“My lord king, hear me. We’re losing so many horses that half my knights will soon be on foot. It has gotten so bad that the crossbowmen have to march backward to protect themselves. We cannot hold on much longer.”
“You must.”
“My knights are distraught, saying they’ll bring eternal dishonor upon themselves if they do not fight back!”
“Tell them I understand. But they must be patient. It is not yet time.”
The Grand Master seemed about to argue further. Instead, he agreed tersely and turned his mount. Richard watched him ride off, his expression so grim that André and Baldwin nudged their horses closer. “Will you order a charge, then?”
“I must, André. But not until all of Saladin’s army is engaged against us. We have to be sure that they’ll bear the full brunt of our charge. If not . . .” Richard didn’t bother to finish the sentence, for there was no need. They all knew what would happen to them if their charge failed to sweep the Saracens from the field. They’d be cut off, surrounded, and overwhelmed by sheer numbers.
HENRI WAS PROUD of the fortitude shown by the infantry under his command. They had performed heroically for hours, the crossbowmen doing their best to keep their Saracen foes at a distance, the spearmen defending them while they reloaded their weapons. He and his knights rode between the men-at-arms and the baggage wagons, occasionally making brief forays to chase the enemy away when they got too close. Henri wasn’t sure if he ought to admire the valor of infidels, but he did, nonetheless. They may be risking their lives and souls for a false god, yet they did so with courage and conviction. Would that offer any consolation—knowing that he’d die at the hands of brave men? This was such an incongruous thought that he laughed softly, earning himself a sharp glance from Jaufre.
“If you can find any humor in our plight, Henri, tell me—please.”
“A private jest, a very perverse one, too. Jaufre, do you think—Jesu!”
Jaufre swung around in the saddle at Henri’s exclamation, and his jaw dropped at the sight meeting his eyes. Two knights had leveled their lances and were spurring their stallions toward the Saracens, screaming a defiant battle cry, “Saint George, aid us!” As Henri and Jaufre watched, the Hospitallers wheeled their mounts and followed, nearly trampling their own infantrymen, who had to scramble to get out of the way. The French knights saw the Hospitallers go on the attack and after some confusion, they also joined in.
Henri turned toward Jaufre, his shock evident. “Did you hear the trumpets?” Jaufre shook his head, equally shocked. But Henri was already yelling and their men-at-arms hastily scattered, opening gaps in their ranks for the knights as they, too, charged the Saracens.
RICHARD AND HIS MESNIE had just driven off an attack by Salah al-Dīn’s Bedouins when they were alerted by the clouds of dust and screaming. Richard gasped, quick to comprehend what was happening, and shouted for the trumpets to sound. As the knights of the center and vanguard responded to the signal and charged, he raced for the rear guard, his knights spurring their stallions in a vain attempt to keep up with Fauvel.
The sudden charge by the Hospitallers had caught the Saracens by surprise and they took heavy casualties, particularly since some of their bowmen had dismounted to take better aim. By the time Richard got there, Salah al-Dīn’s right wing was either dead or in flight. He at once sought to halt the pursuit into the woods, for the Saracens excelled at ambush tactics; he himself had almost fallen into such a trap barely a fortnight ago. It was not easy to rein in soldiers still half drunk on that most potent of brews—an uneasy blend of rage, fear, and excitement—but he managed it, mainly by sheer force of will. The field was strewn with weapons and the bodies of men and horses, but he knew it was not over yet.
Recognizing the rider on a blood-splattered roan stallion, Richard called out and then waited for Henri to reach him. “Who led the charge?”
“Two knights broke ranks, shouting for St George, and then the rest followed after them. I assumed I’d not heard the trumpets midst all the noise, think the others did, too. You did not order the attack, Uncle?”
“I was waiting till Saladin had thrown his reserves into the battle. But when the charge began, of course I committed the rest of our army.” Even as he spoke to Henri, Richard’s eyes were sweeping the battlefield. “Do you hear that?” When the younger man looked puzzled, Richard pointed behind him, toward the Forest of Arsuf. “The drums. Saladin’s drums are still beating. He is trying to rally his men.”
“Sire!” Garnier de Nablus drew rein beside them. “Thank the Lord Christ that you changed your mind—” The Grand Master stopped, for he was adept at reading other men’s faces; his office required political as well as military skills. “You did not order the attack? But one of the men was William Borrel, our marshal! He would never have done that on his own, for discipline is one of the cornerstones of our order. He must have thought he heard the trumpets.”
Richard did not dispute that, for he thought it was possible. But when Garnier continued to defend his marshal, declaring that it did not matter if the charge had been premature since they’d had the victory, Richard felt a flicker of weary anger. “No,” he said, “it did matter. Had we waited as I wanted, we could have won our own Ḥaṭṭīn. Instead we had half a victory, for much of Saladin’s army is still intact.”
The Grand Master was quite willing to settle for half a victory after all they’d endured that morning. He thought it prudent to keep that to himself, however, and was glad when Henri tactfully interceded at that point, gesturing off to the south where their cart with Richard’s dragon was coming into view. The standard-bearers had obeyed orders not to join in the battle, for Richard had wanted to hold his Normans in reserve. They’d followed slowly so they could serve as a rallying point; as long as the king’s banner flew, his men would keep fighting. Some of the wounded now headed toward it and other knights began to withdraw from the field and rode in that direction, too.
But Salah al-Dīn had accomplished a miracle of sorts. His army was in a rout, his right wing almost destroyed and his left wing broken. As they fled into the forest, though, they encountered their sultan and his brother. Bahā’ al-Dīn, who fought that day, would later write, “All those who saw that the sultan’s squadron was still at its post, and who heard the drum beating, were ashamed to go on, and, dreading the consequences if they continued their flight, they came up and joined that body of troops.” When they saw the crusaders appearing to retreat toward the king’s standard, they seized their chance and surged from the woods, led by al-’Ᾱdil.
The knights who’d been savoring their victory suddenly found themselves embroiled in savage combat. Henri struck down a Turk with long, black braids, but then took a numbing blow on his leg from a man wielding a mace. They were in too close quarters for his lance to be of any use, so he swung his stallion away to give himself time to draw his sword. There was so much dust that it was not easy to tell friend from foe. A horse reared up ahead, screaming as an arrow pierced his throat, and Henri’s destrier almost fell when the other animal went down, swerving away in the nick of time. He turned back to help the unhorsed knight, but he was too late; the man had been crushed when his mount fell on him. From the corner of his eye, Henri could see their dragon banner was still aloft, being desperately defended by the Norman standard-bearers. He could not find the king, though. When he finally did locate Richard, he was appalled to see his uncle utterly encircled by Saracens in what looked like a sea of saffron, for he knew those were the colors of Saladin’s elite guard. But even as he spurred his horse toward them, he saw Richard break free, decapitating a burly Mamluk and then maiming another one half blinded by the spray of blood.
“Fall back!” Richard’s voice was hoarse from shouting, but urgency gave it enough resonance to be heard above the din of battle. “Fall back! To me!”
The men within hearing distance obeyed, fighting their way toward the standard’s cart. By now their infantry had reached the cart, too
, and as the knights gathered around Richard, the crossbowmen unleashed a devastating fire to keep the Saracens at bay. Richard had broken his lance, but a soldier found one on the field and offered it to him, grinning when Richard tapped him on the shoulder with it as if dubbing a knight. By now the knights had lined up, lances leveled or swords drawn. Off to his left, Richard saw a group of French knights had taken shelter behind their men-at-arms and were also assembling for a countercharge, led by Guillaume des Barres. The battle was still continuing, for not all of the crusaders had been able to join in the retreat. Bodies lay crumpled as far as the eye could see, the dead and the wounded of both sides, and the Saracen drums continued to pound, summoning the sultan’s fugitive troops back into the fray. Richard glanced from side to side, making sure that they were ready, and then couched his lance.
“Now!” As their infantry sprang aside with practiced coordination, Richard cried, “Holy Sepulchre, aid us!” and they charged. The Saracens unable to get out of the way were slain when the knights slammed into their ranks, for an armed knight on a galloping destrier had such momentum that a lance could run a man through like a pig on a spit, piercing armor, flesh, and bone with lethal ease. Overwhelmed by this iron onslaught, Salah al-Dīn’s soldiers fled back toward the safety of the forest, with the crusaders in close pursuit. Richard halted the chase before they could advance too far into the woods, for a Saracen army was never more dangerous than in retreat.
Leading his men back onto the bloodied battlefield, he gave orders to collect their wounded—the dead would have to wait. Once he was satisfied that his soldiers were on the alert for another Saracen attack, he rode toward the squadron of French knights who’d fought under Guillaume des Barres, and these two former enemies shared a moment that mattered more than grudges or grievances or royal rivalries, for there was a brotherhood of the battlefield that men like Richard and Guillaume honored above all else.
THE BATTERED CRUSADER ARMY resumed its march toward Arsuf. But as they approached the camp already set up by their vanguard, there was another attack upon their rear. Richard, with just fifteen of his own knights, led a third charge that drove them back toward a ridge of hills, and the battle of Arsuf was finally over.
ARSUF WAS SITUATED on a steep sandstone ridge overlooking the sea, but the abandoned town was in ruins, razed by the Saracens, and the crusaders had to camp in the surrounding orchards. They were exhausted but triumphant, all the more thankful when they discovered that their casualties had been only one-tenth that of the Saracen losses. There were many wounded, though, and the surgeons’ tents were soon crowded. Before darkness fell, men began to slip away to exercise a soldier’s prerogative—plundering the dead.
Richard was in some discomfort, for his exertions on the battlefield had done his wound no good. He still insisted upon making the rounds of the camp himself, confirming that sentinels were on the alert, checking upon the injured, and offering praise to his soldiers, knowing they valued that almost as much as the booty they’d collected from their slain foes. The camp was abuzz with the exploits of Guillaume des Barres, Richard himself, and the young Earl of Leicester, who’d led a charge that had cut off some of Salah al-Dīn’s right wing.
“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.