Holy Warrior (44 page)
‘So they are going to charge anyway, without permission,’ muttered one of the King’s noble companions.
Ahead of the Hospitallers was a large crowd of Turkish horsemen; many had dismounted to have a more stable platform from which to shoot their arrows at the foe, others were forming up for another charge at the wavering Christian lines. They seemed as surprised as we that the Hospitallers had emerged from between the wagons of baggage train that they had defended for so long. A few loosed arrows at the black ranks of horsemen, but they had no visible effect. Then the Hospitallers smoothly, silently, like some great cat, moved on to the attack. The first rank of knights, perhaps seventy men, broke into a trot, the mail-clad bodies rising and falling in the saddles in unison, then the canter. The lances came down to the horizontal position; the first line moved up to the gallop. The Turkish enemy were still hastily mounting their ponies, desperately loosing a final arrow and scrambling to get out of the way when the first black rank of knights smashed into them. Men died screaming on the Hospitallers’ long spears, the weight of the heavy horse easily punching the steel spearheads through the light armour of the Turkish cavalry, the colossal impact of the charge splintering the mass of horsemen into tiny shards of individual Saracens fleeing for their lives. Few survived, as the first line swept through them like a roaring wind, and then the second line, the Hospitaller sergeants, came boiling into the fray, swords swinging, maces crushing skulls, more than sixty angry black-clad servants of Christ taking their revenge for the humiliations they had suffered all morning from the stinging arrows of these men. Behind them came a great mass of the remaining French knights, their boldly coloured surcoats gaudy in comparison with the sombre black of the first two lines of charging men. The whole of the cavalry of the third division, all those that still had horses to sit upon, charged. Some three hundred knights, the cream of our army, galloped forward to the attack - in total disregard of King Richard’s orders. The French horsemen, screaming their war cries, piled into the great mass of enemy cavalry, slaughtering any Turks they could find with glorious abandon, blades swinging, gore splashing, their big warhorses biting and kicking out at the behest of their blood-crazed Christian masters.
‘Sire,’ said one of the household knights, breaking the spell of stunned silence. ‘He is moving at last, look - I believe Saladin is committing his reserves to the battle.’ And he pointed at the enemy lines, where large masses of men, some thousands, it seemed, were moving forward on the left against the Hospitaller knights - who were still engaged in a furious mêlée, hacking at the surviving Turks with their great swords, carving men and horses into red ruin.
‘Well, that’s it, then. Saladin has weakened his centre. We must seize the moment,’ said King Richard. He looked at me: ‘Blondel,’ he said, ‘pass the word to Locksley. He is to move up in support of the third division; pull the Hospitallers’ chestnuts out of the fire, if he can, and then attack the enemy’s right flank - that’s on
our
left. Is that clear? He can take James of Avesnes and the Flemings with him. We will all attack now, all along the line. That is the order. Trumpeter!’
As I turned my horse to deliver the King’s message, my heart was beating hard with excitement. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him point directly at Sir Nicholas de Scras. ‘You, sir,’ he thundered, ‘you, sir, can tell your Grand Master that I will have words with him after this day is done, if he survives!’ And then the King turned and began to shout for his best lance and his new gauntlets.
I raced back to Robin’s men, but I could see the news of the order to advance had outstripped me. All along the line the horsemen were moving forward. I rejoined the line of Robin’s cavalry, taking my place beside my master. ‘The orders are to support the Hospitallers, sir, and then to attack the enemy’s right wing,’ I said to Robin. ‘The Flemings are to ride with us. It is a general attack, sir, all along the line.’ And, for no reason that I can easily explain, except that I must have been infected with the King’s battle-madness, I grinned at him.
‘Yes, it is, Alan; yes it is. And about time, too,’ and he gave me a wide, easy smile.
Chapter Nineteen
We advanced in a single line, riding out beyond the tide-mark of dead men and horses in front of our position, and we angled our charge towards the north-east, where the scattered Hospitaller knights, having cut their opponents to bloody shreds, were hastily trying to reform in the face of a body of heavy Berber cavalry two hundred strong that was bearing down on them from Saladin’s right wing. As we approached at the trot, with the Flemings hard on our heels, two hundred yards ahead the Berbers launched a shower of javelins and then hurled themselves at the bunched Hospitallers in a furious rush of galloping horse, snarling white-clad warrior and lunging spear. But, tired though they were from their previous fight, the Christian knights were masters of this kind of war: they met charge with charge, and lance with lance; and the two forces, smashed into each other with a crash of splintering wood and the squeal of steel grating on steel.
I looked over my right shoulder to the south and saw that the whole first division, King Guy de Lusignan’s knights, the Angevins, Poitevins and Richard’s knights from Aquitaine, with the Templars in their distinctive white surcoats on the furthest right flank - more than a thousand heavily armed soldiers of Christ - were charging in a great mass eastwards, along the line of the marshy river, towards the centre-left of the Saracen lines.
I looked over my left shoulder and directly behind us were the rest of the English cavalry and the King’s grim Norman knights two hundred and fifty yards to our rear. But they had not moved from their position in the centre of our former line - and I wondered why, when the whole of the rest of our forces had charged. Had not the order been for a general attack? Richard, his golden crown flashing in the afternoon sunlight, was riding up and down in front of the English and Norman knights - some of the best and most renowned fighters in his army - and he was clearly speaking to them, though the words were lost at that distance. They were lined up in the order of the charge, but not a horse stirred in that hot blazing sunshine. Why did they not advance, why were they holding back?
But there was no time for further speculation. Sir James de Brus shouted an order, a trumpet blew, and suddenly we were flying towards the enemy, Ghost galloping smoothly between my knees, my shield tight on my left arm, right arm holding the lance steady. The Berber cavalry were spread over a wide area, those still living exchanging cuts, scimitar against sword, with the Hospitaller and French knights, their horses whirling and stamping, men cursing and screaming in pain, as Christian and Muslim knights fought out their individual duels. Our line of horse crashed into the mêlée at the gallop, one moment we could see a vicious cavalry battle taking place before our eyes, the next we were in among them.
In front of me, I saw a white-robed warrior slash with his scimitar at a helmet-less French knight, catching him a cruel blow across the face and flaying the skin from the Christian’s cheek with a spray of bright blood. I lined up Ghost with my knees, gripped the spear shaft more tightly between my elbow and side, dug in my heels and surged forward to plunge the point of my lance with all my might deep into the small of the man’s back. The shock of the blow was immense, as if I’d stabbed the point at a gallop into an oak tree; the spear shaft was ripped from my hand, I felt a twinge in my broken wrist, and then I was past my enemy, and looking over my shoulder to see what damage I had caused. He was still in the saddle, and I hauled out my sword, turned Ghost, and galloped back to challenge him again. But he was clearly no longer a threat, the white robe crimson with blood from waist to knee, the long lance waggling from the centre of his back and I guessed that the point had plunged right through him and out of his belly, pinning him to the high pommel of his saddle and keeping his body upright. His eyes were wide with unimaginable pain, his open mouth working soundlessly in the agony of his death, and, purely as a mercy, I hacked into his throat with my sword as I passed him by, to send him onward more swiftly.
In a few moments, the Berbers were all dead or gone from the field and I heard the brassy song of our trumpets sounding the recall. Looking around the field, I saw that many of the dead wore the black robes with the white cross of the Hospitallers - touchingly their horses seemed the most loyal of beasts, many standing beside their dead masters, and nuzzling at them, urging the corpse to rise - but that there were still three score or so of the black-clad Christian warriors alive, and several dozen French knights, and they, like our men, were trotting over to the great white banner with the snarling wolf’s head, which was our rallying point.
Our own horsemen had not suffered too badly in that desperate fight, and I could see at least seventy of Sir James’s men, joining Robin and the Scottish knight by the flag. We formed up again but this time in two ranks; those who still had their lances, or who had thought to pick up discarded ones from the field, were placed in the front rank. The rest of us would follow the front rank in with our swords. From my position in the second rank, I looked forward over the heads of the lance-men and at the ranks of the enemy’s right wing a mere four hundred yards away. Immediately in front of us was a thick line of foot soldiers hundreds strong, each holding a long sword and small round shield; their chests were bare, their loins wrapped in brilliant white cloth, their faces were grim as they awaited out attack - and their skins were as dark as midnight. These were the fearsome warriors from Egypt - the mighty leapers, the drinkers of human blood. Behind them was another mass of Turkish cavalry, bows already in their hands. I shivered as I looked on the enemy host that we were shortly to charge; the sword hilt was sweaty in my hand, and I found I was gripping my shield tighter to my left shoulder. Another trumpet blast, and we were moving forward, sword in my moist fist, shield strapped tightly to my left forearm. The arrows from the horse archers began to fall on us, rattling against my shield and helmet as I crouched under their lash. I tried to ignore the stinging rain of deadly shafts and concentrate on keeping Ghost in line with the rest of the conroi. And we did not have to endure for long. We rose to the canter, then the gallop, and then we were upon them. The front rank spearing into the lines of dark-skinned men hurling them backwards, and we in the second rank following hard on their heels. A huge half-naked black man rushed at me from my left, howled some dreadful pagan war cry and then leapt at me, springing high in the air, higher than I sat on Ghost, and swinging his long blade at my head in the same movement. More by luck than skill, I caught it on the top of my shield and deflected it in a hissing flash over my head, and my own sword lanced out and took him in his muscular belly. He fell away, off my sword, screaming and spraying blood from his wound. But two of his fellows were running at me, one from the left again, and more dangerously, one from the right. I heard Robin shouting: ‘On, on, take the cavalry, take the cavalry,’ from somewhere close by but I was too busy to heed him. Instead of leaping at me, the dark man on my left crouched and swung his long grey blade in an upward strike at Ghost’s belly, hoping to eviscerate my faithful beast, but I dropped the pointed end of my shield, and parried his low blow before swinging overhand, across my body with the sword, clipping his shield, which was held above his head, with my blade’s edge and driving it past to chop into the gap between his neck and shoulder, slicing deep and dropping him with a nearly severed head. For a few moments my blade stuck in his collar bone, and I had to twist and tug to free it as his hot blood pissed up my face and right arm. I was off balance, having leaned far out of the saddle to my left hand side to strike the blow, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other dark man, just yards away, bringing back his arm for a massive strike at my twisted waist.
The world seemed to slow; I could feel every heartbeat as if it were the boom of a mournful funeral drum. I knew what would happen next. I could not swing my sword round in time to parry his blow, and his long, heavy blade would arc into my side, smash through the chainmail, and cut deep into the side of my belly. I was a dead man.
And then a miracle occurred. There was a rumble of hoofbeats, a big horse thundered past; a long spear took the Nubian full in the chest, lifted him off his feet and hurled him away, his naked body crumpling to the turf with his arm still raised, sword cocked and ready for the blow that would have killed me.
The horseman reined in a dozen yards away. He pulled out his sword and raised it in salute and grinned at me: it was Robin. I straightened in the saddle and lifted my own blade in return. ‘Come on, Alan,’ he said, ‘no more slacking. We can’t hang around here, we have to push the cavalry off that ridge.’ And he gestured over his shoulder to where a huge mass of Turkish horsemen was milling about uncertainly on a low rise between us and the centre of Saladin’s vast army. ‘And on your best behaviour, too, Alan,’ Robin continued, ‘the King will be watching.’ And he grinned at me again. He cupped one hand around his mouth and bellowed: ‘On me, form on me,’ in his brass battle voice. ‘Trumpeter, sound “re-form”.’
At the mention of the King, I turned and looked back at our lines, and saw a wonderful sight: the King, his golden ringed helmet marking him out of the crowd, was advancing at speed up the centre of the field. And behind him were a thousand fresh knights from England and Normandy. Their armour gleamed, lance points glittered, pennants fluttered gaily in the air, and their big horses shook the ground with the thunder of their hooves. They were headed straight for the centre of the enemy line. In a flashing moment, I saw why Richard had delayed his advance. He had let our men bleed the strength from the centre, sucking regiments to the right flank to face us, and the left, where the Templars and Angevins were still engaged in a furious mêlée. With the centre thinned by attacks either side, Richard was now about to strike it a powerful hammer blow. Would he succeed? It was too soon to say: Saladin still commanded a mighty host, and if Richard was pushed back, and Saladin counter-attacked, every man in the whole Christian army would be fleeing for his life by nightfall.
