The Knights Dawning (The Crusades Series)

by James Batchelor

  “Capt—” the shrill cry was cut off sharply as the soldier was cut down.

  Henry cursed in frustration and continued to run from the field. The day was lost. “Why have you forsaken your soldiers on your errand?” he demanded of God through the tears of anger and guilt that were blurring his vision. From the hilltop surrounding the battlefield, he cursed Persia and the Moors. Finding no one waiting for him with which to rebuild a force, Henry cursed himself for being alive and fled in shameful defeat from the field of battle.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  England: Dawning Court

  “You feeble-minded child!” John spat at Lindsay. Her angry words had given way to tears now, but this only enraged John further. “I cannot believe that I was so foolish as to marry an idiot peasant. I must have completely taken leave of my senses altogether!”

  The crops had failed and Lindsay, the daughter of a villein, a partially free peasant, was angry with John that with all his education and breeding he could not even manage the simple act of bringing in a crop to feed the two of them. “Even the lowliest serf could manage that,” she had said in anger, and John had exploded. They were not happy and argued frequently. “You behave as if you are so high and mighty, but what do you have to show for your life? You're not even as good as the lowliest serf,” Lindsay repeated the dig. She was no match for John intellectually and was pleased that remarks in this vein had gotten a rise from him in the past and again it had the intended effect. John took a long step toward her and brought his hand up to strike her.

  Lindsay cowered and John stayed his hand. Seeing her shrinking in the corner, he was suddenly cognizant of a terrible reality that he could not accept. This could not be his life. He was miserable, he had made her miserable, and whose fault was it? Whose fault could it be?

  John turned and stormed from the dilapidated old cottage, up the rut-filled road and into the town square to the tavern. These days his time was divided between home and the tavern, with the lion’s share spent at the tavern indulging his endless thirst, as was attested to by his ever growing belly. John was larger than most men and very strong, but as he tried to live the life of a farmer, he had neglected his training and turned soft.

  Murray was using his dingy grey apron to clean the cups when John walked into the tavern. He looked up expectantly as the door opened, and his shoulders slumped in disappointment when he recognized John. John was always broke, but the bartender knew well who he was and knew that he did not want to risk making an enemy of a man that may one day return to prominence over the region. He wordlessly slid a cup of cheap wine toward John. John took it and dropped heavily on a stool.

  “Why do you wear such a troubled countenance?” a hard alto voice said from behind John.

  John looked up in surprise. He had not noticed the solitary figure sitting at a table upon his entrance. “Is it that obvious?” John chuckled humorlessly, trying to see around the drawn hood that obscured her face.

  “What could make such a mighty warrior with so many conquests under his belt and a barony at his feet so troubled?”

  “A mighty warrior?” He asked casually, turning in his stool to face her and leaning back against the bar.

  “I know you, John. There is no sense pretending that you are other than you are. Even in these humble surroundings, your greatness cannot be hooded.”

  John was unsure how to respond. Something told him to be wary, but the wine and his depression both agreed that this was the first good thing he had heard in a long time, and he wasn't willing to turn his back on it just yet.

  “What weighs you down?” She pressed.

  “My current situation defies description,” he said dismissively and took another pull from the cup.

  “Perhaps articulating on your troubles would be a salve to your heart. And it certainly would sound better over a drink,” she said, gesturing toward her empty cup suggestively.

  “Yes, well, I don't think—” She pushed back her hood and John’s heart leapt into his throat, choking off his words midsentence. The refusal he had been working on never emerged. Her dark hair was pulled back from her black almond eyes, and her high cheekbones were covered in the perfectly smooth olive skin of a beautiful Saracen woman. “Murray, two more of these!” John ordered.

  Wordlessly Murray set another cup beside John's and filled them both. He looked meaningfully at John, but John did not notice his gaze. His attention was rapt on the portrait of beauty before him. She was still looking straight ahead as if she did not notice she was being gawked at.

  “What may I call you?” John tried to sound casual as he set the drinks on the table and sat in the chair opposite her. His heart was still beating very fast and he felt flustered, like a schoolboy trying to strike up a conversation with the object of his affection.

  She took a sip of the cheap wine, ignoring his question. “Now tell me, what has brought John Dawning, the mightiest of all the Dawning men, to this?” She gestured slightly to indicate the dank tavern.

  “Your knowledge of my situation does seem to be beyond that of a casual observer,” John observed rather than answer her question.

  “Everyone knows of you. Everything your family does is significant as the local economy rises or falls on when the Dawnings empty their bowels.”

  “Look, I never asked for that!” John insisted defensively.

  “Why does that matter? None of us asked for the lives to which we were born, but that does not absolve you of the responsibilities that come with it.”

  “I don't have to take this. I came in here to get drunk and thought some company might be nice. Seems I was mistaken about the second, but I can still have the first.” He started to rise.

  She leaned across the table and placed a slender hand over his large, calloused one. “It is not too late for you. Your life may yet still have meaning. You may use that power that was so unwillingly inherited for something great!”

  John hesitated for a moment. “Ah, no. But I thank you,” he said, pulling his hand free and picking up his drink as he stood fully erect. “I thank you for providing the perfect end to a perfect day.”

  “You were not meant to be a farmer,” she said urgently to his retreating back. “You were meant for greatness. Will you content yourself to live in the shadow of your younger brothers when it is you who should be the head of the family?” There was a note of desperation in her voice.

  John stopped in his tracks. She had struck a nerve. He turned back to her slowly. “What do you know of these things?”

  She stood and moved closer to John. She was taller than most women, and stood to his chin. “I know there is more in store for you than you have ever imagined if you will let me but prove it to you.” She looked intently into his eyes.

  John considered her words. She definitely had her own motives, but was he in any danger? Probably not. What good would killing the disgraced son of a nobleman do? Especially when there were many more sons to take his place. She was so beautiful, what harm could there be in listening to her?

  “Perhaps we can go somewhere we can... talk,” she suggested seductively.

  “I cannot be seen to escort you anywhere until I have learned your name,” John said lightly.

  “Anisa,” she said simply and turned and walked toward the exit.

  John stood rooted in place, admiring her form as she glided to the door. He suddenly realized she was getting away and set his drink down quickly in order to follow.

  “Uh, sir,” the tavern keeper called as he was exiting on her heels. Anisa and John both stopped and looked back.

  “Uh, Sir John, there is the small matter of the bill, if you would be so kind.” John was annoyed; of all the times to bring this up. Murray had never called in his tab before. Why now?

  John looked down at Anisa, who looked impatient. “Pardon me a moment,” he smiled at her.

  John walked slowly back to the bar. He knew he did not have any money or any way of getting money. He was going to look ridiculo
us in front of the woman who thought he was rich and powerful. He reached the bar across from Murray, unsure of what to say. He opened his mouth to speak, hoping something intelligent would come out, but the tavern keeper cut him off. “I am sorry but I thought you should be aware: that woman has been coming in here every night for days and has never spoken to anyone until tonight,” he said quietly.

  John glanced over at her and saw her standing, watching impatiently. “And?”

  “She is a Moorish woman. She may have designs on your noble person. I would advise caution.”

  John looked again at the tall, slender form in the doorway. She was so beautiful that he found himself angry at the tavern keeper’s insinuation. “Have you ever been over there? Have you ever fought the Moor— Saracens, or lived among them?” he demanded.

  “No, Sir John.” Murray looked down at the cup he was absently wiping dirt on with his filthy apron.

  “And yet you do arrogate the right to advise me? What license have you to hold a prejudice against a people you do not know?” John continued angrily. “I have been over there! I have talked with them and fought with them. I have had friends struck down by them. If I can overlook that prejudice, then what excuse can you make for yourself?” John pushed himself back from the bar.

  “Yes, Sir John. I am sorry,” Murray apologized quickly, not looking up from the cup he was wiping. “I only wanted to make you aware.”

  John was still angry but realized the tavern keeper meant no harm. “I am sorry,” he said more softly. “I know you were only conducting yourself as a loyal subject, and I thank you for it.”

  “Yes,” the tavern keeper said, somewhat relieved.

  “Put it on my tab,” John said casually but loudly enough that Anisa would hear as he walked back to join her at the door, and they departed into the evening together.

  Anisa immediately struck out of the square and down a lonely road in the diminishing light without speaking. Finally John broke the silence. “I am as yet unenlightened as to how you are going to restore me to my former glory.”

  “I never said I would restore you to your former glory,” Anisa said simply.

  “Ah,” John said, expecting their conversation to ultimately come to this, just not quite so quickly.

  “I will help you achieve far greater glory than you have ever dreamed.”

  “Ah…” was all John could manage.

  “Did you have dreams as a child, John?”

  “Dreams?” he asked. “You mean like nightmares?”

  “I mean daydreams of glory and power, and what you wanted from your life.”

  John shrugged. “I concede that I did.”

  “And in those dreams,” Anisa asked– casting her arm over the dirty town square behind them and the serf huts littering the countryside before them, interspersed among fields in various stages of crop growth–”did you ever imagine that your purview would be limited to a simple field in the lands of another man… or woman?” John knew what she meant, of course. He was now nothing but a villein to his mother, who was holding the baron's seat in the absence of a worthy male heir to take his father’s place.

  John shrugged again. “Not likely, since I always knew I would be Baron, assuming Richard didn’t find some way of doing me in first.”

  “So how did you end up here? How did it come to this?” Anisa pressed. John only answered with another mute shrug.

  “You could have stood up to Martha Dawning and demanded your birthright. Yet you did nothing. Why was that?”

  “My mother has not had an easy life, and it did not seem right to deprive her of all that is left to her of her husband and her legacy,” John said uneasily. Anisa rounded on him, her dark pupils boring into his soft brown eyes until he dropped his gaze.

  “Left to her?” She asked, her voice a mix of confusion and consternation. “Left to her? John, Dawning Court belongs to you. Have you not accepted that?” John felt like a child under the scrutiny of this foreign beauty. His embarrassment made him want to lash out at her, but perhaps it was time he started to ask himself these questions.

  He shrugged again, still unable to meet her gaze. “I am not going to kill my own mother over a position I am uncertain I could fill adequately.” Anisa stepped forward and shook his arm to get him to meet her gaze.

  “Of course, why would you desire to upset the woman who has contrived literally from day one to make you nothing—less than nothing?” She demanded sarcastically.

  “Contrived?” John said, stepping around her to continue walking and take her focus off of him. “What nonsense is this?”

  “Nonsense?” she said, catching up to him. “Is it nonsense, then? Ask yourself, who has kept you from your inheritance? Who brought you up to be a great warrior and then stripped you of the right to do that?” John could not help seeing the sense in what she was saying. He was a warrior from a long line of warriors, and it was all he knew how to be. By disavowing him, he was no longer a knight of Dawning Court and could no longer march with their army or receive rewards as such. “What other skills are you equipped with?” she pressed. “Are you a farmer, or a thatcher, or a tailor?” She let that sink in before again stepping in front of him in the road, drawing tantalizingly close to him. “Martha Dawning did not simply deny you your rightful inheritance; she took every opportunity away from you of living a productive, useful life. She robbed you of every opportunity of a warrior’s glory, of a warrior’s noble death. Instead you will simply rot away out here until you are dumped in a pauper’s grave after being crushed by a plow horse or expiring from consumption.”

  John stared at Anisa for a long moment, turning her words over in his head. “What are you proposing?” he asked cautiously.

  She smiled at him, and John felt his whole soul excited by it. She stepped so close that John trembled to feel her against him and his nostrils were filled with the scent of her perfumed hair. But she did not touch him. “Think about what I have said. Think very carefully. What is your own life worth to you? If you do decide you are worth something after all, then meet me back here tomorrow night.” She went up on her toes until her lips brushed his ear when she spoke. “I know you are great. I just need you to realize it.”

  With that she turned off the road and disappeared into the darkness. John watched her go, her scent still in his nostrils, and the feeling of her lips still warming his ear. He snapped out of his meditative contemplation of her beauty when she had disappeared entirely. “Wait a minute!” he called. “Meet you where? Here?” He looked around at the empty road. They had passed the last of the serfs’ cottages and were now on an empty stretch of road that led to Baron Braddock’s lands in the neighboring barony. “Why here?” he called but got no answer. “And when tomorrow night?.. If I choose to return,” he suddenly added, afraid he was sounding too interested.

  It was not lost on John that there were still many unanswered questions, but he could not seem to focus on those at the moment. All he could think about was the contrast between the beginning of his day and now. In the last two hours he had not only met the most beautiful woman he had ever seen but also found that she was very interested in him. And now, because of her, he was beginning to see the beginning of a possible escape from this dismal life he had carved for himself— or rather, this dismal life he had been thrust into.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Egypt: Damietta

  Tahir stood with his men amassed by the gate. He tried once again to keep them silent, but with so many men assembled, even the smallest sounds each individual might make were multiplied upon each other and seemed a great racket: A chink of armor here, a cough there, the hard tang of metal bumping metal. All these sounds played particular havoc with Tahir’s tensed nerves as he waited behind the gates of Damietta. He listened for any indication of how his men fared outside the walls. Were the crusaders being driven back into the sea, or were his men being crushed? Of course he did not really expect that his men were prevailing as it was only half his force o
utside the walls. The real power was behind him, waiting for just the right moment to strike. Yet he prayed for their success.

  The hair of Tahir’s head was grey with age, but his arm was still as strong any of his men, and he had been protecting his city from the endless sea of crusaders for as long as he could remember. He wondered vaguely where they all came from and if they would ever exhaust themselves on the rock of his arm. Though one looked much like another, he had observed that they had gotten smarter over the years. Each new army was more clever than the one before. Tahir feared for how much longer he could keep his people safe. He feared for the day when he would not be able to outthink the enemy, but that day would not be today.

  Many of the town elders had insisted they remain inside and wait out the crusaders by a lengthy siege, but Tahir had convinced them his plan was better. The city was not prepared for a long drawn-out siege. They had not expected an attack this late in the year, and if they allowed a siege to begin, the crusaders would simply be able to starve them out. But the crusaders would never expect an ambush upon their ambush.

  Today he had the upper hand. While half his army was out meeting the first wave, he was lying in wait to cut the second wave in half. His informants had revealed that the crusaders were planning a two-pronged attack: one by sea, and a second by land. But because of this advance information, the advantage was now his. There was nothing left to do but wait until he heard the signal from the lookouts that the cavalry of the land forces had attacked. Then the gates to the city would be flung open for the briefest of moments while his men flooded out and then quickly re-secured. His contingent and those already defending against the attack from the sea constituted all the fighting men in the city other than a skeleton crew to maintain the defenses.

  ***

  William of York leaned on his spear as he watched the sleeping city of Damietta. He wondered idly as he had so many times before if this was the end. The Angel of Death was circling the field now as he certainly must be, but was it looking for him? Was he already dead, as he knew so many of his men were? He could read similar thoughts on each of their faces. William repeated the inner monologue he had asked before a hundred other battles just like this one. Would he know if he were about to die when the time came? Would there be a warning in the air? Would he feel a sense of foreboding, or would death strike at him the way William had lived his life, rashly and unaware? He entered each battle expecting God's judgment would be passed on him for his many crimes, and yet from each battle he was delivered with rarely more than a scratch. He was ready to die. He deserved to die for all he had done. Surely he could not continue to live, and yet here he was after all these years, still standing, stronger than ever, while all around him better men than he were struck down.