The Leopard Sword (2 page)

The ship and the galleys were like designs in a tapestry—the golden sail, the wide blade of the rudder, the gleaming rise and fall of enemy oars. As I watched, the vessels seemed to move deliberately, the sailing ship working merrily against the breeze, the Saracens gliding soundlessly, as though it were all sport, and nothing harmful could follow.

I tried briefly to spy Edmund and to catch his eye, but I could see him nowhere in the throng of knights and squires now crowded forward to watch the distant Crusader ship. The
Sint Markt,
her sail fluttering, made a last-moment maneuver as we looked on, turning herself before the onrushing galley, heading into her attacker prow forward.

I once believed I knew something of war. My father's house had been graced with kind and cheerful servants, and during my boyhood, teachers explained to me which stars in the nightly dome were Taurus, and which Orion the hunter, lifting his weapon to strike a blow. I played at war with my sister Mary, who joined in eagerly—we arranged our hearth-knights made of straw in wide battle formations. On a sunny afternoon we would be taken down to the millpond and allowed to row in coblets, small craft designed for children. I knew how hard it was, even in play, to take a boat's impact in the side of a vessel, and how the wily boater will turn prow forward, to give the assaulting craft a smaller target, one less likely to capsize.

But now that I had tasted war, I felt I knew nothing about battle, or, in truth, about much else. The massacre of two thousand prisoners, at King Richard's command, had made me believe that war was a butcher's craft, and not a knight's. I had taken a man's life in the recent battle, with Heaven's blessing, but I hoped it would be many a long season before I would see fighting again.

Now the onrushing Infidel galley had two bronze battering rams thrust forward like horns. The gray prow of the Flemish vessel wedged violently between these rams, and yet even when white wood and jagged gaps appeared along the Crusader ship's wales, I believed the damage was slight. I thought the sailing ship would master the long, slender attacking craft as the enemy galley backed away, and then drew alongside the larger ship.The swarming bodies of Saracen swordsmen streamed into the broad-beamed freighter, an attack we could hear even at our distance, the shrill of voices, and the unsettling ring of iron on steel.

Aboard our ship, anguished voices were raised at the sight of faraway Crusaders raising shields, parrying blows, sunlight glinting off mail-clad bodies. Many of the far-off knights clambered onto the castles, the wooden structures prominent on the ship's stern and bow, but even as they beat off the flood of boarders, another Saracen
gallea
approached from the opposite side, and every voice onboard our ship was raised in protest, a ragged roar as we sought the intervention of Heaven.

In a deliberate, pretty maneuver the second galley hooked the side of the Crusader ship and opened a long, ugly rent, splinters of wood flying. The prow of this second attacker locked firmly in the Flemish ship's ribs.This meant that the Saracens had to flow over a single point near the galley's prow, and the flashing blades of two or three brave knights showed that this foray was being held off, and our voices lifted in an encouraging cheer.

We were no longer so distant from the fighting.The time between the flash of a far-off weapon and the sound of the blow, blade against armor, was less and less as the power of our oarsmen propelled us closer in sweeping strokes. The remaining enemy galleys turned, aiming their prows in our direction. At a shouted command from the captain, our galley took a wide turn, leaving an arcing wake in the water.

The
San Raffaello
's captain was a tanned, bald-headed man with a short white beard and muscular forearms. He climbed the stern castle, briefly shielded his eyes, and descended again, barking further commands. Eager as our knights and squires might be to join the fight, our voices lost some of their strength as we measured our own galley against the enemy's longer, sleeker warships, each armed with a pair of waterline rams.

The
Sint Markt
foundered as we left her behind, canting so severely to one side that she forced the prow of one of the attacking galleys downward. Bright oars streamed water, working powerlessly, the ship a helpless, many-legged insect.

Just then Edmund appeared, carrying a large wooden chest, an enormous cask, fitted with leather and green brass hinges. Osbert, Edmund's new manservant, made a show of helping with this load, but he did little more than flutter. My friend set down the chest, and Osbert tried to shift it into a new position, failing to move it an inch.We worked to stow as much of our treasure as we could in the confines of this chest, and then Edmund carried it below for safety.

The
Sint Markt
was settling into the water behind us now, and some of our men cried out in futile protest, and many prayed in various tongues—Burgundian, Norman, Saxon—all beseeching Our Lady.Two knights remonstrated with our captain, forced to speak in an easy-to-understand pantomime:
Turn the ship around,
pointing, making the sign of the cross, and other, harsher gestures:
They are killing Christians.

“We must help them,” said Edmund quietly.

Enemy galleys were gaining on us.

“How should we help that shipload of fighting men, Edmund?” asked Sir Nigel. “What do you suggest that we do?”

Edmund lowered his gaze, and I could see him formulating tactics, imagining hand-to-hand combat. He looked to me and I spoke up for both of us, to spare Edmund the embarrassment of confessing an ignorance we both shared. “You will have to teach us the keener points of sea war, my lord.”

“We'll have a battle of our own soon enough,” said Sir Nigel.“You'll learn—we'll send a shipload of Saracens to the devil.”

As much as I admired Sir Nigel, and prayed for his recovery, sometimes his view of upcoming combat surprised me. I knew he was a man of feeling, his moods changing hour by hour, and I knew he was a worshipful man in his way, whispering prayers each night before he slept. But I had seen sling stones punch the earth at his feet as he criticized the enemy's marksmanship and did nothing to seek a hiding place.

“Lash the sword into my hand,” he was saying, in the same tone of voice in which he would have ordered another cup of wine.

I did as I was commanded, although I knew each knot caused him agony, until the broadsword was tied into his grip. I prayed that no fighting would be necessary, that fatigue would weaken the Saracen oarsmen. And I understood that my master wanted to die fighting, sword in hand, rather than return to England a crippled warrior.

Two long, sleek galleys, each swifter and narrower than the
San Raffaello,
shot along on either side of us now, water rushing under our keel. Our own men were well advanced in breaking out helmets, shaking sword belts free of entanglements, arms working into the chain mail mittens many knights wore instead of gauntlets.

Sir Rannulf approached us, already garbed in mail, his sword at his side.The battle had drained Sir Rannulf, and for many days he had been leaning on a staff. Now the weary knight he had been was suddenly gone, replaced by a man eager once again to test an enemy.

“They carry hooked pikes and halberds,” said Rannulf through his scarred lips.“With braziers to set us alight. Sir Jean of Chartres and his squire are setting up a line of pikemen along our rail, with crossbowmen in the castles fore and aft.”

He said this with an air of quiet assessment, always a man to comment on the balance of a lance, or the enemy's formation, as though he himself could not bleed. But while Sir Nigel impressed me with his cheer, even now sniffing the sea breeze with a show of spirit, Rannulf's calculating coolness stirred no love in me. During the massacre of two thousand prisoners Rannulf had joined in, showing our footmen how to cut out the guts of unarmed folk.

“The brave Jean of Chartres, able to fight at last,” said Nigel.“We should have sorted sergeants from squires before this.”

We should have decided which knight would command in a battle, he meant, and which fighters would be subordinate. Sir Nigel and Sir Rannulf had ordered much of the camp, and even footmen who could not understand a word of English would jump to Sir Nigel's commands.

Now an arrow lifted from the enemy galley, high into the fading blue sky.

And splintered on the deck.

Arrows hummed.

Such missiles in flight can be things of beauty. But a recent and just-forgotten hatred of such objects stirred in me, awakened from the long hours of siege, the heat and suffocating dust of the battle. I was not alone in this feeling. Arrows clattered on the deck, and angry feet kicked at them, sending them spinning along the planks.

Osbert scrambled for one, and seized it—a pale, goose-feathered arrow with a black iron tip—a Norman arrow, now returned to us by the Infidel archers.

Sir Nigel would have clapped a reassuring hand on my shoulder, but in his injured state he rested his hand gently on my arm. “No knight loves a sea fight, but we'll sweat them, Hubert.”

As the two enemy galleys drew close, the hiss of the racing water was nearly louder than my own thoughts. I believed that all of us would join Nigel in Heaven, and I wished my parents could see me as I was then, hale and unhurt, before the fighting cut me down.

 

 

 

Our galley was longer, with stouter timbers than her opponents'.

This meant that she was strong, but heavy, and our rowers could not keep this pace. With a shouted command, the oars on one side of the vessel were shipped, dripping and gleaming, and withdrawn in a breathtaking show of sea training, each oar run in while the oars on the opposite side lashed the water.

We braced for what was coming.

The collision knocked most of us off our feet.

Edmund gave me a hand, pulling me upright from the deck. Our crossbowmen climbed to any perch they could reach and sent a rain of missiles down into the
gallea.
I had no sight of attacking boarders, only the working shoulders and heads of our own pikemen and knights as they stabbed forward with their weapons, their cries a low rumble, curses and battle exhortations in a dozen languages.

Osbert climbed to a high point on the galley castle and balanced himself as he drew a bow and sent the Norman arrow down into the attackers. Other archers joined him, and ship's boys shot unidentifiable objects, pork bones, and leaden sling-slugs down into the enemy. Sleek as they were, the Saracen ships were lower in the water, and our men could strike downward, into the faces of the attackers.

Rannulf tapped my shoulder, and in the heavy surge of cries and involuntary groans I could not hear what he was saying. I followed his glance. The vessel on our seaward side had shot ahead and was backing oars, laboring furiously to close on us.

Crusaders not yet engaged in fighting now made a great display of courage for the benefit of this new attacker, slashing at the air with swords, gesturing with axes and battle hammers. I knew how much of this was, for many, empty show, injured and disease-wasted men acting as though what they wanted most was to wet their swords in enemy blood. We yelled and shook our weapons, voices muffled by helmets.

The approaching
gallea
seemed to be a many-legged creature unable to decide its course of attack. Too close to gain momentum to spike us with her rams, too far off to grapple with us and trade blows, the attacker's oars clashed with ours. Enemy oars snapped, splinters spinning high into the air. Most of our own, much stouter oars remained straight out from the ship, keeping the enemy from closing on us.

I stayed beside Sir Nigel, to keep him from taking the brunt of any outthrust weapon, and to his right was Rannulf, ready, likewise, to fend off blows. Sir Nigel climbed onto the rail, and as I clung to the skirt of the chain mail to keep him steady, fear made my breath come in tight-throated gasps. I know of no one who can swim—the art is not taught in England—and I dreaded lest I or one of my companions tumble over the side.

His example encouraged the others. Edmund brandished his war hammer in the faces of the enemy, bearded men, their heads swathed in white fabric. A few of the Saracen halberds reached across the gap, long weapons, half ax and half pike, made for smashing helmeted heads. Even at this awkward distance the weapons found targets, and my feet slipped twice, until at last I went down hard. In the dimming light I caught the gleam of shiny darkness spreading underfoot as I lay on the deck.

Glowing coals snapped through the air, delivered by a catapult somewhere on the enemy deck, and the ship's mates were busy, dumping buckets of water over the sizzling embers and spreading sand to soak up the blood.

I felt a strong grip on my arm, and Edmund helped me to my feet.

“Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously.

I murmured that I had slipped, nothing more than that.

“Thank God!” said Edmund fervently, and, as so often before, I was grateful to have such a friend.

 

 

The darkness became more perfect, the last dull glow of vanishing sun reflected on our weapons, and even as knights and squires began to crumple, unable to stand against the assault, some rhythm changed in the urgency of the fighting, Crusaders no longer calling out for Our Lord's help.

The galley's timbers groaned as we freed ourselves from one attacking vessel. Pikemen shoved off the other craft.The enemy's taunts continued to sound menacing, but a new tone had entered the engagement. Our vessel was moving. Edmund had to take care to keep his balance, putting one hand out to the rail, and two armored bodies crashed to the deck with the distinctive chiming thud of chain-mailed men.