemed to sense his rider’s urgency and pricked his ears as he lengthened stride. Several miles separated the vanguard from the beleaguered rear guard, and Richard and his knights plunged in and out of the swirling sea mist as they rode, loosening swords in scabbards and making sure their aventails were tightly drawn across their throats, for some had unfastened the mail flaps as they marched. Emerging from one last patch of fog, they came upon a scene of utter pandemonium. Several carts had been overturned and looted, others bogged down in the sand, for the Saracens had ridden down the men-at-arms and scattered the knights in their push toward the vulnerable baggage train. It had been a well-coordinated attack, and had come perilously close to surrounding the rear guard and cutting off escape. Some of the French knights had managed to rally in time to prevent their encirclement, and there was fierce fighting on the beach, some of the horses actually knee-deep in water by now.
Richard was not sure his command could be heard above the din of battle, but his household mesnie was composed of knights who’d been with him for years, men who would know what to do without need of words. Just as some of the Saracen soldiers turned and saw them materializing from the mist, they couched their lances and charged. As Richard closed in on a horseman with his bow slung over his shoulder, the startled Saracen tried to raise his shield. But by then Fauvel was upon him, and the lance, with the full weight of Richard’s body behind it, drove through the man’s lamellar armor with such force that the weapon lodged between his ribs. He reeled back in the saddle and then began to vomit blood. As he slid to the ground, still impaled on the lance, Richard unsheathed his sword.
The combat that followed was bloody but brief, for the Saracens were soon in retreat. To Richard, it was not so much a victory as a reprieve, and as he looked around at the crumpled bodies, the plundered wagons, and broken lances, he was infuriated when some of the French knights raised a cheer. “Keep vigilant,” he instructed his own knights, “for they may well hit us again if they see us letting down our guard.” Spotting a familiar face, he rode over to the Count of St Pol, who had dismounted and was examining his stallion’s foreleg.
“I feared he might be lamed,” he said as Richard drew rein, “but it seems he just took a misstep—”
“What in Christ’s Name happened here, St Pol?”
Bridling at the English king’s tone, the count straightened up. “Ask Burgundy. He has the command, not me!”
Another French lord was more forthcoming. Drogo d’Amiens overheard this testy exchange and came over to tell Richard that the Saracens had attacked once they saw the rear guard had fallen behind the rest of the army. “It looked like it would turn into an utter rout,” he said soberly. “But thank God for Guillaume des Barres, for he managed to rally his knights and they staved off disaster until your arrival, my liege. It was too close for comfort, though.”
Richard was in complete accord with that; had things gone differently, their entire rear guard could have been destroyed on the first day of the march. When he rejoined some of his friends and knights, he was still seething. “One of the Templars told me that the Saracen strategy for victory can be summed up in three words: harass, encircle, annihilate. They might want to add a fourth maxim: Fight the French. Where is Burgundy?” He began to snap out orders then, and his men hastened to obey. But André, Baldwin, and Morgan shared grins, thinking that Hugh of Burgundy’s encounter with the Saracens was going to seem downright benign after his confrontation with the English king.
GUILLAUME DES BARRES was so exhausted that it took an effort just to stay upright. He was returning from the surgeon’s tent, for toward the end of the fighting, he’d taken a blow to his forearm by a Saracen mace. It throbbed with the slightest movement, but he was greatly relieved that he’d broken no bones. Seeing that his squires were still setting up his tent, he sank down next to one of the supply wagons and braced his aching body against its wheel. He knew he should seek out the duke to learn how many casualties they’d suffered, but he could not muster up the energy to move. From time to time, other men came over and lauded him for his prowess that day. Ordinarily, such acclaim would have been very pleasing; now he was too tired to
appreciate it. Despite his uncomfortable position, he was falling asleep when Mathieu de Montmorency squatted beside him.
“You’re the talk of the camp,” he exclaimed, looking at the older man with bright, admiring eyes. “Men are saying that you saved the day for us, that there’ll likely be songs written about your deeds.”
“I doubt that Richard will be writing any of them,” Guillaume said dryly, smothering a yawn. “Anyway, it was his arrival that tipped the scales in our favor.”
“Yes, but it was your action that enabled us to hold on until he got here. Mind you, he did make quite an entrance,” Mathieu said, grinning. “He struck the Saracen line like a thunderbolt! Then he . . .” He stopped then, realizing it might not be tactful to be praising the man who’d treated Guillaume so unfairly at Messina.
“I do not mind, lad,” Guillaume assured him, for Mathieu’s was an easy face to read. “He is indeed a superb fighter—as he’d be the first to tell you.”
Mathieu grinned again. “He is over in the duke’s tent now, berating Hugh for letting the rear guard lag behind like that. Hugh looked like he’d swallowed a whole lemon!”
“Good,” Guillaume muttered, for he’d warned the duke repeatedly that they were courting disaster. Mathieu was still chattering on about the battle, relating a story he’d heard about a sergeant of the Bishop of Salisbury: Supposedly, he’d had his hand cut off by a Turkish blade, but had coolly snatched up his sword in his left hand and continued fighting. Guillaume had often seen limbs severed on the battlefield, had severed a few of them himself, and he very much doubted that a man so maimed would be able to carry on with such sangfroid. He saw no reason to inject reality into Mathieu’s account, though. Looking at the teenager through drooping eyelids, he found himself thinking it was miraculous that the lad still retained so much boyish enthusiasm after four months in the killing fields of the Holy Land.