ALONG THE COASTAL ROAD

Julie sat there, stunned, after Robert's sudden departure. What had he said? He'd described the sky the day of the massacre. How could he know what the sky looked like?

Robert closed the door firmly behind him and strode rapidly toward his own house. It was dark now, though a full moon easily lit his way. As he crossed his lawn he paused, tipping his head back, looking up at the moon. Then with a quiet moan he threw himself down on the grass, lying on his back, arms folded across his face. The screams were still there, would always be there. Mothers twisting their bodies, trying vainly to protect their children from the falling swords. Thank goodness for the Saracen blade that had sliced through his right bicep the week before. Weak with fever, he had been unable to participate in the massacre, but he had seen the whole thing, had heard the cries of the helpless. He had hated Richard in that moment. But he was an Englishman and though Richard had no loyalty to England, as an Englishman, he himself was loyal to his king.

Richard had been Duke of Aquitaine, his mother's lands in France, since he was fifteen and it was there his affection lay. When his father, Henry II, died at Chinon, Richard acquired England. England was for Richard nothing more than booty, nothing more than a source to loot to raise money for the crusade he'd set his heart on. News of the disaster that had befallen the Christian army at Hattin had stirred something in him, some mercy and sympathy grounded in absolute determination. With England now his, he could empty it of revenue and fighting men, of horses and shipwrights. He went, then, to England to be crowned at Westminster and the English mistakenly thought their new king had come to stay. He stayed four months, four months during which he raged through the country like a giant predator, one thing alone on his mind. To the highest bidder went all the offices, all the titles. Every sheriff in the land was removed from his position and under the threat of imprisonment, had to buy his sheriffdom back from the crown. Once someone pointed out to him his flagrant use of England and Richard simply replied, "I would sell London if I could."

Lying there on the ground, Robert murmured aloud, "I would sell London if I could." He shuddered. Still, Richard had been his king and he was among those who left England to follow him on crusade. The man was a magnificent, magnetic presence and thousands upon thousands rallied to his call. But there on the hill of Ayyadieh on August 20th, he had hated his king.

For four days after Ayyadieh, Richard had let his army rest. At dawn on the 24th, the king led his army out of Acre along the coast, heading south to Jaffa. Richard's fleet sailed just off the shore, paralleling the army. Saladin, in the hills with his own army, paralleled them to their left. Robert lay there under the moon, the sight of it just as clear in his mind as though he were encamped after a day's march.

Nearly 85,000 men were in Richard's army, one of the most powerful ever put in the field by the Crusaders. Well-equipped, well-armed, well-organized and under the command of a single well-wrought military mind. Richard knew Saladin's equally-sized army marched just to his left, out of sight in the hills. He knew Saladin would try and cut his army by the sea into sections, making it easier to destroy. Richard gave considerable thought and planning into the order of march so that no part would be weaker than any other part. Near the sea, he placed the pack animals and the humans who carried huge weights of goods on their backs. He never had enough animals to carry all he needed transported. The cavalry he placed in the center of the three columns, with the infantry on the outside. Templars formed the advance guard, Hospitallers the rear. Richard himself rode constantly up and down the lines. His mount was Fauvel, the bay horse he'd taken from Comnenus.

Robert's fever had not yet broken and his arm ached nearly beyond endurance. Nearly. He had to endure it. There was no choice. The wagons with the wounded were one of the Saracen's favorite targets. No, he would march with his fellows. The first few days passed for him in pretty much of a fog, just one foot in front of the other. Several times he fell, but his friend Geoffrey always hauled him back to his feet.

Saladin's light cavalry made almost constant hit and run attacks on Richard's lines. On the fourth day, a Saracen arrow had pierced Geoffrey through the neck. After that, there was no one interested in hauling Robert to his feet. He marched in absolute bone crushing fatigue. But he marched. Thank God Richard had decided they should march only for the first three hours of the day. It took 19 days to reach Jaffa. Richard was in no hurry. He
studied the lay of the land, the available maps, talked with those who had been there before, and decided where it was that Saladin would stage his main assault. He was exactly right.

A millennium before, the Romans had built a paved road along this route, a great highway so their chariots and carts could drive quickly along it. Lost now under the burning white sands, only traces of it remained. Thorny bushes now grew along much of the way, and the foot soldiers were torn by their thorns, or their faces cut by the reed forests that grew so thickly along the shore. Sometimes the sand was so soft they sank up to their knees. And it was hot, blisteringly hot. When they camped, fatigued beyond belief, the tarantulas would come out, stinging the men who were trying to rest, causing painful swelling. Only the knights could afford the balms and oils that helped. The foot soldiers relied on something else they had discovered. Tarantulas detest loud noises. So all night long the soldiers banged drums, beat on basins or helmets. No one slept on the nights the tarantulas came. Like the screams, like Geoffrey's gurgle as the arrow took him down, the sound of the banging in the night remained in Robert's ears.

There were prayers, too. Sometimes the nights were so filled with those, sleep could not come even for the most weary. One of the king's heralds would come among the tents, crying out, "Sanctum Sepulchrum, adjuva!" The whole army would take up the cry, responding in turn to the herald's three cries. Thousands upon thousands of voices, calling it in the night. In the times of gravest danger, prayers and cries could be heard the entire night. Robert could hear those, too. "Sanctum Sepulchrum, adjuva!" he whispered there on the grass.

At Arsuf, about halfway to Jaffa, the woods came all the way down to sea. It was here Richard expected Saladin to attack in force. That morning, indeed, he even issued a proclamation through the encamped army that he expected to do battle that day. For some time now Arsuf had been the place he knew he would have to stand and fight. His spirits were good that morning as he looked forward to battle. Robert ate his ration, checked his quiver, his spirits somewhat less buoyant than his king's. His right arm was still stiff, still sore, the deep wound having been roughly, quickly stitched with no medication. It was healing, but very slowly. Pulling on his bowstring was nearly impossible and he'd taken possession of Geoffrey's crossbow.

Robert took his position with the Anglo-Normans in the center where the cart with the royal standard was. He was tense and though it was yet morning, sweat rolled down his brow and he wiped it away repeatedly with the arm of his jerkin. He tried to watch Henry of Champagne, who rode near the hills, charged with signaling the army when the Saracens would emerge. At 9, with the blasting sound of horns, trumpets, clarions, gongs, cymbals and high-pitched yells, they came out of the woods. It reminded Robert of the fleet's approach to Messina...only louder, more fearsome. Richard's whole army felt the weight of the attack, though the main charge was directed at the Hospitallers in the rear guard. Saladin had been joined by Nubians, Bedouins, and javelins as well as arrows rained down on the first line of infantry. An arrow tore through the shoulder cloth of Robert's jerkin, but didn't touch his skin. Desperately he got off bolt after bolt, ignoring his throbbing arm, trying to do his duty to protect the calvary behind him. Wave after wave of the enemy army poured out of the woods until it seemed there was no room for all of them to stand. For two miles not an inch of empty ground could be seen.

Richard, determined to keep his army all in once piece, to keep them, too, from being pushed into the sea, continued the forward march during the battle, so his men fought as they marched. The crossbowmen in the rear guard actually fought while marching backwards. The sound of battle filled the air like the battering of countless hammers upon blacksmith's anvils. For Robert, almost more than anything else, it was the sounds of the crusade that filled his being.

Horses screaming. There was that, too. The Saracens tried to kill as many of the horses as possible so Richard's knights could not charge. The Hospitallers, in the rear, and more exposed, were losing way too many of their mounts. Desperate, they sent messages to Richard, begging him to let them charge while they still could, but he refused, wanting to hold all his cavalry until he would let them loose at once.

Robert dropped his arms to his side, looking up at the silver-limned treetops, moving slightly in the gentlest night breeze. How could the heat of the day at Arsuf still be so real even now? The skies had been unremittingly blue, not a cloud anywhere, the morning sun blazing furnace-like on him as he used his last bolt and tried to gather more from fallen comrades. Richard pounded past him on Fauvel, heading to join the Hospitallers. He threw himself with absolute recklessness into the thick of battle and with the extraordinary reach of his long arms, cleared a wide path for himself, his sword swinging in enormous arcs. For a moment, Robert watched him, magnificent, fierce, and a gladness that this was his commander, his king, swelled in him again. Richard not only did not ever ask his men to do something he himself would not do, he did more than they did...or could do. If only, he sighed, the King of England loved England.

Seven thousand Saracen died that day. Richard lost perhaps a thousand men. As he watched the Saracen flee back into the woods, Robert sank to his knees, exhausted, his arm screaming with pain. Some of the crossbowmen were ordered to follow the enemy, many of which had hidden in the branches of the trees. Robert tried to rise to his feet, but could not manage the task. All his bolts were gone anyway. A priest, traveling with the army, got him up, got him to a cart where he lay back, letting it carry him to the small seacoast village of Arsuf. Richard gave them the next day to rest before continuing on to Jaffa.

Robert, on the lawn, closed his eyes, suddenly very tired, and drifted off to sleep.