The Knights Dawning (The Crusades Series)

by James Batchelor

  Movement on the opposite peak had slowed till hardly a stir rippled through them. They were watching the crusaders, and the crusaders were watching them. An electricity hung in the air. The first rays of the morning sun touched down on the field of battle and the excitement, anxiety, and anticipation were impossible to contain any longer. As it always did for Richard, the electricity welled up in him from his chest until it escaped his mouth in a great war cry. “For glory!” He roared and spurred his horse down the hill.

  The Moors on the opposite peak responded in kind and with a terrible racket came rushing down the opposite hill like a great avalanche of people. Still shrouded in the shadow of early dawn’s timidity, the entire hillside seemed to be alive, undulating and rolling toward Richard and his small army.

  Richard and the front line of cavalry raced out ahead of the infantry. At this moment in the battle, as he always was, Richard was possessed of a strange sensation as if he were floating outside his body, merely a spectator to the ensuing events. The noise of his men and the approaching army seemed to fall way. He no longer heard the horse’s ironclad hooves on the ground or his armor clinking in the saddle, but rather he felt his horse's muscles rippling beneath him. He felt the cool morning air rushing through the seams in his heavy armor. He felt the weight of his weapons pulling on him. With no thought and almost in a daze he performed the motions he had done thousands of times before. He raised his lance from where it was resting in his stirrup and dropped the point of it, hooking the handle on the crook of his right arm. The line of cavalry followed suit in one well-rehearsed motion, all the attached flags of the individual banners dropping in a smooth line.

  The advanced cavalry reached the enemy line well ahead of the infantry. There was a great rush around him, and Richard’s inexplicably serene moment exploded into chaos, abruptly pulling him back into his body and into the fray. Richard dropped the point of his lance and took the first enemy in the chest. His lance snapped off in the chest as his unfortunate victim was torn to shreds.

  Richard was dismayed that it had broken so quickly. But he raised the remaining five foot stub and brought it down in a massive blow atop the head of the next enemy within reach. Meanwhile his mighty stallion rode over two more hapless peasants who had the misfortune of being placed in the front lines to precede the more experienced warriors; survival here had nothing to do with strength or skill; it was plain and simple luck. The sword of Damocles hung over all in the front line with one inevitable conclusion.

  Richard discarded the last bit of wood and ripped his massive sword from its sheath, kicking another assailant square in the face with his ironclad boot as he did so. He glanced over the line to see how the others were fairing and was startled by the number of empty saddles. Just then his foot soldiers arrived and with a mighty clash charged into the melee, cutting down everything before them.

  The Moors began to fall back before the mercenaries like the ocean tide receding from the beach. Richard continued to cut and slash violently toward anyone that came within range. One mighty blow smashed the inferior weapon of one man, tearing the flesh of the body that it failed to protect. Another blow cleaved the helmet of an unsuspecting Moor that had dropped his guard after dispatching a mercenary. Richard’s uncommonly large destrier, which stood head and shoulders above most of the Moors, reared up and brought his hooves down on the shield of a Moor soldier standing before them. The overwhelming concussion shattered the Moor’s arm and elicited screams of pain that were silenced by the same hooves trampling over the suffering Moor.

  Richard dealt death at every blow, his terrible presence inspiring awful terror in all who ventured to withstand him. His prowess as a warrior alone is what kept his underpaid, overworked men in check. Fear of his wrath and a desire to be part of a legacy that this man was surely destined for were all that kept them going in the face of overwhelming odds such as this.

  Richard continued to cut deep into the enemy ranks. Tirelessly he decimated everything in his path until he was swinging at retreating backs as a void opened up around him. All saw that it was certain death to face this demon warrior whose blood red armor now ran thick with the lifeblood of all that came near him. His massive black destrier barded in plates dyed to match the plate of its rider seemed to have leapt from the very pits of hell itself.

  The battle wore on. The sun was high in the sky when Richard drew his mount up to take a breath and survey the battle field. He first noticed that he no longer saw any other mounted riders. He quickly scanned the situation, seeing only dark faces surrounding him. Fifty yards behind him he saw the battered remnants of his line being pushed back. He was deep behind the enemy lines alone, and his men were about to retreat. He cursed himself for not being more aware of the battle at large. He was the General after all. It was his responsibility to see to the direction of his men. But he had become so accustomed to always being victorious, to always routing the enemy, that he had neglected to properly lead his men. He had fallen into the habit of merely being a gallant banner for the men to follow, and he only concentrated on eliminating the enemy. His cavalry was gone, and the remnants of his foot soldiers were desperately fighting to escape, not to win.

  If his men fled, he would be left alone in a sea of enemy faces. Mighty warrior though he may be, Richard did not like those odds. He had to act quickly. Wheeling his mount, he began to charge back toward his own line. But as he did so, his line of crusaders began to crumble as the surviving mercenaries fled. The Moors pursued them and continued what had ceased to be a battle and was now a slaughter. All at once the crowd surrounding Richard’s warhorse became aware of just how outnumbered he was. Those that had been giving him a wide berth before took heart and turned on him. The Moors knew well who he was. They knew it was he that had led this campaign, butchered their people, destroyed their towns, and kept them living in fear for all these years. They knew that it was he who led the relentless onslaught, and they knew that they now had him trapped. They would exact a terrible justice on him.

  Time seemed to stand still as each of the players realized their separate positions. Nobody moved for a long instant, as if time had fallen behind the moment. Then with jarring suddenness it jumped ahead as Richard let out a mighty battle cry and cleaved into the army, determined to cut his way out.

  The Moors rushed him, encouraged by their vast numbers. Richard cut and hacked furiously in every direction, his nearly four foot blade cutting the soldiers before him like wheat. But they continued to press in upon him from every direction. They stabbed at his horse, his arms, his legs—any exposed bit they could find. Richard’s giant blade became a hindrance as there were too many bodies to cut through all of them. Then with a terrible neighing whinny, his mount’s hind legs were hamstrung and gave out. The massive destrier’s back legs buckled, dumping Richard off of its back. Richard stumbled backward out of his saddle but managed to retain his footing.

  Though this was the perfect opportunity to finish him off, the individual soldiers were still instinctively afraid of this massive, inhuman figure that somehow seemed all the more intimidating toe to toe. At this range , it was impossible to overlook exactly how much bigger he was than the average size frames of the Moor soldiers. Even as he stumbled to regain himself, this monster was unfathomable. The bone face of his helmet that was caked in the blood of their comrades showed no pain, no fear, no fatigue, only unyielding cruelty. And the blade, the mighty blade he wielded, was massive enough to require two hands to heft for most men. He was a monster, and now this monster was angry.

  One soldier took courage and charged towards Richard’s right rear flank, spear extended, determined to find a chink in the wicked armor. Richard regained his balance just in time and swung his sword down to deflect the spear, but the momentum of the soldier’s charge propelled him straight into Richard’s chest. The Moor was too close to effectively cut him down, so Richard did the next best thing: he slid his sword arm under the soldier’s arm, pivoted around and hurled th
e soldier into the sea of befuddled Moors, landing him across three of them. They collapsed in a painful tangle. Richard then spun and continued his grim death march toward freedom. With no hint of fear, he tore into anything that came within range of his bloody sword point.

  Twenty yards, thirty yards, he left a trail of dead and dying. It began to look as though he was going to make it to freedom. The Moor army redoubled its efforts. The crowd pressing in on the circle of hesitating soldiers surrounding Richard actually became an impediment to their own men. Those closest to him were shoved forward, throwing them off balance and depriving them of the opportunity to time their attacks. The Moors were terrified of this creature that they were sure had risen straight from hell as a scourge to their people. Nevertheless, the army as a whole possessed a will that superseded that of the individual.

  ***

  Naim had been a farmer only a year before. He knew nothing about soldiering before Richard’s army had arrived one fateful night in his village. They had plundered, pillaged and burned everything. His wife, his children were all dead or missing, and Naim no longer had a reason to live outside of standing against the crusaders. That was his sole purpose for being now, and he had fought in virtually every battle waged against Richard’s army since that time. Now here he was at long last, with Richard trapped before him. Naim was on the inner circle facing Richard. The crowd behind him undulated as an unstoppable force threw him forward in front of Richard. Though Naim had faced Richard’s army many times, he had never been near him in the battlefield. Naim’s eyes widened as he saw the slaughter of the others taking place a few scant feet away. He was suddenly acutely aware that his small stocky frame, insufficiently protected as it was by a mismatched helmet and breastplate, was nothing compared to the goliath before him. He desperately pushed back into the crowd as the path of destruction turned his way but was violently shoved forward once again.

  Reluctantly he braced himself to face this foe. His arm felt very weak as he raised his sword, hoping against hope that this ever-spinning, pivoting demon would not turn on him. But Richard did turn on him, and for just a moment Naim looked into those black eye sockets and that evil bone face that was drenched in the blood of his friends and family. His hand went limp. His sword dropped to the ground.

  Richard, however, did not hesitate. Naim’s terror produced not a moment of hesitation or pity in this ruthless warrior. His sword came down with a great overhand swing and cleaved through Naim’s clavicle. The force of the swing may have cleaved the whole top section of his body off had it not been for Naim’s rusty breastplate. Richard’s sword cut deep into the breast plate and lodged there. He attempted to slide it out, but it was wedged in the now twisted steel and bone of his victim. Furiously he jerked his weapon back and the stuck body of the soldier was whipped around like a rag doll.

  ***

  The solid end of a heavy cudgel came down on the back of Richard's sword wrist, breaking his grip from his weapon, the steel of his gauntlet being all that saved his hand from breaking.

  Another soldier raised his sword overhead in both hands to finish this dreaded knight once and for all. At the last minute Richard lunged toward the swordsman, knocking him over and rendering his blow ineffective as the two were entangled on the ground.

  Others quickly stepped up to dispatch him but could not safely distinguish Richard from their fellow soldier in the fray. Dropping his weapon, another man leapt in to assist his comrade in subduing this massive beast. He threw his whole body onto Richard’s, wrapping himself around Richard’s huge right arm as Richard rolled on top of the smaller Moor. Richard hurled the Moor attaching himself to his arm back into the crowd and brought his fist down hard on the exposed face of the soldier underneath him, smashing his nose and breaking teeth under his gauntlet in a bloody mess.

  Now many others were on top of Richard, hitting, kicking, and wrestling him onto his back, where his heavy plate armor put him at a serious disadvantage. At last they had him pinned down with two men holding each arm and two more on each leg.

  With some effort, Richard’s bone helmet was yanked violently from his head, revealing long black curls and sweat pouring down his face, dripping from his square jaw. His deep brown eyes were set in an indignant glare at the heavyset, bearded man who stood over him with rage-filled eyes. The man did not speak, but his lips quivered with an exultant excitement; Richard was completely at his mercy. After a moment he merely spat on Richard and raised the point of his blade, determined to drive it into the face of the hated knight.

  “Stop!” Another man in a full suit of armor with long stringy black hair stepped up. He was a giant among the Moors, even taller than Richard himself, though not as massively built. He was clearly a person of consequence as they all parted to let him through. “An honorable soldier’s death is far too good for this animal.”

  Richard sneered at the giant. “I know you, don’t I?”

  The Giant looked down at him coldly. “Hello Richard,” he said and then barked orders to bind the prisoner.

  The soldiers hastened to obey, keeping him well in check at every moment. Many men stood over him with weapons poised. The slightest bit of resistance earned him a sharp strike to his now exposed head.

  When his bonds were secure, they picked up the mighty knight and dragged him to a captured horse. As they threw him over the back of the horse on his stomach, the last vision he had was of the Moors stabbing his suffering steed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Egypt: Damietta

  “William, good,” Gorm said, looking up from where his squire was helping him gird his suit of armor around his increasingly rotund figure. William stood by the entrance of the tent flap as if ready to flee at any moment. Gorm sucked in his paunch to allow his sword belt to be fitted around his waist by his squire. “William, time is short, so I shall be brief. I want you mounted and riding with the chivalry tonight when we ride against Damietta,” he said to the young man.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but I am not a knight,” William said simply.

  Gorm's curly beard that hung to his chest in a coarse tuft began to twitch as it was wont to do when he was agitated. “Why do you insist on remaining in the infantry?” Gorm demanded, flabbergasted by William’s repeated rebuffs. “The infantry's fate is not of their own making. You know better than anyone that an errant arrow, a well-placed enemy lance, or overwhelming odds, spells the end for an unlucky infantryman. It is merely a game of chance in the front lines that inevitably ends the same way for all who remain there long enough. If I did not know better, I may take it into my head that you wished to perish in battle.”

  William shrugged calmly. “What could be nobler than to perish in a righteous crusade serving the Holy Pope himself?” Gorm was never quite certain whether or not William was being sarcastic or genuine, and said nothing. William, taking the hint, continued, “I'm afraid I have never taken to the noble equestrian activities. The last time I charged on horseback, I ended up meeting the enemy with the wrong end of the horse before me. Neither rider nor animal was satisfied with that, I can assure you.”

  Gorm paused to survey the young man standing before him. His skin was smooth but darkened from the long days in the sun in this part of the world while his ordinarily dark brown hair was a fairer brown now, the sun having worked the opposite effect on its pigment. He stood some five feet eight inches, but he was powerfully built across the chest and shoulders. His chin was square and his face much too handsome for this life. The years as a knight only brought scars and disfigurement to the lucky ones and death to the rest. He was outfitted differently than Gorm had ever beheld in his many decades of campaigning. His long shirt that hung down to mid-thigh was composed of many small overlapping plates that were designed to afford maximum mobility without sacrificing much protection. His legs were protected by mail leggings with heavier greaves on his shins for extra protection. He was typically bare-headed in battle, a point that Gorm did not agree with but could not argue abou
t given his fierce prowess on the field. He had a sword on his back, which rarely came out in battle, and a dagger in the small of his back with still another tightly affixed to his left thigh. He sighed. “Who are you, William?”

  William grinned. “I am William of York, sir.”

  “You still refuse to reveal more than that, eh?” Gorm asked, being further irked by not only having his generous ovations rebuffed but also by the young man's repeated refusal to confide in Gorm despite his best efforts to take him under his wing and mentor him.

  “I have told you all that I remember, I'm afraid,” William sighed. “My father was a tanner, and my mother a fishmonger. We were poor, and when they died they made me swear that I would serve God nobly and honorably.” He looked so affected by the recollection of this emotional moment, one could have believed it had happened only yesterday; but Gorm was not impressed.

  “Last time, your mother was a tanner and your father a fishmonger, and only he was deceased. Your mother was waiting anxiously in prayerful supplication for your return.”

  “Oh?” William looked surprised. “Well, that's what I meant, of course,” he said quickly. Then reassuming his former air of mourning he said, “They so shared in each other's burdens that one was inseparable from the other.”

  “They even shared the burden of dying?”

  “Sir, do not the scriptures say that a man and woman must cleave to each other, becoming one flesh? My parents had obeyed this so thoroughly that when my mother died, isn't it only fitting that I may say 'they' died?”

  “Father died,” Gorm reminded him.

  “Right!”

  “Very well, keep your secrets if you will, but that does not change the fact that I expect my lieutenant to be mounted beside me when we ride on Damietta at first light.”