Beasts of the Seventh Crusade (The Crusades Book 4) (26 page)

The boy's eyes fluttered and there was blood on his teeth when he spoke, "I wanted to fight alongside the great Artois. I wanted something to tell my sons one day."

Francois grimaced. "If you want something to tell your sons, you need to live. And if you want to say something, tell them Henry the physician saved your life."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

DURING THE LONG MARCH BACK toward the coast, the men's mood soured. They had been moving forward for almost two years, marching where they pleased, certain in their victory over the Egyptian Ayyubids. Despite the rousing speeches of courage and endurance from the army's priests and officers, the men had lost heart.

They could have conquered Cairo, and thus Egypt, with their original force. They had more than enough warriors and confidence. But as the reality of marching across the desert settled into their hearts, coupled with Mother Nature's devastating effect of flooding the rivers, the crusaders had lost confidence in their mission and their king. It was an unspoken thing, a dark feeling of helplessness that floated like a cloud over the Seventh Crusade soldiers as they marched. It was doubt. Doubt.

"We will regroup at Damietta, receive reinforcements from Europe, and crush the Ayyubids!" Artois said fiercely to Raul, as they walked through the sand.

"Or we will cower at Damietta while the Muslim wolves howl at our door. They will allow no ships to land and starve us out, or we will be forced to surrender and become their slaves. There are many ways this crusade can end, Artois, but I do not think a Christian victory is one of them," Raul said. Though he was forty-two, he was one of the oldest men on the entire expedition. He had lived a life, seen his sons grow to men, conquered a dragon, and buried his brother. It was enough.

"I will never surrender," Artois muttered.

The column reached another major canal, the Ashmum, and the engineers immediately set to work. They identified the easiest location to cross over, set their long-boards, secured them with rope and soil, and the column was moving again. By the time every man was across, the engineers were exhausted. Since retreating from Mansura, they had forded countless small rivers and tributaries of the Nile. Their usual practice was to demolish their pontoon bridges after crossing to slow the Egyptians down, but on that day, they neglected their duty.

The camp was quiet. The men on watch stood by torches, lazily gazing into the desert. They thought of soft women in Europe, warm beds, good company, and fine wine. King Louis was in his personal tent, reading the works of Caesar and contemplating his political stance when he reached home. He would need to save face, and that meant finding a scapegoat for the failure of the Seventh Crusade. There was no shortage of those: Cathars, Jews, demons, any scapegoat would work fine.

Francois sat in the medical tent with Henry, each one perusing an ancient medical text. They had amputated three arms and one leg that day, and they were drained. The sharp tang of blood was still in the air, as well as the echoes of the men's screams in their ears, and they soon drifted off. The camp was very quiet, very still.

The Egyptian sultanate was like a hydra. Sultan Malik-al-Salih had passed from this world quietly, a complication from his leg amputation. It had been a sad day in Cairo, and the women wailed in the streets and the men fought fist-to-fist, to honor their sultan and his warrior spirit. By the end of the evening, the hydra had a new head: Turanshah, son of Malik.

Turanshah hated the Europeans even more than his father. He was taught from a young age that they were demons in disguise, agents of the Great Evil One and should be killed on sight, especially the young ones. They were the worst. When he received the call to his father's chamber, and was given command of the Ayyubid Empire, his father made him promise only one thing: destroy the Seventh Crusade.

Turanshah led his men out of Cairo in early March 1250. They rode north hard, passing thousands of rotting corpses in Mansura, including the body of Qutuz. Turanshah recognized Qutuz's bloated, mangled body immediately, and he stopped there for the day, to weep and pray for the soul of a great man. With his heart and spirit heavy with grief, he rode north faster, eager to catch up with Shajar's forces.

The two Egyptian forces met ten miles from the crusader camp, outside a city called Fariskur. With Turanshah's reinforcements, they almost doubled the number of European men out in the desert that night. They had the element of surprise, too, thanks to the engineers who, in their haste and fear, forgot to destroy their pontoon bridge. They would think the Egyptians were still trying to ford the Canal of Ashmum. They would find out just how wrong they were.

"Father, wake up! Father!" Artois put his meaty paw on Raul's shoulder and shook him. The air was cool in their tent and the Moon was at its zenith, the darkest part of the night. Raul brushed Artois' hand off him.

"What is it?" he groaned.

"I heard horses. I have been dreaming lately, of fighting and death. I think it is starting to wear me down, Father, the ghosts in my heart."

"Ghosts of men you've killed? Or things like Ghoul?"

"Men I've killed."

"They were trying to kill you. You've done nothing wrong."

"I'm not talking about right or wrong. It's their faces in my dreams; it's their voices, their smells. I can't sleep and I'm hearing the stamp of hundreds of horses where there are none!" Artois exclaimed. He stood and got dressed and heard the horses again. He clapped his hands over his ears. "I need some fresh air."

The scene outside was surreal. There was a black tide on the desert, like the ocean had spilled over the sands, creating a ghostly horde of infantry, cavalry, and archers. But this was no drug-induced hallucination. The horde of Ayyubids was real, and they were moving toward the crusader camp quickly and quietly.

"ENEMIES! ENEMIES!" Artois screamed. The sentries died first, long wooden shafts with black fletching appearing in their throats immediately. A few nearby men at campfires raised their heads and looked at Artois, still unaware of the Egyptian blitz attack. More men cried out randomly through the camp, but the Ayyubids still made no sound. Raul was out of the tent the next second.

"Enemies?" he asked. Artois didn't think; he just reacted. He grabbed Raul and threw him bodily into the tent, and he stepped inside behind him.

"They have ambushed us and will be here in a moment. Get your weapons," Artois said calmly, and then he was a whirlwind of motion. He strapped on his armor and donned his weapons. Raul finished almost as quickly. They went back outside, where more sleepy men were peering out of their tents, hoping the screams they had heard were in their minds, their dreams.

"This battle won't last long! We must get Francois!" Artois yelled, grabbing Raul's wrist and dragging him down a corridor of tents. The Egyptians were entering every tent and slaughtering everyone, working efficiently but slowly. The Coquets had a chance to get away, and Artois continued yelling as they got nearer to the medical tents.

"The Egyptians are here! To arms! To arms!"

Gurgling woke Francois. His eyes snapped open instantly, but the noise was gone.
It's another nightmare,
Francois thought,
Now I'm hearing things? What's next, cold fingers creeping around my neck?

He stood and stretched. Henry was comfortably laid out on a cot, his thick, dusty medical text draped over his eyes. He snored a little and rolled his head around, but the book stayed stuck to his face.

There was screaming in the distance. It was not the full-throated roars and wails of combat, but the singular sounds of surprise and terror. Francois rubbed his eyes and stepped out into the cool night. There was definitely a commotion at the edge of the camp, but Francois' side of the camp was still mostly asleep. He glanced left and then right and saw Artois and Raul, as big as life, charging straight at him.

"To arms! Get your gear, little brother! The Egyptians are here!" Artois roared. Francois didn't have to think; he just obeyed. He ducked back under the flap and saw Henry had finally woken, his ancient book splayed on the floor.

"What is happening?" he asked. "Who is yelling at this hour?"

"There is an attack on the camp. You must gather what you can and follow us," Francois said. Henry had learned to trust the serious young man who stood in front of him so confidently, giving orders like it was in his blood. He rose and together they gathered their most essential supplies and weapons. When they got back out, Artois was still yelling. More men were awake now, and the familiar sounds of battle echoed across the camp.

"Are we just going to leave?" Francois asked. It was a possibility. They were outfitted and alert, ready to move. If they wanted, they could take four horses from almost anywhere and ride away, leaving the Seventh Crusade like a distant memory. If they did that, though, they could never return to French military service, and they would be killed on sight if someone recognized them in the future.

"Yes. This is it, Francois. There will be no survivors," Raul said.

"I think Father is right," Artois said.

"I will follow you, brother," Francois said, and they clasped hands. It was an awkward, inopportune time to strengthen their bond, but Raul's eyes glistened at the sight of his sons working together. That was all he ever wanted—a family that looked out for its own.

Artois took them toward the command center. More warriors were appearing, gathering in small groups under the dark Moon, finally realizing that they had been ensnared like a desert snake. A few soldiers snapped at Artois, trying to get his attention or bring him under orders, but he ignored them all. One unwise man even stepped in his path, and Artois shouldered him to the ground like a child.

"What is your plan?" Francois called.

"The king will be running too, I think. Maybe we can find some horses and escape in the confusion," Artois yelled back, still dashing past tents and fires. They finally arrived at the main road in the camp, which was really just a dirt clearing that led to the king's tent and extended to the front line, more than a mile away. The area was relatively quiet, and then Artois saw the dark tide again.

"TO ARMS!" he screamed. The Ayyubids had not only launched a night attack, but they had somehow circled behind the crusader camp, trying to cut off the northern retreat. They appeared to be mostly cavalry, and Artois took that as a good sign. Cavalry meant men with horses, and they needed some horses. The only problem was killing the men.

King Louis himself burst out of his tent, wearing his crown and a purple robe. Behind him, two buxom blonde women silhouetted the smoky interior of his tent. To his credit, Louis saw the Ayyubids immediately, and he looked at the guards at his doorway.

"This will be the day that you save your king's life!" he declared, before running back inside. The Coquets and Henry approached the guards, and the guards brandished their weapons menacingly. Artois raised a hand to calm them.

"We are not Egyptians man! It is me, Artois!"

"Artois? It's me, Trunk!"

Trunk stepped closer and Artois recognized his balding head and wide shoulders. It was a sad thing that Trunk would be relegated to guarding the king's tent in the middle of the night, but it was known that he fell in disfavor after the debacle with Christof's execution.

"The Egyptians are everywhere! We must escape!" Artois said.

"I must guard the king," Trunk said solemnly.

"We will help you, unless you can kill all of them on your own?" Artois gestured toward the approaching Ayyubids. They were spread out and moving from tent to tent, but a thick knot of warriors was coming straight at them, seeking King Louis' head.

"My king! We must leave, now!" Trunk yelled into the tent. King Louis emerged a moment later with a sword strapped on his hip and a helmet instead of his crown.
A wise move,
Francois thought.
The Egyptians don't know what he looks like; this might be his way of escaping.

The noise had brought out Louis' generals from their tents, as well as foreign dignitaries and their personal bodyguards. Each group took in the sight of the Ayyubids and joined Louis' cluster of men. Within a minute, more than fifty warriors were bunched in front of the king's tent, waiting for orders. Louis did not make them wait long.

"Get as many horses as you can! We ride for Damietta!"

He barely got the words out of his mouth before the Ayyubids arrived in the clearing. The two groups faced off, evenly matched in numbers. The Ayyubids had horses, though, exactly what the crusaders needed.

"For France!" Artois took up the battle cry first, which Francois had half-expected. He heard his father bellow curses at the same time, and Francois even found himself yelling, though he wasn't sure of his exact words. They were oaths, blasphemies, and promises of bloodshed, and then the Ayyubids charged them.

"Shields!" Trunk yelled. Not all of the men had one, like Francois, and he was forced to crouch behind another man's shield while the horses charged. Francois waited for the impact, the crunch of bone on metal, but it never came. The horses were refusing to run headfirst into the steel bosses, and they bucked at the last moment, every single one of them.

"Now!" that was Artois' voice.

The crusaders exploded out of their crouched positions, and they stabbed upward with whatever they had. Swords, daggers, spears, axes, and arrows pierced the Egyptian horsemen, killing more than a dozen in the first clash. The Ayyubids struck back with feral anger, swinging their own curved sabers and running the Europeans over with their mounts.

Francois found Artois and stayed behind him. Artois moved forward, killing and advancing with relentless energy. Francois used his bow to kill men who might threaten Artois, and they worked together like that for the entire battle: Artois killing men who came close, Francois killing men from a distance.