Knight Assassin

by James Boschert

  He ordered his sailors to bring up a barrel of tar and plenty of spare caulking. Then Talon explained his plan slowly to the Welsh archers. They, too, were skeptical at first, but again he managed to persuade them that if it worked, the pirates would have a nasty surprise. They set to with a will, scooping the soft material out of the bucket, making balls out of the tar and the caulking and putting them aside in several small piles on the deck. They also found some twine that was placed nearby.

  A sailor was sent below to bring up an iron pan of coals from the galley fire, which he then presented to Talon. They took Talon’s small iron shield, poured the coals into it, then supported it carefully while he blew on it and enticed some flames from the coals, then with more puffs he kept the small fire going. Everyone was fearful of a coal falling onto the dry wood deck. Philip moved the water bucket to be near at hand.

  Talon and the Welshmen set about wrapping the balls of tar and caulk onto the points of a dozen arrows, then tying them in place with some twine. It took well over an hour to complete their preparations, but when finished there was a new feeling in the air. The Welshmen were animated, chattering happily among themselves, while those sailors who were nearby seemed less fearful now that they could perceive a plan materializing. The steersmen hanging onto the great steering oar peered back at the activity going on behind them curiously.

  As Talon was wiping his filthy hands, he glanced up to find Philip looking closely at him.

  “You might have given them some backbone with this plan of yours, my boy,” he said with an amused gleam in his eye.

  Talon smiled back briefly. He liked his uncle. “I don’t know if it will work, Uncle, but anything is better than waiting.”

  They all turned their attention to the scene unfolding behind them.

  Their ship was now almost half a mile ahead of its companion, which was being approached rapidly by the pirate galleys. It was a silent group of men on the aft deck that watched grimly as the galleys pulled up on either side of the luckless ship. They heard the distant roar of boarders swarming over the side and the pathetic attempts of the crew and passengers to defend themselves. Their screams and shrieks came over the still water very clearly; there were splashes as bodies fell overboard, either thrown or as they jumped, trying to escape the savagery of the boarders. The fighting was all over within minutes, and then differently dressed men swarmed the rigging and lowered the sail.

  There was a concerted groan from the crew and passengers on Talon’s ship as the watchers saw what was destined for them when the enemy had finished with the others.

  Philip turned away, his face set in a tight mask. “It will be our turn next. Talon, you and your men stay on this deck. I shall see if I cannot put some backbone into the sailors on the main deck and repel boarders from there. Come, Max.” He led the way down the stairs.

  Talon nodded. There was nothing to say; it was their turn now and they needed a lot of luck if they were to survive. He heard chanting in the waist and looked down at the group of pilgrims who were now singing, their thin arms stretched up to the heavens, their rags making them look like a group of scarecrows waving in the breeze. Their gaunt faces were turned heavenward, imploring God to protect them in their hour of need. Talon muttered a prayer to God to ask for help himself. The Welshmen were also crossing themselves and calling on t God to aid them in their own language.

  It was becoming late in the day and the sun was a huge red orb above the western horizon. He realized that he was hungry but it was too late for food, and in any case he doubted if he could hold it down. His mouth was dry and there was a knot in his stomach.

  Talon wondered if there were just enough time for them to slip away in the dark. He realized that he was hoping for the impossible and rebuked himself for being weak.

  He beckoned to the leader of the Welshmen. “What's your name?” he asked.

  “Gareth, m’lord,” said the man, standing to face him.

  Talon was struck by the pride in the man’s voice. He was a strong-looking man although not tall. He grinned and Talon noted there were gaps in his teeth. He was unshaven and travel-stained, but he looked friendly enough.

  “Well, Gareth, my name is Talon. I want to surprise these people, so we have to have your men on both sides lie down until you and I signal them to get up and begin shooting.”

  Gareth nodded. “We need to make sure we have the fire going well, m’lord.” He knelt and blew on the red heat in the center of the shield. When he had the flames going, he put one of the arrows into the fire and watched carefully as it sizzled and then flared into flame. Before it could take fully he blew it out. “I think it will work, m’lord.”

  He grinned at Talon, who smiled back grimly, two fighting men ready for whatever fate would throw their way. He felt comforted that these tough men were cheerfully committed to the fight.

  He turned his attention back to the tragedy taking place on the water behind them. A tiny gust of wind cooled his cheek.

  The captain was quick to notice it, too, and shouted at the sailors, who jumped to the halyards and tightened the sail. The ship seemed to gain speed to the hopeful Talon, but then he saw what he had been dreading. Even at the distance of nearly a mile he could see men pouring down the side of the stricken merchantman into the nearert enemy galley. Very soon after it began to pull away; its sail unfurled and could be seen to fill with the more forceful breeze that had come out of the east. The prow of the galley turned rapidly and pointed toward them, he could even see the wave at its bow, it was moving so fast.

  Talon called down to Philip. “They are just leaving the ship and coming our way, Uncle.”

  Philip waved and went back to bellowing at the sailors and pilgrims, whom he had formed into some kind of pike force to help him should the pirates come aboard. Talon didn’t think there was much to be counted on from that motley group.

  His archers, clutching their bows, crouched against the sides of the ship out of sight from the sea below. Gareth and another of the men had lined up arrows in readiness to plunge into the fire when it was time. They looked tense, but calm and ready; Talon liked what he saw there. These men could be useful in a fight, he decided. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly while keeping his back to the men. He did not want them to see how nervous he was at the prospect of the fight to come.

  Gareth joined him at the rail where they watched the pursuing galley speed through the swells toward them. There was spray flying from its bow, it moved so quickly. Talon realized that only one was coming and breathed a sigh of relief. He had thought they would both come at the same time, but their easy conquest of the other ship had made them confident that this one would be just as easy to take.

  He looked at Gareth and pointed toward the enemy ship. Gareth had realized the same thing and spoke to his men, obviously telling them of the improvement in their chances. Now the question was: On which side would the enemy try to board?

  No one spoke as they waited for the other boat to approach. Before long Talon could clearly see the men gathered in the waist of the ship, and he now heard the rhythmic thumping of the oars as they dipped and rose, bringing the sleek ship racing toward him.

  It also brought with it a smell that made him wrinkle his nose.

  Next to him Gareth did the same, as did those crouching. Gareth spat. “Dieu Bachan,” he muttered, “They have slaves rowing the ship.”

  The prow of the enemy ship was now only several hundred yards back and Talon could make out the men’s dress, and that there were many more on that boat than his. They looked familiar with their loose cotton clothing, their weapons, their turbans and round, pointed helmets, but he felt only anger today—they were coming to kill or enslave him, his uncle, and everyone on board.

  Their only chance was surprise; he felt the familiar rush that came just before a fight and his pulse heightened as he contemplated the battle to come. Still they waited and watched; the tension on the deck palpable as the men gathered themselves.
Talon spotted a bowman on the front of the approaching ship and decided that man would be his first target. The Welshmen could send the fire. The distance closed and then the men on the galley started to shout and wave their swords and spears. The boat was going to come in on the port side, so Talon waved all his men to that side and shouted at Philip to move his men under cover to that side as well.

  Gareth must have told his men to start setting fire to their arrows, as several gathered by the shield and blew on the coals, producing a healthy flame. They started to light the balls of pitch and hold them over the iron of the shield. Talon hoped that the smoke from the burning pitch would not send off alarms to the approaching enemy, but they were more interested in catching this easy-looking prize than worrying about some smoke, even if it was unusual. Talon crouched with Gareth, watching carefully for the right moment as the sleek galley full of yelling, screaming men came ever nearer.

  Then it was time; the boat was only sixty yards off the port after-deck. Talon knocked an arrow into his bow and stood up. He drew and sighted very quickly, loosing his arrow straight at the man on the prow of the galley. His arrow went true and took the man in the center of his chest. He fell backward, then rolled overboard with a shriek, falling under the fast-moving ship. The Welshmen, with shouted war cries, sprang to their feet and six burning arrows sped for various targets that Gareth had picked out.

  Each sped true, some for the sail, others for the cordage piled in the middle of the ship. One went straight into the chest of a huge man standing among the others. He screamed and fell back, leaving a space around him while the others stared up in stunned silence. More flaming arrows followed, aimed at carefully selected targets. Gareth was directing his men, eagerly pointing at this or that object. The space was limited so there was some excited jostling and even laughter from the Welshmen as they pushed forward eagerly to aim and kill with their formidable weapons.

  Talon shook his head in bemusement at the laughter but then concentrated on killing the men in the waist of the ship who were beginning to recover from the surprise. Now there were howls of rage, anger, and frustration. They screamed threats and brandished their weapons, promising unspeakable revenge upon the group in the afterdeck, but they were also seeking cover from the deadly barrage of arrows streaming out from their prey.

  Suddenly there was shouting of a different kind. Despite the enemy crew’s desperate efforts the fires were taking hold. A thin wisp of smoke blew forward of the sail, then a long dark shadow rapidly turning to black sped up its length, followed quickly by a bright orange flame that took hold of the center of the sail. Suddenly the crew of the galley realized that they were in terrible danger. Their shouts turned to panicked yells when they saw what was happening to their own ship.

  Abruptly the sail of their ship exploded into flames, shredding into flaming patches that blew forward and fell onto the deck. Fire took hold in other parts of the ship as well.

  The Welshmen were cheering and dancing wildly as they continued to pick men off the galley. It sailed right by, only twenty or so yards off; close enough that they could look down into the chaos taking place on its deck. The Welshmen picked off men as they ran about the deck, trying to escape the deadly arrows and the now-searing heat of the flames.

  No one had given orders for the rowing to cease, so the oars continued to rise and fall in perfect rhythm, driving it forward. But now the rowers could hear the pandemonium on deck and smell the fire. To the watchers on the merchantman there came a hideous wailing sound that set the hair up on every neck. The rowing became uneven so that the galley slewed to port and then slowed. Even the Welshmen halted their wild victory yells to listen, appalled now at the scene unfolding below them. The smell of the burning ship coupled with the stench of human excrement from the lower rowing decks was enough to make Talon gag. He stepped quickly over to the starboard side and sucked in some clean air, willing himself not to vomit. After a few minutes he returned to the port side and continued to watch what happened on the galley.

  The oars became an untidy tangle as those inside fought their locked chains and tried to get out of the death trap, while those on the top deck fought the ever-fiercer flames. Smoke and sparks flew high in the air as the ship burned. Talon and his men watched as the galley come to a stop, wallowing in the choppy seas.

  The captain of the merchantman quickly realized his own danger and directed his men to throw canvas buckets of water over the sail to prevent any sparks from the galley taking hold on their ship. The merchantman moved past the galley once more and gradually left it behind. Talon could see bright flames leaping as high as the mast from the deck of the stricken galley; the rigging was on fire. The tarred ropes made a perfect fuel for the greedy flames. A column of black and gray smoke lifted high into the sky over the stricken vessel, pouring out of the small port holes and the holes made for the oars. Talon prayed for the men trapped below decks; they were slaves, men probably just like him who were now doomed to die with the ship, with no one to free them from their chains.

  Philip, Max, and the captain, who hurried up to watch, joined the men on the aft deck. No one spoke as they watched the fire consume what had been a deadly weapon and listened to the shrieks of agony and panicked screams of terror. Men began to jump overboard, calling and waving to the men on Talon’s ship, shouting something. Talon alone understood their calls to Allah and pleas for help, and turned away. These were not his brothers; they were meeting the kind of fate they had promised his ship and had meted out to so many others. He still said a small prayer for their souls from habit.

  Then the captain wanted to congratulate Talon, and Philip shouted with excitement and gave Talon a massive clap on the back that nearly felled him. Max grinned with approval. They were all suddenly shouting with relief and excitement, out of danger now. The crewmen in the waist of the ship cheered and once again the skinny pilgrims were praying their thanks to God. The Welshmen beamed at him and Gareth said something.

  Talon looked at him.

  “You are a leader of men, m’lord. That was a good fight.”

  Talon shrugged. “Your men did most of the work, Gareth. I am proud to have fought alongside you.” He did not add that he was almost sick with relief that they had escaped a dreadful fate at the hands of the pirates.

  Gareth beamed then turned and translated to some of his men. They grinned and clapped and began to sing a wild chant together. They each came to Talon and grasped his hand in their own hard palms, murmuring something he could not understand.

  He looked at Gareth who said, “We all thought you were just a boy, but now we know you are a man who leads men.”

  Talon nodded solemnly, then his gaze went back to the distant wreck of the galley burning bright in the gathering darkness. He hoped that the other galley had too much to do to come after them.

  Of all sweet birds, I love the most

  The lark and nightingale:

  For they the first of all awake,

  The opening spring with songs to hail.

  - Pierre Vidal - End of Twelfth Century

  Chapter 2

  The Road to Albi

  Talon was impressed by the way the captain managed to maneuver his ship among the busy river traffic with only some long sweeps and his cumbersome sail. Finally the wily mariner edged the ship carefully into the main basin of the harbor of Ayga Mortes. It had taken a day and a half to sail and row the ship up the wide, sluggish estuary to the great walled town.

  Talon stood at the side of the ship in the waist while Max pointed out the features of the flat marshy country where they were about to land. It was early summer in the region, so the sun was warm on their backs, but there was still a cool wind coming off the land. Talon was not used to the slight chill, and his thin cotton clothes did not keep him warm.

  “This port is known for its salt marches as well as being the largest port for both the king of France and the Templars in the south. It was once called Ayga Mortes or ‘Dead Waters’ and th
e region is known as the ‘Petite Camargue’ or the ‘little Camargue’; the province of Camargue lies further to the west”

  They had to anchor offshore away from the quays, as permission to dock needed to be granted by the master of the port. Philip wanted to go ashore as soon as possible, so they had to be rowed ashore in the ship’s boat. Although Ayga Mortes was some way from the sea it was still a thriving hub for commerce and very much a port. Talon noted that the land around the huge city was very flat. The only thing of any height other than the city had been constructed by man. The city itself seemed to be surrounded by marshes.

  Talon was struck by the size and extent of the fortifications that encircled the city beyond the port. They looked formidable and very defensible. He began to form an appreciation for the Franks’ building skills.

  Talon had asked Gareth what route he would be taking to go home. Gareth told him they planned to go into Aquitaine, via Carcassonne, then on up to Nantes, as that would take them to the west of the land of Aquitaine, and from what he knew it was a safer route to take. They at least would be within the domains of the English king for the remainder of their journey. Not that that would guarantee them absolute safety, as the Welsh and the English were often at loggerheads and he was not sure what the situation was at this time. He told Talon the politics changed often and could easily have changed for the worse since he had been away; it had been more than two years.

  Talon had had ample time to get to know Gareth and his men by now and had come to like them. Despite the difficulty with the language, they managed to get by with a form of pidgin French. The Welshmen in turn were very curious about where he had been and why he carried such an interesting bow. It resembled the ones the Saracen carried and elicited much comment. Talon was disinclined to talk much about his former life in Persia among the Assassins, and only talked about it guardedly.

  He wanted to put aside for the time being the still vivid memories of the years spent in Persia. They were too strong for him to talk about to strangers, the intense training as a young boy to become a killer of men, or Fida’i, as the Persians called them. The Franks called them Assassini.