It was a swift and complete rout with no survivors. A couple of injured raiders were kept for questioning, but Mahzun of Tire strode up to them, cut their throats, and kicked their corpses. When Augustine remonstrated with him, Mahzun shrugged at the Templar as he sheathed his knife. “No point in letting vermin live. They knew they were dead men anyway; they would not have talked.”
As the bodies were picked over for loot, William noted that several of the raiders appeared to be Franks. One was red haired, another fair with a blond beard. Others were native in appearance. Brigandry, it seemed, was the preserve of all factions. Their clothes had seen better days, and their mounts and equipment were mediocre.
Onri studied them with his hands on his hips and a frown between his brows.
“So few and easily overcome to have caused so much mayhem and damage,” William remarked. “Sufficient I suppose to raid and terrorize a small settlement, but I cannot imagine them plundering a sugar caravan.”
Onri nodded agreement. “At least we have cleared up this particular nest, but I would wager there are others. These are scavengers—the kind that exist on the outskirts of bigger kills.”
The bodies were piled into a cart by the villagers and taken away to be dumped into a ravine, there to be picked over by jackals and vultures. The knights made camp that night in the settlement and tended to their wounded, although there were no serious injuries and the worst only required a few stitches. Augustine had orders to take the Templars on to the fortress at Belvoir, carrying out a reconnaissance patrol along the way, but the rest of the men, including the Hospitallers and Onri, were to return to Jerusalem to report and receive further instruction.
During the night, Mahzun of Tire became unwell with vomiting and belly gripes. Unable to sit his horse, he promised to follow when he could.
Ancel shook his head to William as they rode from the village. “For all his claim to be such a great warrior, none of us would stop behind for the gripes,” he said scornfully. “If you ask me, he drank too much last night, and because he’s a mercenary, he thinks he can do as he pleases.”
William shrugged. “You are probably right, but I will not miss his company.”
* * *
The first night on the return journey to Jerusalem, William and his men once more camped under the stars at the watering place. A small trade caravan was already there, on its way to the coast with a cargo of colored leathers, and William bargained for a supple piece of red that would make a fine binding for a sword grip. The merchants were wary at first and then amenable; trade was trade, and since the knights showed no inclination to murder them and plunder their goods, they were glad of armed company.
The second night was to be spent at a Templar watchtower on the Jordan pilgrim road. The mood was jovial as they moved at a steady pace toward their destination. The fight had been much easier than everyone had expected, and they were pleased to be returning to make a positive report and collect their pay. William, however, was still on edge because there had been fewer raiders than expected, and not as formidable as they had been led to believe. Glancing around, he frowned to see the men so strung out. “Eustace!” he commanded. “Bang the drum!”
The squire broke off jesting with Geoffrey FitzRobert and, with immediate understanding, reached for the skin drum strapped behind his saddle. Settling it before him, he began to beat out a steady rhythm using a large cauldron spoon. “A long way to go! A long way to go! But we’ll be there by nightfall if we’re not too slow!”
The pace picked up; the men closed ranks and straightened in their saddles. William gestured for them to join in the chant and, after a few moments, pointed to Ancel. “Now you.”
Eustace tossed the drum and spoon across and Ancel took up the beat. “A long way to ride, a long way to ride! It’s a good thing I have a stout backside!”
Loud guffaws greeted Ancel’s verse. The drum was passed on again and more verses sung, growing increasingly ribald, but the men were together now and compact. At the front, the four Hospitaller knights grinned but kept aloof.
A mile farther on, they came to an area with boulders either side of the path. The Hospitallers drew rein and their horses sidled. William held up his hand to silence the drumming, and as the sound died away, he heard a scraping sound from the rocks and a jingle of harness. An arrow suddenly tipped off the rim of one of the Hospitaller’s shields with a metallic clang, then another and another until the shafts were plummeting like rain. A Hospitaller horse was struck in the shoulder and went mad, plunging and rearing. Guyon de Culturo swore as he broke off a shaft that had struck his saddle, narrowly missing his thigh. As the knights raised their shields, a band of armed riders came flying from the road between the boulders like a swarm of hornets and attacked them with mad ferocity. William barely had time to draw his sword and within seconds was engaged in close, hard fighting.
Some of their attackers were Turks, to judge by their armor, but others were clearly Franks, and William realized this must be the main group they had missed and the better fighters, armed for business. The others had been expendable decoys.
William’s arm rose and fell. He unhorsed a Turk, and Flambur trampled the man underfoot. He struck a hefty backhand blow at another adversary and felt the man’s arm bone snap. It was difficult to look around in his helmet and work out what was happening. Ancel had been separated from him by the press, but he was aware of him fighting hard in front and to the right. A powerful Turkish warrior was belaboring a wooden club to the right and left, creating mayhem. William saw a blow connect with Ancel’s ribs and spurred Flambur forward to try to reach him, his breath burning in his throat, all around him the clash and thud of close and desperate hand-to-hand battle.
Ancel managed to extricate himself, but that spiked club was still rising and smashing down. William tried to force farther forward but faced a solid knot of battling men. Redoubling his efforts, he cleared enough room to draw breath and saw Mahzun of Tire fighting beside the Turk with the club, a reddened sword in his fist.
“Traitor!” William bellowed.
The fight boiled over him again, and everything grew too desperate and bloody for William to have any chance of going to Ancel’s aid. Flambur jostled breast to breast with another horse, and William struck down its rider. Swords, axes, short spears flashed and turned. Shields took gouges and blows as each man tried to avoid his enemy’s blade and stay in the saddle. Another brief space, and William saw Ancel hurl himself into the fray and lunge at the warrior wielding the mace, cutting savagely into his right side. The Turk raised the weapon to strike again, but at its zenith it lost impetus, and he crashed from the saddle as Ancel jerked his sword free.
The fighting redoubled. Mahzun forced his chestnut between William and Ancel, his sword flashing. William was already fighting off a determined attack on his left, and as Mahzun plunged forward to make a killing blow, he was trapped. Ancel intercepted the downward chop of the sword and knocked the blow away. Teeth gritted with effort, William struck down his opponent and pivoted to help Ancel, but another horse barged into Flambur, catching the stallion in midturn, and he went down, pitching William from the saddle. William hit the ground, tasting blood as he bit his tongue, the air jarring from his lungs. He was dead if he stayed down so forced himself to his feet, his breath tearing in his chest and his vision a blur.
Ancel held firm between William and the opposition, taking a terrible battering on his shield and hauberk. Flambur had struggled up from his fall, and William caught the reins and hauled himself back into the saddle. His knights were making valiant efforts to reach him, but no one was within striking distance as Mahzun changed his grip and brought his sword down, breaking through Ancel’s guard and cutting deep into his left thigh. As Mahzun drew back to strike again, William made a desperate countereffort and succeeded in hacking open a row of rivets on Mahzun’s mail, smashing through to the gambeson. It was not a killing
blow but enough to crack ribs and hamper Mahzun’s assault. Robert of London and Geoffrey FitzRobert pressed forward, and Mahzun, after one more flurry, reined away, for his group had broken under the spirited defense of those they had attacked and were scattering and fleeing.
Ancel swayed in the saddle, blood flooding from his wound. William dismounted from Flambur, leaped up behind him, and grabbed the reins. Onri was signaling for their troop to ride for the safety of the watchtower two miles away. “Take up the wounded!” he roared. “There is no telling if they will regroup!”
William signed to his own men, and they retreated in formation as fast as their horses could gallop with Eustace bringing Flambur alongside his own mount. Dust clouded around them, misting the debris of shattered lances and the broken corpses of horses and men they left behind. William was churning with shock as Ancel slumped against him. Byrnie was sturdy, but his burden was double, and he hoped the horse would hold out.
“Do not, for God’s love, let go, you fool!” William shouted to Ancel over the galloping hooves and the wind of their speed. “Hold on!”
Ancel groaned a reply. He tightened his grip on the reins, but his head flopped and he was close to losing awareness.
They thundered into the tower’s small courtyard. William dismounted, covered in blood and staggering. Several people rushed to help. “No,” William panted, “not me. Tend my brother!”
He turned to Ancel, who was barely conscious but still clinging to the reins for dear life. Carefully easing him from the blowing horse, William bore Ancel inside and laid him on the chamber floor. Ancel’s face was dirty white like raw dough as William removed his helmet.
“Help him, someone!” William cried, looking around in urgency. “For God’s mercy, someone help him now!”
A man went running and returned a moment later leading a dark-robed Hospitaller chirurgeon with a silver beard and a lined, brown face. He was swiftly donning a leather apron, and a youth hurried after him bearing a satchel of instruments and rolls of bandage.
Kneeling stiffly at Ancel’s side, he gestured for William to unlace Ancel’s chausses so that he could examine the wound. The mail had split under Mahzun’s blow, and there was blood everywhere. Ancel arched his spine and squeezed his eyes tight shut, gritting his teeth in agony as William removed the mail, his fingers reddening rapidly.
The chirurgeon probed the wound, frowning in concentration, and Ancel writhed, a scream lodging in his throat. Clucking his tongue, the chirurgeon took a glass phial from his satchel. He measured several drops into a cup of water and made Ancel drink it. Then he delved in his satchel again, brought out a small wooden wedge, and pushed it between Ancel’s teeth before probing the injury again with a pair of tweezers and removing a thin shard of bone.
“The leg is broken,” he said. “It must be packed to control the bleeding and then splinted before we can move him. After that, he must lie as still as a stone—do you understand?” He beckoned to his assistant.
William swallowed and nodded. Gazing at the extent of the wound, which seemed to be a deep cut that had broken the bone, he was horrified. He had seen men with lesser wounds die or lose their leg, and if the latter, he knew of no one who had survived such surgery, although he had heard tales at secondhand. The wound was so deep and bloody that fever was going to be as big a danger as blood loss. He hoped desperately that the chirurgeon knew what he was doing and prayed to God to send the man a steady hand.
“You are going to be all right,” he told Ancel, gripping his hand. “I am here. I will stay with you.” He turned to the chirurgeon. “I beg you to use all the skills you have at your command to heal him. Do not let him lose his leg.”
The man gave William a sharp look. “Amputation might be for the best, messire.”
“No!”
The chirurgeon’s wiry, silver brows drew together. “It would go against my better judgment.”
William set his jaw. “No. He cannot lose his leg.”
The Hospitaller shrugged. “I shall do my best, but I make no promises.”
William nodded stiffly. “Do what you can.”
The chirurgeon and his assistant set to work. They cleaned the wound and aligned the bone as best they could, then packed the slash with gauze and cotton smeared with unguent. William sat with Ancel, pillowing his head, speaking in his ear, telling him all was well, and wondering in despair how his brother was ever going to come back from this.
“You are not putting in stitches?” William asked as the Hospitaller covered the wound with a light linen dressing smeared with more unguent.
The man shook his head. “The cut must be washed out daily with salt water and watched for signs of blackening because that means the limb is dying and must be removed. Keep him as still as you can. He has lost a great deal of blood, and he will surely die if it begins again—and he may do so anyway. He must drink—as much as you can get into him—of honey and water, and watch for when he pisses, for that will be a good sign. If he does not, then…” He made another shrug serve for the rest.
More injured men were awaiting the chirurgeon’s attention, and he went to deal with them. William laid a light blanket over Ancel and tucked a pillow under his head. He was battered, cut, and bruised himself, but it was all as nothing. The other men stood around, their expressions full of shock and grief.
“Mahzun of Tire,” said Geoffrey FitzRobert, rubbing his brow and then quickly dashing tears from his eyes. “He betrayed us. Some men will sell their souls for money.”
“He has no soul.” William bowed his head, remembering Ancel telling him about Paschia’s uncle giving the mercenary a bag of coins.
“He won’t dare show his face in Jerusalem again now,” Geoffrey continued. “He’s an outcast and a marked man.”
Eustace returned from seeing to the horses. A cut striped his left cheek from ear to chin, and he had another across the back of his hand. “Is he going to be all right?”
“Yes,” William said with gritty conviction. “The chirurgeon has stopped the bleeding but says the leg must be held straight. As soon as he is well enough, we’ll get him to the hospital in Jerusalem. They will know how best to care for him.”
“We were played for fools,” Robert of London said grimly. “The group that hit the village was expendable—a softener to draw our teeth.”
Ancel’s eyelids fluttered, and he opened his eyes. His pupils against the dark hazel irises were pinpricks.
“Gwim?” he croaked. “Are we saved?”
William nodded. “Yes, you are safe now.”
Ancel squinted and licked his lips. “But it’s dark and I always imagined the heavenly realm would be light. Where are we?”
William swallowed and struggled to find a firm, reassuring voice when all he wanted to do was weep. “Ancel, we are not dead.”
“Then where are we?”
“In a watchtower on the Jerusalem road, and safe. You took a sword blow to your leg while you were defending me. No, stay still. You have lost a lot of blood and your leg is broken. The chirurgeon has tended to you but says you must not move on pain of the life you still possess.”
Ancel lifted his head and looked down at himself, then let his head drop back onto the pillow. “Dear God,” he whispered. “I remember the sword, and I remember Mahzun of Tire—that whoreson betrayed us all.” The last word ended on a gasp of pain.
“You saved my life, but I would rather have died than see you wounded like this.”
Ancel closed his eyes. “I am sorry not to have given you your wish, but I could not do that.”
William almost choked on his guilt and grief. “You shall have the best treatment and care. You have the strength to come through this. Your sacrifice will have been pointless if you do not live, because it will destroy me.”
Ancel’s eyes remained closed and he did not answer.
That ni
ght, William kept vigil at Ancel’s side, his head in his hands, his mind on the Young King and how he had failed in his duty to him, and now he had not protected his own brother when it mattered.
Onri sat down beside him to keep him company.
“All I keep thinking is: What shall I tell our mother if he dies?” William said. “But our mother is already with Jesus.” He swallowed hard. “Ancel would always threaten me with her disapproval if he thought I was doing wrong or had failed in my duty—as now. I am the older one; I am the leader. I should have protected him, not the other way around. I should have taken the blow because it was intended for me.”
“That blow fell where it did,” Onri said firmly. “I know you would have taken it had the timing been different, but you cannot let that cloud your vision. You are better than that, and this is the moment of your forging. You are in the fire, and if you are true steel, you will not warp or break. If you go down the path of blame and self-recrimination, you will be of no use to anyone, including yourself. You will be as wounded as your brother, and that is not what he would want.” He poured wine from the jug by the bed into an earthenware cup. “When we set out for the Holy Land, Aimery entrusted me with your welfare, and I swore to him I would see you safe, so if we are talking of blame, then I have a burden too because I have clearly failed to do mine many times along the road.”
William grimaced. “I would not set any of this on you.”
“You do not,” Onri replied. “Whatever I take upon myself is my burden, not yours.”
William looked at Ancel as he muttered in his slumber. “The man who gave him this wound was often employed by Zaccariah of Nablus and was probably paid to kill us because of my dealings with the patriarchess.”
“But he has turned against everyone else too,” Onri said. “If he was paid to remove you and your brother, it was but a small part of a much greater whole. He is a mercenary who has always lived on the edge and this would have happened anyway. He must have been playing a double game for a long time.” Onri gripped William’s shoulder. “Do your penance and move on from this. You must.”
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