Winded from the fall, Arnold felt as if his lungs were on fire as he lay on his back struggling to regain his feet. Around him, it looked as if the world had gone into a silent slow-motion. Blinking his eyes, Arnold saw a crouching infantryman lumbering slowly forward, his spear held in both hands as a forest of horse legs danced across his field of vision. Through the tangle of horse legs, Arnold could see tears cutting bright tracks down the infantryman’s dirty and scorched cheeks as he advanced nervously. Rising up, Arnold swayed unsteadily as he saw a knight struggling to stay in the saddle of his frightened horse. The horse was just one of hundreds that had been savagely startled, yet Arnold’s dazed attention was pulled to the animal which plunged and reared slowly whilst his rider hung on grimly.
“Brother Arnold!” a faint, dull echoing voice broke into his consciousness, causing him to look upwards.
“Brother Arnold, are you all right!?” his aide-de-camp, de Lancy, asked him from the lofty heights of his saddle.
Suddenly, Arnold’s world sped up once more, and the silence was replaced by the long rippling roar of rapid-fire pulsar-bolts tearing into the ground. Men and horses were screaming in a huge startled melee that had once been the Templar cavalry. More knights fell to the ground as others continued to fight for control of their horses as Arnold scrabbled to his feet.
“Alarm! Alarm!” a voice called out as Arnold dodged another rearing horse and rider.
Looking through the press of struggling bodies, Arnold saw a new and more terrifying sight. Through the mass of struggling riders and fleeing horses, Arnold saw a new line of horsemen. They were disciplined, in good order with lance-points lowered as they galloped towards the rear of the Templar cavalry. They wore the colours and livery of knights of Jerusalem and were about to engage with the rear units of a disorganised and startled rabble. In Arnold’s mind, he instinctively knew that there would only be one outcome to such a clash of arms. The disciplined force would always prevail against a disorganised rabble.
“Brother Arnold!” one of his bodyguards cried out, clutching at the reins of Arnold’s charger. “Your horse!”
For a brief moment, Arnold’s heart sank. This large force of mounted knights would smash into the unprotected flank of his own men and split his forces. That would effectively end the Jerusalem adventure, leaving Arnold no alternative other than to try to escape from this place that had seen his dreams of the Grand Master’s Chair shattered forever. Arnold knew that the fate that awaited him, should he fall into Baldwin’s hands, would not be pleasant. If God was merciful, then he might be granted a swift death. But, Arnold of Torroja was not inclined to believe in mercy from a King he had tried to murder and depose.
But, drawing a deep breath and forcing down his panic, Arnold of Torroja made a ruthless estimation of his position and grasped the one feeble glimmer of hope that his mind quickly realised. This force of horsemen was moving too quickly to have any support from the Jerusalem infantry. There was no sign of the King’s army on the ridge behind the Outlanders, so these Knights must have been detached from the main force. If God was with the Templars, then Baldwin would still be marching to the coast and this was the holding contingent that the dead Amalric of Lusignan had convinced the King to send. Heavy cavalry made a splendid battering ram for breaking up formations, but it still took feet on the ground to hold the gains made. With no infantry support, once the momentum of the charge had been lost, then the cavalry would be vulnerable. With no speed or mobility, the horsemen could be overwhelmed by the weight of numbers of the infantry.
“Too late, leave it!” Arnold ordered recovering his fallen sword. “Follow me on foot, and send word to Brother Jerome to bring everything forward!”
At the command, the bodyguard dropped the loose horse’s reins and dug his spurs into the flanks of his own animal.
And, as the horseman galloped away, Arnold heard for the first time, the shouts of panicked leaders dragging and shoving men into place to face the new threat. Arnold already knew that their particular battle was lost. The souls of these men were in God’s hands now. Their sacrifice would give the others a fighting chance of survival, Arnold considered, so they would surely find a place in Paradise. However, the souls of the men who were about to fall preserving the life of Arnold of Torroja were quickly disregarded in his mind.
If God so willed it, Arnold considered, Brother Jerome would bring forward the rest of the Templar contingent and break through the Jerusalem cavalry. The only hope of survival now was to break through the flimsy Outlanders’ line and take the Citadel that dominated the estate. There, if Baldwin was still at the coast, they could strike out and take the city of Jerusalem. If Baldwin’s troops were not at the coast, then the Templars could either race the King to try to take Jerusalem or fall back to the Citadel at Muscigny. Either way they would be besieged, but might be able to negotiate passage back to Acre. But, that all depended upon being able to break the line of black uniformed devils. And, so far these Outlanders had held out against everything that Arnold had thrown at them.
Lifting his shield, Arnold of Torroja steeled himself for the coming battle. Then, raising his sword, he beckoned his bodyguard to follow as he set off up the long rolling slope towards the Outlanders. It was going to be a desperate fight, Arnold knew, but God willing he would prevail. What had been such a carefully planned and intricately crafted campaign now depended upon a battle – a brawl - on a hillside outside of Jerusalem. Thousands of miles of travel, weeks of hard work, endless planning and logistics boiled down to this fight.
God willing, indeed.
Chapter 48
The Jerusalem Cavalry, Muscigny
Joscelin of Edessa clutched tightly to the reins of his galloping charger as it sped over the ground towards the white-coated knights. Behind him, his contingent of four thousand horsemen sounded like a great rumble of rolling thunder. Horses whinnied with excitement as men yelled their battle cries. The lance points were down, the shields held up and braced for the first shock of impact. The knights were knee-to-knee, riding in close, disciplined order. This was a text book cavalry charge, the one that every knight dreamt of and every commander dreamed of leading. As he approached the low boundary wall of the Muscigny estate, Joscelin was astonished to realise that the Templars had not yet spotted his force. Leaping over the low boundary wall of the estate, Joscelin realised that the great shrieking, burning roar of whatever was happening to the Templars’ front was distracting the men and startling their animals. A huge melee of struggling and rearing horses had developed, where knights were falling to the ground and being trampled by frightened horses. They were in no semblance of formation to receive an attack. Most of the Templar knights were still trying to regain control of their startled animals as Joscelin dug in his spurs for the final bone-shattering charge.
At the last moment, someone in the Templar ranks had spotted Joscelin’s approach, but it was far too late. A few dozen knights and infantrymen managed to turn their chargers and weapons to face Joscelin’s onrushing men, but they were out of formation and had no momentum behind them to challenge the speed of their adversaries.
The impact, when it came, was more than brutal. The unprepared knights who chose to challenge Joscelin’s men were simply swept away by the sheer numbers. Joscelin’s first contact was with a Templar knight who swung a sword at him from his left. It was the easiest thing in the world for Joscelin to raise his shield carrying left hand to parry the blow whilst he swung at another knight, back-handed, with his own sword. The sharp-bladed Templar weapon dented Joscelin’s shield with a loud CLANG as he raced past his assailant. The shock from the blow raced up Joscelin’s arm to judder the well-developed muscles at his shoulder. At the same moment he felt his own sword bite into the neck of the Templar knight to his right. He felt the unmistakable rasp of the blade against bone and the chain mail of the back of the headpiece. For a brief moment, Joscelin saw the stricken knight’s back arch as his sword bit home, whilst the blade of a la
nce, from one of the knights following, pierced through the unfortunate Templar’s chest.
Having struck down the first knight, Joscelin swung his heavy sword forward again in a huge, glittering silver arc which ended with the blade biting into the face of another unprepared Templar horseman. Again, Joscelin felt the familiar jolt of bone and flesh torn by his blade as his horse swept onwards deeper into the Templar rabble. For a brief moment, Joscelin saw the spray of blood and shattered teeth as his sword cut through the man’s lower jaw.
Now, Joscelin was through the barrier of knights who had chosen to resist and rode into the melee of knights still struggling with their mounts.
And, as Joscelin broke through to the melee, the curtain of fiery destruction suddenly ceased. Glimpsing to his right, Joscelin caught sight of his knights sweeping into the flank of the advancing infantry. His knights were now starting to push the Templars back along the line of the wall. The wall was dividing the Templar force, keeping them out of formation. Swords rose and fell amongst the Templar infantry who began to throw down their arms in the face of this new nightmare. Glancing to his left, Joscelin saw his knights starting to herd the Templars, at lance point, towards the centre of their own formation. This was creating a crush amongst the Templars who were trying to resist, leaving them vulnerable to the lances of the Jerusalem knights.
Joscelin, however, was still not finished. Crashing past one Templar knight, he was immediately challenged by a man on foot who swung a heavy sword at Joscelin’s leg. Joscelin swung his own sword downwards, beating the other blade away and letting his momentum carry the weapon through the clash of blades and onto the man’s upper arm. With a loud scream the injured man dropped the weapon and fell to the ground clutching his half-severed arm. An instant later, Joscelin was aware of lance blade being thrust towards him. In a desperate stroke, Joscelin managed to parry the wooden shaft aside and swing at the Templars head. The parry had, unfortunately, unbalanced Joscelin who swung wide, allowing the Templar to drop the lance and draw his sword. Turning his charger around, Joscelin raised his sword to challenge the Templar again and found that three other knights had skewered the Templar, who tumbled from his horse, dropping his sword and clutching his riven abdomen.
With his momentum now gone, Joscelin knew he was vulnerable to close quarter infantrymen who could drag him down from his horse and kill him. He knew that he had to keep moving and spurred his horse on looking for new targets. In the melee, the man who stood still, even for a moment, was a dead man. All around him, Templar knights were falling to lance jabs or sword swings in a hopelessly one-sided contest. Joscelin’s knights had now almost completely overwhelmed the Templar horsemen, many of whom were still intent on sacrificing their lives. Pressing into a group of battling knights, Joscelin swung his sword at the back of Templar head and felt the blade pass through the helmet and split the unfortunate man’s skull. The Templar fell from his saddle onto the muddy soil amidst the scurry of flailing hooves and falling corpses.
Looking round, Joscelin saw that his knights had driven a huge wedge into the Templar forces. But, more importantly, Joscelin noted that he had not split the enemy’s formation. With no infantry support, he knew they were in a precarious situation. And, as Joscelin assessed the situation, Templar spears and swords hunted forward towards him and his charger. Somehow, by some superhuman effort, the Templar infantry had held firm. The losses had been heavy, but enough of them had stood their ground to bring Joscelin’s assault to a standstill. The tenacity of the Templar infantry, plus now the softer ground beneath his charger’s hooves, convinced Joscelin that the attack had failed.
The ground beneath his charger was quickly turning into a swamp. The irrigation ditches and channels built by the estate workers had been broken down and trampled by thousands of pairs of feet and horse hooves.
The flat, firm and open ground of Joscelin’s initial charge was quickly deteriorating into a glutinous, muddy and sticky ooze that clung to the horses’ legs and slowed them down. And, a knight depended upon mobility, weight, and speed when confronted with infantry.
Drawing back on his reins, Joscelin felt his charger bear to the right as he slammed the blade of the sword down through the skull of a Templar spearman.
“Withdraw and reform! Withdraw and reform!” he commanded, roweling his charger around as a Templar axe slammed heavily into his shield.
“Withdraw and reform!” he shouted again jamming his sword-point into the axe-man’s throat.
The axe-man, his throat punctured, fell backwards from the blade as Joscelin twisted the sword to free it from the tissue of the dying man. A great gout of blood spurted from the Templar’s neck wound, sheeting the charger’s flank and Joscelin’s arm and shield.
Watching his men disengage from the fight, Joscelin could see Templar infantry start to move forward against his knights. The Templar infantry might catch and kill a few of the retiring horsemen, but the damage had already been done. The ground beneath his charger’s hooves was strewn with bodies in white surcoats. Some of the bodies, stained with blood, lay still and silent whilst others writhed and screamed from the agonies of their slashed and pierced flesh. His charge had inflicted huge losses on the Templars for the loss of very few of his own. The dreaded and deadly Templar cavalry had been all but wiped out. Very few Templar knights remained, and the ones that had survived would be busy thanking God for their lives.
“Withdraw and reform!” Joscelin shouted again, raising his sword aloft.
They could reform and charge again. But, Joscelin knew that the Templars would be prepared and waiting for them next time. And, the greater losses of his own knights that another attack would produce would achieve only a fraction of what he had done here. His orders from King Baldwin had been to stop the Templar cavalry joining the attack on Admiral Guillaume’s position, and Joscelin had achieved that. In the process he had almost broken the Templar force. Muttering a silent prayer Joscelin hoped that it would be enough for the Admiral to hold his ground until the King arrived at Muscigny.
Then, setting his spurs to his charger’s flank, Joscelin of Edessa led his men back out of the melee. He had done all that had been asked of him and more.
The Admiral’s fate was in God’s hands now.
Chapter 49
The Landing Trooper Line, Muscigny
“They’re going, sir!” Garn called out from his position on Billy’s left.
Raising his gaze from the sight of the pulsar-rifle, Billy looked past the horde of Templars trudging up the ruined muddy slope towards his position, and saw the Jerusalem cavalry drawing away from the battle at the estate boundary wall.
For a moment, Billy’s heart sank and a flash of anger seared through his mind. The wisdom and experience of Teg Portan pushed away the redundant emotion and told him that the Jerusalem cavalry had done all that they could.
“The Templar cavalry is gone! We can take this lot without them now!” Billy called out to Garn, and gave a thumbs up gesture to encourage the rest of the embattled Troopers.
It was a bit of a false hope, Billy knew. He could see the rest of the Templar contingent advancing from the broken rise towards the estate boundary to reinforce their comrades attacking the slope. That meant there were still far too many Templar infantrymen for his little force to contend with despite the superiority in weapons technology. It would only be a matter of minutes before the white surcoats struggled up the slope to his fragile line of black uniforms and swept them away in blood and slaughter. The Troopers had to stand, because every second that they could would allow Baldwin’s army to get that bit closer to Muscigny. And, with any luck, Baldwin would be able to drive the Templars away before the Citadel fell and they broke into the crippled Aquarius. If the Templar’s could get hold of the Alliance’s technology, it wouldn’t be long before the whole of Europe, the Middle East and beyond was part of a new Templar Empire. Any other religious views would be ruthlessly suppressed, and the loss of life on Geminus would be inca
lculable.
“Come on, lads!” Garn called out to his Troopers. “We can beat this rabble of scum!”
“WATO!” Billy called into the Comms Net. “Resume Eagle strikes!”
“Acknowledged,” came the calm reply, and a few seconds later the ground around the boundary wall erupted in a sheet of flame and destruction.
Watching the resumption of the carnage, Billy realised that every Templar the Eagles could neutralise was one less for Baldwin to contend with. ‘Neutralise’; Billy smiled at the military euphemism for the slaughter the situation had forced upon them. He had tried so hard to avoid bloodshed, but Garn had been right after all. Sometimes there was just no way to avoid it. And, with a wry smile, Billy took aim at a group of three Templar infantrymen scrabbling up the muddy slope. Pressing the trigger, high on the pistol grip of the rifle, the stream of white-hot pulsar-bolts scythed into the small knot of men in white surcoats.
Under the relentless hail, the three men were toppled over like ninepins in a bowling alley. However, no sooner had the Templars fallen than more men scrabbled up the slope and into the front line of the battle.
Looking down the slope, Billy Caudwell saw hundreds of men in white surcoats, brandishing an array of weapons, slogging and sweating their way up to his fragile looking line. The slope, which had only the day before been newly planted fields that would feed the estate workers over the winter, was now strewn with dead and wounded Templars. The northern plain of the estate, the fields and the irrigation ditches were ruined. The majority of the fallen white figures lay motionless in the deepening mire whilst some writhed and shrieked for aid from their advancing comrades. Many others tried to drag their maimed bodies back to the supposed safety of their own lines. But, some of them already knew that their wounds were beyond the tending of even the skilled surgeons of the Templar Order. Some prayed to their Saviour, and some cursed the Outlanders who had ended their brief and brutalised lives. But, still more Templars kept pushing forward up the brutally ravaged slope.
The Master of Muscigny (The First Admiral Series Book 5) Page 27
