Holy Warrior

by David Pilling

  “Teşekkürlerim,” said the Saracen, with a brief salaam in Hugh’s direction. He lifted the heavy chopping edge of his kilij, now drenched with blood, and turned aside to help his comrades cut down another Montfortian.

  Father Godfrey dashed past, his eyes sparkling with excitement. He ignored Hugh’s warning shout and charged at a big Montfortian, who had battered a Saracen to the ground with his mace. He stood over the fallen man, iron-shod club raised high.

  Godfrey ran in and gripped the soldier by the arm, to stop the blow falling. The big man cursed and struck the friar with his left hand, knocking him to the ground. Hugh threw his falchion at the soldier’s head. The sword turned over, once, and the flat of the blade hit him in the face. Dazed, he was too slow to react as Maymun leaped in from behind and lopped off his head.

  Hugh stared in astonishment at the headless torso, blood gushing like a fountain from the stump of its neck; then at the head, which lay a few yards away. The eyelids fluttered, and the dead soldier’s mouth was still contorted in a snarl of rage.

  Maymun wiped blood from his face. “I told you, Longsword,” he cried happily. “The kilij is a deadly weapon in the right hands.”

  He reached down to pull Godfrey to his feet. “Foolish old man,” muttered the Saracen. “Come, all of you – to the ladder!”

  The bell was still clanging. Six Montfortians now lay stretched out, for one Saracen and two wounded. There was no helping the fallen man, whose skull was smashed in. Maymun pushed the wounded men towards the ladder, while the other Saracens held off the remaining soldiers.

  Hugh looked round for Brother John. The young Dominican stood right behind him, his face a mask of frozen terror. Hugh slapped him.

  “Move, boy,” he shouted, “up the ladder, now!”

  He gave John a hard shove in the small of the back. The young man staggered, almost fell over a corpse, and scuttled towards the wall, sandals flapping.

  More soldiers emerged from the keep. Three had crossbows, and bent to place their feet in the stirrups prior to loading. The others advanced cautiously, none too eager to get to grips with the lethal swordsmen who had felled six of their comrades.

  Hugh backed away in the direction of the ladder. A hand clutched feebly at his ankle. He swore and stamped down, hard, on the face of its owner.

  Lord Montfort appeared on the first-floor doorway of the keep. His tall, sinewy figure was unmistakable in its flowing white silk robe and blue cloak. His thin face was mottled and blotched with angry blood, arms flailing, teeth bared in a feral snarl.

  “Kill those whoresons!” he shrieked. “Shoot them down! Hack them to pieces! Bring me their heads on spears!”

  A huge shadow loomed behind him in the doorway. The massive guardsman hove into view, shoulders almost too wide to fit through the entrance. His smouldering little eyes, flecked with red spots, fixed on Hugh.

  Montfort pointed a shuddering finger at Hugh. “Him first, Abasi,” he hissed. “Tear out his heart with your bare hands.”

  Abasi paced slowly down the steps. An eerie silence fell over the castle, broken only by the moans of wounded soldiers. Hugh swallowed and looked behind him. Everyone with the exception of Brother John had swarmed up the rope onto the battlements. Too weak to climb, he was clumsily winding one end of the rope several times around his middle.

  “Pull him up, in God’s name!” shouted Hugh. “Quickly, before this beast has me for supper!”

  Maymun and two of his warriors started hauling on the rope. John threw himself at the masonry and tried to haul himself up, his entire body shaking with the effort. His foot slipped on the masonry, causing a sandal to work loose and fall away.

  “Help!” he screamed. “Help me, Jesu – lend me the strength to climb this Tower of Babel!”

  Hugh turned back to face Abasi. The giant walked slowly towards him, his lips spread in a mirthless grin. He had drawn his sword, a massive curved kilij. It dangled loosely in his right hand, swinging slowly back and forth like a pendulum. Hugh counted eight notches in the blade. Eight lives taken by this wickedly curved length of steel, wielded by a monster with the strength of three ordinary men. Would he be the ninth?

  He backed away, sizing up his opponent. Size and strength only counted for so much. Perhaps Abasi would be slow.

  No. There was a suppleness to the giant’s long, muscular arms under the red satin sleeves of his tunic. Hugh reckoned he could move with surprising speed for such a big man.

  Perhaps taunting would have some effect. “Come on, then, you overfed ape,” Hugh snarled. “You stinking turd, you piss-licker, you motherless spawn of Hell. Come and feast on my steel, you goat-fucker.”

  Abasi’s grin widened, and he made a coughing noise from the depths of his musclebound chest. Hugh assumed this was laughter.

  The giant stalked closer. He gripped his kilij in both hands and raised it high, a massive executioner’s blade, poised to strike. Hugh braced himself.

  Abasi stopped. He grunted, moved forward another step, swayed dangerously. His left eyeball had sprouted a long, slender arrow with red fletches. Dark red blood spilled down his cheek.

  He toppled forward and landed on his face with a crash that seemed to make the whole castle shudder. More of the red-fletched arrows flew high over Hugh’s head and knocked two of the Montfortian crossbowmen off their feet. The third dropped his weapon and bawled obscene curses, hopping about with an arrow buried in his calf.

  “Run, Longsword!” shouted Maymun.

  Hugh turned and dashed for the wall. He rammed his sword back into his sheath, seized the dangling rope in both hands and started to clamber upwards. His muscles creaked under the strain of lifting his own weight, but sheer terror and excitement lent him extra strength.

  Maymun and another Saracen helped to drag him up. The other two had strung their bows, of the short, curved type Hugh had heard so much about. They notched arrows to the strings, aimed and shot with astonishing speed, picking their targets in the ward below.

  Maymun’s strong hand grasped Hugh’s wrist and dragged him onto the walkway. He lay still for a second or two, fighting for breath.

  “No time to rest, my friend,” said Maymun. “Up and over!”

  He pulled Hugh to his feet and gave him a clap on the back. A leather ladder rested against the outer wall. Godfrey and John had already climbed down it and waited below, mounted on their horses. The Saracens, who thought of everything, had fetched the beasts from the stables of their lodgings in the city. Brother John held the reins of Hugh’s own horse. The Cypriots were also there, the little cook and his assistant on their ponies, faces pale with terror.

  Hugh vaulted over the battlements and swarmed down the ladder. He seized the reins from John, clambered into the saddle and looked up. Lord Montfort’s shouts could be heard from inside the castle, shrill and furiously indignant.

  Brother John looked ready to bolt. He was about to clap in his spurs, when Hugh seized his bridle.

  “Wait, there,” he said. “Our friends are still inside the castle.”

  “Friends?” John’s teeth chattered as he spoke. “They are Saracens, for all they profess to love Christ. The spawn of infidels! We owe them nothing.”

  “Except our lives. Where is your gratitude, brother?”

  The Dominican shot him a look of pure hatred. That, Hugh suspected, marked the end of a brief friendship.

  Maymun was the last down the ladder. He leaped onto the back of his pony and wheeled her round.

  “Now!” he cried. “Ride for your lives, and cut down any who stands in our way!”

  He took off at a gallop down the steep pathway beyond. The rest tore after him, riding two or three abreast. A crossbow bolt skipped over the flagstones, barely a yard to Hugh’s left. He hunched low in the saddle, face buried in the mane of his horse’s neck.

  “Christ give you wings, you hobbled mule,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  The riders fled into the hills, followed by angry shouts from the
battlements.

  8.

  They rode without a break, deep into the night. The way was lit by a nearly full moon, hanging like a silver pendulum against the velvet sky, and torches carried by the Saracens.

  Maymun seemed to know the route. He took them off the roads, far into the barren range of hills and twisting valleys. Hugh judged they were riding northeast from Tyre. Somewhere ahead lay the city of Damascus, now in Saracen hands, the capital of Baibars’ Saracen empire.

  Hugh was too much the spy not to be suspicious. Was Maymun a traitor? Did he mean to lead them straight into a trap? Very little was known about the man’s background, except he was the child of Christian converts and a skilled warrior.

  Yet Edward had chosen Maymun personally to guard the expedition on its dangerous journey to the il-khanate. The prince was usually a shrewd judge of character, with a gift for picking talented servants. Hugh counted himself among them.

  If Maymun wanted us dead, Hugh thought as they cantered through yet another dark ravine, he could have left us to the tender mercies of Lord Montfort.

  He watched the Saracen, riding slightly ahead of the company. A tall, confident figure, swapping jests with the Cypriots.

  Hugh put aside his doubts. For now. Perhaps they were groundless, perhaps not. He would wait on events and keep his wits about him at all times.

  There was no sign of pursuit. Near dawn, after the company had pushed on through the night, Maymun called a halt. The cook, dark-eyed with exhaustion, wearily set about gathering firewood from a patch of nearby thorn trees. His young assistant, equally exhausted, gave him a hand.

  The rest of the company collapsed on the hard ground. They had stopped to rest inside a little hollow, sheltered from prying eyes. There was no water nearby, but there was plenty in their gourds. Hugh drank sparingly, just enough to wet his lips and kill the immediate thirst.

  “You need not be so cautious,” Maymun said with quiet amusement. “I know of a stream a few miles to the north.”

  “Then why did we stop here?” Hugh asked. The Saracen set opposite him, cross-legged, apparently at ease. There was something almost royal about his splendid figure; dressed in silks and surrounded by fawning courtiers, he might have been a greater sultan than Baibars himself.

  “The friars looked on the point of collapse,” he answered with a shrug. “Especially the boy.”

  Maymun nodded at Brother John, who lay sprawled with his back against a boulder, head thrown back, mouth agape. After a few seconds he started to snore.

  “He will have to find his strength, and quickly,” Maymun added. “Or else he will not survive the journey ahead. It will be hard riding and short rations for many days yet.”

  Hugh took a biscuit from his satchel. It was hard, flat piece of oatmeal, cooked over a griddle. He chewed it slowly, holding Maymun’s gaze. The other man’s eyes were deep wells, impenetrable and full of secrets.

  “You’re leading us towards Damascus,” he said quietly. Maymun blinked, and for the first time in their short acquaintance looked surprised.

  “It is good to be wary,” he replied with a hint of indignation. “In your trade I expect it is necessary. Wariness can all too easily tip over into suspicion of everyone and everything. You will end up starting at shadows, my friend, and seeing assassins behind every tree.”

  “We shall give Damascus a wide berth,” he went on before Hugh could respond. “And beyond that, Hama and Aleppo.”

  He screwed up his eyes and looked away, to the north. “The path to the border of the il-khanate is hard and dangerous. I have only followed it once. The roads used to be safer for Christians, but Baibars has made so many gains in recent years…”

  Hugh was perfectly aware of this. The Christian states in Outremer, or what remained of them, clung onto a strip of coastline. Otherwise the hinterland was almost entirely in Saracen hands.

  Father Godfrey stumped over to join them. The friar looked worn out, haggard and dishevelled, and winced as he carefully lowered his rump to the ground.

  He looked at Maymun, who returned the compliment. Hugh watched with interest. Godfrey’s jaw clenched, and then he slowly offered the Saracen his hand.

  “I owe you thanks,” he said. “We all do. You saved our lives, when you might have easily left us to die.”

  Maymun clasped the friar’s hand in a firm grip, then dropped it. “I was hired to protect you,” he answered coolly. “If I failed in that duty, I might not be hired again.”

  “Duty is one thing,” Godfrey retorted. “Storming a castle with a handful of men quite another. I never saw the like.”

  He suddenly looked very old. “I only wish we could have saved Father Rossel. Perhaps Montfort showed a little pity and spared his life. If so, the Lord Edward can pay for his ransom.”

  Hugh briefly met Maymun’s eyes. They both knew the probable fate of Father Rossel, even if Godfrey wasn’t prepared to admit it.

  Curse Othon, Hugh thought savagely. And for that matter, curse the Lord Edward too. They should have known better than to trust any of the Montforts.

  Maymun deftly changed the subject. “We will need fresh horses,” he said. “Remounts, to save the legs of the beasts we have already have. They cannot carry us all to the way to the Tartar frontier.”

  “You have a plan,” said Hugh, who was starting to foreguess the other man’s thoughts. Maymun gave one of his enigmatic smiles. It lit up his sternly handsome face and made him seem almost young.

  He produced a curved dagger from his belt and started to draw a line in the dirt between them.

  “I do,” he replied. “Now, attend…”

  *

  Two days later, in the chill before sunrise, Hugh found himself lying on his belly on a stony ridge overlooking a flat desert plain. The plateau stretched for miles, bordered by distant ranges of hills to the north and north-east.

  Directly below, perhaps three hundred paces from the ridge, lay a fortress of sorts. It was a perfect square, open to the sky, guarded by a stone wall. The square was one big exercise yard. At the northern end stood a row of marble columns, while the section to the west was occupied by barrack huts with flat roofs and a large stable complex. There was also a stone well and a drinking fountain, surrounded by palm trees and strips of green lawn. A few thin, doll-like figures could be seen ambling about the ground: servants going about their errands, and a few men practising at archery.

  Hugh was flanked by Maymun and Father Godfrey. The rest of the company had been left behind inside a valley honeycombed with natural caves. These made ideal shelters and hiding places and had been used as such for generations. Many showed signs of previous occupation: charred bits of firewood, discarded clothing, the bones of sheep and oxen.

  Maymun explained the fortress below. “We call this a maydan,” he said. “A training ground for the sultan’s army. This is one of the smaller ones, owned by a minor amir in Baibars’ service – apologies, Longsword, by amir I mean a chieftain or leader. I know something of the man. His name is Aybak. A halfbreed. His mother was the daughter of a Mamluk slave, but his father was of the Wafidiyah.”

  Hugh looked blank. “A Tartar dissident,” Maymun added with a touch of impatience. “Fled from the il-khanate to pledge their service to the Mamluks. Jesu, do you Franks bother to learn anything of this country before coming here?”

  “It is confusing,” Hugh admitted. “So many peoples and factions. The preachers back in England simply call them Saracens.”

  “Saracens!” Maymun spat. “Your ignorance is profound. Still, I should not blame you too much. The fault lies with the teacher, not the pupil.”

  Hugh gave him a sly look. “For that matter,” he said gently. “I am no Frenchman, or Frank as you insist on calling us Christians. I am English. A Saxon, if you like.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause, and then the Saracen grinned. “Well struck!” he crowed. “Parried and returned. You are a worthy foe, Longsword.”

  Brother Godfrey shifted besi
de them. “My friends,” he said irritably, “perhaps you could indulge in your mutual admiration later. I am getting no younger, and God in His mercy has seen fit to inflict my joints with rheumatism.”

  Maymun bowed his head in the friar’s direction. “A thousand apologies, brother,” he said formally. “It is good to listen to holy men. Wisdom pours from their mouths like cool rain in the desert.”

  He was suddenly all business again. “This is one of the smaller maydans in Outremer,” he said. “Those near Damascus are massive, large enough to contain entire regiments. General Aybak is a no-mark. Baibars suspects his loyalty and has condemned him and his family to live in this barren spot. Every so often, when the sultan has great need of men, a messenger will come here to demand the best of Aybak’s soldiers and horses.”

  Maymun stabbed his finger at the stables. “I brought us here for much the same purpose. Except we shall make no demands but steal the best of the general’s horseflesh from under his foolish nose.”

  “There are nine of us,” Hugh said doubtfully. “And only six are fighting men.”

  He nodded at Brother Godfrey, who smiled thinly at the compliment. In truth, Hugh doubted the ageing ex-soldier would be of much use, but it did no harm to build up his confidence.

  “How many soldiers does Aybak have?” Hugh asked Maymun, who pursed his lips and gave a little shrug.

  “That I cannot say for certain. A maydan this size…I would venture to suggest forty to fifty warriors. No more than sixty.”

  “Sixty,” Godfrey repeated. “So it’s a small matter of carving our way through that lot, is it?”

  He put a hand to his shoulder and winced. “The rheumatism is playing me up today, but I should be able to kill my fair share.”

  The others smiled at his jest. “I do like a fighting priest,” said Maymun with a grin. “But, if God is good, such bloodshed will not be required. We wait until nightfall, then climb over the wall and take our pick of the stables. Any sentries we encounter on the way can be dealt with. Speed and silence are of the essence.”