The Knights Dawning (The Crusades Series)

by James Batchelor

  “Your Lordship does me too much honor, but I fear the infantry would be lost without me, and at this most critical of battles, we cannot risk such confusion. Your Lordship has no need for me to remind him that this battle more than most will rely on each army doing their part.”

  “Are you refusing a direct order?” Gorm demanded angrily, turning his large frame directly to the young man.

  “I'm afraid I must risk a lashing at my master’s hands according to the laws of chivalry, by which I am not bound, not being a knight,” he responded in an easy manner, seemingly not the least bit concerned by Gorm's formidable anger, “lest I incur the responsibility for the failure of tomorrow's initiative by not speaking my mind now. ”

  “Confound you, boy!” Gorm roared, pounding a meaty fist on the table in front of him. “Why do you refuse the honors I would shower down upon your head? We would not even be at Damietta's gates if not for you. The Church has sought Damietta for a hundred years. Why will you not allow me the pleasure of championing a brilliant young man and a ferocious warrior, as is befitting?”

  “Oh, I fear you ascribe to me much that is not deserved. In battle I mostly find it convenient to hide behind others until the battle is finished. I believe my noble lord's mount has been my shield on more than one occasion.” Gorm reddened even more and pounded the table again. “Sir, I but fear that the simple heart of a peasant as beats in my breast would swell with such honors, and like fateful Icarus, I would fly too close to the sun of chivalry, only to have my dreams dashed on the rocks of reality for my vainglorious aspirations.” Gorm grinned despite himself.

  “I know you are having sport of me, William. I should lash you for that alone.”

  “My back is ever ready for your noble whip, Sir Knight.” he said, and began fiddling with the ties of his armor as if he would remove it for his lashing. “But I fear the weather has made this armor unmanageable, and I cannot remove it.”

  “Confound you, William,” he said, laughing aloud. “Well then, what would you have me do for you?”

  William did not speak for a long moment, then said simply, “When the day is won tomorrow, I must beg leave of you.”

  Gorm stared at him to determine if he were sincere. “You will leave us?”

  “I believe my work here is complete.”

  Gorm looked sadly at the table before him. “How long has it been now? Four years? I cannot conceive of going to battle without you after all that time. I never thought I would be saying that when that brash young man came riding up to join the crusade all those years ago.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “But I suppose I managed without you for fifty years before we met, and I can continue when you have departed. Very well, if that is what you wish, then it shall be as you say.” He smiled. “I still remember when you joined our band. I was not sure what you were. Come to think of it, I guess I still am not sure what you are, but I know you are a Heaven-sent scourge to the Moors.”

  “Scourge to the Moors, perhaps,” William allowed. “But I’m afraid you do err greatly in your assumption that I am your good angel. Not I, Sir Knight. Does not the Lord use the wicked to punish the wicked?”

  Gorm did not respond. William nodded, satisfied that he had been understood, and turned to leave. “William, stay a moment,” Gorm said quickly, aware that William was retiring without being formally dismissed. He had always afforded this boy far too much license, but it seemed impossible to discipline William as he might other soldiers. William turned back to him expectantly.

  “Though you insist on playing the buffoon,” Gorm said, “I see that your intellect is keen and your skills are unparalleled. There is much good you could do from a seat of power. Stay with me and let me put you at the head of my armies,” Gorm blurted suddenly. “Train my men, lead them onward to glorious victory over the Saracens!” He said the last with great passion, envisioning his men standing over the Holy Land in flames with his banner raised above all others.

  William did not respond, and Gorm realized himself in time to observe William’s heaving chest as he tried to stifle his laughter. Gorm's eyes flashed dangerously. “Forgive my impertinence, milord, but can you imagine me at the head of armies? I am as unfit to command as your daughter,” he said, grinning broadly.

  “I do not have a daughter,” Gorm growled.

  “Exactly,” he said, still grinning. “You have earned the love and respect of all who serve you through a generation of gallant service and brutal combat. I cannot claim any such accolades of my own and therefore neither command nor deserve the respect afforded you.”

  “Your men worship you,” Gorm objected.

  “My men follow me because they are mostly untrained soldiers. I wear a pretty suit of armor and they therefore assume that I am someone worth following. You are a leader; I am merely a novelty. I need not explain the difference to you.” Gorm dropped his eyes, disappointed that he had been unable to entice his young ward to remain with him.

  William crossed the tent and placed a hand warmly on Gorm’s shoulder. “You do me much honor. I will never forget your kind hand and understanding heart. I hope that I may be guided by your example all the days of my life.”

  “I will feel your loss mightily, William,” Gorm said, tears springing into his eyes.

  “That is only because you have a mighty heart. Spare me not a moment's thought,” William entreated him and squeezed his shoulder warmly. “William,” Gorm called as he departed to prepare for the battle to come. “If you ever need anything, remember that I am here.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Persia

  “Henry, over here, over here!”

  Henry heard the voice through the clash of the battle. He searched desperately to see who it was that was calling for him but could not locate the sound amidst the din. Slashing his wicked-looking scimitar through the man in front of him, he raced toward the source of the sound.

  Ramming through a press of men, he arrived to see his young lieutenant, having lost his weapon, leap at a Moor opponent. Surprised by the act, the Moor did not respond in time, and they grappled briefly until the Moor threw him off, landing his light frame in the dirt. Henry charged at the Moor. The Moor raised his sword high.

  “NO!” Henry shouted instinctively, hoping to draw the Moors attention, but the Moor did not look up as he performed his dark deed. Patrick, his lieutenant, curled up on the ground and shielding himself as best he could, did not see the blade that entered his back and pierced his heart. Henry reached them in a few more steps and swung his scimitar so hard the Moor's head was removed from his shoulders before he even had a chance to pull the sword from Patrick's body.

  Henry dropped to his knees beside his lieutenant, yanked the weapon free that had stolen his young life, and angrily hurled it clear. He slowly rolled Patrick over, afraid of what he would see. The young lieutenant had a surprised look on his face. His eyes were lifeless and blood was trickling from his nose and mouth. Tears came into Henry's eyes, and he beat his fist on the ground. The battle raged all around him as his men were being driven back. The spot he currently knelt on had been the front line but was quickly becoming enemy-held territory. He hugged the boy’s body to his chest, briefly wondering how he was going to explain this to Patrick’s family. Though only a few years older than Patrick, Henry had felt responsible for him since he had joined them en route to Persia. He had met the boy's aging mother, who had demanded an oath from Henry that he would protect her last remaining son.

  Henry was a battled-hardened veteran at that point and never doubted his ability to command when his own commanding officer had fallen during their previous battle only two weeks before. When Henry took over, he had taken the boy under his wing, giving him a post of lieutenant to keep him where he could watch him… for all the good it did him.

  An enemy soldier noticed Henry kneeling over the body of his friend and aimed to take advantage of it. He charged at him. Though preoccupied, Henry was very aware of the battle raging all around him. As th
e Moor swung his mace in what he expected to be an easy kill, Henry’s scimitar parried his blow with so much force the soldier could scarcely retain his grip on his weapon.

  Henry rose, the fury showing plainly on his long face. The Moor soldier suddenly regretted his decision. Though lean, Henry stood a head taller than the average Moor and was clearly possessed. Henry drew his sword back for a brutal swing. He made no effort to conceal the blow from his opponent. The terrified Moor raised his mace to block it but was again shocked by the ferocity with which it was delivered. Henry was not engaging in battle with this soldier, we was swinging to finish it. The Moor’s wrist gave way under the blow and the edge of the scimitar cut deep into his throat.

  Through the tears that were welling in his eyes, Henry could see that his men were falling back quickly. Henry cut down the next two enemies who stepped too close to him and began a measured retreat with his men.

  The Moors took heart to see the crusaders retreating and redoubled their efforts. Before he knew it, Henry was losing control of the situation. The Moors were pressing on them hard, and his men were about to break.

  “Stand strong, men, remember what you are fighting for!” He yelled even as he himself had to retreat a few steps before the onslaught. “This is for God and the Holy Land!”

  Whether Henry's men did not hear his words or were simply unable to respond, he did not know. But as if by some unspoken mutual consent, his men gave up, and the measured retreat turned into a full scale routing. Crusaders on all sides turned and ran from the Moor army. Henry held the line as long as he could, trying to assess the situation. He dispatched another two Moors and tried to call his men back, but they did not hear him. In their haste to retreat, they left themselves open to their enemies and were being cut down in droves.

  “You fools, turn and defend yourselves!” Henry cursed them, but no one was listening. He fell back several yards before the onslaught, turned to try to fend off his attackers, and then fell back again. All was chaos now. Those who tried to stand and fight stood alone and were overwhelmed. Those who fled were easy targets. Henry tried to find an equilibrium between the two in order to execute a measured, controlled withdrawal. He had to stay near his disintegrating line or he, too, would be overwhelmed, but he watched as his men were cut to pieces right before his eyes, and he felt powerless to stop it.

  It frustrated him that his men were doing it to themselves. If they would only act as a united front, they could have executed a retreat without it turning into a slaughter. He had tried to drill that discipline into them, but he saw now that men would behave ultimately as they were at their core. Not for the first time, he wished for a solid corps of knights rather than the militia and semi-skilled soldiers that comprised most of the ranks. “Lord, let them see what they are doing. Please protect them and the cause we are fighting for,” he silently prayed in desperation.

  He ran back again and again turned to face the advancing enemy. His frustration was quickly growing into desperation as he fenced with two more pursuers. After a few minutes he was unable to get the advantage and retreated another ten yards. He could not afford to get involved in a long battle and lose his line all together.

  To his left he saw Charles, one of his officers, also attempting to fight. Charles was literally overrun as if by a pack of dogs. There were just too many of them, and they swarmed over him. “Charles!” He screamed helplessly. He tried to cross the short distance to help him but his way was barred and he knew it was already too late.

  To his right, Alston, one of his sergeants, was only just holding off the Moors. If only he could get to him, they would both have a better chance. He started to push in that direction. “Alston, to me! To me!” he shouted, but Alston, who was completely occupied with survival, gave no indication that he heard Henry. Henry fell back a few steps. He was determined to get to him before it was too late. He redoubled his efforts, slashing and cutting and stabbing. He drove the Moors back before him, but they were pressing hard against him now, and he was still behind Alston. Someone screamed from his left. Another of his men went down in a spray of blood. He had to get to Alston. Another groan and another man lost; they were falling all around him. But Alston was a seasoned veteran. He was strong, and the men respected him. Maybe between the two of them, they could rally the men and survive this slaughter. Another man fell.

  Two Moors appeared directly in front of Henry. He side-stepped a swing and cut the left one down. The other stabbed at Henry’s belly but jumped back, stumbling to stay clear of Henry's rapid riposte. He tripped and landed in the dirt behind Alston, who was still furiously engaged in a struggle for his life. The way was clear now and Henry lunged forward, but he did not get two steps before his way was again barred by two new challengers bent on dispatching an English knight. The first Moor that had tripped and fallen jumped up from the ground at Alston's back. Henry saw what was coming.

  “Alston, behind you, behind you!” he shrieked desperately. But whether Alston heard him and was simply unable to respond in the face of multiple opponents or had not heard him at all was impossible to tell. In desperation Henry plowed into the two men standing between him and Alston's would-be assassin. He knocked them off balance and dodged their clumsy blows to pass by them only to see the back of the assassin disappearing into the ranks of his comrades. Alston had already dropped to his knees with a nasty wound in his back. He was finished.

  “No!” Henry could not believe any of this was happening and on his first battle when he was fully and completely in charge. It was like some horrific dream from which he could not awaken. He scanned the area desperately for some stronghold of his men that were still fighting, some haven to which he could flee in the chaos of this vicious sea. Nothing. He could not see any of his men anywhere. His tears of grief and anger had turned to tears of frustration at his impotence. Impulse turned him and sent him into a full sprint now. There were just too many Moors, and he was a dead man if he did not escape.

  Henry heard them pursuing him and knew he did not have much time. If he kept running they would catch him and kill him. But if he turned to face them, they would overwhelm him. He was not strong enough to take on multiple opponents for very long.

  “Father, please… Rescue us from this. Spare your servants that they might live to fight another day. Rescue me.”

  Just then he caught site of a small band of his soldiers that had formed a small line. They were being driven back but were still fighting. He made a break for them, his entourage of enemy soldiers pursuing vigorously.

  He cut down two Moors from behind to gain access to the group. “Take heart, men, we may yet prevail!” He shouted as he turned and joined their lines. Surely, this was an answer to his prayers. Then the group of Moors Henry had brought with him were upon them. The line that had been barely able to hold before folded under the stress of the additional enemies.

  “So glad to see you, Captain, a voice muttered through teeth clenched in exertion.” Henry did not see who had said it, but it did not matter because they were fleeing again. Eight of them turned as one and ran. Another small group of crusaders that were attempting to regroup raced over to reinforce the seven that were with Henry. Only four of the eight survived until the reinforcements made it to them. They turned and fought again, twenty strong now.

  Henry fought beside his men. His energy was flagging, and he could see the exhaustion in the faces of his men also. Victory was energizing, but losing had the opposite effect. It was demoralizing and had a way of making a soldier feel inferior and weak against his enemies. He forced himself to surge. He fought hard and stepped out just in front of his men so it would appear as if he were actually pushing the enemy back.

  His men seemed to take heart and struggled to push up to where he was standing. Then they pushed past him and Henry dispatched the enemy soldier he was fencing with and found himself behind his own men. He looked back and saw three groups of men milling about as if unsure of where to go or what to do. If he cou
ld just gather them to him, they might have enough of a force to survive the day.

  He broke into a run toward them, “To me, men! To me!” They did not seem to notice him. “Men!” he shouted, but still no response. Henry glanced back at the line he had left. Seeing their leader running from the line, the group had become muddled and confused and broke down. They were cut off from each other and were being slaughtered.

  Henry ran a few steps back toward them to assist them but realized that by himself he was going to be powerless to help and he, too, would be killed. He needed to gather his men. He turned back and continued toward the other group of milling soldiers, shouting to them. But his shouting had roused the attention of the Moors and they were a step ahead. They swarmed into this new group of men and destroyed them before they had a chance to organize.

  Henry cursed loudly. He felt an uncontrollable rage seize him and he felt his legs of their own accord charge toward the nearest group of enemies. “This is over,” he heard a voice say, and came to a halt. He glanced around, but there was no one in the immediate vicinity. Yet all at once he knew the voice was correct. There was nothing more to be done here. The day was lost, his forces were crushed, and nothing he could do would change that grim fact. He hesitated for just a moment longer before changing his course. Instead of charging into the line of Moors, he veered off and retreated to find any of his men that had survived. As he ran by a group in the midst of a losing skirmish, he heard, “Captain! Captain!” He looked over and saw one of his soldiers on the verge of being overwhelmed shouting for his help.

  He stopped in place, unsure of what to do. The group was done for. If he jumped in now he might be able to stave off their deaths for a few moments but then all of them would surely die. On the other hand, could he leave a brother in need? He took a step toward them and stopped. This was suicide.