The Crescent and the Cross

by S. J. A. Turney

  The left wing was probably similar. Pedro of Aragon had a reputation for this sort of thing, and Arnau knew some of his commanders well enough to know that they were likely holding up as well as Sancho’s Navarrese. Lord, but had he not joined the Order, Arnau would even now be fighting on that wing for his king and would probably have been all the safer for it.

  The problem was with the centre. The bloodthirsty Lopez de Haro had managed to rally perhaps a hundred of his spearmen and had succeeded in adding them to the force of Núñez de Lara, the two men both crying out orders that their troops could hardly hear over the din, let alone hope to obey in the press. De Lara’s reputation was solid and he could possibly have hoped to maintain the centre well had de Haro not decided to surge forth and waste his light infantry, forcing them into a panicked rout.

  The Castilian men-at-arms and the remaining spearmen were good troops, but they were tired from the journey and a night of no sleep, they were fighting up a slope, and they had seen the front line crumble like old plaster. Beyond that, they were no longer facing the light skirmishers the caliph had initially thrown in, but solid Almohad warriors, heavily armoured and fighting with the malice and fury that only a zealot could hope to achieve. Worst of all, the enemy outnumbered the Castilians by more than two to one.

  Every time a knot of Castilian men fell, the enemy line surged forwards into the Christians, gaining ground and pushing the army back down the hill, so that the crusaders’ line was beginning to bow backwards in the centre. Conversely, every time the Castilians managed a small victory and a hole opened up in the Almohad line, it was immediately plugged by reinforcements from the sea of white cotton and gleaming steel that came in waves down the slope.

  Things were looking desperate at the army’s centre. Arnau took a deep breath. Núñez de Lara still had horse. Knights from his own lands, who sat at the centre of this collection of warriors, behind the infantry. All along the line behind the struggling infantry, men on horses in heavy armour waited. Templars, brothers of Calatrava and Santiago, Franks, and Núñez’s own Biscayans, all mounted and all watching intently. Behind them came the footmen of each group, in support, including many of the Temple’s sergeants. Tristán would be in those ranks, God preserve him.

  In theory, King Alphonso of Castile had their backs. With a powerful force of heavy cavalry, he held the reserve. In practice, if the centre collapsed sufficiently for Alphonso to commit those men, then the day was likely lost. That meant that Arnau and the men close to him were the line upon whom the tide of this battle would crash, and who had to stop the enemy advance. The military orders and the foreigners alike would all have to hold. More than that, unless one of the enemy flanks suddenly collapsed, they would have to force any hope of victory here too. They would have to not only hold back that sea of Almohads, but to press them back up the slope until they broke.

  No small matter.

  ‘The arms of our knighthood be not fleshly, but mighty by God to the destruction of strengths,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. Second Corinthians, ten. A soldier’s scripture.

  ‘For God and for all our lands,’ bellowed a voice nearby, as suddenly men fell aside and part of the Templar contingent surged forwards, swords rising and falling as they cleaved the forces of the caliph. Arnau watched. Two men stood between him and a sea of Almohad infantry, and even as he watched the front man fell, screaming silently, his throat opened from side to side in a bloody smile.

  The footman behind the dying soldier lunged, unable to achieve much of a swing in the press, his sword slamming into the gut of the Almohad warrior before him. The Moor was wearing a chain shirt of tight links, and the sword failed to penetrate, but still the man fell away, gasping. The point may not have pierced the man’s flesh, but there would still be unseen damage to his gut, and it had taken him out of the fight. The soldier’s elation at his small victory was short-lived as a spear caught him in the shoulder, slamming into him so hard that it threw him backwards. Arnau couldn’t do anything for the poor soul as he collapsed to the floor and the spear was jabbed down at him again.

  Arnau was faced with a bleak choice. The Almohad was intent on killing his downed victim. He had a spear, which was a danger to any horseman, but as yet he was busy. Arnau could take the Moor down before that spear was brought back up against him, but to do so he would have to sacrifice the stricken soldier on the ground.

  With a prayer for the poor bastard he was condemning, Arnau stepped his horse forwards to get to the Moor. He tried to ignore the crunch of the fallen soldier’s bones beneath the horse’s hooves. There was simply nowhere to go but over him. Hardening his heart against what he’d had to do, Arnau brought his sword down in a powerful overhand blow, the Almohad only noticing the fresh danger when it was too late. The man wore a steel helm beneath his turban wrapping, but it was not enough to save him from the heavy blow. The sword punched a deep crease in the steel, smashing through skull, skin and brain alike inside the metal case.

  The Almohad’s eyes widened and then rolled up senselessly as he shook and collapsed to the ground. Arnau could do nothing but move on. The warrior behind that man was already trying to get to him, and before the Templar could even move his steed forwards, the next Moor had stepped on the fallen, shaking body of his countryman and was lifting a curved sword, ready to swing it.

  Arnau’s own blade, now low from the previous strike, came upwards, knocking the scimitar aside with what force he could manage. As the Moor attempted to bring his sword back around, the Templar slipped his foot, encased in a chain mail legging, from the stirrup and kicked the man so hard in the face that he heard the snapping of bones. As the Moor fell away, Arnau slipped his foot back into the stirrup, knowing how dangerous it was not to have that secure anchor at a time like this.

  Still there was no chance to surge forwards, and another Almohad was there instantly. This man thrust a spear at Arnau’s horse, attempting to drop him to the ground and deal with him there, and Arnau was forced to let go of his reins, and lean out left and forwards from the saddle, throwing his shield in the way. The Moor’s spear point smacked into the shield, sending a wave of throbbing up Arnau’s arm to the shoulder, but the weapon scraped across the surface and off to the side, harmlessly.

  Almost harmlessly, anyway. The soldier to Arnau’s left had now fallen and Balthesar was there instead, hammering at Almohad warriors with his own blade, the errant spear coming closer to the older knight than to Arnau. There was no time for an apology, though. Arnau straightened in the saddle once more and chopped down with his blade, smashing his latest attacker’s left arm so hard that it was severed above the elbow and fell away, blood fountaining from the wound.

  The world was a mizzle of blood now, the stink of it mixing with that of loosened bowels – the unmistakable stench of battle. The noise was appalling, though he could not hear any actual words. The voices of thousands of men, either calling for their god, cursing their opponents, screaming for help, crying out in agony, or simply grunting and huffing with effort, were still almost lost beneath the din of metal on metal, wood on wood, blade on meat, and the general thunder and clatter of war.

  Arnau managed to move his horse a step forwards and momentarily he looked up. He had killed three men and yet there was no appreciable difference to the mass of Almohads before him. He was good at this, and he knew it, but even with God’s favour, no amount of skill could protect a man forever. How many Moors could he kill before that lucky blow felled him?

  Almost on cue, disaster struck at him. The next Moor appeared before him, raising his small, round metal shield against Arnau’s sword even as he attempted to slice the horse’s throat with his curved blade. Arnau dropped forwards and right this time, bringing his sword down as fast as he could to throw it in the way of the blow. He managed, barely, and the Moor’s sword was turned away enough to save the beast, but a spear appeared from somewhere in the press at the same time, likely just an unhappy accident, and it scraped a line along the hor
se’s shoulder.

  It was far from a killing blow, but it shocked Arnau’s horse, which immediately reared up in pain, unable to bolt from its attacker in the press. Arnau had been holding his reins with his left hand, but had been forced to let go of them to use the shield just now. Consequently, as the horse rose, he had no control over it, and felt himself falling backwards in the saddle. His left foot slipped from the stirrup, and he felt himself going. Would he die in the fall? An ignominious way to go, he thought sourly. Or would he survive it long enough to be trampled by his own horse or skewered by a laughing Moor?

  He was so surprised to still be in the saddle as the horse dropped back down, regaining control, that it took him a moment to recover, and he desperately had to throw his blade in the way of another assault.

  Panting, he slammed his blade down into the shoulder of the man trying to attack him and reeled, trying to grab the reins once more with his shield hand. It was at that moment that he realised the dreadful danger he was in. He was alone in a sea of white-clad Almohad warriors. He’d not noticed until he looked about, for the brothers previously alongside him were also predominantly white-robed, but now they were all Almohads.

  Ramon and Balthesar were no longer at his sides and there was no sign of Núñez de Lara’s men. Panic edging in, he threw out his shield and blade, not in any attempt to take down a warrior, but in a flurry of self-defence, trying to turn away the blades of the men all around him, for now they seemed to a man intent on taking down this lone Templar. A momentary glimpse over his shoulder told him that the line was being pushed back. Balthesar was a full horse-length behind him, and so was Ramon, the latter lolling in his saddle, either dead or wounded. Indeed, all along the line, the military orders and the Franks were fighting hard, taking casualties with every heartbeat, now the core of the Christian force holding back the enemy.

  Or rather, not holding them back.

  While Arnau had managed to push his attack a horse-length forwards into the Almohads, the rest of the line had been forced a little further back down the slope, leaving him isolated among the enemy. Desperately now, aware that any of the blows coming at him could end him in a moment, he backed his horse up, praying that the beast had been trained in such a manoeuvre, for without that training, a steed would not willingly or easily walk backwards into the unknown on a field of battle.

  To his relief, he felt the beast step back and a small gap opened up momentarily in front of him, the Almohads still swinging swords and stabbing with spears. He felt a blow strike his calf and his leg went numb, and a spear point tore a few rings from the chain sleeve of his sword arm, but he was backing into the Templars’ line once more, and relief swept over him as the protection of his brothers reappeared on both sides.

  Balthesar was spattered with blood, but clearly still hale, his face contorted into a scowl of effort. Ramon was alive and had recovered a little, but had lost his shield and his left arm was now a gleaming crimson, hanging limp at his side as his sword continued to rise and fall, killing the enemies of God.

  They were losing. Arnau could see that even as another man came at him and he swung his blade at the Moor, sending him flying back in a welter of blood. They were being forced back down the slope, and he could see across to the right wing where the men of Navarre were being forced to retreat slowly simply to keep in line with the beleaguered centre and not allow the whole front to bow and break in the middle. With every step they were forced back, morale in the crusading army crumbled. They would not have long before it collapsed and men began to rout.

  And the Almohads were relentless. The army of the caliph, still bold and strong, were surging down at them like a sea. This was all going horribly wrong. If the Templars and their fellow horsemen could only regroup long enough to form a line and charge the enemy, they might be able to break them, but there simply wasn’t time or space to do it.

  Someone seemed to have formed the same conclusion, for a call now rang out across the centre of the field and the horsemen of Arnau’s line were commanded to fall back, while the sergeants and footmen of the Franks, the Holy Orders and Núñez de Lara pushed their way between the horses to form a fresh line against the Almohads. Arnau parried a last blow and joined the others in falling back behind the Templar infantry.

  Not everyone was managing to pull back so easily, though. As Arnau extricated himself from the fray and allowed white-and-black-clad Templars to flow round him, taking the fight afresh to the Moor, he could see others unable to withdraw. The Baron de Roquefeuil was still at the fore with a dozen of his knights, including d’Orbessan, unable to pull back. Even as Arnau registered their peril, one of those knights’ horses reared and the dying man atop it fell away into the press.

  Worse still, the man who had given the command for the Templars to reorder, the same master who had been at that meeting with the kings before the battle, was caught up in the fighting, unable to retreat. As Arnau watched and prayed for the man, the master bellowed in agony, a spear point driving into his side. As he tried desperately to pull back from the painful attack, a sword slammed into his other side and something struck the horse, which whinnied and then fell.

  The master was gone.

  The valley was becoming a disaster on the scale of Alarcos.

  Indeed, Arnau could feel the atmosphere of panic and dismay spreading throughout the army, each man becoming convinced that the day was lost. ‘We need to do something,’ he breathed.

  Balthesar, shaking with expended effort beside him, shook his head. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Form up for a charge?’

  ‘There’s no room, Vallbona. The enemy press us back still, and the king’s forces are behind us.’

  ‘I am done,’ Ramon said bitterly, using his good hand to haul on his reins and turn his horse, riding back from the field to safety. Arnau noted with a sinking feeling how pale his friend looked and just how much blood coated his left side, even soaking and matting the horse’s hair. It would be nothing short of miraculous if Ramon survived the day.

  A cry of horror arose from the left and Arnau rose as high as he could in the saddle to see what latest disaster had befallen them. Some distance away he could see the banner of the Order of Calatrava, now surrounded by Almohads. In a heartbeat, the banner had fallen. The Temple was not the only order suffering horrors this day. A glance to the right and now there were only five men accompanying the baron, though at least some of his footmen had managed to reach them and join their master in the fight.

  The most incongruous of all sights was that of a man in the robes of a high churchman – a bishop, Arnau thought – stomping across the fallen bodies with a crozier in one hand and a mace in the other, snarling curses as he pulled soldiers aside and smashed the mace into the face of a Moor, taking a heartbeat to form the sign of the cross with the weapon over the fallen infidel before wading on into the fray.

  This was a disaster.

  He turned to look back. Would the king commit the knights of the third line, the reserve? Not that they would make much of a difference. There was no chance of them forming a charge, and they would simply add to the steel line being forced back inexorably by the endless tide of Almohad warriors.

  His eyes widened as he saw the royal party some distance to the rear at the centre of the mounted force. The royal banner was on the move, but it was not ordering an advance. Instead, it was receding, pulling back from the force. Surely Alphonso was not leaving the field? If the Castilian king left the battle, that would end it for everyone. Alphonso of Castile had been the driving force behind the crusade and the linchpin of the campaign, for all that the other kings were every bit as eminent. Alphonso was still bitter over the catastrophe of Alarcos and the powerful fortresses that had fallen to the Moors since then, and he had built on the necessity of vengeance for God and for Castile, and for the Order who had lost those castles in calling for the crusade. If he now fled the field, with or without his horsemen, the resolve of the entire army would crumb
le and this truly would be another Alarcos.

  ‘The king is leaving,’ he said, pointing, trying not to shout it as that would undoubtedly induce panic in the army around him. Balthesar followed Arnau’s gesture and cursed in a most un-knightly way. The Templars were being forced back once more, the Almohads flooding forwards, and Arnau watched in dismay as the master of Barbera, the most senior brother he knew, suddenly howled in pain and tumbled from his horse.

  ‘The king must be persuaded to advance with his knights,’ Balthesar shouted over the din. ‘If he does, then perhaps we can hold and even begin to push once more.’

  It was unlikely, and they both knew it. The enemy were too numerous and too confident, their push forwards currently unstoppable. All the king’s horse would do would be to hold for a while longer and slow the inevitable. But perhaps that would grant the army and its commanders sufficient time and opportunity to come up with a plan, a way to change the direction in which this day was heading.

  ‘The king won’t listen to us,’ Arnau grunted.

  ‘Perhaps not. But he will listen to the other monarchs.’

  ‘But they have no reason to listen to us, ether,’ Arnau snapped, yet even as he said it, he recalled that meeting before the battle. The kings of Castile and Aragon had been aloof, distant, had listened to the three knights and largely dismissed them out of hand, but the king of Navarre? Sancho the Strong had listened. In the end, he had dismissed them, too, but at least he had listened.

  He nodded at Balthesar. ‘The king of Navarre might listen,’ he admitted.

  ‘We will need more senior men to persuade him,’ Balthesar said. Turning, the older knight hollered a name across the field, and a senior brother rose in his saddle from where he had been examining the disaster going on around him, then looked across to Balthesar. The grey-haired knight made a couple of gestures and then pointed to the gap between them and the third line of the king’s horse. The senior man nodded and wheeled his horse, gathering men around him.