“G… G… Godde p… p… protect!” Dewi mimicked, as they followed Talon along the stone corridor.
“Scared him silly, we did. Wet himself, even!” Caradog chortled. “Thank you, Lord. You have such a ve’ry persua’sive way about you,” he snickered.
When they arrived back at Talon’s chambers he had to rest, but he commanded them to gather around the bed.
“The Count came to see me today,” he announced. “He was impressed enough by your performance the other day to want to enlist our help. You are going to assist me in training these people to fight in close quarters. It is very different from what they are used to, so pay attention. This is what we are going to do.”
____________
Chapter 26
The Assault
Here they come, those dogs of war.
Stand to your posts; fight bravely.
Defend yourselves, as there’ll be more;
The foe comes hard and fiercely,
—Graham
The next morning Talon and his men made their way to the main courtyard in front of the city gates and waited while the Count harangued a line of assorted knights and other men. They numbered several score. The Count was seated on a huge horse and towered over the soldiers, who stared up at him. Gauging the mood, Talon guessed there was more resentment than enthusiasm in that crowd.
The Count noticed Talon and beckoned him over. “Bring this man a horse!” he bellowed. Talon was assisted to mount and edged his horse over alongside the Count.
“For those of you who do not know, Lord Talon de Gilles was at Hattin. He is a Templar and well skilled in the art of war. You will do as he tells you. If you do as you are told, you might survive this siege; but if you go against his wishes then you answer to me, and you will regret it because I shall hang you.” He turned his horse away.
“Good luck and God help you, Talon. That is as motley a crew as ever I have had the misfortune to rule.” He scowled at the men.
“Teach them to use those mangonels, too, if you would be so kind. No one seems to have a clue. I assume you do?” The Count jerked his thumb at three squat frames in the middle of the yard. They looked like smaller versions of the trebuchet, with a spoon-like arm into which one could place a large stone. Talon nodded and thanked the Count, then turned to face to the assembled men. The Count was right; they were a motley crew. Some were knights, some were squires, some were young and others old. Spearmen, crossbow men, swordsmen, all were ragged, and most looked back at him with sullen expressions.
He took his time, staring at them before addressing them, to the point where a few began to fidget. Some even gave him defiant looks, while others looked askance as though impatient for direction.
As always, he kept an ear open for any sounds that might indicate an attack. It was a sunny day, and the long banners were snapping in a fresh breeze coming off the sea.
“Has anyone here fought in a shield wall? Show your hands,” he told the group. Two men immediately put their hands in the air. Both were big, blond men who could have been Brandt’s cousins.
“They are yours, Brandt. Make them your assistants,” he said over his shoulder. Then to the men, “Everyone will take part in a shield wall for today's practice.”
One man, a knight from the Order of Hospitaliers by the look of his surcoat, stepped forward. “I am a knight! I ride to war!” he called out. His words were greeted with muttered agreement from many of the other knights, but one other man called out.
“This is Lord Talon de Gilles! You would do well to listen to him. I am with you, Lord,” the soldier, a Templar, called out. “I was not at Hattin, may the Good Lord forgive me, but I can tell you all that Lord Talon fought at Montgisard as well as at Hattin! It was he who brought the Templars to the battle! I urge you to listen to him.”
The entire group of men subsided, digesting this information.
Talon called out. “There is a time to ride and a time to fight on the ground. Today we fight on the ground, and you will learn from my man here. Brandt is your commander. Pay attention. You!” he pointed to the Templar. I remember you. Come here.”
The knight walked over and stood squinting up at Talon. “Where have I seen you before?” Talon asked in a low tone.
“I was one of the knights with whom you talked in Jerusalem, Lord. They rest are all gone now. Rideford saw to that.” His tone was bitter.
“You will take charge of the Templars who remain, how many of you? It doesn’t look like many,” Talon observed.
“We are a dozen, Lord. I was their leader when we rode here from Acre. I only wish that we had all perished at Hattin alongside our brothers.”
“Perhaps the Lord has other work for you. What is your name?”
“Pierre de Carret, Lord.”
“Well, now you have something solid to fight for. Know this, Sir Pierre, that Tyre is a very important and strategic port. That is why the Sultan is here. Our work is to frustrate his intentions. Do I make myself clear?”
Pierre nodded. “Yes, Lord. I am glad to be serving you.”
“Send me the leader of the Hospitaliers, Pierre,” Talon commanded, knowing that the next man would not be so easy to deal with. The very man who had questioned Talon came forward and stood in front of him, still defiant.
Talon dismounted with care, tossed the reins to Dewi, and then drew his sword out of its new, crudely made scabbard, and he brought it up to the on guard position.
Yosef made to step forward. “Lord! Let me deal with him!” he said quietly, his voice full of concern.
“Don’t worry, Yosef. This I can deal with,” Talon murmured back.
“Attack me!” he commanded the knight, who gave him an incredulous look and hesitated.
“But you are wounded. I do not fight a wounded man,” he stated, sounding almost contemptuous.
Talon slipped forward and the blade of his strange sword flickered in the sunlight. A small bead of blood grew on the knight’s cheek. “Draw your sword and fight!” Talon hissed. He heard a collective intake of breath from every man in the square.
The Hospitalier touched his cheek, stared at his bloody fingers and took a step back, fury beginning to form on his bearded features. He dragged his sword out of its sheath with a snarl, then raised it high. With a shout he committed himself to a downward blow, using all his strength as though he was determined to finish Talon regardless of consequences.
Despite his wound Talon could still move very quickly. He allowed the man to commit himself, tapped the descending blow aside and leaned back, then slammed the back of his blade, not the edge, into the man’s knee, eliciting an involuntary yelp of pain. The man stumbled to his knees. Talon then thumped him hard on the top of the shoulders, which made the already confused man bow his head. His sword fell well away from his hand. He was about to reach for his weapon when Talon’s blade touched his neck. “Know this, Knight of the Hospital. I am here to teach you, not the other way around. Do you submit?”
The knight hesitated, but he received another prod from Talon’s blade and gave a reluctant nod of his shaggy head. Talon seized his arm to try and pull him upright. “Ugh,” he grunted, as his leg threatened to give away. “You are a heavy man.”
The knight stayed kneeling on the ground. “Forgive me, Lord. I mean no ill.”
“Yes, I do forgive you, but you must hear me, and then we can make progress. We have walls to defend. You cannot ride along the walls on a horse, but we can defend them, and I need you and your men to help. Now go and join your men, and then become one with the rest of us.”
“Hugh of Tiberius, show yourself!” Talon called out, once he had been helped back onto his mount.
“Here, Lord!” Hugh stepped forward, thumped his shield on the ground, and grinned. “I am right glad to see that you are here, Lord,” he called out.
“I am glad to see you, too, Sir Hugh. I need your help to bring this bunch of misfits and hunch fronts up to some kind of standard,” Talon called back. �
��You will be in charge of the spearmen. Today, however, you do as Brandt here tells you.”
Sir Hugh nodded acceptance. “Very well, Lord Talon. We work with you. My word on it.”
Next Talon sorted out the bowmen and handed them off to Dewi and Caradog, after which Brandt, with his two Saxon assistants, began to push and shove men into place, to form the lines necessary for shield walls. They ordered the men to put down their weapons and just keep their shields.
For the rest of the day, apart from a few brief intervals for meager portions of bread and water, the yard was filled with the yells of the combatants and crash of shield on shield as the two competing lines rushed at each other, then pushed and shoved back and forth across the stones, the advance going to those who possessed the most enthusiasm.
There were several boys in the group who had volunteered. Talon put them to work bringing water and, later, what little food they could scrounge from the kitchens. Curious citizens came by to watch; some brought with them shields and spears and were immediately pressed into service. Before long the lines were beginning to look more coherent, with one side consistently pushing the other back.
Brandt and his two Saxons went to the help of the weaker line. They joined the sweating, grunting men—no one had any breath left for shouts—and continued to push and shove. Brandt and his men demonstrated the craft of using the crush to advantage, rapping exposed ankles and knocking on heads that poked up once too often.
“These shields are pathetic little things, Lord. We need larger ones to be effective,” a panting and sweating Brandt pointed out to Talon during a brief pause in the scuffles, who responded, “Then we need to have larger ones made. There is surely enough of wood and hides. I’ll talk to the Count.”
There was a lull in the activity when the third ship belonging to the Count made its way into the harbor. Naturally the city folk all went to greet it, but Talon refused to allow the men he was training to go.
“You can gawk all you like later, but it is nothing to be concerned about. Back into your lines. Brandt, get them ready,” he barked. Brandt and his two burly Saxon aids roared out the commands, whereupon the tired men dragged themselves into line and the work began again.
Once the men were sufficiently practiced in forming and holding a purely defensive shield wall, Brandt found staves, long ones to use as mock spears, short ones to use as mock swords, and cudgels to use as practice axes. He demonstrated the technique, bashing one luckless man on the helmet. The man’s eyes crossed and he nearly fell senseless to the ground, to the unkind snickers of amusement from others.
In short order, the men where practicing spear thrusts, sword strikes, and axe blows upon each other. Talon ordered his two archers to join the line, which they did reluctantly; but after a few actual blows were exchanged they fought with enthusiasm, roaring Welsh battle cries and shoving their shields against their opponents with the best of them. Yosef was off to one side with some of the knights, showing them how a real swordsman could perform.
Talon smiled to himself. This was working off the accumulated steam that had worried him before. It was strange, for despite the hard work it was not long before everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. He was sure he heard laughter on occasion. Then he realized that the cunning Brandt had placed the Templars in one line and the Hospitaliers in the other!
They went at it with a will. Men slipped and fell, to be trampled on by their own and the men of the other line. Few enjoyed that experience, and thereafter people did their best to keep their footing. Nonetheless, there were bruises and cuts aplenty from staves and shield edges. The men were beginning to realize just how effective a shield wall could be, for offense as well as defense.
During one of the short breaks, Brandt walked up to Talon, puffing and sweating, but looking pleased.
“They are getting the hang of it,” Talon observed.
“Its a bit like wrestling with a pig in the shit, Lord. After a short while you begin to notice that the pig is enjoying it,” Brand responded with a glance back at the panting men.
Talon chuckled. “Sooo, you are used to wrestling with pigs eh?”
“My Lord....!” Brandt’s tone was tinged with embarrassment, until he saw the grin on Talon’s face.
“Keep them at it for a while longer,” Talon told the Saxon. Brandt knuckled his forehead, and with a grin of his own turned away to bellow orders. The tired men re formed.
Brandt was about to show just how effective the shield wall was going to be. He ordered one of the double lines to block a street entrance. No one could get past it, no matter what they tried to do. Observing this, Talon silently thanked the Varangian Guardsmen in Constantinople for the lesson they had taught him during the disaster at the battle of Myriokephalon those many years ago. There, the only thing that had saved the Byzantine army from a complete rout by the Turks, was the dense shield wall the Emperor’s personal guard of Varangians had formed.
There were of course some minor injuries, and a couple of the Genoese crossbow men limped over to Talon to protest.
“What is it?” he demanded. Ever since Hattin, he had not had much use for these mercenaries.
“It’s those two people who work for you, Lord.” One of them pointed towards the Welshmen, who were lounging against the walls with the Saxons, laughing about something. He heard Dewi say, “We should turn this into a sport. It’s about cunning, you see, Bach, which we Welsh have in plenty. It’s not your axe bashing that will win it for you!”
One of the Saxons muttered something indignant, spiced with the usual obscenities.
“What about them?” Talon turned back to the Genoese.
“They cheat, Lord. During the practice they… they….”
“They what?” Talon demanded, his patience wearing thin.
“They struck us in… in the privates!” The second one sounded very upset.
Talon had wondered why it was that, during the defense of the street, several of the ‘attackers’ had fallen to the ground with yelps of pain; but had put it down to normal accidents. Now he almost choked. He heard a low moan from somewhere behind him.
“It was not fair, Lord,” the third Genoese shook his head. “They seize and hang on… and then—”
“Yes, yes, I see what you mean,” Talon spluttered, then he attempted to assume a stern face. “Nothing is supposed to be fair in wartime, or had you forgotten that?” he snarled at them, trying desperately to keep from snorting with laughter. “But… I shall talk to them. Now go!”
He lowered his head and raised his hand to his face to hide his laughter as the three disgruntled Genoese shuffled off. He heard the odd sound behind him again and turned, to find Yosef banging his head against his horse’s rump, weeping with mirth.
Eventually Talon called a halt, and everyone promptly collapsed to the stones, gasping and sweating from their exertions in the relentless heat of the day. He pronounced himself partially satisfied and told them all to return in the morning. Leaving their new students lying about amid the tumble of their shields and weaponry, Talon and his men made for his chambers.
When they arrived he faced them. “That was well done, particularly you, Brandt. Perhaps not quite so much man-handling in the line next time.” He directed this at the unrepentant archers, who wore poker faces.
Talon sniffed the air. “Dear God, where does that stench come from? It smells as though someone died! Now, you stinking lot, put your weapons down. I have one more order for you. You will bathe in the pool, or you get neither food nor wine today.”
His words were greeted with appalled looks, followed by actual fright. These warriors, who were afraid of very little, were terrified of bathing!
“Are my fierce and dauntless men such timid weaklings that they are afraid of water and some soap?” he taunted them. “Go and get cleaned up. You all smell like pigs in a midden. Ah yes, Brandt did mention pigs.”
Brandt rolled his eyes as Talon continued.“Yosef will lead the way, just i
n case you others forget how to get there. I shall be right behind you. You too, Brandt! Who knows when any of us will be able to bathe again, so this is your chance!”
Brandt looked as though he was ready to jump out of a window rather than do as he was told. With what sounded almost like a whimper he hunched his large shoulders and joined the equally perturbed Welshmen, who also appeared to be searching for a way to escape.
Moving like a group of condemned prisoners heading for the scaffold, they trooped along the corridors after Yosef. The small procession made its way to the baths, with Talon hobbling along behind them.
“We will need to find them some clean clothes, Yosef!” he called ahead to his friend, who raised a hand in acknowledgment. “If you can keep them in the water for long enough, Lord, I can provide the clean clothes!” he offered.
“How long have you worn that tunic, Brand?” Talon asked, staring at the back of the filthy, patched, and mended tunic Brandt wore.
“About two years, Lord.”
Talon had learned a few words while being around his warriors. “Fuck me!” he exclaimed, imitating the Saxon. “We’ll need a hammer and chisel to get that off you!”
*****
The hard practice continued, and during this time Talon set the Italian merchants to work on the mangonels. The catapults were in sorry condition, so first the crews spent a day cleaning, replacing worn rope bindings, and greasing vital parts. The following day, while the knights and the shield wall combatants were taking a rest, Talon directed the crews to line up the catapults, roughly aimed at the causeway.
He hobbled up onto the battlements, accompanied by idlers and most of the trainees, to watch what the mangonels could do. He wished fervently that he had some of the Chinese powder that he had found so effective at home, but there was none of that to be had. They would have to make do with some rounded boulders and rocks scavenged from the base of the walls.
Storms of Retribution Page 41
