The Crescent and the Cross

by S. J. A. Turney

  The centre of the Christian force was more heartening. The gathered strength of Castile at the core of the great army was formed of well-armed and armoured men-at-arms with spears, swords, axes and halberds, with shields on most arms and heads mostly covered with helmets or mail coifs. Here was a steel wall upon which the caliph’s force could break before the king unleashed his mounted knights from the rear.

  Five lines of those men stood, prepared, while the allied units settled into position behind them. The Order of Santiago, of Calatrava, of the Temple, and then the hundred or so Franks, lined up ready to take the weight of any assault.

  And it would be a great weight, Arnau realised. This force might look and feel powerful, but numerically it was still considerably smaller than the Moorish army gathering on the hill. The thrumming song of the heretic and its drummed heartbeat continued to flow down the slope, settling fear into the hearts of the waiting Christians.

  Each constituent group of the crusading army was neatly compartmentalised, and as Arnau fell into position between Balthesar and Ramon with a nod to each of them, he could hear the polyglot language of Iberia around him. The knights of Calatrava off to the left, speaking the Iberian tongue with their own Castilian dialect, while the men of the Temple all around Arnau murmured with a mix of Catalan and Aragonese voices, the warble of Frankish off to the right.

  Tristán had opened his mouth to argue when his knight had sent him back to find a position with the rear lines of the Order, but Arnau had brooked no argument. In theory it might be the natural place for a squire to accompany his knight, but Arnau had seen too many young men like Tristán die in recent years. Sebastian felled with a smashed skull in Constantinople, Felipe brutally murdered in Germany. He was damned if he would lose Tristán the same way.

  Just over the heads of the gathered infantry, Arnau could see the slope and the gathered power of the caliph waiting to fall upon them. It was all well and good that they had surprised the Almohads before any further strength could be drawn in to bolster them, but even with what manpower they already had in the camp, they could swamp the Christians if things went their way. Much would rely upon those front lines holding off the enemy.

  The noise of the enemy chanting was starting to unnerve men, and Arnau could feel the tension rising all around him. From somewhere off to the left, a man’s voice cut across the gathered men, all conversation tailing off as men listened.

  ‘Blessed be my Lord God, that teacheth mine hands to war; and my fingers to battle,’ the voice sang, a Psalm close to the heart of all soldiers.

  ‘My mercy, and my refuge; my taker up, and my deliverer. My defender, and I hoped in him; and thou makest subject my people under me.’ Now his voice was not alone. Every soldier in this army, be they Aragonese, Navarrese or Frankish, knew the Psalms in Latin, and a dozen voices joined in the refrain.

  ‘Lord, what is a man, for thou hast made thyself known to him; either the son of man, for thou areckonest him of some value?’ A hundred voices now, and more every moment.

  ‘A man is made like vanity; his days pass as shadow. Lord, bow down Rhine heavens, and come thou down; touch thou the hills, and they shall make smoke.’

  A song of glory, arcing out over the army, beginning to drown out the deep boom of the Almohad army.

  ‘Light thou shining, and thou shalt scatter them. Send thou out thine arrows, and thou shalt trouble them.’

  The whole army was singing now, the Psalm rolling out across the valley silencing the Moors and granting strength to every listening Christian heart. As the song flowed on, figures appeared in the gaps between every block of the army, from the spearmen at the front to the heavy cavalry gathered around the kings. Men of God. Poor parish priests and mendicants to address the peasantry, bishops and abbots for the nobles, and here, in the centre, priests from the three orders, stepping out to bless their brothers.

  The parties of churchmen waited patiently at each position until the Psalm’s strains echoed to an end. As the tune died away, there was no sign of the Moorish refrain returning. The Almohads were in position and ready. Silence reigned across the valley, the only sounds the birds above, the clank, clonk, jingle and rattle of arms and armour, the snorting and stomping of impatient warhorses.

  ‘As the host of thine enemy gathers,’ the Templar chaplain called out suddenly, filling the void, ‘so do we seek refuge in the arms of the Lord. Battle shall be joined for the glory of the Father and the Son and the Spirit, driving away the demons before us, yet this mortal shell with which we pledge our faith is weak and prone to injury. No matter how trying the task that awaits us, allow, O Lord, that we fulfil our duty with courage. If death should overtake us upon this field, grant that we die in the state of grace, forgive us our sins, both those we have forgotten and those we now recall: grant us the grace of perfect contrition. Be thou the spirit in our heart and the steel in our hand. In the name of the Father…’

  Arnau lowered his head with the rest and listened to the end of the benediction, until the priest fell silent along with all the other preachers across the field, and the army chorused its ‘amen’ in waves hundreds strong, ringing out across the valley.

  In moments the priests shuffled back away from their place of preaching, and at various calls across the field the lines and blocks closed a little, preventing the enemy from finding a wide enough gap into which to drive a wedge that could scatter the army.

  A strange, tense silence settled once more across the sloping field. In moments one army or the other would make the first move to advance, and then the other would react and battle would commence. Arnau’s gaze strayed across their own ranks and those of the Almohad force facing them, and the nerves rose within him once more. Every man in the army would be feeling the same. So much hinged on this. Seventeen years ago, these two forces had met at Alarcos, and the disaster had been so complete that it had taken almost two decades of fighting to hold their borders before the forces of Christendom could summon up the strength and will to make another push. If this failed, it might signal the end of any cooperation between the kingdoms of Iberia.

  And success was far from guaranteed. They may have surprised the caliph’s army and given them insufficient time to call in all their reserves, but their army still had the advantage of numbers, the higher ground, and were well-rested. Even the kings of Christendom had to be asking themselves right now whether this was possible.

  A horn called out up the slope and the enemy drums began once more, and a moment later, Arnau realised that the entire Almohad army was on the move, slowly descending the slope like a ponderous landslide. Even as he watched, the enemy’s flanks began to speed up, the riders pulling ahead of the infantry at the centre, their advance a combination of thundering hooves and a strange, unearthly ululation. They did not move like a Christian cavalry charge, a heavy front of men, holding together a line to slam into the enemy. They were more fluid, the entire force a gathering of individuals, the horsemen whooping and each rider racing as if eager to beat his fellows to the fray.

  At a command from somewhere at the rear, the order for the Christian army to move was issued, flowing out through every commander and to their men. The army of Christendom began to roll forwards at a more stately, solid pace, preserving what energy they had, for each man lacked sleep and had suffered a hard night, and once the adrenaline of battle began to fade the exhaustion would quickly catch up with them.

  Arnau lost sight of the enemy quickly, as the army neared the slope and the two forces closed on one another. He only became aware that battle had been joined by the noise. A crash and the screaming of men and horses came from the flanks, where the enemy cavalry had outpaced the rest of their army and struck the lines of the civil militiamen.

  As they continued to move slowly forwards, urgent-sounding commands began to come from seemingly all sides, and the army was halted. The wings had come under heavy attack by horse, and the centre had been stopped, lest they press on into the centre of the enemy
and become ensnared by them. Instead the line was kept together.

  By chance, the position now reached by the orders allowed Arnau to rise in the saddle and look over the heads of the infantry before them and to the sides. His heart rose into his throat at what he saw. While the enemy infantry were almost here and would hit the front lines of Lopez de Haro’s spearmen at any moment, the wings were already a disaster in the making.

  The enemy cavalry might only be light skirmishers, but the city militias were largely formed of ordinary townsfolk with a sword or a spear and remarkably little skill or training. The result was horrifying. To their credit, each wing was desperately trying to hold under the onslaught of whooping cavalry, and there was no sign of a break or men fleeing the field. But both wings were the same, both being driven back seemingly unstoppably, battered and pressed by the African cavalry. Even with the centre stopped, if the wings could not be recovered then de Haro’s men would soon be engulfed by the caliph’s force on three sides.

  The central front lines met with a roar and a crash. Arnau could see nothing of the individual action from where he was, but he knew how it went, with the clatter of spears against shields or other spears, blood, screaming and sweat. Arnau found himself praying, the entire day threatened so early in the engagement. Even as he muttered silent pleas to the Lord, his gaze played across all he could see. De Haro’s men seemed to be holding at the centre as planned, but unless the flanks could be recovered, disaster loomed regardless.

  The right flank was the first place Arnau noticed the change. He never heard signals being given, but suddenly the militias were moving into blocks, a defensive formation that could hold attacks from more than one side. Why they would do such a thing, allowing enemy horse between the blocks, was beyond him for a moment, until the thunder of hooves answered his question. The knights of Navarre, lances levelled, suddenly burst in groups through the gaps left by the blocks of militia.

  The Moorish cavalry, at this point having had the edge and control of field, were milling in small groups or even individually, each warrior doing his best to take down as many of the Christians as possible. The Navarrese knights, however, were a solid wall of death, unleashed by the ferocious King Sancho. The knights hit the light African riders like a strong wave against a castle of sand.

  The first contact was appalling, lances slamming into men and horses alike, snapping and splintering, men shrieking and dying by the score as the Navarrese knights continued to ride on into the enemy, discarding their smashed lances, drawing swords and maces and laying about themselves to both sides, smashing, slashing and carving their way into the enemy horse.

  The effect was swift and decisive. King Sancho’s tactic had turned the tide on the right flank in the blink of an eye, and now the Moors were pulling back, trying to race back up the slope, away from this terrible struggle. Arnau felt elation flood through him at the sight, but swiftly reined in his excitement. This was but a step in the dance, not a victory entire. Indeed, the powerful King Sancho clearly recognised as much, for calls rang out and the Navarrese horse pulled back rather than chase the retreating cavalry, maintaining the line. The militia men, saved by the knights and having bravely fought on without flight, now pulled back with the horse, allowing the Navarrese infantry to step forwards and fill the line at the front.

  Arnau could not see off to the left but something similar must have happened on the Aragonese flank, for the sounds flowing from that side were positive.

  ‘Christ’s blood, but we need to commit the heavy infantry or the horse in the centre,’ Balthesar grunted. ‘With the flanks held, we can force them back, but not with just peasant spearmen.’

  More signals were being blown, though none seemed to be aimed at the military orders, for the commanders of the Templar contingent remained in place, waiting, watching. Arnau frowned as the front lines at the centre gave a great roar and began to press forwards.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Ramon breathed.

  Balthesar nodded. ‘He can’t win the day with the levies.’ The older knight turned to look back. ‘We need to commit. De Lara needs to follow up, else de Haro and his spears will be lost. The fool.’

  Arnau had no such grasp of tactics, but he could see what threatened to be disaster unfolding in front of him. The thousand-strong light infantry under the reckless Lord of Biscay were attempting to push the Moorish centre back and break them, despite being fewer and weaker. Since no such command had gone out for the rest of the army, de Haro’s men were pulling out ahead, alone, and would soon find themselves in great peril.

  The figure of the Baron de Roquefeuil stepped his charger out of the head of the Frankish contingent to their right, and the nobleman waved across the front of this second line. ‘Where is Núñez de Lara? We must commit before the spearmen are lost.’

  A senior Templar rode out and joined the call. ‘We must advance. De Haro has committed us now.’

  ‘There has been no command from the king.’

  ‘The king is at the back. He doesn’t know what is happening.’

  A commotion broke out at the heart of the force and moments later horn blasts rang out from slightly ahead and left. Arnau saw the banner of the lord Núñez de Lara thrust into the air and dipped forwards, and suddenly the bulk of the Castilian infantry began to move.

  ‘Finally,’ breathed Balthesar. The Templar calls rang out then, along with those of the Franks and the other religious orders, and the entire centre of the army began to move, slowly at first, but picking up speed, everyone recognising the danger that de Haro’s spearmen faced without adequate support.

  As they moved, Arnau glanced this way and that. He still could not see across to the left flank, but the Navarrese had clearly now been committed, their footmen hurrying to fall into position, keeping pace with the centre, taking advantage of the fact that the enemy horse had pulled back and were regrouping.

  ‘Too late,’ Balthesar said, peering off up the slope. ‘Too late. De Haro committed too soon, and the king was too slow to react.’

  Arnau looked up. At first he couldn’t see what the older knight had spotted to form such an opinion, but it became apparent as he watched. The spearmen of de Haro’s force were roaring, pressing into the enemy, but they were so focused that they had not noticed what had happened. Subtly, as they pulled back up the slope, the Moorish light skirmishers had filtered back through their own second line, and the men de Haro’s soldiers now found themselves engaged with were well-armoured professional Almohad killers, and the spearmen were still too far ahead of the second line to rely upon them for support.

  Núñez de Lara clearly saw the danger, for commands rolled across the field to pick up the pace and race to the aid of the dangerously exposed spearmen. It was hopeless. As the Templars surged forwards with the rest, forced to move at infantry pace by the footmen in front, Arnau watched the disaster. In little more than a minute the Almohad soldiers had begun to cut down de Haro’s light infantry like wheat under the scythe. Hundreds died, then hundreds more. De Haro’s force had lost more than half their number before they broke.

  Accompanied by the victorious roar of the freshly-engaged Almohads, the spearmen were running, then, fleeing back down the hill, weapons discarded, men falling and being trampled in the panic. Núñez de Lara showed a level of skill in the rout, and Lopez de Haro managed to display some ability too, as the latter rallied his fleeing men as best he could, slowing their flight and guiding them carefully, while the former gave urgent orders for this own column to open gaps up and allow the spearmen through.

  Arnau watched with dismay as the terrified light infantry slipped through the gaps and then raced past the orders and the Franks as they sought the safety of the rear lines. Núñez de Lara formed his men back into lines even as the howling Almohads smashed into them, hoping to repeat their recent success and break this next line of Christians. But de Lara’s Castilian men-at-arms were clearly made of sterner stuff and braced themselves, shouting curses and insult
s at the Moors even as the two sides battered at one another. The wings were now engaged again, too, struggling. There was no sign of supremacy across the field that Arnau could see. It was now a struggle of strength, heart and numbers, each army attempting to break the opposition. If it came down to numbers in the end, then the new crusade and the alliance of kings and priests would end here, in this valley, in another disaster like Alarcos.

  The noise of battle was coming ever closer now, and Arnau realised that there were only perhaps ten or twelve footmen between him and the Almohads. He gritted his teeth, uttered a silent prayer and hefted his sword even as he watched three of those men fall under a welter of blows.

  Battle had reached him at last.

  16. Ebb and Flow

  16 July 1212, Las Navas de Tolosa

  There were moments only for Arnau to take stock before he lost all sight of the big picture. As Castilian men-at-arms struggled before him, he looked this way and that. He still couldn’t see the left flank of the field of battle, but the right was clearly still a struggle. The Navarrese knights, having done their job, had pulled back to regroup, the city militias licking their wounds in the second line. The fore of the wing was now held solidly by Navarrese men-at-arms, reasonably well-armed and trained for war. The enemy horse on that wing had regrouped and were engaged with those men-at-arms in a pushing and shoving match. The African riders were not heavy cavalry, not designed for a charge, but for harassing and containing, and they were a match for the Navarrese infantry with their long pikes. In theory the struggle on the wing could go either way, but with Sancho holding his cavalry back ready to repeat their charge and recover the line, it was as safe as anywhere on the field.