Bradyn’s face turned red at the insult, ‘I am not his friend, but I am no longer his enemy.’
‘If you are not his enemy then you are a traitor!’ De Balon snarled at Bradyn and his hand moved towards his sword.
De Chauvigny grabbed de Balon’s arm and pulled him back as he glared at both men, ‘Enough!’
De Balon moved his hand away from the hilt and took a step backwards, ‘I don’t trust him; he’s been with de Capo too long, you heard what happened in Acre, they started to like him, Leopold should have killed him.’
De Chauvigny spun round and grabbed de Balon by the throat, ‘Quiet,’ he hissed as he breathed into de Balon’s face, ‘Leopold was waiting for orders….and the whoreson bastard ran off with the priest before he received them, if you don’t like that you can take it up with Leopold the next time you see him!’ He released de Balon, pushed him backwards and turned to Bradyn.
‘De Capo should be burnt,’ de Balon retorted, ‘he bewitches our men, it’s not natural.’
De Chauvigny spat on the ground and slowly looked round at de Balon, ‘I said quiet,’ he spoke softly, ‘one more word and I’ll have your tongue!’
De Balon opened his mouth to speak but the look on de Chauvigny’s face suggested a wise man would stay silent. De Balon decided to be wise.
De Chauvigny had set up a small camp in woodland three miles to the south of Rochester. Far enough from there to be able to move freely and light fires; but close enough for two of his men to stay in the forest on the ridge above Rochester and watch. They had been relieved each day and de Chauvigny was confused there had been no reports of anyone leaving since Prince Edward’s army had left. Until Bradyn arrived in the camp de Chauvigny assumed he was still part of the garrison, and if he left the city with de Capo, he would have found out. His arrival unsettled him as he realised de Capo could have left at any time.
‘Why does he want to give up the scroll now?’
‘He blames God for the death of his woman.’
De Chauvigny’s men muttered their feelings and de Balon said the word that was on everyone’s lips, ‘Blasphemy!’
De Chauvigny gave a warning glance at de Balon before continuing, ‘Just make sure you’re all ready to leave,’ he ordered, ‘the sooner we leave this stinking country the better.’ He looked at Bradyn, ‘Walk with me.’
De Chauvigny listened to Bradyn as he told his story and he heard how de Capo had commanded the city, quietly acknowledging to himself this was a man who knew his trade better than most.
‘I didn’t think Erasmus would recognise me after all this time, I was wrong.’
‘Treacherous little turd,’ de Chauvigny hissed, his expression one of disgust, ‘I’ll roast his balls and enjoy his anguish!’
‘There are some conditions,’ said Bradyn.
‘Conditions?’ de Chauvigny growled as he stopped and stared at Bradyn, ‘What conditions?’
Chapter Thirty Six
The sounds of war, the stench of death; both had receded from his mind for a few hours as he stood beside his horse and savoured the sound of the birds who greeted him. The solitude and the peacefulness was broken only by a gentle breeze. For the first time in more years than he could remember he was alone. He knew the solitude would not last long and he admitted to himself he was taking a grave risk. He thought about bringing Erasmus, and knew he should trust the priest, but something in his mind warned him that trusting men who preached ‘thou shalt not kill’ before ordering the deaths of thousands could be folly and foolhardy. He crouched down and let his hands brush over the grass, something in short supply in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and what grass there had been had never been as soft and gentle as the grass covering the greatest land known to man.
England was his home, the land of his birth and the country where he became a knight and gave his oath to a King who had been on the throne longer than he had been alive. His decision to go to the holy land and fight the enemies of Christ had been a choice made through naivety and a promise of riches. A promise made by the same men who preached peace and forgiveness, before preaching hate and destruction.
He thought back to his time with Blanche, an all too brief interlude in a life of violence, an interlude that was too short, too swift and ripped from his life by one mistake; his mistake. His one light in a life with too much darkness in it, extinguished by one moment of madness, he should never have released the bolt so close to her, and yet he did.
He closed his eyes and visualised that fateful moment, Blanche nodded and he pressed the lever and the bolt flew true. He squeezed his eyes as he remembered the bolt slamming into her chest, and the sight of her flying backwards onto the hard stone. He recalled how thick her blood was; he opened his eyes and stared at his hands, at the memory before bowing his head in shame. He blamed God for her death but in his heart he knew it was nothing to do with God.
The sound of a dozen birds winging their way into the sky made him freeze momentarily and the sense of another human nearby brought him harshly back to the present. He raised his head slowly and stared at the horse on the opposite bank of the gently flowing stream that culminated in the tidal waters of the Medway. The horse shook her head and the man mounted on her watched impassively as de Capo stood.
The birds had stopped calling, and the only sound apart from the breeze was the running water as the stream flowed south. The sudden silence from the birds intimated they understood evil when it arrived and vacated the peace to allow two enemies to meet.
~
De Chauvigny stared at the copse behind de Capo. He was no stranger to treachery; he was normally the instigator of it, but on this occasion there was no deceit in his heart or his mind. He had a chance to reclaim the scroll, and if Bradyn told the truth, by the end of the day they would be making their way to the nearest port to leave this god forsaken country.
De Chauvigny hated England, he hated the English and he hated the English King. His opinion of the English were they lived like animals, stunk like foul plague ridden corpses and had the social graces of pigs desperate to get to their food. He looked at de Capo and wondered how this country managed to produce a knight like him. He hated the man but also had a grudging respect for what he had done in the last year. There was something unusual about the man if he could survive like he had.
He nudged his horse towards the stream and she lowered her head and drank from the cool fresh water. De Capo hadn’t moved and de Chauvigny satisfied himself there was no trap. The presence of the birds as he approached the stream testified to that. He tugged on his reins and the horse, angry at the interruption lifted her head, snorting and shaking it as she showed her displeasure.
De Capo looked up and squinted, knowing he had left himself vulnerable, ‘Reynaud….the fact you are here alone means you agree.’
De Chauvigny slouched in the saddle and had another glance into the trees, ‘I agree, it will be a pleasure to kill you, assuming this is not a trap.’
‘Trap?’ replied de Capo, ‘why would I lead you into a trap?’
De Chauvigny grinned, ‘You have a way of coercing my men into believing what you say…..Bradyn no longer sees you as his enemy!’
‘He told you that?’
‘He did,’ admitted de Chauvigny, ‘de Balon thinks him a traitor, and you guilty of witchcraft for turning my men to your side.’
‘And you?’
‘I understand men can fall under the spell of other men, but it has nothing to do with witchcraft.’
‘What of Bradyn?’
‘Your concern is touching,’ de Chauvigny said with a hint of derision in his voice, ‘but he came back to me when he could have stayed with you…I do not kill my own men for respecting another man, even if that man is my enemy.’
‘That is not the rumour reaching the ears of others!’
De Chauvigny shrugged, ‘We are a different breed, you and I…..and if men fear me because of rumours, I will not change them, my reason for living has been fo
r that which you stole from us, there have been many men before me who have spent their lives searching and found nothing….our ways may not be to your liking, but what we do, we do for God.’
‘Then he can thank me for what I do this day, ‘de Capo replied, ‘and the day will come when I shall have a reckoning with God.’
‘We shall all have a reckoning with God, but our reckoning now is between us, here.’
De Capo mounted his horse, ‘If I win, your men leave England for good.’
‘That is the agreement, and if I win?’
‘The scroll is yours,’ de Capo patted the leather bag strapped to his saddle, ‘and Erasmus lives.’ He turned his horse towards a meadow to the west of the copse and kicked her into a slow canter. When he reached the far side of the meadow he stopped and turned to face de Chauvigny who had crossed the stream and followed. Both men placed their helmets on their heads, pulled their swords and saluted each other.
~
Erasmus prayed before the cross in the Castle chapel, thanking God for allowing him to remain anonymous to the Bishop who saw him as just another itinerant priest travelling with a knight for protection. Erasmus’ patience was wearing thin though, and although he approached de Capo and Ranulf daily, neither would explain why they delayed. Now he knelt and prayed for the souls of all those who had died in this quest, for the men who had suffered in the siege, for Blanche and her unborn child and for de Capo. He asked God to forgive de Capo for his doubts and accusations and to give them both the strength to complete their task.
The sound of someone entering the chapel and standing behind him made him shiver; the fear of assassination was always present! He slowly lowered his clasped hands and turned his head to see Ranulf standing there, ‘You have come to join me in prayers?’
‘I have come to escort you to the North,’ Ranulf replied.
Erasmus stood and smiled, ‘I am ready to go,’ he looked past Ranulf, ‘where is Sir Ralf?’
Chapter Thirty Seven
The blades struck with the force of a lightning bolt, and the two men grunted in pain as the shockwave ripped through their bodies. Their sword arms hung loose, aching and numb with the force of the clash and they twisted in their saddles as one handed they pulled the heads of their enormous war mounts around at an unnatural angle. Both horses, eyes bulging, gleaming with the adrenalin coursing through their bodies, slid on the grassy surface as their haunches buckled. Their fore legs rose and flailed helplessly in the air as they spun, slipping on the uneven ground before launching themselves towards each other, eyes wild and teeth bared. Their training took over any instinct they had to avoid contact and they struck each other head on, rearing up and smashing down with their hooves. As the horses fell back to the ground the blades swept down, and once again the sound of steel striking steel reverberated through the air, mixing with the grunts of the two men as they tried to break through each other’s defence with brute force!
The fight was free of skill as they hacked at each other with ferocity beyond reason. One man had to die and they both knew it as their swords swept down, their horses twisting and turning as each man tried to find an advantage. The fury both men displayed was unnatural as they both sought to break through and strike the blow that would finish it. Neither man knew the strengths or weaknesses of the other; they had never met in battle before and the flaw in their style wasn’t apparent in the rabid madness both men fought with.
The horses continued to turn, sidestepping, backing away and lunging forwards time and again. The fight was getting frantic and both men were tiring. Their strength was sapping fast as the blades slowed. They pulled apart and stared into each other’s eyes and as one they lunged at each other again, both desperate to find flesh. They had both struck mail and plate and the welts and bruising beneath the gambesons were already chaffing and affecting their movements. Both knights ached with exhaustion; they were evenly matched and their movements slowed in tandem, the fatigue in their eyes, the laboured breathing and the diminishing force of their blows made them both draw back and take stock. They backed away and slouched in their saddles, furiously blinking away the sweat affecting their vision. Their horses stood motionless for the first time, the adrenalin that had kept them going now gone and their heads hung meekly as they tried to regain their strength.
For long minutes the two knights remained still, allowing their muscles to relax and regain some strength. The horses took deep breaths and despite the warmness in the air, the moisture from their nostrils appeared like small puffs of smoke before vanishing forever. The two men looked up and gave a small nod to each other. It had to be finished! Death was hovering and demanded a soul!
As one they screamed, their horses leapt forwards as both men struck them with the flat of their blades. Within seconds they had smashed into each other like opposing battering rams, and the blades swept down. There was a sickening crunch as the two men passed each other in a tangle of steel and iron. One horse slid and turned to face the enemy once more and was pulled to a halt as the opponent sat slumped in his saddle, his sword laying on the ground and blood gushing down his side and over the saddle to drip onto the ground. The victor controlled his horse as it stamped its hooves into the earth, desperate to lunge into the fray again. It calmed down quickly and the knight nudged it forward into a walk, his sword, dripping in blood, held ready to strike. As he moved closer he saw the wound, the killing blow!
The dying man had been a fraction slower and failed to parry the blade that struck his shoulder, shattering the weakened iron rings, slicing through his gambeson, crunching through his shoulder bone and cutting deep into his flesh, tearing muscle and sinew and severing arteries from which the blood flowed. The wounded man turned his head slightly and tried to smile at his killer. He groaned and fell, landing hard on the blood soaked earth.
De Capo removed his helmet and looked at the still corpse feeling no remorse, no pity and no pleasure. Killing another knight was never a desire but at times it was necessary. Movement in the corner of his eye made him look in the direction of the copse and he smiled coldly at the sight of de Balon and the rest of de Chauvigny’s men in line abreast facing him. He knew de Chauvigny would not keep to the bargain, he knew his men would be there and he knew he would have to fight them. He reached inside his gambeson and felt Baktamar’s jewel encrusted dagger he had placed there before riding out to meet de Chauvigny. He remembered the words the Mameluk commander had said to him, ‘A wise man once said it is the duty of the warrior to reclaim a soul lost in battle, for if he does not then when he dies he will be cursed to wander the darkness between worlds forever.’
Now Blanche was gone, he was ready to die and sighed at what he felt was the futility of his life. He replaced his helmet and flexed his arms that ached from the weight of his shield and the pounding de Chauvigny had given him. He expected to kill another two before he was overwhelmed, and as the line of knights moved towards him he nudged his horse forward at the walk.
~
He was confused as his eyes darted from left to right. The aching muscles and the bruised flesh was momentarily forgotten as he stared at the sight before him. The line of knights had stopped, all except one who continued towards him at a lazy walk, shield slung across his back and helmet in his hands.
De Capo stopped and waited for de Balon, recognisable at a distance by the scar crossing his face. This was not what he expected and he sat patiently, sword in hand as his enemy rode closer, stopping a horse’s length from him, ‘Reynaud is dead,’ de Capo stated, ‘the scroll stays here, if you think different then show your blade and we can finish this.’
‘We know when we are beaten,’ de Balon replied, ‘we are not stupid, and we will not die needlessly.’
‘Then you will leave England?’
‘It seems we have no choice.’
De Capo removed his helmet and stared at de Balon as he tried to understand what had changed, ‘And your Grand Master? I have heard he does not like fai
lure.’
‘The war is not yet lost,’ de Balon pulled his horse’s head round, ‘there will be another time, and this is de Chauvigny’s failure, not mine.’
‘Tell your Grand Master Erasmus is not to be hunted.’
‘He is a traitor,’ de Balon said with a sneer as he turned away from de Capo, ‘for that he will be hunted, and I cannot change that.’
‘He is Deus Militis,’ de Capo retorted, ‘that does not make him a traitor.’
De Balon stopped and twisted in his saddle, his surprise evident, ‘And you?’
‘Just Erasmus,’ de Capo admitted, ‘I am merely a man dragged into your war by chance.’
De Balon nodded thoughtfully, ‘I will tell the Grand Master, but I think we will meet again Sir Ralf.’
De Capo watched de Balon and his men until they were out of sight.
Voices from behind made him turn in his saddle and he understood why de Balon and his men had not attacked him. Even men from the Imperial Order of Jerusalem were not going to attack Templars supported by archers. He wiped the blood from his sword and with the blade clean he sheathed it and relaxed with a wry smile as three of the horsemen cantered towards him. As they got closer they slowed to a trot, each man glancing briefly at the body of de Chauvigny.
FitzAlan was the first to speak, his huge frame poised precariously on a horse that seemed too small for him, ‘A good fight sir Ralf, and good to see the bastard dead!’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Erasmus refused to leave without you,’ said Ranulf who sat between the bulk of FitzAlan and Sir Geoffrey Marston, ‘and when he told me what they were really like,’ he indicated with nod of his head in the direction de Balon and his men had ridden, ‘I spoke to Sir John and Sir Geoffrey and they insisted we come and watch, just to see you fight once more.’
‘And Jerold?’
Ranulf smiled, ‘Ah, well… Jerold heard about the fight and thought he would join us and show his men how easily knights died.’
‘You fight well,’ Sir Geoffrey remarked, ‘my men were impressed.’
‘So you only came to watch?’
‘Of course,’ snorted FitzAlan belligerently as if his honour had been called into question, ‘wouldn’t want those murdering bastards to think you were cheating!’
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