Medieval - Blood of the Cross

by Kevin Ashman

  Jennifer of Orange stared at the man with hatred in her eyes but did not move.

  ‘Get out,’ screamed Sir John, ‘or I will have you flogged where you stand.’

  Jennifer flinched and turned to walk away. As she left, tears ran silently down her face for though her temper was often fierce, her real emotions were for her only.

  ----

  Fifty miles away a mounted unit rode through the valley, eager to get back within their fortress walls. Their task had been one of escort and the French nobleman had been delivered as promised to Tripoli in safety. Now the riders sought only the sanctuary of their castle and the release of burden that prayer would bring. The lead rider wore chain mail armour covered with a white habit. He carried the rank of Under-marshal and above his head flew the standard feared by the infidels for over a hundred years, the red cross on a white background, the symbol of the Knights Templar.

  The column consisted of just over a hundred riders, twenty Knights wearing the white habits of purity over their chain mail armour, twenty Sergeants in brown tunics, the paid cavalry who supported the Templars and the rest made up of Squires and servants, each leading the spare horses and pack mules that such patrols demanded. In addition there was one more rider that stood out from the rest, a man who also wore chain mail but was clad in a habit of green. He was the chaplain, one of the spiritual leaders always present within any Templar unit and besides taking care of the Knights’ divine needs, many spoke several languages.

  The canter slowed to a halt as the Under-Marshal held up his hand.

  Brother Mathew, the Turcopolier in charge of the patrol rode forward and reined in his horse alongside his comrade.

  ‘What holds our advance, Brother?’ he asked.

  ‘Look,’ said the Under-Marshal.

  In the distance a lone rider wearing the garb of the desert sat motionless astride his horse, blocking their way forward.

  ‘What is he doing?’ asked the Turcopolier.

  ‘Just standing there,’ said Brother Steffan.

  ‘The ground lends itself to a trap,’ said the commander. ‘I will alert our men. You take the chaplain and see what he wants but beware of treachery.’

  The Under-marshal waited until the chaplain joined him before walking his horse slowly forward. When they were within calling range, the chaplain spoke out in the language of the locals.

  ‘Hail, stranger,’ he said. ‘Are you in need of our aid?’

  The man’s horse fidgeted beneath him but the man did not speak. The chaplain glanced at Brother Steffan.

  ‘Try again,’ said the Knight.

  The Chaplain tried a different dialect but again there was no answer. The Under-marshal looked around the walls of the narrow canyon.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ he said. ‘Something is wrong.’

  Before the chaplain could answer, the man called out in English.

  ‘You soil my mother’s language with your dirty tongue, Holy man,’ he snarled, ‘it hurts my ears.’

  ‘Curb your tone, stranger,’ said Brother Steffan, ‘and clear the path.’

  ‘The path belongs to Allah,’ said the man, ‘and only he can decide who rides this way.’

  ‘These lands have been claimed in the name of Christendom and we act under the banner of the one true God. Now move or be moved.’

  ‘I see no Christian God,’ sneered the man, ‘just a band of intruders under a dirty flag. Allah is God of all men and he alone will decide those who pass.’

  ‘This is your last chance,’ said Brother Steffan. ‘Step aside in peace or feel our wrath.’

  ‘Your wrath will be as petals in the wind compared to Allah’s retribution,’ said the man. ‘This land is bequeathed to our people by Allah and we claim it in his name. You will no longer dirty the holy soil with your infidel feet. Today, you ride no further.’

  ‘Enough idiocy,’ said Brother Steffan, ‘you have been warned.’

  ‘As have you,’ said the man drawing his curved sword. ‘Make your peace with God, Infidel for today this holy ground will be stained by Christian blood. Without another word he spurred his horse to a gallop and rode headlong toward the two Knights, his sword raised high above his head. The Chaplain’s horse reared up as he tried to turn but Brother Steffan knew they had no time to get back to the column.

  ‘Get back to the men,’ he shouted, ‘call them to arms.’ Before the Chaplain could answer, Brother Steffan spurred his own horse and galloped to meet the oncoming rider. Though he had no lance, he knew the standard above his head was tipped with an ornamental spike and as he rode he lifted the pole from its leather socket and lowered it quickly into the charge position.

  Within seconds the two men met and though the wooden pole shattered on the chest armour of the enemy rider, it had enough force to knock him off his horse. Brother Steffan spun his steed around and saw the wounded man struggling to get to his feet. The Knight dismounted and drew his large double edged sword.

  ‘Your attack was infantile, heathen,’ he snarled, ‘and now you will pay the price for insulting my friends and my God.’

  To his surprise the man looked up at him and smiled.

  ‘My death is glorious, infidel’ he said. ‘You and your friends will not enjoy such rapture.’

  ‘I tire of your drivel,’ said Brother Steffan and with an almighty swing, took the man’s head from his shoulders.

  Behind him the Turcopolier had seen the attack and called his patrol to arms.

  ‘Squires, attend the brothers,’ he roared and the young men rode up quickly with the pack horses. The Knights retrieved their kite shaped shields and their steel tipped lances. The Sergeants added spiked maces to their weaponry, resting them across their saddles ready for conflict.

  ‘You there,’ said the commander pointing at a Squire, ‘ride out and retrieve our standard. Place it on the head of a lance.’

  ‘Yes Sire,’ said the boy and rode his pony out to meet the returning Brother Steffan. The Knight handed over the flag and continued to the column, now busy with preparations for battle. Within minutes, the patrol was fully armoured including steel helms over their chain mail coifs and greaves over their shins.

  ‘What possessed him to act so?’ asked the Turcopolier.

  ‘I know not,’ said Brother Steffan, ‘but he bars our way no longer. We should ride as soon as we can. This place is too confined for my liking.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said the commander. ‘Lead us out, Brother.’

  The column rode toward the end of the valley, pausing only to retrieve the flag from the Squire. The boy held up the lance as they approached and the standard fluttered once more in the mountain breeze.

  ‘Is it secured tightly, boy?’ asked Brother Steffan. ‘It would bode ill if it was to become loose.’

  ‘It is tight, Sire.’ said the boy. ‘I swear.’

  ‘Good.’ said the Knight as he took the lance. ‘Re-join your comrades.’ Before the boy could move, a sickening thud made Brother Steffan’s horse back up in fright and the Squire fell to his knees with a crossbow bolt sticking out from between his eyes. As the boy fell into the dust the Knight sounded the alarm.

  ‘Treachery,’ he shouted, ‘archers amongst the rocks.’

  Instantly the Turcopolier knew they were in trouble. Cavalry were no use against hidden archers and if they stayed they would be slaughtered. The well-rehearsed drills kicked in and he ordered the gallop that would take them free of the ambush.

  ‘Advaaance.’ he screamed, ‘clear the valley or we are doomed.’

  The patrol spurred their horses as arrows flew past them. Two pack mules were hit and fell snorting to the ground, dragging one of the Squires with them.

  ‘Keep going,’ shouted the commander. ‘The valley ends before us.’

  Within moments they cleared the constrictions of the ravine and the hail of arrows died away but far from relief, the commander reined in his horse in horror. Between him and safety stood a Mamluk army thousands strong.

&
nbsp; ‘We have to go back,’ said his second in command, ‘and seek another route.’

  The commander looked back the way they had come. Within the rocks he could see hundreds of archers standing up from their hiding places, each cradling bows and in their arms. To escape that way would be futile for they would be felled in seconds. He looked back to the army before him and knew there would be no reckoning. The dead man back in the valley had made it completely clear, they were supposed to die.

  ‘Fellow Knights,’ he called, ‘fear not the heathen before you. Stiffen resolve and remember our code. We will not fall to assassins’ arrows but do what we do best. Sergeants, man our flanks. Squires, select what weapons you can from amongst the pack horses and then cut their throats. I will not supply Baibaars with valuable mounts. When you are done, you will ride alongside us as equals and any that survive this day will be Knighted by the hand of the Grand Master himself. This I promise.’

  A flurry of activity ensued and within minutes, they lined up across the plain facing an army of five thousand Mamluks. At the centre of the Templar lines, the white capes of twenty Knights blew gently in the wind as they waited to meet their destiny.

  ‘Fellow brothers,’ shouted the Turcopolier, ‘rejoice, for this day we will stand before our Lord Jesus Christ in all his glory.’

  ‘Amen,’ said the men and each made the sign of the cross on his own body. The Turcopolier drew his sword and held it up high.

  ‘Not unto us, oh Lord’ he cried, ‘not unto us, but to your name, grant glory.’

  ‘Vive Dieu, Saint Amour,’ roared his men and as the last word of the Templar’s battle cry left their lips, a hundred men and boys charged the overwhelming numbers of the Mamluk Halqa.

  ----

  Chapter Six

  Brycheniog

  Garyn stood at the side of the grave and watched as the village men covered the three bodies below. His mother had been cleaned and dressed for her funeral by the women and he had said his goodbyes in the church, but the bodies of his father and his sister were just charred remains, deformed beyond all recognition. The men had collected the bodies and passed them onto the women to do what they could but there was nothing left that could be recognised and the shrouds had been sewn into bags. Usually the bodies of the deceased would be laid out in the family home but as the forge was now no more than a smoking ruin, the priest had allowed them to be placed in the church, an honour usually reserved for the wealthy or noble.

  The priest had conducted the service and the church had been filled to capacity with the villagers. A blacksmith was an important part of the community and the family had been known to all.

  ‘Master Ruthin,’ said a voice, ‘come away now. You need to host the wake in your family’s name.’

  Garyn turned and saw Elspeth, a local girl and daughter of the village fletcher.

  ‘In a moment Elspeth,’ said Garyn. ‘I will follow soon.’

  The girl nodded and joined the rest of the mourners going back to the village.

  Garyn stared down and as the last of his family disappeared under the damp heavy soil, he made the sign of the cross on his head and chest. With a sigh, he wiped away a tear and turned away, but as he walked, a movement at the forest edge caught his eye.

  ‘Brother Martin,’ he said as he recognised the cloaked figure, ‘you startled me.’

  The Monk nodded silently, acknowledging the recognition.

  ‘Garyn,’ he said, ‘please accept our deepest condolences but rest assured, your family are in the arms of Christ.’

  Garyn didn’t answer but gave a thin lipped smile in gratitude.

  ‘I did not see you in the church,’ said Garyn.

  ‘Where possible we leave such things to the priests,’ said the Monk, ‘and only intervene if he is ill or other circumstances require our presence.’

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ said the boy.

  ‘Garyn, there is something I need to talk to you about,’ said the Monk.

  ‘If it is about the prisoner, I have nothing more to say,’ said Garyn.

  ‘No it’s not about him,’ said the Monk, ‘it is about your father.’

  ‘What of him?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Come from here,’ said the Monk, ‘for this is consecrated ground and such matters should not be discussed here.’ They left the grave yard and walked a little into the wood until they found a fallen tree.

  ‘Sit a while,’ said Brother Martin.

  ‘What’s this about?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Garyn there are some things you should know,’ said the Monk, ‘truths that may surprise and hurt you. However, these things need to be said and the truth must come out.’

  ‘Continue,’ said Garyn.

  The Monk took a deep breath.

  ‘Garyn,’ he said, ‘as you know, I am a Monk and have taken the holy orders of St Benedict but many years ago I was a different man and pursued a different path.’

  ‘What path?’

  ‘One of misguided violence,’ said the Monk. ‘I served in the King’s army before selling my services to the highest bidder and fought in the Holy-land as a Secular Knight.’

  ‘You were a Knight?’ asked Garyn in surprise.

  ‘I was,’ said Brother Martin, ‘but cast aside any thoughts of chivalric codes for my sword was sold to the highest bidder. Always on the side of Christianity, I hasten to add but a mercenary all the same.’

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘I saw the light,’ said Brother Martin, ‘and realised the futility of such bloodshed. Every year that passed saw more men from both sides die needlessly in the name of religion. My sword arm became weary so when I had enough money to pay for my fare, I returned home to farm my father’s land.’

  ‘So how did you become a Monk?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Therein lies the issue,’ said Brother Martin. ‘During my time as a mercenary I became the closest of friends with a fellow Knight and we returned together. Within months, he fell in love with a beautiful woman, in fact we both did. Our friendship became strained for the woman did not know whom to choose.’ He fell silent for a few moments as his memory wandered back through the years. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘she chose him and our ways parted. To my shame, I could not forget this woman and pursued her in secrecy, eventually capturing her mind with lies and false promises. She fell from virtue and succumbed to my advances, spending several weeks under my spell. Ultimately she realised her mistake and returned to the man who truly loved her, a man who exceeded me in all things from military skills to virtue.’

  ‘And what has this to do with me?’

  ‘The woman was your mother, Garyn,’ said Brother Martin, ‘and I loved her more than life itself.’

  Garyn stared in astonishment.

  ‘My mother betrayed my father with you,’ he asked.

  ‘Betrayal is too strong a word, Garyn,’ said the Monk, ‘for she was a virtuous woman.’

  ‘Not virtuous enough to stay from your bed,’ snarled Garyn.

  ‘Garyn, you have to understand, she was a very young woman and did not know her own mind. I pursued her relentlessly, proclaiming love unrivalled. She was confused and vulnerable and fell to my charms. Do not judge her, Garyn, I alone am responsible.’

  ‘Yet she returned to him,’ said Garyn.

  ‘She did,’ said the Monk, ‘for he was always the better man. Even though she had strayed, he took her back unconditionally. It was the right decision for though I still loved her, I knew she would be happier with your father. However, it also meant my friendship with Thomas was destroyed. Years of close comradeship born of mutual hardship and shared peril was destroyed by my stupid actions. We fought and your father was victorious but he spared my life, demanding I stay away. My shame was complete, I had betrayed my best friend, lost the woman I loved and faced a future devoid of anything good. In desperation I turned to the church and over time they rebuilt the pieces of my shattered soul and eventually I made peace with God.’

>   ‘That’s why he was so cold to you that night in the forge,’ said Garyn.

  ‘It is,’ said the Monk ‘and with good reason. For eighteen years I stayed my distance but fate saw fit for me to once more intrude on your father’s happiness. I didn’t want this to happen, Garyn but the word of the Abbot is the earthly voice of Jesus Christ and I cannot turn away from his path.’

  ‘So why are you telling me this now?’ asked Garyn. ‘All you have succeeded in doing is to cast stain upon my mother’s reputation. You could have kept silent and I would eventually go to my grave thinking she was the virtuous woman I have always known’

  ‘She was virtuous,’ snapped Brother Martin, ‘and you should never think any other way.’

  ‘Then why do it, Brother Martin,’ asked Garyn, ‘why cast the clouds of doubt before her grave is even filled.’

  ‘Because there is something else you should know, Garyn. Something of far more concern than any deeds long in the memory.’

  ‘Then finish your tale, Monk,’ said Garyn, ‘for surely this day cannot get any worse.’

  ‘Garyn,’ said the Monk, ‘when the women were laying out your family, I took the opportunity to visit the church alone to pay my last respects. While I was there, I saw something that has frozen my heart.’

  Garyn stared in silence, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘What?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘I don’t know how to say this, Garyn but I saw mortal wounds on your father’s body. Thomas Ruthin did not die in the fire, he was stabbed from behind by an assassin. Your father was murdered, Garyn, slaughtered in cold blood.’

  ----

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Garyn when the shock had faded.

  ‘I am sure, Garyn,’ said the Monk. ‘I saw many such wounds on the battlefield and often we tended our comrades ourselves. The marks of a blade are easily recognisable if you know what to look for. It seems that someone must have taken your father by surprise and stabbed him from behind. After the first blow, the rest would have been easy.’

  ‘And my sister?’ asked Garyn.

  The Monk’s head lowered and stared at the floor.