by Kevin Ashman
They renewed the counter attack but the shock of their charge had dissipated and the enemy were becoming organised. Behind those who had taken the breach, fresh warriors were forming up, though this time in organised ranks and wielding larger shields. Within moments several hundred had formed solid lines, ten deep that stretched from the outer to the inner wall and though defenders’ arrows rained down from above, the raised shields of the rear ranks ensured few warriors fell from the missiles. A horn sounded again and the few Mamluk assault troops still fighting withdrew behind their comrades’ lines and the fresh threat stared at the Hospitallers across the body littered outer ward.
Khoury looked around his scattered force, each man breathing heavily from the exertion of battle. Some leaned on their swords to catch their breath while others stood proud, staring the enemy squarely in the face, goading them to further assault. Every one of the Knights was covered in blood and Khoury could see at least a dozen lying motionless on the battlefield either dead or seriously wounded.
‘Regroup,’ he called, taking advantage of the lull in fighting, ‘Sergeants, collect our fallen and take them to the chapel. The rest of you, form up in line abreast, prepare to withdraw. The battle is lost, Brothers but the fight goes on. We will reform within the fortress. Mooove!’
The Knights ran to their stations and within moments, two forces faced each other across the open space of the outer ward. The distance between the walls was narrow and at this point, no more than thirty men could stand side by side and still wield weapons. The Hospitaller ranks were no more than eight deep while the Mamluks stretched back to the breach with more pouring through by the second.
‘Sire, the villagers are secure,’ shouted a voice and Khoury breathed a sigh of relief. Though his men were far better combatants, the sheer number of the enemy meant there was no way they could prevail.
‘Withdraw,’ he shouted and the Knights walked backward toward the doors of the inner castle. With a roar the Mamluk’s charged and the Knights ran to the entrance of the vaulted corridor that led to the inner defences. The overwhelming force of enemy numbers forced their way up the slope of the covered walkway, fighting the Knights every step of the way but above them, hidden defenders fired arrows through the murder holes and their casualties mounted. Finally the pressure eased and the Mamluks withdrew back down the slope to exit back into the outer ward.
‘Quickly,’ shouted Khoury, ‘press the advantage, we have to close that gate.’
With renewed energy the Knights raced down the narrow corridor forcing the Mamluks back until the front lines of the enemy were once more outside. Sergeants dragged bodies out of the way and the huge doors were swung shut before being barred from the inside. Instantly the sound of battle fell away and Knights dropped to their knees, some in exhaustion while others knelt to pray.
‘How many lost?’ asked Khoury.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Najaar removing his helm, ‘but I estimate twenty Knights and twice that, men at arms.’
‘A heavy price,’ said Khoury and looked up the enclosed corridor that was the only entrance to the inner castle. Bodies lay everywhere and rivulets of blood ran between the dead and the wounded.
The sound of running men echoed down the quiet corridor and within moments, the castle Squires appeared, each brandishing knives. They fell on the enemy wounded, slitting their throats and sending them to their Gods. The Knights watched on in silence, immune to the brutality. It was an action of war and if they had fallen, they would have expected the same.
Khoury struggled to his feet.
‘Brothers,’ he said. ‘We have work to do. Have the wounded cared for then see to your own wounds. Najaar, instruct the Sergeants to barricade these gates with stone. I want this access denied them. The rest of you, get some rest.’ He strode up the ramp toward the inner ward and heard the rest of the Knights standing to follow him. He had led these men for five years and knew every one of them by name but despite leading them in battle on many occasions this was the first time he feared for their lives. Chevalier had been built to be impregnable but those who designed her buttresses, had never factored on Baibaars. The man was a military genius.
----
Baibaars looked up at the inner fortress. It had been several days since his forces had captured the outer ward and a deathly quiet hung over the battlefield. He had removed the bodies of his own fallen and had sent word to the Castellan, granting an hour’s truce for him to retrieve their dead. Khoury himself had led a heavily armed guard from the giant doors and stood in silence as they collected the defenders’ dead. When the battlefield was clear, the Knights retreated into the inner castle with Khoury bringing up the rear. Before he entered the gate his name rang out across the blood-stained ward.
‘Sir Khoury?’
Khoury turned and stared at a man in front of the Mamluk guards.
‘Who is it?’ asked Khoury quietly
‘It is Baibaars himself,’ gasped Najaar over his shoulder, ‘he is rarely seen on a battlefield.’
‘What do you want, Baibaars?’ shouted Khoury.
‘To talk only,’ said Baibaars. ‘Meet me man to man and talk as equals.’
‘Sire, it may be a trap.’ said Najaar. ‘If you go out there we will not be able to support you. He is in range of our archers, I can have him cut down where he stands.’
‘No,’ said Khoury quietly. ‘The fact he stands already within range of our arrows shames us with thoughts of such an action. The man seeks parley, I will see what he has to say.’
‘Sire, you are walking into the arms of a devil.’
‘Not a devil,’ said Khoury, ‘but a misguided believer in a different God.’
‘They are surely the same thing,’ said Najaar.
‘Perhaps,’ said Khoury. ‘But I will trust him.’
‘He can have you killed in a heartbeat.’
‘All men die, Brother Najaar but there is no better reason than for a man to fall when seeking peace for his people.’ He walked forward before unstrapping his sword belt and letting it fall to the blood stained grass.
‘I will hear you, Baibaars,’ he called, ‘and entrust your honour with my life.’
Baibaars unstrapped his own belt and stepped forward, leaving his own sword behind. Moments later they met in the centre of the silent field that days earlier had been a maelstrom of pain and death.
‘Sir Knight,’ said Baibaars, using Khoury’s formal title, ‘your name is known to my people as a fearsome warrior.’
‘And yours echoes across borders, Sultan Baibaars,’ answered Khoury. ‘For years I have killed men who fight in your name and now you stand before me, unarmed. An opportunity many men would not pass up.’
‘You are not any man, Khoury,’ said Baibaars, ‘besides, you would find me a hard man to kill.’
‘What do you want, Baibaars?’
‘I want you to surrender the castle,’ said Baibaars. ‘You have fought well, Khoury but we both know it is a futile endeavour. The castle will fall to me today, tomorrow or next month but fall it will, even if I have to dismantle it block by block.’
‘And every block will cost a Mamluk life,’ said Khoury.
‘But why?’ asked the Sultan. ‘Your men will die, my men will die but at the end of the killing, the castle will still be mine. You cannot win, Khoury, spare your men their lives.’
‘I disagree,’ said Khoury. ‘As we speak a great army approaches and will drive you back to Egypt. All we have to do is be patient.’
‘If you speak of your English army, then you will have a long wait, Khoury. The French King died at Tunis and Longshanks’ fleet floundered in a storm and he repairs the damage in Cyprus. The relief upon which you pin your hopes of reinforcement is yet months away.’
‘You lie,’ said Khoury, ‘I would have heard.’
‘I am many things, Khoury but I am no liar. My words are true but it does not fall upon me to convince you. That is a matter for your own conscience. The times are chan
ging, Sir Knight and the tide turns once more in my nation’s favour, Soon the Christian influence in our ancestor’s lands will be no more and you will be driven from this place like sheep before the wolf. I will not insult you with falsehoods, Khoury, the importance of this place as access to Jerusalem is second only to Acre. This is a magnificent fortress and I would have it undamaged so I offer you this. Surrender the castle to me and I will recognise your valour. Your men can leave fully armed and under their colours. You will be granted safe passage to any destination along with any civilians who wish to join you.’
‘A noble gesture,’ said Khoury eventually, ‘but you have been known to go back on your word before. How do I know I can trust you?’
‘If you refer to Antioch, it was not I but one of my generals who broke the bond. Your people are too quick to lay both blame and glory at my feet.’
‘Your generals are heralds of your word,’ said Khoury, ‘and act in your name.’
‘They do,’ said Baibaars, ‘but sometimes young men are eager for glory and their actions undermine those of better standing. I am not proud of Antioch, Khoury but rest assured that the man responsible for sullying my name took over a week to die.’
‘I am but a warrior of Christ, Baibaars,’ said Khoury, ‘and will have to seek his guidance in this, as well as that of my men.’
‘I understand,’ said Baibaars, ‘but know this. The offer is for all inside the castle. There will be no differentiation between civilian or Knight. Either you all leave and live, or you all stay and die, the blood of the villagers will be on your hands. I will give you two days, Khoury, then there will be no more talk. The castle will be brought down around your heads and any survivors will be dragged out for the vultures.’
‘Perhaps we will,’ said Khoury, ‘but I promise you this, it will be over the bodies of a thousand Mamluk.’ He turned to walk back to the castle but Baibaars’ voice rang out once more.
‘Christian Knight,’ he called.
Khoury stopped but did not turn around. His body stiffened for the impact of an arrow but the pain that came was from words, not blades.
‘You say you are a man of Christ,’ said Baibaars, ‘so ask yourself this. What would he do, Christian? What would your Jesus do?’
Khoury waited as the words sank in but did not respond. Instead he marched back to the Castle walls and through his waiting men. Without speaking he continued up the covered vaults toward the inner ward, his mind in turmoil as he battled the demons within his own head. A heathen king had just administered a wound bigger than Khoury had received in any battle, the cut of self-doubt. As a Knight his honour demanded he defend the castle to the last, even if he lost his own life in the process but as a Christian, he had vowed to defend the lives of the lowly and if he lost the battle, as he knew they eventually would, then the blood of all the villagers would be on his hands.
Whichever path he chose, Khoury knew one of the two ideals he held most precious would be ripped from his very soul, faith and honour.
----
Chapter Thirteen
Brycheniog
Garyn took the horse to the hills beyond the village and spent the next few days in the saddle sharpening his riding skills. He was no stranger to riding but as a potential lancer, he knew he had to be so much better. For several days he stayed away from the village, riding for miles during the day and sleeping in an abandoned woodsman’s hut by night. Gradually his confidence rose and after two weeks, he rode back to the village, comfortable in the saddle. He tied the beast to a tree and knocked on the Fletcher’s door.
‘Garyn,’ gasped Elspeth, coming to the door. ‘Where have you been? We thought you lay hurt in a ditch somewhere.’
‘I have had business to attend, Elspeth. I am sorry I have neglected you but there are things afoot that need to be taken care of.’
‘What things?’ asked Elspeth, noticing the horse for the first time. ‘Is that yours?’
‘No, it is a loan from the Manor,’ said Garyn. ‘Elspeth, I need to talk to you. Will you walk with me?’
The girl closed the door and walked alongside him toward the village.
‘What is it, Garyn, what’s wrong?’
‘Elspeth, there is no easy way to say this,’ he said, ‘but something has happened that means I have to go away for a while.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Elspeth?’
‘There is a lot that I would not burden you with,’ said Garyn, ‘but I will say this, my brother is in peril and I have to go and help him.’
‘To London?’
‘No, to the Holy-land.’
Elspeth stopped and stared at him.
‘You are taking the cross,’ she said simply, referring to the oath of a crusader.
‘No,’ said Garyn, ‘I am not. I go as a paid man and when my brother is safe, I will return I swear.’
‘But we have made plans,’ said Elspeth quietly. ‘Shared our dreams and saw a future together.’
‘I know.’ said Garyn earnestly, ‘and those dreams will still come true but I cannot abandon my brother, Elspeth, he is all I have left.’
‘You have me,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Garyn, ‘but Geraint is my flesh and blood. I have lost the rest of my family, Elspeth, I cannot lose him as well.’
‘Nobody comes back from crusades, Garyn,’ said Elspeth.
‘My father did.’
‘He was a Knight, paid men are expendable. You will share the fate of your brother and I will never see you again.’
‘I will return, Elspeth, I promise.’
‘No,’ she said quietly, walking backward away from him, ‘you won’t. I can feel it in my heart.’
‘Elspeth,’ said Garyn, ‘please don’t do this. I have to help my brother and when I am done, I will waste not a moment before returning to your side. We can still build that home and raise a family, all I ask is a year. Grant me that and I will never stray from your side again.’
‘I…I don’t know, Garyn,’ said Elspeth, ‘I have to go.’ She turned and ran back to her house as fast as she could, desperate he wouldn’t hear her sobs.
‘Elspeth,’ cried Garyn and ran after her but as he approached, a voice rang out stopping him in his tracks. It was her father.
‘Garyn ap Thomas,’ shouted Fletcher. ‘Hold right there, young man and turn to face me. I would have explanation.’
Garyn stopped and turned to face Fletcher. The man’s face was one of controlled rage.
‘Sire,’ started Garyn, ‘I haven’t hurt her I swear.’
The fletcher threw his bundle to the ground.
‘Really,’ he said, ‘my daughter runs with more tears than I have ever seen her cry and you say you haven’t hurt her. Why do I find that difficult to believe?’
‘Sire,’ said Garyn, struggling to find the words, ‘I haven’t laid a hand on her I swear, it’s just that I have to go away and she sees it as a betrayal.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Fletcher.
‘On Crusade,’ said Garyn, ‘but as a paid man, Sir not a Knight of the cross.’
‘What on earth possesses you to do such a thing?’ shouted the fletcher, ‘you are signing your own death warrant.’
‘Sire, I have no choice,’ said Garyn staring at the floor. ‘It is a matter of honour.’ He explained about his brother but withheld the details about the relic and the abbot.
‘And where is your brother?’ asked Fletcher.
‘I think he is in a place called Acre,’ said Garyn. ‘I won’t know until I get there. Wherever he is, I have to go and help him.’
‘You are no swordsman, Garyn you are a blacksmith. Crusaders spend years perfecting their skills before setting out. You may as well throw yourself off the Cerrig edge and be done with it.’
‘Even if you are correct,’ said Garyn, ‘I have to try. I love your daughter, Sir but I also love my brother and he is all I have left of my family. I will honour my pledge to both her and you but beg a gift of
a year to save my brother.’
The Fletcher calmed down and stared at the boy.
‘What passage have you obtained?’ he asked quietly.
‘As a paid horseman of Cadwalladers command,’ answered Garyn.’
‘You know mercenaries are often first into battle before the Knights?’
‘It is a price I have to pay,’ said Garyn.
‘Do you have any skills?’
‘I can ride but that’s about it.’
‘And he has accepted you?’
‘If I pass a test,’ said Garyn.
‘What test?’
‘I don’t know but it will involve a horse.’
‘Come with me,’ said Fletcher and walked to his house. They went inside but there was no sign of Elspeth.
‘Sit down,’ said Fletcher and Garyn waited as the man brought a flask of ale.
‘Garyn,’ he said eventually when they both had a tankard before them, ‘I am not happy you have hurt my daughter. She has set her heart on settling down with a family of her own and I know she thinks a lot of you. To her, your promises were empty and she is hurting, that is to be expected. However, I see the honour in your path. I am not happy you are going, Garyn and I think this will end in more heartache for Elspeth, however I also recognise that a man’s fate is often chosen for him.’ He paused and drank from his ale as Garyn waited for him to go on.
‘Anyway,’ continued Fletcher, ‘I cannot speak for my daughter, she is her own woman. I however, will help you. You say this test is in a week and I suspect it will take the form of lance work. Any horsemen are required to be masters of the lance and if you are inept, I fear you will be denied passage. Your father wasn’t the only one with secret’s Garyn, I too once rode under the King’s colours.
Garyn’s eyes widened in surprise.
‘That’s why you were friends with my father,’ he said quietly.
‘It is,’ said Fletcher. ‘I never rode alongside him for I was no Knight, however, I saw battle on several occasions and even won a tournament once. Our friendship was a belated one and born from mutual respect.’ He paused and drank again. ‘I will help you as best I can, Garyn,’ he continued. ‘A week is nothing but if I can teach you to at least stay upright, you may have a chance. The rest you will have to learn during the journey. Meet me in the back meadow tomorrow with your horse and we will see what we can do.’
