Storms of Retribution

by James Boschert

  There was disturbance at the chamber entrance followed by a banging on the door. Talon, thinking it was yet another unwelcome visitor and being very tired, exclaimed, “Is there to be no peace tonight?” At the doorway, Yosef rolled his eyes silently and stood aside to allow the new visitor entrance.

  It was Lord Reginald of Sidon himself.

  Reginald was not a handsome man in any sense of the word. He possessed a huge nose, and the warts on his chin and lower cheeks had hairs sprouting from them that were longer than those of his beard, but his reputation for being a wise and very educated man was well known. Talon was resting with his knee propped up on some cushions when the Count was announced. He tried to get up, but the Count hurried forward and restrained him with an outstretched hand.

  “Lord Talon! Forgive the intrusion. I am so very glad to see you are alive, albeit injured. You must not get up for me; we can talk here. Lord Raymond has always had good things to say about you,” he said, speaking in Arabic.

  Talon was impressed by his fluency. Here was one more man on the side of the crusaders who could speak Arabic and understand the enemy! Talon wondered how little respect that had garnered Lord Reginald in the palace of Jerusalem. It was also said that the Count was very familiar with Arab and Persian literature.

  “How did you manage to escape and come to Tyre?” the Count asked, with barely concealed curiosity. He seated himself with an expectant look on his face.

  “It is a long story that I will tell later, Lord. But I could not have accomplished it without my companions,” Talon replied, also speaking in Arabic. He gestured to Yosef and Brandt, who were hovering nearby.

  “Who else was captured?” the Count demanded.

  Talon recited the names of those he knew about, which included the King, Guy de Lusignan, Gérard de Rideford, and others of similar rank. There were some of lesser rank who would languish in Arab prisons for years to come, having little or no recourse to ransom. “Did Balian d’Ibelin survive, Lord?” Talon asked with some concern.

  “Yes he did, God be praised. He has gone to Jerusalem,” the Count affirmed. “God curse Rideford!” he muttered. “I did hear that Châtillon met a richly deserved fate. Because of those two, we are in our present predicament. God preserve the souls of those Templars and Hospitaliers who died after the surrender. That was a foul deed done by the Sultan!” He shook his head.

  “Done by a man who feared them, Lord.” Talon remarked. “They were the Christian fighters he dreaded the most, with good reason.” He shook his head.

  “He will go for Jerusalem now, won’t he?” the Count said. He sounded glum.

  “Yes, that is his ultimate goal. Therein rests his legacy to his people. I am sure of it,” Talon replied.

  “We have bad news from everywhere at present,” Reginald stated. “You know that Acre surrendered, but so did Sidon, and Beirut will in due course. Our castles are tumbling like skittles one after the other, not least because they were stripped of men to feed Rideford’s implacable greed for glory!” He sat back, gnawing at his heavy lower lip while he gloomily contemplated Talon.

  “I doubt we will be able to hold onto Tyre,” he finished abruptly.

  “What do you mean, Lord?” Talon asked, surprised.

  “Salah Ed Din holds all the cards, Lord Talon. He is invincible,” Reginald replied, his tone more brusque than he might have intended. “We would be well advised to negotiate. If not, he will sack this city with horrendous loss of life. Look at the lightning fast way he has taken castle and city alike in the last week. To those who surrendered he was magnanimous. Those who did not, he slaughtered.”

  Talon stared at the man who was supposed to defend the citizens of Tyre and wondered, not for the first time, what drove Reginald, other than self preservation. Talon had witnessed the departure of Reginald and his men at the rear of the Christian army just before he had joined Raymond of Tripoli for his final charge and their own break out. It had occurred to Talon then that Reginald had not been fully committed to the battle and, having seen the disaster approaching because of Rideford and his Templars obdurate insistence on attacking the strongest part of the Arab armies, had simply chosen to break out and leave them to their fate.

  “I do not feel that Tyre is as vulnerable as, for instance, Acre, nor Sidon, Lord. This city is protected by the sea on all four sides; it can be supplied from the sea and has plenty of wells. The harbor is out of reach of any land army, or their siege engines. It has strong walls on the side facing the land with a causeway in between.” He must have sounded sharp because the Count frowned.

  “Yes, but it’s merely a matter of time. We need to negotiate with Salah Ed Din. He is a merciful man, a man of great honor,” the Count replied. “You of all people understand that, Lord Talon.” He looked as though he wanted to argue the point more, but did not. “I shall leave you to your rest and a full recovery, God willing.” The Count got up to leave. “Do you have a physician to attend to your wound?”

  “If you have a physician who does not call himself a Leech, then I would see him,” Talon replied. “Lord, I think we should consider very carefully before we give the city to the Sultan. It is a vital foothold, one of the very last we have in this land. We should not give it to him as a gift,” he urged. He sensed, however, that the Count was barely listening.

  “That did not appear to go very well,” Yosef said, after the Count had departed. he spoke in French for the benefit of Brandt.

  “No, my friends, it did not. I was at a loss to comprehend the reckless behavior of our people at Hattin which led to the disaster; here we have exactly the opposite sentiment!” He shook his head. “This city can be defended almost indefinitely. Well, we need to rest. We shall see what morning brings.”

  Talon slept like the dead and woke feeling rested for the first time in weeks, but the morning did not bring much comfort. Scouts who had been out looking for signs of the Arab army came galloping across the causeway, to be admitted and escorted to the chambers of Lord Reginald, where they spent half an hour in conference.

  The news was already out. The Arab army was nigh. Work that had been going on the landward fortifications took on a feverish pitch and continued throughout the following night. Talon got little rest that night, kept awake by the incessant banging of hammers and shouts of the masons and carpenters hard at work, so as the first streaks of dawn appeared in the east, he struggled out of his bed and asked Brandt and Yosef to help him to the battlements.

  Yosef had managed to find a pair of crude crutches, for which Talon was grateful. Even so, the last few steps leading up to the ramparts were an effort. He propped himself against the parapet, feeling weak, and stared out towards the east. Yosef and Brandt stayed with him while he contemplated the distant coastline, still dark, but gradually they could discern activity.

  A small cluster of Arab horsemen had gathered half way along the causeway, apparently watching the city walls. There was something ominous about that still, dark group of riders. More and more men arrived on the ramparts to stare at the newcomers. A babble of low voices could be heard all about as the defenders discussed what they were seeing.

  A pair of strong looking, stocky men clad in what could only be described as rags sauntered up to stare out at the causeway, quite close to where Talon was standing. They smelt like badgers and they carried long staves that were their own height, which Talon recognized with a start of surprise as long bows. He had not known there were any longbow men here in Tyre. Both men had long, dark hair bound at the back with string, and light grey eyes which stared out at the Arabs with calm interest. The leather caps they wore had done little to protect their faces, which were burned brown from the sun.

  They spoke to one another in a language that Talon could not understand, but which he had heard before. Then it dawned upon him: these were Welsh archers! He assumed they were probably mercenaries, come like so many others for booty, rather than for any deep religious convictions. Their conversation ended and the
y lapsed into silence.

  Speaking in French, he addressed them. “Are you from Wales?”

  He received a surprised look from both men. “Yes… ah, Sir,” said one hesitantly, who eyed him, recognizing a person of rank although he did not know who Talon was.

  “Is anyone in charge of you? What are your names?”

  “No… no, Sir,” the other responded. “He is Dewi, and I am Caradog. We just arrived from Sicily with a contingent of men-at-arms. Had to fend for ourselves since then. No one seems to know what to do with a couple of archers, like.”

  Talon snorted. “Then you now work for me!” he informed them. “This man,” he indicated the large form of Brandt, “is also with me. You will report directly to him and myself.”

  “But, but he is a Saxon, Lord,” Dewi protested, staring hard at Brandt, who was now dressed in a heavy hauberk, with a huge ax in his belt along with a very large sword, and bore a large shield. He glowered back at them, looking dangerous. Talon suppressed a smile.

  “Yes, and you are Welsh. I am a pullani, a man born here, and he,” Talon indicated Yosef, who stood watching the two archers with cold, dark eyes, “is Persian, so get used to the strangeness and focus on the tasks I will ask of you. If you do not, then you will not live to go home, I can guarantee that. Other commanders, as you say, do not know what to do with longbow archers, so you would be wasted and either killed or allowed to be taken prisoner, and who would ransom you?. We, however, have work to do, and there is no time for differences!” he snapped, glowering at them.

  “Yes, Sir,” they both responded, sounding sour.

  “I had some very good friends who were archers from Wales, a long time ago,” Talon informed them. “They were the best of companions and helped me defeat a pirate ship.”

  Caradog perked up at this. “There is a tale put about in our land sung by the minstrels, about some of our people who did such a thing. It is in one of their songs.” He turned to his companion. “Do you recall the name of the bard who sung that story, Dewi?” he asked.

  Dewi scratched his beard. “Well, it might be that it was Llewellyn, or was it Dafydd ab Bran? Dafydd is defin’itely the better singer.” His own sing-song voice reminded Talon of the Welsh archers who had aided him and Max in their defense of Talon’s father and family, many years ago in Albi.

  His companion begged to differ, but Dewi snorted and said, “You never had an ear for music, Caradog. With a name like yours, who would be surprised? Dafydd now, he could make a grown man weep with his harp playing!” Dewi sighed deeply. “No, I remember, it was Llewellyn. He’s the one!”

  Caradog opened his mouth to retort, but Talon interrupted. “My friend’s name was Gareth, and he had four archers with him when he left Languedoc,” he told the two men.

  Dewi nodded. “It is in our songs, Sir! So the legend is true! Gareth and his companions came back with much gold, and he is now a chieftain, living to the west of our own tribe.” Both men had become distinctly more friendly.

  “Do you see those horsemen in the middle of the causeway?” Talon asked, pointing to the Arabs on the stone road. “How far do you estimate them to be?” He had his own idea as to how far, but wanted to test the two bowmen.

  “Nearly two hundred paces, I’d say,” Dewi answered, and Caradog nodded agreement. “Aye, well, give or take a few strides.”

  “A few strides!” his companion said, sounding scornful. “You never were any good at distances over a hundred paces.”

  “Lay you a bet?” demanded Caradog, his tone matching that of Dewi.

  “You don’t have anything to bet with,” Dewi said. “We are broke, and the Sir here is wait’ing!”

  Talon sighed. He remembered Gareth and his companions arguing endlessly about distances, and almost everything else. He thumped the parapet in feigned annoyance.

  “When you two have stopped arguing over a couple of paces I want you to listen!” he snapped. His tone was sharp. They turned their attention back to him, looking sheepish.

  “Now, I want you to put two arrows into their midst,” he told them, pointing at the horsemen who were still observing the city, well out of arrow range—or so they believed. “Watch this, Yosef,” he murmured in Farsi.

  Both archers nodded obediently, bent their staves and strung them, then selected an arrow and checked the fletching with care, smoothing the goose feathers with spit-wetted fingers. After this, they carefully nocked the arrows just under a small knot tied to their bowstrings, and at a grunt from Dewi lifted their bows high and drew on the strings so that their huge longbows bent into the shape of arcs. They paused for a long moment, with their string fingers touching their cheeks just in front of the ear. Other men on the ramparts nudged each other and turned to watch. More than one could be heard muttering about fools and the wasting of arrows.

  Then the twang of their bows, released almost simultaneously, reverberated in the air. The two arrows sped off into the sky, watched by all those nearby. Long moments later, Talon could just see the dark objects streaking down. The group of horsemen broke apart in consternation, and all departed back along the causeway at a gallop, except for one man and one horse, struck down by the well-aimed arrows. Talon was pleased to see that, even if they could not agree on the distances, both men could hit their targets.

  “Good work!” he said, but his voice was almost drowned out by the yells of glee from the other watchers on the walls. Men were cheering and waving their hats, delighted by what they had just witnessed.

  “Dieu, Dieu Bachan, what a bloodthirsty lot, bye Godde!” Caradog commented to Dewi with a grin. “I got the man, you got the horse.”

  “Dieu Bachan, but I did not! It was me as got the man!” Dewi retorted.

  Men came up to congratulate them and cast wondering looks at the strange bows, the like of which they had never seen. Both archers were somewhat bemused by the effect of their handiwork on their audience, but Talon glowered at them. “Your work in the days to come is to kill or distract anyone who tries to set up a siege device at the end of that causeway. Yosef and I will deal with anyone who gets past that hurdle. Do you have a good supply of arrows and strings?”

  “Could do with more, Sir.”

  “Brandt, go with these two and get them well supplied. There are blacksmiths and fletchers in this town, I dare say. Make sure they are put to work. Then ask the steward to provide food and drink for our group.” Talon knew that the intimidating presence of Brandt would ensure that the Welshmen would get what they needed.

  “Yes, Lord,” Brandt replied sturdily.

  “As they left, Talon overheard one of the archers say to the Saxon in bad French, “My word! So he’s a Lord, then?”

  “Yes, he is. ‘Lord Talon’ to you two Welsh louts, and you’d better remember that.”

  “Is he always so angry then, bach?”

  “He is fucking angry just now,” the burly Saxon said in his inimical manner. “We just came back from Hattin and we are all angry, especially the Lord Talon, so watch your step.”

  “And who is that sin’ister looking fellow who is with him….?”

  Their voices died away as they trotted down the stairs to the courtyard.

  ______________

  Chapter 24

  Lord Conrad Montferrat

  This is where we wind up

  We don’t mean to but we do

  Not where we started

  but standing in the chill air.…

  It’s not about return so much

  as feeling the wind

  and wondering what that was

  that blew me here.

  —Stephen T. Vessels

  Talon almost laughed. Yes, he was angry, very angry, but it was at the sheer pointlessness of the battle they had survived; he was certainly not angry with these two Welshmen. They were a boon he had not expected, nor even hoped for. A good start to the day, as far as he was concerned.

  “Yosef, you can stop gaping and close your mouth. They are now our men.”r />
  Yosef snapped his jaw shut, shook his head and grinned. “I have never seen the like before, Talon!” he said forgetting for a moment their difference in rank. “I have seen you and Master Reza do wonders with your bows, but never at such a range!”

  “You and I are not in their league, Yosef,” Talon said. “You just try and pull one of those bows! It takes a lot of strength that they build up from a young age.” Somehow the arrival of the archers had cheered him up.

  “You are smiling,Lord. It has been some time since you did the last time,” Yosef observed. “There is not much to smile about as far as I can see. We are all trapped here in this prison!” He gestured around at the grim setting of the town and its citadel.

  “But today we gained a small advantage, Yosef. The finding of those archers is more than I could have expected. You wait and see.” Talon smiled again at his friend and clapped him on the shoulder.

  Talon proceeded to tell Yosef about his adventures long ago with the Welsh archers, and how they had helped defend his family in Languedoc. “Ask Max what he thought of them. He, too, was amazed at their ability,” he said. “That bow is a fearsome weapon in the right hands.”

  The commotion had drawn the attention of Lord Reginald, who came storming up the steps to the ramparts.

  “Ah, Lord Talon! Didn’t expect to find you here. What is all the noise about?”

  “Just some archers of mine who were practicing, Lord Reginald,” Talon replied casually, with emphasis on the possessive.

  Reginald squinted to see the middle of the causeway where the two bodies lay. “At that distance? You had those people killed?” he said, and sounded oddly unhappy about it.