The Falcons of Montabard (57 page)

The priest intoned the words of the mass, and Strongfist murmured his responses, comforted by the ritual and the knowledge that if he died in battle today, at least he had been confessed of his sins and cleansed. At his side, Fergus fidgeted with a leather arm brace, adjusting the buckles. Strongfist cocked a distracted eyebrow. His cousin, although devout, had ever had a problem with moments of stillness. Fergus's lips moved automatically. He latched the strap on the brace, changed his mind and slackened it off.

Strongfist cleared his throat irritably. Fergus ceased fiddling, bent his head, signed his breast and sighed heavily.

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'. . . In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, amen,'
Patriarch Bernard intoned, making the sign of the cross in the air before the open altar. His jewelled, embroidered robes glistened in the new sun as if fashioned of wet gold and behind him the planted banners of Antioch, Jerusalem and Edessa streamed in the breeze. Dominating them all was the staff bearing in its pearl and gold cruciform top the sliver of the True Cross on which Christ had been crucified. The holiest relic in Christendom. As always, a lump constricted Strongfist's throat as he gazed upon the symbol. Every man present was sworn to fight to the last drop of blood to protect it... and it might well come to that this day.

The benediction finished, men began rising from their knees and seeking their commanders. Strongfist beat dust from his chausses and adjusted the heavy rivet curtain of his hauberk so that it hung straight. Amalric brought his tawny stallion round from the horse lines. Sweat creamed the horse's satin coat and its eyes showed a white rim of agitation. Strongfist laid a soothing hand on its neck, fondled its dark muzzle and murmured steadying words. Beyond the boy and the destrier, he watched the men of Montabard being organised into line by Durand and Malik. They were to fight under the banner of the Patriarch, but Strongfist had their immediate leadership.

He set his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. The high pommel and cantle and the long stirrup leathers gave him a firm seat that only a full-on blow or his death would dislodge. His face full of fear and eagerness, Amalric handed up Strongfist's lance and shield. Strongfist slung the latter onto his back by the long strap and looked down at the youth.

'I want a promise from you that you will stay back with the baggage detail,' he said as he gathered the reins. 'If our lines should break and we are overrun, your orders are to flee. I want no dying-breath heroics, you are too young.'

Amalric's scowl was fierce, his narrowed eyes as pale as glass in the brightening light.

'You will give me your word on this.'

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'If you do not return, how will you know if I have kept it?' The boy's jaw jutted in pugnacious challenge.

'I won't, but you will. And if you cannot, then you are not worthy of future knighthood. Now, swear to me.'

Amalric continued to frown, but made the sign of the cross on his breast. 'I swear,' he said moodily.

'Good.' Strongfist gave a decisive nod. 'God willing, it will not come to that, but it is always wise to be prepared.' He touched his heels to the dun's flanks, using the sides of his heels rather than his spurs, and, keeping the reins in tight, trotted over to join Fergus. The latter was astride his black Nicaean destrier with his flame-haired sons at either side. Boys of nineteen and twenty-one years old, the latter recently knighted, the former still a squire.

Beneath the nasal bar of his helm, Fergus's moustache bristled as if every hair was standing on end. 'Well,' he said with a chequerboard display of teeth, 'we got ourselves into some hard situations when we were a similar age to these wee lads here. No one who was at the battle of Dorylaeum or the siege of Antioch will ever forget how hard-pressed we were. It seems tae me that we've reached another marker in the road. Either, by God's grace, we'll prevail, or we'll fall.'

It was stating the obvious, but such was Fergus's pragmatic tone, coupled with the wry smile on his face, that Strongfist felt oddly comforted. Beyond the hill where they had encamped, upon the flat ground before Azaz, il Bursuqi's amassed forces waited to meet them. From the information supplied by the scouts and outriders, the Saracens vastly outnumbered their Frankish counterparts. And since the Saracens too had their spies, il Bursuqi would know just how much of an advantage he had. Strongfist had weighed the odds the previous evening while sharpening his sword and putting an edge on his dagger. Not in their favour, but he had concluded that it did not matter. Whatever happened, he would either reach his wife and daughter through the Saracen lines, or die in the effort to reach them.

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He touched his breast and felt beneath his surcoat and over his hauberk the outline of the simple wooden cross he wore around his neck. His own life didn't matter, just let the hostages be safe.

With King Baldwin, Patriarch Bernard and Joscelin of Edessa at its head, the Frankish army advanced through the increasing light and heat to meet the Saracens before the walls of Azaz. Banners rippled in the breeze like ribbons of dyed water and above them all sailed the stave bearing the reliquary of the True Cross. Strongfist's mouth was dry. He reached to his waterskin, thumbed off the stopper and took a swig. The liquid was fresh from the spring and cold, scented with beeswax from the lining of the skin. It was difficult to swallow, but he forced himself. Who knew when he might have the opportunity to drink again ... if ever.

As the Frankish troops approached the Saracen army across the baked dust, it seemed to Strongfist that he was gazing upon an ocean. Serried ranks of archers and lancers were poised, their armour glittering like sunlight on wave crests, their banners billowing like sails: a tide held back by the waiting word of the captains but, when unleashed, threatening to surge over and drown by sheer weight of numbers.

Fergus whistled softly through the gaps in his teeth. 'More of them than I'd like,' he said, 'but not so many as to cause despair.' He reached to pat the battle-axe thrust through his belt. 'They're canny fighters, but they'll nae withstand the kiss o' my bonnie love.'

Strongfist found a smile despite the grim nature of the moment. Fergus was never more at home than when involved in a skirmish. It was as if the fierceness of his hair was a manifestation of his nature and every now and then it had to boil over. Out of bowshot range, the Frankish army halted and faced the Saracens across the scrubby terrain. At the back of il Bursuqi's army, the walls of Azaz were lined with defenders. Silence fell, punctuated by the jingle of bits and the whine of the wind. Strongfist felt sweat crawling down his cheeks. He

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had bound a band across his brow so that it would not drip into his eyes and blind him. The waiting drew out like an archer holding at the nock while his arm strained with tension. It was the usual Saracen ploy to send in skirmishers: light swift lancers and archers who would pour arrows and darts into the enemy force to soften them up. It was what had happened at Dorylaeum, except on that occasion the Frankish army had stood firm and the Saracen javelins had been unable to pierce the heavy shields and mail. However, this day, there was no sign of skirmishers breaking from the ranks.

'They're going to try to overwhelm us by force o' numbers,' Fergus said, speaking Strongfist's thoughts aloud, his voice curling around the words. 'Either their leader's a fool, or over-certain of his success.'

'Why should he not be confident?' Strongfist said. 'King Baldwin has retreated before him until now. II Bursuqi took Kafartab without difficulty and all the Saracen lords in the north have either bowed to his authority or joined his ranks.'

'Och, I don't blame him for being arrogant, but it's nae over yet.' Fergus kissed the haft of his axe. 'Indeed, it's scarcely begun.'

His last word was drowned by a resounding series of high-pitched yells from the Saracen lines. Spears flashed like a shoal of turning fish as they were raised and levelled. Joscelin of Edessa cantered down the Frankish front, his sword raised, his stallion's hooves raising puffs of dust. His voice roared out, as loud as a bull's in a market place full of cattle.

'Just like the old days, eh?' Fergus said.

Strongfist swallowed. His responding grin was a rictus as he adjusted his shield and brought his own lance to bear.

'Steady, lads,' Fergus said to his sons. The elder one was licking his lips, the younger was striving to control his prancing, sidling horse.

A horn blared from the Saracen line and the waiting was over. The tide was on the roll, the glittering comber of spears flashing towards the Frankish lines.

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Strongfist heard the responding trumpet of their own horns and lashed the reins down on the dun's sweat-spumed neck. The Frankish cavalry pounded at the Saracen line as if the shore was moving to meet the sea. Would the wave smash on the rock, or the rock shatter beneath the force of the surge? He could hear Fergus bellowing in Gaelic as he always did when he fought. The hot wind blasted his face; the dun's mane blew in ragged pennants. He could feel its shoulders straining for the next stride and the bunch and thrust of its haunches. Closer, closer. He trained his lance upon a Saracen riding a thin-legged bay. The man's round shield was small, protecting a small area, whereas the kite-shape of Strongfist's, although heavier, offered him superb cover. He dug in his spurs, thus gaining an extra burst of speed from the dun and rode onto the impact. His longer, heavier lance spitted the Saracen and carried him straight over the back of his saddle. The impact jarred the dun, and sent the bay to its knees. Strongfist thrust down on the shaft as if spearing a fish, dragged the point back up and out and pivoted the recovering dun with his knees. Close by, Fergus was still howling as he cut with the axe like a woodsman chopping spills for his hearth. To either side, his sons wielded sword and mace with grim concentration.

The battlefield became a patchwork melee of struggling men and horses. Dust floured the air and the warriors choked on their grunts of effort, their screams of pain. A metallic tang of blood wove through the haze like a scarlet ribbon, its underside tainted with the stench of excrement and spilled horse entrails. Strongfist's destrier trod on something soft that screamed and then was silent. Hacking, slashing, beset on all sides to the limit of his ability but never beyond it, Strongfist thought that this must be how it felt to stand in purgatory, but at the mouth of hell rather than the doors to heaven. His arm felt as hot and heavy as a lead brand; sweat rolled down his cheeks like rain down a stable door in a thunderstorm but he had no time to replenish the moisture loss. He felt as if someone had kindled a fire at the back of his throat. The only consolation was that

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no matter how much he was suffering in his heavy armour, the lighter-armed Saracens were suffering too. Not so much from the heat and dust to which they were long acclimatised, but from the weighty force of the Frankish assault. Hand to hand, the Franks had the advantage and with grim determination were cutting into the Saracen superiority of numbers.

Strongfist, Fergus and the two younger men developed a rhythm and pushed forward, guarding each other, battering aside their opponents, driving a path. They took minor blows, but even if a Saracen scimitar did win past the kite shields, the bulk of mail and gambeson absorbed the cut and the bruise of the hit. The Saracens with their flimsy armour and small round shields were far more susceptible. Even so, the Franks were not entirely without casualties. Now and again a destrier would be brought down by the flash of a scimitar and its rider either crushed underfoot or cut to pieces before he could recover. Sometimes a footsoldier would be sloppy with his shieldwork and pay for it. Exhorted by their commanders, certain that their superior numbers would carry the day, the Saracen wave continued to batter the Frankish rock. 'Hold firm!' Joscelin of Edessa's voice bellowed out and the horns continued to sound the note of advance. The standard of the True Cross rode high above the Frankish lines and beside it flew Baldwin's banner and slowly, but steadily, they forged forwards.

Strongfist's breath was tearing in his throat and, despite the bandage at his brow, his vision was a salty blur. Fergus's Gaelic expletives had long since diminished into grunts of effort and the swings of his axe had grown haphazard and less controlled. Strongfist knew that they were teetering on the edge of their endurance - that they would either have to retreat because they were too exhausted to go on, or die because they could no longer protect themselves from the slashes of the Saracen scimitars.

Just as he was contemplating pulling his exhausted dun from the line, there came a shout to his left and the horns blared out the advance again and again. It was a cry of harrying triumph, a command to gather all reserves that remained and push.

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'They're breaking!' Fergus wheezed, his complexion emperor-purple. 'Praise God, the bastards are breaking!' He raised his voice in a cracked bellow of triumph.

Strongfist didn't have the saliva for speech, but he dug in his spurs, adjusted his grip on his sword and, knowing that he would either die or win through, surged forward, shoulder to shoulder with his old battle companion.

The Saracen camp was a scene of abandoned chaos. II Bursuqi's troops had fled the battlefield without time to collect their belongings. Those who had tried had been cut down in the attempt. Tents were still pitched, cooking fires still burned under small brass cauldrons and food that owners would never return to eat simmered in earthenware pots. Loose horses plunged among the shelters, creating minor havoc, and a large tent caught fire as it was knocked sideways into an untended brazier.

Strongfist dismounted outside one of the bigger pavilions and ducked inside. There was a glass flagon of sherbet on a coffer, set out as if waiting for the owner to return from a day's hunting rather than the enormity of a battle. Strongfist lifted the flagon and, after a sniff, drank straight from the lip. The cold liquid ran like new rainfall down the parched gully of his throat and was the most wonderful sensation he had ever felt.