I looked back at the rest of the column. "Should we let them know there may be trouble? We can always send for Tomas and Basil to come up from the rear of the column."
The other warrior, a Greek named Nicodemus, grinned and shook his head. "There is always a chance for trouble, is this not Outremer? No, I think that Michael will circle right, I will go left, and you, my young friend, will ride right through the heart of that village. Keep your horse in the center of the street away from any doorways. Ready your shield and loosen that great pig sticker you carry strapped to your back. You may need it."
The Turcopoles always laughed at the length of the sword I carried strapped to my back yet after beating three of them senseless with it in the practice yard, they never challenged my right to wield it. Nervous, I nodded in agreement and waited for the two to break away and ride for our flanks before I kicked my horse forward into a trot. The track leading to the ford was rocky, and I gave my horse its head to pick its own way. This was a time for caution, not speed. The Kishon in late summer is wide and very shallow. Sandbars turn it into several small streams all twisting sluggishly toward the sea. I crossed these easily and climbed the path that led to the village through a grove of palms.
I was greeted with silence. The streets were empty. No women, no children, no dogs, and most importantly, no men of fighting age. A few sullen gray beards squatted in open doorways, swatting flies and staring at me with dead eyes. Young as I was, I knew that a quiet village is a village with trouble. I stopped my horse and eased my shield into its fighting position while pulling my coif over my arming cap, leaving my helm on its saddle hook. I could see to the end of the village's main street. It led to another grove of palms and in its center, amongst some tall grass, I could just make out the outline of a well. I eased my mount forward, knowing that by then the Templar column was probably waiting at the ford for word to move up. I had no idea where the other Turcopoles were but assumed they were where they were supposed to be.
A sound to my right caused me to turn and at the same time lift up my shield. In the next instant, a bolt from an arbalest slammed into its upper edge, punching through layered wood and penetrating my mail. I was rocked sideways and gasped with the sudden pain of my mail digging through my gambeson into the flesh of my upper chest. With my shield pinned to my side, I tried to wheel my horse around and gallop to safety, but the animal screamed and went down as more arbalest bolts hissed out of nowhere to punch into its chest and neck. I leapt from my saddle and rolled as the horse collapsed. The landing tore loose the tip of the bolt in my chest. Fortunately it had not penetrated far, but I could feel blood oozing from the wound as I raced for the nearest open doorway.
My training over the previous two years served me well that day. I dove into a nearby hovel as more bolts smacked into the dried mud bricks by my face, showering me with fragments and splinters. Coming to my feet in a crouch, shield thrust forward, I felt a sword bounce off its center. Having no space to draw my own blade, I pulled my dagger and thrust upward, into my attacker's unarmored groin. The man screamed in agony and fell backward, leaving my hand covered in gore. I knew to keep moving and came out of my crouch as my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the hut. In the far corner, a second attacker desperately tried to crank the cocking mechanism of his arbalest. Using my shield, I bulled my way across the room and slammed into the man's chest, driving him into a wall. I then drove my shield rim upward, catching him in the jaw, snapping his head back and knocking him unconscious. As he slid down the wall, I quickly slit his throat.
My breath came in ragged gasps as I stood over my opponent. It was then that I realized he wasn't an Arab; in fact, he was a Frank, a term the Arabs used to describe any European in the Holy Land. English, French, German, Italian—to a Muslim, they are all the same. And this man was no Muslim. His overcoat carried the arms of an Italian mercenary company.
Outside, my companions called to me as they raced their horses down the street, loosing arrows into any open doorway or window they found. They pulled rein and skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust just beyond my door, their horses snorting and stomping in agitation. I raised my shield and charged into the street right into another storm of arbalest bolts. Two hit my shield at once, penetrating the wood and rocking me backward. I was fortunate in that neither struck my arm. However, Michael, along with his horse, went down at once. I went to cover him and quickly realized he would never move again as a bolt had pierce his throat and severed his jugular. I waved to Nicodemus and yelled, "Ride! Warn the others!"
Nicodemus loosed a shaft and took an arbalester in the eye as he stepped into an open doorway a hundred feet away. Sawing back on his horse's reins, the Turcopole wheeled about and spurred his animal into a gallop. Turning in his saddle, he let go a shaft as he rode toward the river. I did not watch his escape. Instead, I raced for another doorway and burst inside, still clutching my shield and dagger.
There, another arbalester grasped a young child by her hair and held a knife to her throat. "One more step, monk, and I slit her throat," he snarled in fair French.
Though my heart was pounding, I smiled at him. My anger was growing, and the more it grew, the colder I became. I saw the girl's family huddled in a corner, terrified. "One thing is for certain," I answered him. "Whether you kill her or not, these are your last few moments on earth. Do you need to be shriven?"
The man's eyes widened in surprise. It was not the answer he expected. "Stay back! I swear I'll kill her!"
"Do it then and be done. She is in the way," I snarled.
The arbalester hesitated. That was a fatal mistake. I leapt toward him shouting, "Ego tu absolvo!" and drove my dagger through his throat. The child screamed as her attacker collapsed, blood spraying across the hard packed dirt floor. I scooped the child up and covered her eyes as I wheeled and carried her to her mother. The woman must have believed I would kill all of them as well because she cowered at my feet. In Arabic I asked her to take her daughter. Dropping the child into her arms, I promptly ignored her. My attention went back to the doorway and the street beyond.
The Templar column had crossed the ford and pushed through the palm grove upon seeing Nicodemus and his mad dash from the village. The knights, now fully alert, moved into a wedge formation, intending to charge down the street and ride down the line of men-at-arms and arbalesters forming by the well. I decided not to wait on them and dashed from the safety of the house. I zigzagged my way back up the street until I cleared the village and then sprinted for the safety of my brothers.
After covering a couple hundred yards, I slowed and then pulled up. A fine cloud of dust swirled about me, covering my face, forcing me to cough and spit. I hacked up half the village street while the column waited calmly, horses pawing the ground, sensing the impending action. Brother Himbert and Nicodemus rode out to meet me with a spare mount. When I looked up, I noticed Grand Master de Beaujeu himself had ridden forward as well.
Master de Beaujeu was a large man, his face and hands burnt brown by the desert sun. A shock of iron grey hair poked out from beneath his mail coif, and his eyes never stopped moving. Blue as northern ice, they shifted from me to Himbert and then to our attackers several hundred yards away. As he spoke he smiled, and all of us were put at ease at once. "Himbert, I see we have trouble ahead, and they are not Saracens."
Himbert handed me the reins of the spare horse and said, "Yes, lord. Some type of mercenaries, most certainly Italians. They have a number of arbalesters."
De Beaujeu shifted in his saddle and rested his hands on its pommel. "Genoese I would wager. Their naval squadrons are the reason we took the coastal road instead of traveling by ship. They are now in control of the waters between Atlit and Acre whilst our fleet is under blockade at Acre. They must have gotten wind of our departure from Atlit."
As I climbed into my saddle, Himbert replied, "Killing you, my lord, would certainly upset the peace between the Temple and the Hospital. It would also most certainly wreck our allianc
e with Venice and Pisa. In either event, Genoa would then be in a position to control all of the trade coming out of the Levant and be free to cut a deal with Sultan Qalawun."
"Well then, I think we must do our best to disappoint the Genoese," grinned de Beaujeu. "Right now they think they have the advantage, even though their ambush has been tripped. They don't believe we will charge them because of their arbalests." He turned to me, pointed and asked, "Ronan, how many of them do you think there are?"
I had to shield my eyes from the sun when looking at the master. It was the first time he had ever spoken to me, and I was surprised that he knew my name. "My lord, I would say half a company, fifty men at the very least, with arbalesters and footmen to protect them."
"Arbalesters you say, not crossbowmen? You are sure?"
"Yes, lord. I killed one of them before he could wind his mechanism. It was an arbalest."
"Slow rate of fire," mused Himbert. "Perhaps two bolts in a minute. They are very powerful." He scratched his beard. "If we charge, we can be on top of them before they reload."
De Beaujeu shook his head. "Waste of good horseflesh. We did not bring a large number of remounts, and I have no wish to walk from here to Acre. Besides, that is what they expect us to do. No, what we should do is leave, skirt the village, and then strike north."
I had never been near the master before this day, so I had no reason to be shocked. His reasoning made perfect sense. Himbert, however, looked as though his stomach was full of bile. It was then that I noticed Master de Beaujeu grinning.
"Never fear, Himbert. That choice would leave whoever hired these men the wrong impression." Leaning forward, he gathered up his reins. "No. I think what is required here is simple cunning." Turning his horse about, he said, "Come. Let us bag some Genoese."
We returned to the column. On the way, Himbert watched as I removed a gauntlet and tried to inspect the wound in my upper chest. "The bolt did not go deep. I can tell by the color of your blood it did not reach your lung." Small comfort that was. It still hurt like hell, and there was no time to pull off my mail and plug it. Besides, I was expected to fight and not complain. I simply nodded, pulled my gauntlet back on, and ignored the spreading crimson stain on my mail.
When we reached the column, Master de Beaujeu quickly outlined his plan. Most of the Templers dismounted and once again formed a wedge. Armored knights and sergeants formed the edges while the lighter armored men-at-arms stood in the center. I took my place slightly back from the tip of the wedge. Master De Beaujeu and Brother Himbert, along with ten other knights, remained mounted and moved off to our right. As we started forward into the village, De Beaujeu and his group worked their way across several fields and were soon lost to sight.
Brother Reynard, an old Templar knight with more than twenty years service in Outremer, moved to my left rear and asked, "You wounded?"
"Not bad." I muttered. "I took a bolt through my shield. My mail did more damage than the bolt."
Reynard nodded. I could see he was smiling behind his aventail. "It will leave a fine scar once they take iron to it."
"I'm more worried about taking another bolt when we get closer. Those things will punch right through our shields once we get in range."
"Aye, so at fifty yards, we break into a run and don't stop until we are into the bastards. Simple, no?"
"Nothing is ever that simple," I said to Reynard's muffled laughter.
The under marshal, Brother Peter de Severy, a dour, taciturn man who was third in command to Master de Beaujeu, pushed his way to the front of the wedge and led us toward the Italians at a slow trot. Right about then, I began wishing that I had not left my helm strapped to the saddle of my dead horse. I raised my shield and kept moving. I could see the Italians milling about the well in the tall grass at the end of the village. Our wedge tromped down the main street as men-at-arms brandishing spears stepped forward out of the tall grass to meet us.
"We are in for it now," grunted Reynard. To me he said, "Careful, boy. They'll jab at your eyes so you'll bring up your shield, and then they'll stick your foot so some other bastard behind them can finish you."
He did nothing for my confidence. Moments later de Severy halted us to close our ranks. We were within a hundred yards of the Italians, yet they still held their fire. "Steady now," called the under marshal. "In a moment we go forward. No one breaks into a run until their arbalesters release their first volley. Once that happens, you have thirty seconds before they can reload. Their spearmen will come forward to meet us. We must stay in formation. The weight of the wedge must break their line. Then we can go to work. If we are lucky, Master de Beaujeu will hit them at roughly the same time we do. "
De Severy returned to his place at the tip of the wedge and yelled, "Shields up!"
We went forward quickly then. Reynard pulled me into the center of the wedge to stand beside him. There was no time to be frightened. I reached over my shoulder and drew my claidheamh da laimh, claymore in English, the great, two handed longsword given me by Ian MacKechnie. It would be the first time I had ever wielded her in battle. At thirty yards the Italians let go with a volley that rocked our ranks. Several men went down at once, forcing me to stride over their bodies. A sergeant to my right dropped with a bolt buried in his forehead. Another bolt sizzled past my face only to slam into a shield behind me.
By some miracle, de Severy was still in the lead when the wedge broke into a run. Moments later, we crashed into them. The Italian line crumpled and broke as blood sprayed and men screamed. Our formation bowled men over, others it slammed aside. A spearman stepped toward me and thrust. I remember smiling as I caught the shaft on my shield rim and directed it over my head on the run. My sword caught the man low and took off his foot at the ankle. I promptly dropped my shield to wield my sword properly. An Italian man-at-arms traded blows with me until a backswing that started on my left caught him low and opened him from crotch to gullet. I brought the blade around in an arc and attacked the closest man. The mercenary leaned back and brought up his shield, yet the tip of my blade sliced through its top and tore across his uncovered face, blinding him. My next blow circled my head and then chopped downward. His mail held, but the blow broke his collarbone and drove him to his knees. A quick thrust penetrated his aventail and tore out his throat. I remember being overcome with the sheer joy of combat. I confess that nothing can describe the feeling of being inhumanly lethal. My enemies seemed incredibly slow and awkward. My blade moved with a speed and power only achieved at such times when I was in that state. The Norse, who plagued our islands for hundreds of years and then added their blood to our families, had a name for the madness that overcomes a warrior in battle—berserk. And I was in its grip.
Master de Beaujeu and his men had circled the village and hit the mercenaries from behind, moments after our charge smashed into their spearmen. Their arbalesters scattered like mice in a grain bin. DeBeaujeu and the Templars on horseback rode after them, their swords swinging in vicious, looping arcs. Heads and arms spun into the air with great sprays of blood as men screamed and died or ran for their lives.
An arbalester who was fleeing spun and went to his knee, bringing up his weapon. Master DeBeaujeu did not see the man fire, and his horse took a bolt deep in his throat. The animal reared in pain while another Italian man-at-arms rushed him and drove his spear into the horse's chest. As DeBeaujeu attempted to jump free, the horse collapsed, pinning him.
I saw him go down. I don't remember consciously going to the master's aid. I know that the mercenary who had brought down DeBeaujeu's horse never saw me coming. My longsword took his head before he knew he was dead. Another Italian, this one armed with an axe, leapt atop the master's horse in an attempt to cleave his head in two. I took his leg off at the knee before he could bring down his weapon. For the next several minutes, I fought alone as a number of Italians, realizing the master was down, turned and tried to salvage their rout. I killed all those who came near as I straddled my lord in a swirling
melee of swinging blades and blood.
The master's companions, led by Brother Himbert, quickly dispatched those mercenaries who did not flee. I was still astride the master when Himbert rode up, calling my name. Pointing his mace he said, "Don't you think you should help him up?"
It was only then that I realized that Master DeBeaujeu was still on his back, beneath me. I sheathed my sword and stepped back, calling for some nearby sergeants to help me lift his dead horse. In moments he was free, standing white faced on his badly bruised leg. The master hobbled over to Brother Himbert, who remained mounted.
"Himbert, how many Italians lay dead by my horse?"
"My lord, I count six."
Master DeBeaujeu nodded, as though to confirm what his own eyes knew to be true. To Himbert he said, "I am afraid, brother, you will have to find yourself another squire. The one you have should be made a knight and a full member of our order if he so desires."
Himbert grinned as did a dozen or so other Templars who were standing nearby. "My lord, I doubt Ronan would object." Turning to me he asked, "What say you, boy?"
I was stunned. The rush of battle was fading quickly, and my hands had begun to shake. The idea that the Grand Master of the Templars was willing to knight me on the field of battle was incredible. There was a problem though. I had no desire to take life-long vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. In short, despite Himbert's hope, I had no desire to be a monk. I was just eighteen. The very thought of spending the rest of my life secluded from women was too much to bear. "Well, go on boy, speak."
I took a knee and bowed my head. "My lord, if it so please you, I do not believe I can accept. I was given to the Temple by my father with the understanding that I could return after a suitable amount of time had passed. It was never my family's intent that I become a full member of the Order."
"Indeed," replied Master de Beaujeu, his face a solemn mask. "Himbert, is this so?"
"It is, my lord. Ronan's term of service was never formally established. It was always understood that he was free to leave after a length of time. That length of time was to be determined later."
Galloglass Book One the Templar Page 4
