Templar Steel

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘I must be stupid,’ said Simon, ‘for I volunteered to come out here, thinking the food was good, the women beautiful and the rivers ran with wine. What did I find? It’s hotter that the devil’s furnace, the food is shite and the women non-existent. Even the ale, when there is any, is as warm as a whore’s bed and tastes of horse piss. Oh, to be back in England.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said the second guard. ‘I never had much luck with the ladies and spent so much money in the taverns I ran up a debt only the king himself could ever hope to repay. If I went back now I’d have my neck stretched by the sheriff as soon as I stepped foot on the dock.’

  Simon got to his feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked John.

  ‘I need a piss,’ came the reply and he climbed up amongst the castellations to urinate over the castle walls, laughing as the steaming stream fell down upon a couple of beggars in the street below.

  ‘That’ll teach you,’ he called, as they ran from the disgusting shower. ‘Take your begging bowls elsewhere.’ He watched as they shook their fists up at them and finished his business before adjusting his clothing and jumping back down from the battlements. As he did, something in the distance caught his eye and he turned to stare eastward.

  ‘That’s odd,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’ asked John from his place at the base of the wall.

  ‘Something is on fire out in the desert.’

  ‘On fire,’ laughed John, taking a swig from his water bottle, ‘there’s nothing to burn out there except the skin of us poor English soldiers.’

  ‘Well I know my sight is not what it used to be,’ said Simon, ‘but there’s definitely smoke, and loads of it.’

  John got to his feet with a sigh and walked over to stand beside his comrade.

  ‘So, where’s this fire?’

  ‘There,’ said Simon pointing to the horizon.

  John squinted his eyes and for a few moments also thought he saw smoke, but as the seconds ticked by, he gradually realised what he was looking at.

  ‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ he said slowly, ‘that’s not smoke, it’s dust.’

  ‘Nah, I’ve been in a sand storm and that looks nothing like one. Just as well really as they are right devils and the stuff gets everywhere.’

  ‘I didn’t say it’s a sand storm,’ said John. ‘I said it’s dust, kicked up by the hooves of hundreds of horses.’

  Simon lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the sun overhead.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he gasped, ‘they must be…’

  Before he could finish, his words were cut off by the clanging of a bell hanging on a tripod behind him and he turned to see his comrade swinging frantically on the rope.

  ‘Stand to the garrison,’ roared John as the alarm rang out across the castle, ‘Saracens to the east, thousands of ‘em.

  ----

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Gaza Castle

  November 19th

  AD 1177

  At the sound of the bells, the castle erupted into life. Men at arms poured out of every doorway and headed out of the gates to man the city walls, each one knowing their exact postings due to the constant training under the watchful eyes of the Templars. Sergeants organised their commands and servants ferried buckets of arrows from the armories to bolster those already stacked at regular intervals behind the battlements.

  Up on the tower, both the Seneschal and the Marshal burst through the doors to join the two sentries at the walls.

  ‘Where?’ demanded Brother Valmont as he ran.

  ‘There, my lord,’ shouted Simon pointing to the east, ‘it was me that seen em.’

  Immediately, both Templar officers saw the risk and stared at the approaching army.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Brother Tristan, ‘how were we not warned of their approach, we have patrols out there.’

  ‘Actually, we don’t,’ said the Seneschal, ‘our men cover the southern approaches and that army comes from the north east.’

  ‘Surely Baldwin would have seen them coming and sent word.’

  ‘Not if they have come from over the mountains,’

  ‘From the Western Negev? Surely that is impossible?’

  ‘Obviously not,’ said the Seneschal. ‘It is the one direction where we thought we were safe from assault, but wherever their origins, they will be here soon enough.’

  ‘What are your orders?’

  The Seneschal thought for a few moments before coming to a decision.

  ‘We cannot sit back and let them think we cower behind these walls like a mouse before a cat,’ he said, ‘our archers and foot soldiers will man the walls, but our knights will ride out to face them.’

  ‘They already collect their equipment,’ said Tristan. ‘Are we to engage?’

  ‘Not yet, for we are still unsure of their numbers and ten of our knights are with the Grand Master. Muster every horseman that we have and instruct them to form up outside the city walls. If nothing else, it will at least cause the enemy to pause and reconsider their tactics.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Simon, glancing over the wall, ‘they are getting nearer. It looks to me that they number in the thousands. Would it not be better to let them have the city?’

  ‘Gaza has been in Christian hands for over seventy years,’ growled Valmont,’ and we are not about to give it up at the mere appearance of a few horsemen. You just concern yourself with your duties and leave the tactics to those used to such things.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Simon and turned back to face outward over the wall.

  Both officers left the tower, passing the dozens of archers racing to the castle battlements. Down below, grooms brought the horses from the stables and set about fitting them with the heavy caparisons that would protect them from all but the closest of arrow shots, while the foot soldiers who had been off duty raced to their stations, donning chainmail and helmets as they ran.

  Brother Tristan strode out into the courtyard, tightening his sword belt and climbed up onto a barrel.

  ‘Knights Templar,’ he roared, ‘assemble.’

  The fourty knights still in the fortress gathered in the courtyard, each carrying their helmets while their squires ran to collect the rest of their equipment. Despite the urgency, the knights’ manner was calm and confident. They formed up, awaiting their orders and when everyone was present, the Marshal raised his hand for silence.

  ‘Brother knights,’ he said, ‘the day we have been waiting for has finally arrived. There are Saracens at the gates of Gaza and though their numbers are worrisome, they will not enjoy the luxury of setting up a siege unchallenged. In a few moments we will form up alongside the rest of the garrison lancers and ride out to confront them. Our role is only to face them down at this point and we will not engage unless they attack. If that happens we will meet them at full gallop before wheeling around to return to the castle. Do not engage at close combat for we are not yet at full strength and we are not yet aware of the mettle of our enemy. Our task here is the defense of Gaza and we cannot do that as corpses in the desert sand. I want everyman to come back here alive. If necessary we will hit them hard and then retreat to man the walls, but I repeat, I want no close quarter engagement. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ roared the Templars.

  ‘Good, in that case, let us ask the lord for his blessing.’

  Every knight dropped to one knee, watched from the battlements by the rest of the garrison.

  ‘Lord. Give us the strength to do your work this day,’ intoned the Marshal, ‘grant us your holy blessing and should we fall short in our devotion, welcome us into your care. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ replied the Templars and made the sign of the cross on their heads and chests before getting to their feet.

  ‘Your horses are waiting,’ shouted the Seneschal from the side. ‘Mount up and reform outside the city gates. Let’s show these Saracens who it is that they dare to engage.’

  ----

&n
bsp; A few leagues away, Eudes de St Amand and his men rode hard for the castle. Since leaving the site of the slaughtered pilgrims they had seen enemy patrols on several occasions and they knew they had to get back to Gaza as soon as possible. For two hours they pushed their horses as hard as they dared and finally crested the last hill on the road to Gaza before reining in their mounts and staring in horror.

  Before them, they could see the Saracen army lined up before the city walls, a wide front of mounted warriors many ranks deep. Facing them stood a smaller yet equally formidable force, fifty fully armored lancers from the castle, fronted by the easily recognised white cloaks of the fourty Templars spearheading their defense. The two armies stayed where they were, each motionless in the afternoon sun.

  ‘What are they doing,’ asked Jakelin, ‘our men are heavily outnumbered? Why do the Saracens not attack?’

  ‘Whoever is in command of the Saracen army is an astute man,’ said Amand, assessing the situation. ‘To attack a well-formed defensive force is always a risk, even with numeric superiority. He risks many of his men falling in the fight, especially against armored knights and even if he was to emerge victorious, he would have gained nought for Gaza will still be in Christian hands.’

  ‘Our numbers look scarce,’ said Jakelin. ‘Where are the rest of the men?’

  ‘I suspect the Marshal has deliberately left the rest within the city walls. This stand off by the enemy is to test the opposition’s resolve, nothing more. Come, let’s get to the castle before the road is cut off.’ They spurred their horses and galloped as hard as they could towards Gaza. Sentries on the walls saw them approach and the huge gates swung slowly inward to allow them through.

  Amand rode straight up to the keep and dismounted before handing the reins of his exhausted horse to a squire and heading for the stairway up to the castle battlements.

  ‘My lord,’ called brother Valmont, ‘over here.’

  Amand joined the Seneschal and stared out at the stalemate in front of the city walls.

  ‘Brief me,’ he said shortly, accepting a water skin from a nearby soldier.

  ‘They appeared a few hours ago,’ said Brother Valmont, ‘and formed up where they are now. Brother Tristan has led half the army out to confront them, but nobody has moved since.’

  ‘It is a typical tactic,’ said Amand. ‘They will have men counting our numbers, judging the state of our horses and noting the weapons we carry. In addition, they will watch the way we maneuver to see whether we are skilled horsemen or if they can see weaknesses. I doubt if there will be any attack today, but you can wager they will be making plans as soon as we withdraw.’ He looked around at the men along the walls of the castle. ‘The defenses look sound,’ he continued, ‘what about the outer walls?’

  They are manned with foot soldiers, archers and civilians,’ said the Seneschal. ‘We have almost two hundred well trained men ready to withstand any attack.’

  ‘I doubt there will be one yet,’ said Amand. ‘To attack a fortified city with just cavalry will have as much effect as waves upon a shore.’

  ‘The sea can erode the greatest of cliffs,’ said the Seneschal.

  ‘Aye, but only after a long siege. Look at the enemy. I estimate they have five thousand men, all mounted lancers but I see neither siege engines nor infantry. No this is an exercise in containment only and I see no reason to fear any meaningful attack until they are joined by their foot soldiers.’

  ‘What are your orders?’ asked Brother Valmont.

  ‘Stand down half the men. Get them rested and fed but arrange regular relief along the walls. They are to remain within earshot of their posts and ready to fight at a moment’s notice, but it is pointless wearing them out before a blow has been struck.’

  ‘And our cavalry?’

  ‘Sound the recall. They bake under the sun and again, I wish to present the Saracens with no undue advantage.’

  ‘So be it,’ said Valmont and walked away to carry out the orders.

  A few minutes later, a signal horn echoed from one of the towers recalling the knights from the field and as the mounted ranks wheeled to return in close formation, Amand spoke quietly to himself.

  ‘So far your intelligence seems to be correct, King Baldwin,’ he said, ‘but we are yet to see how this game plays out.’

  ----

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ashkelon

  November 20th

  AD 1177

  A lone rider galloped hard towards Ashkelon, stooped low over the pommel of his saddle. His horse frothed at the mouth, its eyes wide at the exertion after the demanding ride. Its flanks were specked with blood, but it bore no wounds, for the blood seeped from the arrow wound lodged in the arm of the man upon its back.

  ‘Rider approaching,’ shouted one of the guards atop the gate tower, ‘he looks in trouble.’

  The sergeant of the watch climbed a ladder to see what was going on before turning and bellowing across the courtyard.

  ‘Someone send for the physician,’ he roared, ‘open the gates.’

  Men rushed to obey the command and moments later, willing hands helped the wounded man from his exhausted horse before lowering him to the floor and sitting him against a water trough.

  ‘Let me through,’ shouted a voice and the men stepped aside, allowing the physician access to the wounded man.

  ‘It’s an arrow wound,’ said one of the men, ‘and a Saracen one at that.’

  ‘I am not blind,’ snapped the physician, ‘now step back.’

  They gave him more room as he dropped to his knees beside the victim.

  ‘What is your name?’ asked the physician.

  ‘Geraint of Colchester, my lord,’ said the man with a grimace. ‘I’m a lancer in the king’s army.’

  How did this happen, Geraint?’

  ‘I was on patrol with my comrades, checking out the foothills in the mountains to the east when we were ambushed by a Saracen patrol. We fought hard, my lord, I swear we did but their numbers were too many and we were overrun. A few of us escaped but the others died where they fought.’

  ‘Where are the rest of those who escaped?’

  ‘They were cut down as we rode. I was hit but managed to hang on.’

  ‘So, you are alone?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ He grimaced as the surgeon snapped the arrow shaft to make it easier to move him.

  ‘Right, Geraint of Colchester,’ said the physician, ‘we need to get this out of you. Can you walk?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good. Stand up and we will go to the infirmary to see what we can do.’

  As the lancer got to his feet, a voice echoed across the courtyard.

  ‘Out of the way, ‘shouted Raynald of Chatillon and the sea of men rapidly parted to let the Regent through.

  ‘What’s happened here?’ he demanded looking at the two men.

  ‘It seems one of your patrols was attacked,’ said the physician, ‘and this lancer is the only survivor.’

  ‘Is this true?’ asked Raynald turning to the wounded man.

  ‘Aye, my lord. We fought hard, I swear we did but there were just too many of them.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Hundreds, my lord. And I saw more amongst the foothills as I rode here. They are everywhere, like ants upon the sand.’

  ‘Where was your patrol sent?’ demanded Raynald.

  ‘The mountains to the east, my lord. There is a wadi at the base and we headed there for water. On the way, they appeared from nowhere.’

  ‘I know the place,’ said Raynald, ‘and you are sure you saw an army there?’

  ‘Larger than I have ever served in, my lord. They flow from the mountains like water.’

  Raynald turned to the physician.

  ‘Keep him alive,’ he said. ‘The king may want to speak to him before this day is out.’

  ‘Am I going to die?’ gasped the lancer as the Regent walked away toward the keep, ‘it’s just my arm?’

  �
��Let me worry about that,’ said the physician,’ taking the man’s good arm, ‘now let’s get to the infirmary and get this arrow out of you.’ He turned to the watching men. ‘The rest of you, get back to your stations.’

  ----

  Inside the castle walls, Raynald strode towards the king’s quarters. Servants stepped aside, pushing themselves against the walls as he passed, knowing that when the Regent was in this sort of mood they risked a beating for even looking at him without reason.

  ‘My lord,’ said the guard on the door as he approached, ‘the king is in audience with God.’

  ‘Out of my way,’ snarled Raynald and barged past the young soldier to walk straight into the room unannounced.

  Inside, King Baldwin knelt in prayer before the prelate with his eyes closed and a bible held in his open hands. At the intrusion, both men turned their heads to stare at the Regent with undisguised anger.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ asked William his voice raising in anger, ‘the king is at prayer. Get out.’

  ‘Your Grace,’ said Raynald to the king, ignoring the prelate, ‘we need to talk. Now!’

  ‘I said get out,’ shouted William, ‘you may be Regent but while we are in prayer this room is as sacred as any church, and you, my lord, are in danger of desecration.’

  ‘King Baldwin,’ shouted the Regent without moving, ‘one of our patrols has been wiped out and Saladin’s army is no more than ten leagues east of here. We need to assemble the war council immediately.’

  William fell silent and the king struggled to his feet before placing the bible on a side table.

  ‘How do you know this?’ he asked, turning towards Raynald.

  ‘One of our men just rode in wounded. He is the sole survivor of a patrol sent to scout the eastern mountains.’

  ‘How could Saladin’s army be in the mountains, there is nothing on the far side but the Negev.’

  ‘Nevertheless, the lancer says he saw an army of Saracens flooding down to the plains.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘Why would he lie?’

  ‘You said he is the sole survivor,’ said William. ‘Perhaps he exaggerates the enemy’s strength to justify the defeat.’