Hugh didn’t need telling. He had been trained in this sort of covert operation, back in England, and had experience of creeping in and out of castles at dead of night. His mind went back to Kenilworth, four years previously, where he swam the freezing, inky-black waters of the moat while crossbow bolts rained down either side of him.
“I suggest Godfrey stays here with the horses,” he said. “Brother John can give you a hand. He is younger than the rest of us and should make himself useful.”
The friar nodded in agreement. “It’s time the boy earned his spurs,” he replied.
With that, the friar went back to the caves to fetch the rest of Maymun’s Saracens. An hour later Hugh was encouraged by the sight of these three men riding towards the ridge. Brother John rode some distance behind them. He was a clumsy horseman, and balanced painfully up and down in the saddle as he strove to keep up.
The Saracens dismounted at the foot of the slope and crawled up on all fours. They were lean, pantherish young men, deadly in combat and silent as the grave, which is how Maymun preferred it: Hugh once saw him slap one of his followers for speaking out of turn.
Maymun now beckoned his men to one side and spoke to them in a low voice. They sat cross-legged around him, quiet and unblinking. When he had finished they each gave a nod and crawled to the top of the ridge. Meanwhile Godfrey slid on his backside down the slope and helped Brother John to gather up the horses.
They waited in silence for another hour, while the blood-red disc of the sun slowly faded behind the hills to the west. Hugh ate a little bread and cheese, said his prayers, and tried not to think of home. The face of Esther, the Jewess he had loved and lost, kept surfacing in his mind, no matter how he tried to suppress it.
He hadn’t thought of Esther for years and had made no effort to track her down. For all he knew, she was living with her family at York. Hugh knew little and cared less, or told himself that.
It was almost a relief when Maymun tapped his shoulder. “Come,” whispered the Saracen. He and his men rose and padded down the slope towards the maydan. They moved swiftly, like wolves in the darkness. Hugh followed, wrapped up in a dark cloak and hood, fingers curled tight about the hilt of his falchion.
Their way was dimly lit by a slice of moon. More light came from the torches mounted on the towers of the maydan, which cast flickering shadows on the ground. The Saracens moved in and out of the light, heading towards a postern gate to the far left of the southern wall. Two of them carried separate parts of the leather ladder they had used to break into Lord Montfort’s castle.
Hugh looked nervously at the battlements. Moonlight shone off the spiked helms of half a dozen sentries, strung out along the wall. Two were huddled close to a brazier, warming their hands over the flame and doubtless talking idly of this and that. They didn’t seem very alert. After all, what was there to fear out here, in the wilderness? A few bands of slinking wolves, perhaps, maybe a bandit or two. The maydan was a long way from the Crusader states on the coast, or the campaigns of Baibars to the northwest.
The Saracens reached the postern gate in safety. Moments later Hugh joined them, huddled in shadow under the stone arch of the gate. Two of Maymun’s men noiselessly fitted together their ladder and then crawled away to the left.
As Hugh watched, breathing hard, the pair carefully placed the ladder against the wall. One swarmed upwards, then the other. Maymun’s soft voice whispered in Hugh’s ear.
“Stay here and guard the gate. We will open it from the inside. If anyone comes after us, kill them.”
He nodded at Hugh’s falchion. “Chop them in two with that butcher’s cleaver of yours. Jesu, it will be a messy business!”
Hugh was happy to wait. While the Saracens moved away, he settled down with his back to the gate and watched the stars.
He knew there was a sentry on the rampart directly above. A moment later his ears picked up on a tiny gasp, on the very edge of hearing. The man had been dealt with, either garrotted, or his throat slit from behind. His body would be gently lowered to the walkway.
The Saracens had to move fast. Hugh measured the distance between his position and the ridge. Fifty paces, perhaps. If the intruders were spotted and the alarm raised, he would have to run that distance and up the slope beyond, all the while exposed to archers on the battlements.
Hugh had seen the curved bows of the Saracens at work. They were deadly accurate bowmen, and could have three arrows in the air in a matter of seconds. If he had to run the gauntlet from the maydan to the ridge, Hugh would be fortunate to cover a third of the distance before being shot down. His life depended on the padded jack he wore under his cloak. Perhaps the layers of wool and leather would be enough to cushion his flesh against the hail of arrows.
Perhaps…
Silence reigned. The maydan was quiet, and the sentries dozed. Hugh dug his nails into his palms to keep himself awake. He hadn’t slept properly since departing from Acre. How could any man, lost in the middle of so much danger?
Yet Maymun and his fellows sleep like babes, he thought. Hugh sighed and drew the folds of his cloak tighter. In England he had flattered himself that he was tough, hardened by war and battle and years of espionage work. Out here, on the other side of the world, he was barely a child.
He counted under his breath. A minute stretched to five, then ten, then fifteen. The night air grew chill. Hugh un-stoppered his gourd and forced down some watered wine. His teeth chattered with fear and cold.
At last the tension snapped. He overheard running footsteps from inside, and the slide of the bar being lifted from the gate. Hugh got to his feet, shook the stiffness from his muscles, drew his falchion.
“If anyone comes after us, kill them…Jesu, it will be a messy business!”
The gate swung inward. Hugh almost jumped out of his skin when the hinges squeaked. In the darkness and silence the noise echoed like the blast of a horn.
Maymun rushed through the arch first, leading two stolen horses by the reins. They were of the breed ridden by the Turcomen, all slender bodies, long necks and sloping shoulders. Their silver-grey coats gleamed in the moonlight with an almost metallic sheen.
The Saracen thrust the reins into Hugh’s free hand. “Mount, and ride for your life,” he hissed. “In God’s name, hurry! This accursed gate has betrayed us all. Soon the guards will be about our ears like a cloud of wasps.”
Hugh took the horse. She was biddable enough, thank Heaven, and was saddled and bitted. Even as he hoisted himself onto her back, a cry of alarm sounded from inside.
Maymun glared back into the shadows. His men filed out one by one, each with a horse in tow. He hissed at them in the Saracen tongue and leaped aboard his own horse.
Without another word the Saracen clapped his heels and raced away, across the flat ground between the maydan and safety. His men were slower, and the last still had one foot in the stirrup when steel glittered in the darkness of the gateway.
Hugh urged his horse forward and struck downward at the nearest silhouette. He was strong, and the broad blade of his falchion crumpled a helm like parchment. His victim dropped with a sigh and flopped down into the pale light; a soldier in a studded leather jerkin, his skull split nearly in two. Blood and dark brain matter pooled under his face and stained the earth.
The dead man’s comrades spilled out from the gateway, shouting in anger. They thrust spears at Hugh to try and pitchfork him out of the saddle. He ducked to avoid them, swung his horse about and kicked her flanks with his heels. She responded and surged into a gallop, neighing in fright.
A red-fletched arrow whipped past, barely a finger’s-breadth from his face. Two more followed in quick succession. Hugh instinctively swerved to his right, and a fourth arrow zipped through the space he had just occupied. It would have buried into the small of his back.
Maymun had already gained the ridge. “Beware, Longsword!” he cried. Hugh ducked low over his horse’s neck, craned his neck to look behind him and cursed. Saracen
horsemen and footsoldiers were boiling out of the gate – like wasps, as Maymun said – while the shrill note of a horn echoed from inside, summoning more of the garrison to arms.
Hugh put his horse to the slope. She streaked up it with astonishing speed, hoofs flailing at the soft earth. More arrows buried in the ground either side of them. The noise of hooves thundered in his ears.
“We’ll have to make a stand!” Maymun cried. He and his Saracens had already strung arrows to their curved bows and shot into the mass of pursuing horsemen. Hugh gained the ridge and turned about in time to see six or seven men bowled from their saddles, screaming in pain.
The others checked their wild rush and milled about at the foot of the slope, loosing arrows at Hugh and his companions. One of Maymun’s men yelped and doubled over, one hand clapped to the shaft buried in his shoulder. Hugh winced; it would have to be broken off and then pushed through his flesh to be extracted the other side.
While the horse-archers let fly, the bravest of the Saracen footsoldiers came flooding up the slope. Maymun let out a war-cry and spurred down to meet them, followed by his men. Hugh’s own blood was up, and he galloped down in their wake.
“Saint Edward for England!” he roared, charging into the thick of the press. He struck right and left, felling one man and opening a savage cut in the face of another. A thrown javelin flashed past his eyes. He caught the blow of an axe just in time, turned it aside and kicked the wielder in the chest.
More Saracens came rushing at him. Far too many, yet Hugh drove into them anyway. Howling, bearded faces crowded all around him, an impenetrable forest of axes, swords and spears. He hacked down three men, but there was no end to them. The iron tip of a spear pinked his shoulder. A sword hammered against the padded leather of his aketon. Within seconds Hugh would be dragged from his horse, or the beast skewered and killed under him.
He was rescued by two of the Saracens. They ploughed in from two directions at once, yelling like madmen as their curved swords flashed in the night air. The footsoldiers gave back, four of their number stretched out on the ground. Hugh, who had lost his temper, spurred forward and made it a fifth, slashing the edge of his falchion across the back of a soldier’s neck.
“Deus Vult!”
This deep-throated cry made him look round. Hugh almost laughed as he saw the two friars, Godfrey and John, come galloping over the hill. John, who still rode like a sack of potatoes, almost tumbled from the saddle as both men tore down the slope and crashed into the wavering line of Saracen infantry.
Father Godfrey wielded an axe, while his young colleague brandished an iron-tipped staff. Their wild charge plunged deep into the ranks of the Saracens, knocking men aside like skittles. Godfrey had not forgotten how to fight and smashed down two more with his axe. Terrified and over-excited, veins pounding in the side of his pale neck, John waved his staff like a baby with a rattle.
The sudden appearance of the Dominicans shattered the morale of the Saracen militia. They turned and fled back to the refuge of the maydan, many throwing down their weapons as they went. A few of their mounted officers stayed and howled at them to come back, but there was no halting the stampede. The officers soon realised it was hopeless and galloped off in the wake of the militia.
Relieved, Hugh now had time to examine his wounds. Warm blood flowed freely from a shallow cut in his shoulder, and his right thigh throbbed where the sword had almost cut through his aketon.
Maymun rode over to him. “Are you hurt, Longsword?” he asked with genuine concern in his eyes.
“Not so much,” Hugh replied. “Some hot water and a bandage for my arm will see me right.”
He massaged his thigh. “This will bruise and ache like the devil for a few days. Can’t be helped.”
Maymun gave a curt nod and went to check on his men. Hugh noticed the Saracen hadn’t taken a scratch. He seemed to lead a charmed life in battle, dodging blows with fluid ease.
Hugh looked to the friars, who seemed unhurt. Brother John had thrown back his hood and wore an expression of amazement on his lean face.
“You’re a warrior now, brother,” Hugh called out to him. “Best grow out that tonsure and swap your scapula for a mail shirt.”
John swallowed. “I…I did not shed blood,” he stammered. “Nobody can accuse of me of shedding blood!”
“No, but you did your best to crack a few skulls,” Hugh said good-naturedly. “Cheer up, brother. Plenty of fighting bishops have gone into battle wielding an iron-shod mitre in place of a sword. Nor is there any sin in shedding the blood of the infidel.”
“Enough,” cried Maymun. “We must be away from here before they realise how few we are. Gather up the horses!”
He snapped out another command at his men, who scattered to chase down riderless horses. Hugh seized the reins of one of the beasts and led her up the slope.
Another escape, he thought. Two lives gone. How many remain to me?
9.
Thirteen days later, the company reached the borders of the il-khanate. There were few alarms on the way. Maymun knew the route well, and took them along obscure paths and mountain trails, giving towns a wide berth. Hugh’s fears that he meant to lead them to Damascus proved groundless. Instead Maymun took them west of the city, at least thirty miles into the wilderness, before turning north again to head straight for the Tartar frontier.
On the journey they saw little of the enemy, save a couple of distant patrols whose banners soon passed out of sight. Hugh had learned to think of these men as Mamluks rather than the catch-all title of ‘Saracens’. Around the supper fires at night Maymun taught him something of the history of Baibars and his people. How they had once been slave-warriors, bred and controlled by the Muslim rulers of Egypt, before rising up to break their chains.
“The very word itself means slave,” said Maymun. “To be a mamluk meant to be another’s property or chattel. They were owned by their sultans and amirs. Like dogs in kennels. Their power increased with each generation, until finally the dogs turned on their masters.”
“Was Baibars a slave?” asked Hugh, fascinated.
Maymun gave a slow nod. “Yes. His people were some nomadic tribe or other, far to the north of here. As a youth he was taken as a slave by the Bulgarians, who sold him to the Sultan of Rum. Imagine, the great Baibars, the Father of Conquest, on display in the slave-market at Sivas!”
Hugh had never heard of Rum or Sivas but was anxious not to interrupt the tale. His companion seemed disturbed by it, and paused to lay another bit of kindling on the fire.
“A rich Egyptian merchant bought him,” Maymun went on after a heavy silence. “And brought him and others of his filthy tribe to Cairo. Somehow the merchant fell foul of the Sultan of Egypt, who confiscated all his slaves.”
“As-Salih Ayyub. That was the sultan’s name. May it be cursed forever! He had Baibars in his power, and by rights ought to have flogged the swine to death. Instead he made him a soldier. Showed him grace and favour, allowed him to rise among the ranks of his army.”
He stopped again, and passed a hand over his brow. “The rest is well-known. Baibars became a general, killed his master, and made himself sultan. Ever since he rose to power, ten years ago, I have prayed every day for God to strike him down. It is beyond the power of man to do so. Perhaps beyond the power of Christ.”
“Never say that,” growled Father Godfrey. “Nothing is beyond the power of the Almighty – to say otherwise is blasphemy!”
There was genuine anger in the friar’s voice. Maymun meekly bowed his head and placed a hand flat on his breast.
“A thousand apologies, father,” he said. “I spoke out of despair. Outremer has lived under the shadow of Baibars for so long. It seems there is no end to his conquests.”
He made the sign of the cross. “Doubtless we are being punished for our sins. Baibars is a weapon, the scourge of God. Yet have we not been scourged enough? When will it end?”
Godfrey looked uncomfortable. “You will f
ind answers in prayer,” he replied. “Always in prayer.”
This was a weak answer, and Hugh could tell the Saracen was unimpressed. He was too courteous to say as much. Instead Maymun smiled and nodded and went back to tending the fire. He said little for the rest of the evening but listened to Godfrey’s sermon on the infinite mercy of Christ with every sign of interest.
Hugh, who had little patience with sermons, watched Maymun carefully and detected a gleam of fanaticism in his eyes. These Saracen converts were often radical: he had seen a few in the marketplaces of Acre, first or second-generation Christian preachers from Armenia or Syria, calling for the faithful to unite and sweep their enemies from the Holy Land.
The company pushed on, skirting Hama and riding swiftly through long stretches of Mamluk territory. They swapped horses every two days, and the beasts stolen from General Aybak’s maydan proved much swifter and hardier than the beasts of the royal stables at Acre. Hugh grew fond of his, a tough Arab pony he named Flight.
At last, shortly before noon almost three weeks after they started from Acre, Maymun called a halt. He beckoned Hugh over and pointed at a high cliff, jutting out from one end of a spine of rock overlooking a ravine. The sky was grey and overcast, and the depths of the ravine hidden from view by a canopy of mist.
Perched on top of the cliff was a stumpy round tower, three storeys high. From this dizzying height the sentries on the battlements could look down on the world for miles around. Nobody approaching along the narrow mountain trails from the south could hope to avoid being spotted.
“A Tartar watchtower,” Maymun said quietly. “We have reached the edge of the il-khanate.”
Hugh peered up at the tower. He had heard so many tales of the Tartars, most of them horror stories; how they sacked and burned and slaughtered their way across the borders of Christendom and the lands of the East; razed entire cities to the ground, massacred untold millions, ploughed the scorched earth with salt. Where the Golden Horde passed, it was said nothing ever grew or lived again.
Holy Warrior Page 9
