Roselynde (55 page)

Alinor bent and kissed Simon's hair and his temple. If the King
had put Simon to such work, she would never forgive him. He should have known
that this man was not a butcher. What now to do or say to comfort him? She could
think of nothing except to keep him talking.

"My heart, light of my eyes, how did you come to be all
bloodied?'

"They fell upon us when the men began their work."

"Who?"

"The Saracens had gathered in the hills above to laugh at us
for being dupes, for performing our part of the bargain twice and thrice over
while they had no intent to satisfy us." He pulled a little away from
Alinor to look up at her, his eyes angry instead of dead. "As I said, they
hoped to delay and delay, keeping us at the place of meeting while they built
up their forces. When they saw that we would hold the hostages no longer, no
matter what excuses and fine gifts were sent, they purposed to win their pledge
free from us by battle—another violation of the truce. Well, I do not blame
them altogether for that. However wrong they were in failing to keep their
pact, it is not so easy to sit and see your countrymen butchered."

"You fought the attackers?"

"The King and the mounted knights—yes." Then he realized
what Alinor was asking, without wishing really to ask. "The common
soldiers did the—the other work. They sang and laughed at it. Perhaps we nobles
live too soft and listen to too many tales of high chivalry." He grinned
wryly. "I was not the only one who emptied his belly all over the
field." Then he rubbed his face against Alinor again. "But God is
good to me. I have the cure of all my ills right here."

"Not if you do not let me take off this shirt and clean
you," Alinor said tartly. She was relieved when Simon's arms dropped and
he smiled almost normally.

However, he was not completely cured and might never be until they
left this overripe land. At first, wherever Alinor led the talk as she treated
his wounds, he kept returning to the sea of blood. It was not the thing itself
that disturbed him, Alinor was pleased to discover. To be softhearted is all
very good, but a man so softhearted that he lost sight of the purpose of a
hostage or the danger of a large mass of prisoners left behind in hostile
territory was softheaded, too. Quite literally the quantity, the too-muchness,
of dead people and spilled blood had overset him.

Even her questions regarding how he had convinced the King to
write kindly to Berengaria led back to the sea of blood.

"I? I did nothing," Simon said. "I think if any man
had said that poor lady's name this past week it would have been his death. It
was after we had—had finished. We returned to the encampment and it was as if
the King had thrown off a great weight. He began at once to plan our march
south to Jaffa, whence he hopes to strike east to Jerusalem. Then suddenly he
turned to me and asked if I would ride a message for him. I was a little
surprised. There are messengers in plenty. But when he said to ride here with a
letter to the Queen, I saw he meant kindly to me. He wished to give me a time
with you. We will leave tomorrow or the next day."

Perhaps that was part of it, Alinor thought cynically. Richard was
not unkind when he noticed and the kindness did not interfere with what he
desired. This time it certainly did not. Simon would have what he craved, and
Richard would have freedom to do what he liked in his own bed. She did not say
that. She no longer cared what the King was or did. It was enough that he had
sent Simon to her. Richard should have his night free of interference.

It was not unlikely that Simon had similar thoughts. He made a
token protest when Alinor bade him stay the night. However, when she pointed
out that the army would not move far that first day, if it moved at all, Simon
did not argue that the King might need him. He simply turned in and went to
sleep in the King's bed. As it turned out, it was just as well that he stayed.
The army did not move until August 22.

The march was most curious. Richard had arranged for supply ships
to parallel their course down the coast, and Saladin's army also followed them
some miles inland. The heat was killing. Many were stricken as Simon had been,
some so much worse that they died. And, despite the supply ships, there was
never enough meat. Nonetheless, Simon's letters to Alinor were cheerful. Sooner
or later, he wrote, Saladin must come to grips with them. He could not, for
shame, allow them to proceed indefinitely or the heart would go out of his men
and his allies would begin to doubt him.

The day before they reached the city of Arsuf, Richard's
foreriders brought the news that Saladin's army had formed to block their
further passage. How greatly they were outnumbered Richard did not know, but he
was sure that to permit his men to charge into the Saracen forces would mean
that they could be broken into small parties and massacred. The baggage train
went down to the coast with a small detachment of footmen to guard it. Forward
of this anchor line, the heavy-armed, mounted knights took their stand. The foremost
line were the archers behind a wall of shields. They were to stand and receive,
Richard ordered, fighting only to defend themselves. Let the infidels break
themselves and reduce their numbers on the wall of men.

It was a wise plan, but very hard to sustain, Simon thought. One
wave of attackers had been beaten back, but it was no source of joy. They came
down the hillside like ants, thousands, tens of thousands, apparently
inexhaustible. Twice the line of footmen had been breached in many places and the
knights rode forth to beat back the attackers so that the wall could be closed
again, but they were forbidden to pursue. A few raw men had fled screaming
before a blow had been struck, panicked by the sight of so multitudinous an
enemy. Simon killed two of those himself in full sight of the men who held the
shield wall. They were only boys and Simon was sorry for them, but it must be
clear that the only chance for life any man had was to stand and fight.

Then came the mounted Turks. It was bitter to see them charge and
swirl away, laughing at the men who held their ground at their master's order.
They came again, and again, and were beaten off each time, but the dead they
left behind were not all their own. The Hospitalers on the flanks were most
heavily engaged. They sent to beg Richard to give them freedom to ride out
after their tormentors. He forbade it. Simon cursed under his breath. Again
they were attacked and again defended themselves and again begged the King to
free their bonds.

Pride is a sin. Very nearly, had Richard not been a genius in
tactics, it would have been physically as well as morally a deadly sin and
would have killed the Crusade that day. The Marshal of the Hospitalers and one
other, tried beyond endurance, broke ranks. Burning themselves and seeing those
two ride forth, the knights cheered and rode after. For one freezing instant,
Simon feared the King would fall into a rage. Then they would all die. Richard
screamed what was no battle cry and also not suitable language for a man engaged
in holy work, but he did not hesitate.

The die was cast. Wrong as it was thrown, the King would make his
point. He spurred forward, Simon to the left, Leicester to the right and, on
either side of them, Gurney, Borritz, Ferrars. Tooney, d'Avennes, Druell, and
the Bishop of Beauvais followed. Miraculously Richard brought order out of
chaos. The sound of his voice summoned his men together so that, one by one,
they would not be swept away. The line began to form with Richard at its center
point. The first man the King struck he clove in two. Simon had one moment to
marvel before his sword wrought similar havoc. The Saracens were apparently not
mail clad. They were quick to attack, quicker to flee away, but ill able to
withstand heavy combat hand to hand.

It seemed to Simon that every blow he struck killed a man, so
close were they pressed with enemies. But, though those he struck fell away,
more came. Simon's breath tore at his chest, his helmet bound temples that
otherwise, he thought, might have burst. A mist began to becloud his eyes. The
heat scorched him; it seemed a far deadlier weapon than any of the light swords
or lances the infidels wielded.

Then, suddenly, they were gone. Simon barely checked a sword
stroke that threatened Gurney, and he gasped an apology. He could scarcely see.
Hurriedly he fumbled behind his saddle, drew out a chunk of salted meat. How he
would choke it down in a mouth as dry as dust he did not know, but moisture
came as he chewed. And then, as the pounding in his head subsided and his
vision did not clear, he laughed. It was dust, not weakness that had dimmed his
sight. The battle had churned the earth of the plain into a cloud.

That laugh was the last Simon uttered for some time. Barely had
Richard reformed his men when the Saracens flooded over them again. It did not
seem possible that there should be more enemies than before—hundreds, perhaps
thousands, had been killed. The line of mounted men did not break; the footmen
performed prodigies of valor. Nonetheless they were forced back by the weight
of numbers.

"Simon!"

Above the din, Richard's clear bellow was like a trumpet. Simon
knocked his opponent aside with a thrust of his shield. To respond was more
important than to kill.

"Take ten mounted men and follow me." The King struck
down two more but found breath to call similar orders to Leicester and others.

It was easier said than done. To draw men from a fight without
causing a panic is difficult. There is little time or quiet for explanations
while blows are being exchanged. Nonetheless, it was done, and a small band of
panting men surrounded the King a little apart from the screaming, clashing
battle.

"Follow!" Richard cried.

There was no banner; that remained with the Bishop of Beauvais who
held the center of the main force. The men thanked God that Richard was a
giant. They would be able to see him when they fought again. It never occurred
even once to a single man that the King, seeing the tide of battle had turned,
was fleeing to save himself. Riding hard to the right beyond the battle front,
Simon again had cause to bless Lord Rannulf's gray stallions as one of the
men's horses foundered. His breath began to ease, the pain under his ribs
lessening. The blessed interval did not last long. Simon tightened his grip on
his sword again and drew a deeper breath when he saw where Richard was heading.
The few were going to attack the whole Saracen army from the right rear.

So fiercely did Richard's few attack, so beclouded was the air,
that the Saracens believed a new army, kept in reserve, perhaps landed from the
ships, had fallen upon them. The Moslem right flank broke, fouling the rear of
the main force, crying aloud of invincible reinforcements, spreading despair
and confusion.

From Jaffa on September 10, Simon wrote the news to Alinor. She
smiled as she read. His hand and seal were proof enough that no matter how dire
the battle, Simon had come well out of it. Near seven thousand enemy were
slain, he wrote—and Alinor noted there were no references to seas of blood—and
only a few hundred of their own. It was a pity that they were too weary to
pursue. They could have wiped Saladin's forces clean, but what had saved their
men's lives, the armor they bore, also made them heavy and slow.

On a personal level things also went well, Simon confided.

The King had kissed him and praised him and offered him what prize
of war he desired. "I told him the prize I dreamed of in my heart was too
great for the spoils of one battle, and he laughed and was not angered. He did
not promise, my love, but let there be another such battle and I am certain I
will have you. However, I know we differ somewhat in this mater. You will be
more happy than I to know we are fixed for some time here in Jaffa where the
King wishes to strengthen the fortifications."

In fact Richard had other plans afoot. He was entirely too good a
soldier to miss the implications of the size of the army opposed to him.
Although he had lost only hundreds and Saladin thousands, the hundreds were a
greater loss to Richard. God's work did not seem so simple here as it had in
Europe. Quietly the King began negotiations. Saladin received the messengers
with great courtesy. However true it was that he was in his own land, he was
not absolute master of it. Another few losses like the battle of Arsuf and his
sultans would begin to desert him. Saladin sent his own brother Safadin (Saif
al-Din al-Adil) to listen to what Richard had to say.

During the following months Richard was the model of a King.
Although he had made offers to Saladin that the Moslem leader was considering,
he did not lose sight of the condition of readiness of his army, nor of the
need to gain the approval of the men he led for any agreement he made. On a
flying visit to Acre in October to recall some of the army that had drifted
back to the pleasant climate and luxury of that city, Richard even seemed to
make an effort to conquer his growing distaste for Berengaria. This resulted in
the ladies joining the army in winter quarters at Latrum for Christmas.

The weather was horrible, wet and very cold. Although this suited
Simon and Alinor quite well—they were perfectly content to sit by the fire and
plan and dream of the future—it was not equally satisfactory to the others. Out
of common courtesy Richard was often forced into his wife's company, and the
necessity of facing constantly the living symbol of his guilt and her unvarying
sweetness in refusing to acknowledge that he had any fault did not improve the
King's temper. Berengaria's dream was shattering into ever smaller and more irreparable
fragments. Joanna was no help because she was furious with her brother.