The Immortal Knight Chronicles Box Set 2

by Dan Davis

“It is true,” Serban muttered. “They fear losing more than they long for victory.”

  “What did you say to them?” Eva asked.

  “I politely suggested we might assemble every able man right now and drive the Turks from Christendom.”

  “Politely?” Eva repeated.

  Walt snorted.

  “I was polite,” I snapped. “I even suggested a compromise. A limited sortie on the enemy lines to destroy their cannons.” I pointed at them in the distance. “Perhaps they would then withdraw. No Janissaries, no cannons. It would be enough to force Sultan Mehmed to withdraw, surely.”

  “And our lords declined, I take it?” Stephen said, pulling the brim of his hat down. His eyes were yet wild. He had seen more of war than most mortal soldiers ever would and yet he never grew used to it.

  “We would be outnumbered on the field. We risked more than we might gain. The battle would more likely be lost than won. The usual.”

  Walt slapped a hand on the parapet. “Bloody fools. They would rather sit here and die slowly than die like a man?”

  Stephen smiled. “One suspects they would rather not die at all, Walt.”

  “It’s no easy thing,” Rob said from where he sat, his eyes yet closed and his head back. “Leaving the safety of these mighty stone walls. No easy thing to be bold. A man would have to be halfway mad to leave his castle to attack an army of barbarians beyond the gates. And you’re right enough, Stephen. Most soldiers, lords especially, would rather victory be won by someone else so that they might live to fight another day.”

  “Truly spoken, brother.” Walt grinned. “Shame we ain’t got an army of madmen here instead of great lords, ain’t it.”

  “But we do,” I said, turning to look down into the city. “Come on.”

  We made our way through the city to the quarters of the Roman delegation, led by John of Capistrano.

  He was a Franciscan friar and a powerful Catholic priest and cardinal, a friend of the Pope, no less, and he had at least a score of priests and monks trailing him wherever he went, along with dozens of servants and supplicants and desperate souls wishing to hand him some pathetic gift or to beg for his prayers. As such, he was never a difficult man to find but he was always difficult to get close to.

  John of Capistrano was holding court in a large house in the north-eastern quarter, not far from where the cannons once more took up their bombardment of the walls. The streets were filthy with grime and it stank of wet shit everywhere.

  A mass of crusaders pressed in close to the cardinal’s house, hoping for sight or sound of their illustrious and beloved leader. Luckily, I have never minded pushing a gaggle of peasants and priests aside when it is called for.

  “And who are you, my lord?” a fat monk asked, pushing his belly between me and the interior of the house. “And what might be your business?”

  I leaned in close to his face and lowered my voice. “I am a soldier of Christ and my business is cutting the heads off Turks.”

  He furrowed his bushy brows. “If you have business with Brother John, I will take to him your message, my lord.”

  Pushing him aside, I stepped into the room where John of Capistrano was speaking, surrounded by monks and priests hanging on his every word. An old man with a bald head and masses of grey hair over his ears, he wore nothing grander than a plain monk’s robe. But even had I not seen him before, I would have known which of the men in the room he was, for he had a commanding presence and a magnificent, booming voice.

  “What is it?” he said, his Italian accent very strong, breaking off from his discussion. “What has happened?”

  “Nothing, my lord,” I said in French. “I merely came to speak with you.”

  He frowned and replied in kind. “I recognise you. Richard the Englishman, is it not? Do you mean me harm?”

  “Harm? Why would I wish you harm, my lord?”

  “I have heard the stories about you. The bloodthirsty slayer of Vlad Dracul. You have never been seen in a church. They say you drink your servant’s blood.”

  Spreading my hands, I smiled. “It is all true. But I am a Christian, my lord, and more than anything I love Christ and pray daily for my salvation.”

  He snorted. “You have the smell of heresy about you, boy.”

  “Never, my lord.”

  “They say you are sympathetic to the Hussites,” he said, his voice ringing from the walls of the small chamber. “And you enjoy the company of the Jew.”

  The meeting was not going as I had intended. “Perhaps someone heard me express admiration for the Hussites’ ways in battle, which our own regent has emulated with great success. But I do not hold with their views. Indeed, I do not know what they are, precisely, only enough to know that I will not stand for such heresy.”

  In truth, much of what I had heard, especially with respect to indulgences, sounded rather appealing to me but I knew never to say such things in company. Whenever there were discussions on the matter, I held my tongue. But that is the way with heresies. Either one joins in wholeheartedly in condemnation or one is considered a sympathiser, which means one is a heretic also.

  John of Capistrano lifted his chin. “So you do not deny enjoying the company of Jews?”

  I sighed. “Of course, my lord, I hold the Jews in contempt, just as much as anyone. It is merely that myself and my companions often seek information about our enemies, the Turks. And as you know, the Jews are welcomed in those lands, travelling to do business whether mercantile or diplomatic. And many of these Jews will happily speak of the things they see, if your coin is good.”

  The great priest shook his head in disapproval, lifting a finger and taking a deep breath. “A good Christian would never commune with Jews, as you do, sir. A man of godly character could not stoop so low as that. And he who trusts the word of a Jew makes himself a fool before God and the world. No, no, I will not abase myself by conversing with a friend to Jews.”

  “We are hardly friendly with them,” I snapped.

  “Do you break bread with them? Do you share wine?”

  I floundered, irritated at having to discuss such a pointless thing. “It is a transaction, no more. A trade. We purchase their words with coin and while we discuss—”

  “You purchase lies,” he said. “And I will not listen a moment longer to one who breaks bread with the murderers of Christ. Mind your tongue and begone from my sight, sir.”

  In the silence, the room resounded with his loud voice. Monks and priests stared at me while the greatest amongst them pointedly turned his back on me and began conversing with the man beside him.

  I turned and pushed my way outside and through the crowd to my men.

  “What happened?” Eva asked, aghast at my expression.

  “I am not certain,” I said.

  “Is he willing to lead his men against the Turks?” Stephen asked.

  “We did not reach a point in the discussion that allowed the question to be raised.”

  “What do you mean?” Stephen asked. “How could you not ask him?”

  Ignoring him, I addressed Rob and Walt. “What do you think of the crusaders?”

  “Keen as mustard,” Walt said.

  “They are stark raving mad,” Rob said. “Which is what we want, of course.”

  “Serban?” I asked. “Do these men want to attack?”

  Beneath his steel hat, his face was grim. “More than anything, they wish to strike a blow against the enemies of Christ.”

  Walt nodded. “Some of them keep trying to sneak out and have a go at the Turk all by themselves. You know, groups of young lads, that sort of thing.”

  “What about the rest of them?”

  Rob gestured with his stump. “Speak to them yourself, Richard. They came here to drive the Turks from Christendom. After last night, with their mallets and clubs still bloody, they know for certain that God is with them. God wills this. There is no fear or doubt amongst them. Come on.”

  When it came to knowing the hearts of com
mon folk, whether soldier or peasant, Rob was never wrong. And so it proved.

  Men asked if I had seen their actions the night before or if it was time to make an attack on the enemy. Others stopped us to ask for advice on how to use this weapon or that, or what was the best way to kill a man in armour. Some wished to show me their knife or the spear they had taken from an enemy. A few men strutted about in pieces of armour they had stripped from corpses. Their mood was high indeed. And dangerously high, for we witnessed more than one angry argument and two fellows almost came to blows before their friends drew them apart.

  “Won’t take much,” Walt said softly, raising his eyebrows.

  “We would be sending them to their deaths,” I replied. “All these fine people.”

  Rob held his nose. “These fine people have turned the streets into rivers of shit. It is no wonder they would rather be outside.”

  “It is what they want,” Walt said. “We’d be sending them to glory.”

  “Not much glory dying in a ditch, Walt,” I said, looking at the filthy people, some laughing and others clutching their bellies.

  “There’s glory in saving Christendom, though.”

  “Rob?”

  He scratched his stump as he regarded the men, nodding to one or two who caught his eye. “We must all make sacrifices for our world. The order of things does maintain itself. Walls are nothing without the blood spilled to protect them.”

  I sighed. “It must be all of them, or it would be better for it to be none.”

  “Start the stone rolling and the mountainside will fall,” Stephen said. “Where one peasant goes, the rest shall follow.”

  “How will they even know where to go?” Eva asked. “They will get bogged down out there, trapped, and destroyed. We will have gained nought but lost a great deal.”

  “It is as I said before,” I replied, sighing. “They must be led.”

  “But John of Capistrano will not even speak to you.”

  “We shall lead them. Each of us.”

  Eva shook her head. “Richard, this is not—”

  I placed my hands on her armoured shoulders. “You were quite right last night. There is no need to carry out such a task when there is another who will do it. I agree. But now there is only us.”

  She looked up at the sky. “Your heart’s desire is to fight and so that is where your reason leads you.”

  “I would never argue with you, Eva,” I said, drawing scorn from her and quiet laughter from the others. “But we can have victory today or defeat tomorrow. And I know what I chose.”

  She gave a small nod. “We should none of us get ourselves cut off from retreat back to the city, agreed?”

  We all gave our assent.

  “Rob, Walt, you find a group of angry young fellows and rile them up. Tell them to spread the word.”

  “What word?” Walt asked, frowning.

  “What should we say, Richard?” Rob said.

  “Men rarely wish to be the first but they will fight the devil to avoid being last. Tell them that we are attacking. No, tell them that the attack has begun. We must hurry or we shall miss the attack. And lead them out. The fighting will be desperate, disorganised. They will have to cross from ditch to ditch, killing the Turks hiding in their trenches and their holes. But we must push on and on. Serban? You take some men and find drums, trumpets, and go to the walls and make some noise. It need not be proper signals, just make it loud. Raise your voices and sing if you must. Stephen? Eva? You must go to Hunyadi and Szilágyi and tell them that the crusaders are not only attacking but they are winning. The crusaders are driving the Turks away. They are going to destroy the enemy cannons. But they must have support from the soldiers.”

  “But that may not be so,” Stephen argued. “Even by the time we reach the lords.”

  “If you do not say it, Stephen, then it shall never be so. By speaking it, you will make it come true, do you understand?”

  Walt grinned. “We done some foolish acts in our time, Richard, but this is—”

  “None of that, Walter. Hurry now, let us gather our men, and then we shall stir these shit-stinking warriors into action.”

  The Hungarian crusaders were filled with their recent victory and they jumped into action. Few doubted the words we spoke, even the first of them who pushed their way up and across the breaches and down toward the enemy siege works while the cannons blasted the walls overhead. The stream of men turned into a torrent and soon there were hundreds and finally thousands of common folk wading their way over the churned mud toward the enemy lines.

  Surprise was on our side. I doubt the Turks could believe what they were seeing at first. To them we would have looked like a mass of desperate civilians fleeing the city but if they had any doubts initially, we soon showed them our true intent. Forward positions with small cannons and hand-gunners were overrun with barely a shot being fired. Our crusaders ran gleefully through the trenches, battering any enemy who stood to fight. We swarmed each palisade or position and overwhelmed it before doing the same to the ones beside and behind it. Every time I looked back toward the city, our numbers had swelled further and there was a line of men all the way back to the walls.

  Whether we lived or died depended on Hunyadi and Szilágyi. Would they abandon the fools who had attacked without orders or would they seize the opportunity?

  A huge cheer spread through our men and at first I assumed the Sultan had fled or, more likely, Hunyadi had come. Instead, we discovered that the ancient priest John of Capistrano had come to join the attack. A while later I saw him, still wearing his monk’s robe, swinging a bloody mace over his head into the skull of a cowering Turk while roaring some prayer.

  Turkish cavalry finally came to attack, as I had dreaded, charging our flanks in a thundering of hooves and flashing blades.

  We lost a lot of men but the crisscrossing earthworks now worked in our favour as the cavalry could not charge through them to kill our peasant soldiers. Still, they pushed slowly in between the lines of interconnecting trenches and palisades and did their bloody work more slowly. Our crusaders did not break, though. Far from it. They swarmed the slow or stationary cavalry and killed the riders.

  Finally, Szilágyi and Hunyadi led out their men against the entire Turkish line.

  With their help, we pushed the Turks away from their cannon and because we now had professional gunners with us, we trained the enemy cannon on the enemy. Although the massive guns could only be turned with teams of men and horses, the smaller cannons were turned about or brought up and aimed toward the Turkish centre.

  Where the Sultan was.

  He yet had thousands of men defending his central position, not to mention William’s immortal Janissaries but slowly we crushed or drove off both wings and the cannons opened up on the Sultan’s men.

  “We need to get to Hunyadi,” I said to the men of my company. “Tell him not to engage the red Janissaries again. Let the cannons do the work.”

  “He knows by now,” Walt said. “Surely to God, he knows.”

  “He may know,” Rob said, jabbing his arm across the battlefield. “But someone should have told his men.”

  The Hungarians and Serbs made a series of assaults on the dwindling Turkish centre. But they broke themselves repeatedly on William’s Janissaries who could not be pushed aside or broken, no matter how many charges crashed against them.

  We went from gun to gun, begging those in charge of it to aim their fire at the small target of the Janissary formation. Kill those five hundred men, I would say, and we win the battle and save Christendom.

  Some men agreed but most of the rest told me to mind my own business or said they were determined to kill the Sultan himself. Considering the unreliable accuracy of those guns, other than a lucky shot, there was little hope of that. But still, every artilleryman I ever met, from the earliest days down through the centuries, claimed he could shoot the cock off a gnat if only I would stop talking to him.

  “Should we atta
ck?” Rob asked, shouting over the noise of the cannons. “William and his men are there, deep in that formation.”

  “I cannot lead us into that death trap, Rob,” I said. “Our new cannons may do the work for us.”

  “If not?” he said.

  “We shall have to be content with a victory,” I replied. “We must be patient.”

  Night fell and it was a dark one. The battle turned to skirmishes and those to withdrawals.

  The Sultan took his remaining men away with him in the darkness, and William was gone with him.

  Belgrade had been saved.

  And yet there would be more casualties to come.

  ***

  The Turks left behind a staggering amount of treasure and provisions in their abandoned camp.

  Once the bodies were collected and burned and buried, the priests calculated that we had killed about twenty-five thousand Turks within or outside the walls of Belgrade. It was an incredible and unlikely victory.

  Later, we found out that the Sultan had retreated to Sofia and then had several of his generals executed. Sadly, William was not one of them. He had done his job.

  We would also hear that Pope Eugenius IV called the salvation of Belgrade the happiest event of his life.

  And the battle was hardly over when the plague struck.

  It was a camp sickness, brought about by fouled water and hundreds of thousands of people eating, drinking and shitting in proximity for weeks on end. We knew even in those days that bad water and rotten food caused sickness and we knew that stricken people spread their afflictions to others. But what could we do in such situations as sieges, when it was bad food or no food? Whenever armies camped in one place for long, many more people than usual would fall ill. But sometimes, as during that hot, wet summer in Belgrade, a terrible plague might appear. In this case, it was probably brought by the invading army and contracted by us when we killed them and looted their camp. Or perhaps the peasants brought it and spread it due to their filthy conditions in the city.

  Whatever the cause, the crusaders died in their thousands, the Serbian residents died, mercenaries from all over died.

  Janos Hunyadi died.