‘Then the element of surprise will be negated.’
The Baron de Roquefeuil laughed. ‘Hardly. The Moors think themselves safe behind their barred pass. They must assume that they will have more than adequate warning of our approach, for we would have to breach their pass to reach them. If the manner in which their military works is remotely akin to our own, which I feel is inevitable, their army will be spread out in camp, unprepared for battle, with large groups dispatched to picket duty, scouting, or manning the pass. They simply will not have time to call in their full force to face us. They will barely have time to prepare the men they already have in camp. We still have the advantage, Vallbona, but we cannot afford to simply leap into the abyss with both feet. We must know what we are facing and form ready for it.’
Arnau nodded. It was true. He could only imagine what would go through the minds of the confident Almohads when the army of Christendom began to pour from the hillsides onto the plain behind them.
As they plodded on relentlessly down the valley, the sky gradually losing its darkness, turning an inky mauve and then gradually lightening into blue, they encountered their first Almohads. A patrol of half a dozen white-clad light horsemen appeared over a low rise surprisingly close to the van of the army and sat for a moment on the crest.
Tristán grumbled next to Arnau. ‘What are they waiting for?’
‘They probably cannot believe what they are seeing,’ Arnau replied. ‘They’ve just had the shock of their lives.’
‘Kill them,’ the Frankish baron commanded. ‘Don’t let them carry early word of our approach to their masters.’
Arnau felt his spirits sink. He was still horseless, and therefore incapable of dealing with them. Clearly one of the Franks had been just waiting for an opportunity to draw blood, for barely had the baron finished speaking before a crossbow bolt whipped out and slammed into one of the figures on the rise. The Frankish knights roared as they were helped up into their saddles by their men and immediately put spurs to flanks, urging their horses towards the enemy patrol.
But nothing could have prepared the enemy for Martin Calderon.
Before anything but that crossbow bolt had moved, the knight had somehow managed to get himself into his saddle and was off. He was a dozen horse-lengths ahead of the nearest Frank in a heartbeat. Tristán made irritable noises next to Arnau, who rolled his eyes and turned to the squire. ‘All right, go on and make sure he doesn’t get killed.’
Tristán raced off in the wake of a small knot of Franks, trying to get past them to join Calderon, but none of them stood much of a chance. Arnau watched in fascinated horror. As the stricken enemy scout wallowed in his saddle, the crossbow bolt robbing him of life by the second, the other five suddenly appreciated their peril and wheeled their horses. Three of them managed to turn and ride for safety beyond the hill crest before Calderon was on the others. The knight of Calatrava bellowed what Arnau initially thought to be imprecations, but quickly realised was the fifth Psalm, as he laid about the two men who had not fled in time.
‘Lord, lead me thou forth in thy rightwiseness for mine enemies address thou all around me.’
The man’s sword slammed into a scout’s thigh with such force that it smashed the bone, ripping the leg in two, and left a blood trench in the horse’s ribs behind it. Missing half his leg, the screaming Moor tipped from the other side of his mount before it reared in agony, bellowing, and danced off to die somewhere else.
Barely had Calderon breathed before his sword swung back and then came down in an overhand chop, smashing through the rein-holding arm of the other man, who howled in agony.
‘For truth is not in their mouth; their heart is vain and their throat is an open sepulchre, they speak guilefully with their tongues.’
The second man’s horse tried to bolt, but Calderon’s free hand shot out, grabbing the fallen reins and holding the animal fast while he slammed his helmet’s brow and nose guard into the man’s face, reeled back from the stunned and agonised scout and neatly impaled him through the side. As he ripped his blade free and the dead man lolled away on his panicked horse, Calderon threw his blood-slicked sword up into the air, calling out in a loud, clear voice.
‘God, judge thou them. Fall they down by their own thoughts. After the multitude of their wickednesses cast thou them down; for, Lord, they have stirred Thee to wrath.’
And with that he was off, racing for the three who had fled. Half a dozen Franks were with him now, and Tristán alongside them. With three corpses already littering the hillside, Arnau wouldn’t have wagered a copper cornado for the rest’s chances of survival with that lot chasing them down. He almost jumped as he realised that the Frankish baron had strolled up beside him during the attack.
‘That man is dangerous and potentially trouble, I think, Brother Vallbona.’
‘He is… devout. And has a hefty debt to call in.’
‘I had a cousin a little like him. Thought he was unstoppable… until he was stopped. Pressed a tourney further than he should and paid the price.’
Arnau shook his head. ‘Calderon does God’s work. He will be an asset in the fight to come.’
The baron nodded thoughtfully. ‘I hope you are right.’
Arnau listened to distant screaming punctuated by righteous prayer in a loud voice on the far side of the rise. He hoped so too. He really did.
15. Crusade
16 July 1212, Las Navas de Tolosa
The army of Christendom surged from the mouth of the valley. Somehow commands were being issued and received, and the units kept at least some kind of cohesion as they swarmed across the flat ground on the western side of the valley. The mechanics of such large-scale warfare were beyond Arnau, whose sole experience of such a thing, barring the horrific siege of Constantinople, was a border skirmish a dozen years ago when he had been a minor knight in service to a slightly less minor knight. All he knew was to be where he was told to be and to fight until the enemy was no more. In fact, in some ways not a lot had changed since he’d joined the Order.
Someone senior received an order from a rider nearby and a man in a white mantle with a wizened face but the muscles of a warrior gestured to Arnau. ‘Lead the brothers to the stump yonder.’
Arnau did as he was told, beckoning for the Templars gathering close by and riding over to the stump, grateful for his new mount. A spare horse had been found for him before they’d reached the end of the valley, once the column had formed en masse. Though each knight had left his spare steed on the far side of the mountains, a score had been brought against the expected loss of a few on the journey, and a grey charger had been led forwards for Arnau.
He stopped at the indicated stump and, as the other brothers settled their steeds into lines, peered over at the enemy. He had seen the Moorish encampment before, of course, but only in fear and in passing. This was the first time he’d had the chance to fully appreciate it. His initial thought was just how many of them there were. The power centre of the enemy commander was visible even from here, for a vast and impressive pavilion sat at the furthest and highest point of the hill, with only odd figures moving there and what looked like a squat, dark palisade around it.
The rest of the camp was clearly ordered though equally clearly by some unknown system. Horses and men numbered so many. So many…
He was just wondering what they were going to do next when a man in the Aragonese royal coat of arms reined in next to him.
‘Their majesties require your attendance at the front.’
Arnau blinked. A royal summons? He glanced at his squire close by, no idea whether the command included Tristán. He’d not been mentioned, but Arnau’s familiarity with this area could be the only reason he was required, and therefore the same should apply to the squire. He nodded his understanding to the herald and gestured to the bulge-eyed Tristán. The two rode forwards and Arnau could see other horsemen converging, his heart in his throat at the sight.
Other than Calderon, who was now rather familiar, the
other riders heading to the front were uniformly of the highest rank: kings, archbishops, high nobles and grand masters, each with their small gaggle of followers. As the two Templars closed on the group, Calderon joining them, Arnau made certain to keep a respectful distance from the royal parties, hovering on the periphery.
The gathering completed, a huge man on a powerful horse with a crown atop a mail coif and a red surcoat displaying no marking or insignia walked his horse out to the fore, the kings of Castile and Aragon stepping their own mounts forwards to flank him.
‘Tell me about this enemy,’ the big man said, his voice as impressive as his form. ‘How will they array and what will be the manner of their attack?’
‘Who is that?’ Arnau whispered to Calderon.
Tristán leaned closer. ‘Sancho the Strong, king of Navarre.’
Arnau smiled. The squire may have left that small nation in his youth, but the pride in his voice made it clear that he still carried it in his heart. The Templar turned to look at the three kings, wondering who some of the other men wearing crowns and coronets might be. He waited.
‘You,’ King Sancho said, turning and waving a finger at the three of them. ‘You have fought them and you have been among them. What do you know?’
Arnau felt the colour drain from his face. Being addressed directly by a king and asked for an opinion was not something he was prepared for. Moreover, an opinion was something he did not have. He’d fought the Almohads individually, but not in battle. He was about to offer a gushing apology when Calderon walked his horse forwards, clearing his throat. Arnau and Tristán exchanged a look and followed on, keeping close to their friend.
‘The caliph is a wasteful commander, sire.’
Arnau frowned. Calderon had defended Salvatierra, yes, but how did he know anything about their battle tactics? Still, the other two kept silent and listened.
‘Oh?’ grunted Alphonso of Castile. ‘How?’
‘The caliph’s army is formed of four distinct parts. The most valuable are his guards and elite units, all of whom will be kept close to hand. The infantry of the Almohad army in bulk will be kept back initially. They will be committed when either the battle is turning against the caliph, or when our forces are on the verge of breaking. More than half the enemy army is formed of temporarily raised levies, mercenaries or foreign units lent by beholden neighbours. The rabble will be thrown at us first to exhaust us. The foot will come in the centre and the horse on the wings.’
Sancho the Strong nodded sagely. ‘I had heard as much, but it is good to hear the voice of experience. Castile has the largest force in this army and solid infantry. I say that Alphonso takes the centre and holds against the enemy infantry. Pedro and I shall take the wings. We hold back the caliph’s hirelings long enough to see them break rather than us, and the caliph will be forced to commit his main force.’
‘The lion’s share of the work earns the lion’s share of the glory,’ the king of Aragon announced with a grin. ‘I like this plan.’
Pedro of Aragon snorted. ‘Then the left wing is mine, for our swords will have more play than our shields on the left.’
Sancho shot his brother kings a disapproving look. ‘This is no matter for levity. We are agreed, then. Three columns for our three kingdoms.’
Arnau had been absorbing what Calderon had said, appreciating the logic of it, and as the kings had spoken, the Templar’s eyes had gone back and forth between them, then to that grand pavilion on the hill opposite and back, then to the other gathered lords, priests and princelings. He spoke before he even realised he was doing it and panic rose, his eyes widening, as he addressed a trinity of monarchs uninvited.
‘The Almohads are a single command, sire.’
All three kings turned to Arnau and sweat suddenly flowed out of him like a fountain. He stuttered for a moment, his voice coming out feebly and then strengthening only with effort.
‘Respectfully, our army is a gathering of commanders, Your Majesties. Kings, bishops, grand masters, each of whom has his own force and at least some autonomy in this army. If the enemy wish to break our force, they need to remove each and every commander, for even if a lord should fall, his men would surely muster to the nearest allied flag.’
The grand master of the Templars frowned at him disapprovingly, but the enormous king of Navarre focused on Arnau. ‘I am interested, Templar. Tell me more.’
Arnau coughed nervously. ‘While there are many commanders in the Almohad army, each one answers to his superior. They are one command with one driver. To utterly ruin their army, it is much easier. Destroy the caliph. Without him, they will be missing their ultimate decision maker. They may fight on for some time, but without their master, soon they would be lost.’
‘I see no way in which this could be achieved,’ the Aragonese king said, brushing it aside.
Alphonso nodded. ‘True, though I understand the value of the information.’
Sancho of Navarre fixed Arnau with a look, weighing him up. ‘Agreed.’ He sighed. ‘There is little we can do about it now, but the suggestion has merit. It should be borne in mind. So,’ he said, straightening, ‘in order to avoid letting them exhaust our best men, do we match their tactic?’
Pedro nodded. ‘Field our light troops to the fore and keep the knights in reserve.’
King Alphonso of Castile scratched his chin. ‘We shall face the lion’s share, as I said. Lopez de Haro, Lord of Biscay, will take the lightest troops to the fore of the centre and meet the enemy there.’
Arnau caught the look in everyone’s eyes. Like everyone here gathered, he’d heard of Lopez de Haro. The man had been high in the Castilian court but his reputation had repeatedly suffered, he’d been in exile no less than three times, had served the monarchs of Leon and Navarra as often as he’d served his own king, and it was whispered that he was far closer to the Navarrese throne than the king of Castile. That Alphonso might put the man in charge of the front line suggested either extreme favour, which seemed unlikely, or that he had put his most disposable commander with his most disposable troops, which boded badly for what was to come.
‘Núñez de Lara will take the second rank,’ Alphonso said, ‘supported by the Franks and the Orders of Santiago, Calatrava and the Temple, unless there are objections?’
No one argued, the grand masters and the bishop of Carcassonne each nodding their assent, and Arnau tried to remember what he knew of de Lara, the king’s Alférez. He was more or less the opposite of Lopez de Haro, he seemed to recall. When one man had been in favour the other had been out, and vice versa. Currently he was the king’s favourite. Arnau winced at the notion that the king of Castile might just be wagering the potential success of the battle just to play a minor political game.
‘And I shall lead the reserves,’ the king said firmly. ‘Once de Haro has fought back the initial strike and de Lara and the Orders have begun the push forwards, I shall bring the heavy cavalry forwards and we shall drive them back to the sea.’
A chorus of murmured assent and a wave of nods greeted this strategy, and Sancho thrust out a finger to the gathered coronets behind him. ‘You have heard the battle plan. Have the wings and the centre form ready for the signal.’
A dozen men bowed their heads and turned their horses, riding back for their own forces. Arnau turned to peer up the slope at the hill. The Almohads, though taken by surprise at the arrival of the Christian force, still seemed to be forming with calm skill into their own battle lines. Somehow, he didn’t think this would be anywhere near as straightforward as their majesties had made it sound.
‘For God and for Aragon,’ Pedro called, raising a somewhat feeble cheer from the handful of Aragonese nobles gathered. Alphonso invoked his own country and the Lord, to a similar small chorus. Sancho of Navarre simply watched the enemy, then turned. ‘To your men,’ he called.
Arnau and his two companions waited until the masters of the three orders rode back and then fell in behind them.
‘Of cour
se,’ Calderon said conversationally, and not loud enough for anyone but Arnau and Tristán to hear, ‘the problem with having so many commanders instead of just the one is that we are forced to rely upon each one doing their part for a hope of victory.’
‘You worry about our leaders?’
‘I worry about the king of Castile. He grants critical commands based upon some sort of court game. Lopez de Haro is a fierce warrior, but he is headstrong and rash. His charge at Alarcos was supposed to win the battle, yet he ended the day trapped in the castle and surrendering to the Moors. Núñez de Lara is said to be less fierce but much more careful and dependable. He is the man I would place in the front rank, yet his favour as the Alférez of the king instead sees him in the second line.’
‘Then de Lara will command with the masters,’ Arnau nodded. ‘The second line will be a solid one.’
‘Trust in your brothers,’ Calderon said, ‘and in God and the steel at your side.’ With that he nodded his head and veered off, following the master of Calatrava to the array of brothers and sergeants of that order gathered nearby.
As the Templars rode towards the gathered knights of their order, on the hillside above them a rhythmic boom of drums began to thunder out like God’s own cavalry charge. The sound sent a chill through Arnau, which only deepened at the addition of a low, dirge-like chant rising from the gathered Moors up the slope.
The army was forming in blocks, leaving gaps for riders and messengers. The Templars rode through the spaces between the gathering centre and the right wing. The front lines were now falling into position, a mass of Castilian peasantry in wool and linen, some with helmets but many without, most with a spear in hand and a sword belted at their side, no armour in evidence. Like the caliph, the king of Aragon was willing to throw away his poorest troops in the initial meeting. The flag of the Lord de Haro of Biscay rose at their rear, along with the banners of other smaller lords in his service.
On the flank, at the front of the Navarrese force, the first line of defence was a block formed from numerous different units, each a levy brought from one of the cities who owed fealty to the crown. Arnau felt his heart thumping. What Calderon had said about reliance upon disparate figures was true not only of the commanders, but of the army itself. The front line of the wings was made up of numerous separate units all attempting to work as one. He could only hope they would hold well.
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