The Last Crusade

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘I’m not sure that even if we fell on them from the clouds, it would compensate for a ten to one disadvantage,’ Arnau smiled wanly.

  ‘Nevertheless, that is the plan.’

  ‘It is an auspicious day for a crusade,’ Balthesar pointed out. ‘If a man were to see aspects of the Divine Plan at work one might wonder that such an important, even critical, event might fall, through no machinations of ours, upon the eve of the Feast of the Cross. It is a good day to fight the Godless, my friends.’

  ‘It might work to our advantage in other ways too,’ Ramon pointed out. ‘From here, the camp of Aragon is on the far side of that of Toulouse. If we rode straight at them we would be mired down in fighting the Toulousain. If the earl’s plan works and we can come at them from the far side, unexpected, we will be facing our own enemies directly. We may well have our chance at the Crown of Aragon and his villains.’

  ‘If we get halfway there without being cut down by missiles. We will have to pray for rain that soaks their bowstrings, eh?’

  ‘There is little prospect of rain. It is the considered opinion of our commander that the enemy’s missiles and artillery will be uniformly positioned ready to move against the walls of Muret. It would take them time to bring anything against us, and given that de Montfort intends to use only cavalry, we shall be too fast for them.’

  ‘How long do we have before we depart?’ Arnau murmured, glancing once more at the dark sky through the window.

  Balthesar shrugged. ‘De Montfort has already gone to chapel. He has pledged body and soul to the Lord and to the Bishop of Uzes as his lieutenant on Earth. He means to fight to total victory or utter defeat, I believe. The man does not know the meaning of fear, and would walk bare-buttocked into the enemy camp and challenge the heathen king if God was with him. I am not sure whether I find that a comfort or a worry, but it is easy to become infected by his optimism. I am ready, and I go with the lion of Leicester, and with God’s will, we will watch our enemies fall like chaff before the scythe.’

  ‘Let us don armour then,’ Ramon said, and the four of them began to do so, from chain leggings to tunic, to gambeson, to mail hauberk. Finally, each man took something he had kept rolled up in his pack since the day they had fled Pujol, his surcoat. Over the night they had cleaned, straightened and pressed them, and now each man was resplendent in his colours. The white tower and blue field of Vallbona, the red and blue chevrons of Juelle, the black lion of Aixere. And Tristán, claiming no house of his own, bore a plain grey surcoat, though with the shield of Santa Coloma upon his breast. Today they would march into battle and face the King of Aragon clearly marked out as men of his kingdom. Today they would let de Comminges and La Selva see them coming.

  It mattered little that the chances of singling out three or four extremely important men on the field of battle were so small. After all, their chances of walking away from this at all were minute. Yet this was their chance, for which they had waited these long months, and they were determined to seize it.

  As each man checked the hang of their sword belts and went to gather up their shields and helms, Arnau carefully placed his own sword on his cot and gathered up the blade of Gombau d’Oluja. The others watched with sombre expressions and nodded at the gesture. When this ended, it would be with the blade of the preceptrix who was too pious, too good, to seek the revenge she deserved.

  They left the keep and emerged to find the knights gathered, listening to a low-spoken mass. They were among the last to arrive, but no one looked askance at anyone too busy arming to be prompt. Not this morning. Never, even before Las Navas, had Arnau seen so many bishops and men of God in one place. While the bishops blessed and comforted the men about to ride into battle, their priests and monks took confessions. It was only when the black-robed priest reached Arnau that he realised he had no idea what to say.

  Throughout his time in the Order he had been a good, God-fearing man, obedient to the Order’s Rule as far as was demanded in the somewhat accepting world of Rourell. Now, he sought blood. He wished the death of men, and so much more. He looked the wild-eyed priest in the face and saw something he remembered from Calderon there: piety to the point of madness.

  The priest ran through the form by rote, Arnau being the latest of at least a dozen men he had seen. When he paused, awaiting the Catalan knight’s answer, Arnau straightened.

  ‘All I have done, and all I have to do, I see as a path laid by God. I endure hatred, which I know to be a sin, but should not a good son of Christ hate the Devil and all his works? And malice lies in my heart, and murder, for this day I shall fight the enemy as a warrior of Christendom, but in the midst of battle, I shall seek the fall of a handful of men who showed themselves as children of the Beast long before their arrival in Occitania and their excommunication. Men who ruined a good woman, who attempted murder in their own right, who used the cross to rape the good for their own benefit. Men whose hearts are as black and corrupt as any demon. Do I need to be forgiven for what I am about to do?’

  As he looked up into the eye of the priest, the man looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  ‘God, the Father of mercies…’ prompted Arnau, and the man picked it up there, confessing and absolving. When he was done, the priest moved on with some relief, and Arnau waited patiently until the mass was complete and then moved on himself. In the courtyard, the various captains were gathering their men, in preparation.

  ‘We will field our army in three lines,’ announced Bouchard de Marly, commander of Arnau’s squadron. ‘We honour the Trinity in our form. Milord de Barres will lead the first line, I shall lead the second, and the Earl of Leicester the third. Each man has his place, and men are moving among you allocating a position with a scribbled note. Mark the people to each side and, once we are beyond the gate and in open ground, find your place fast. There are no infantry to slow us today, and we will be moving instantly. We are to follow the first line and then, when we do meet the enemy, the first line will deliver the initial charge. We shall use their momentum to punch ever deeper among the enemy, seeking their heart. Milord de Montfort has something in mind for the third line.’

  Arnau was standing watching the men moving among them and waiting for his place to be given when he saw across an open space the earl, who was their commander, emerge from the chapel. De Montfort looked unreasonably confident. A man brought his charger, a fine beast in a caparison bearing his arms. De Montfort pulled himself up into the saddle and as he settled into place, one of his stirrup straps snapped. The earl almost toppled from his horse, righting himself with trouble, and a low groan ran around those watching.

  De Montfort slipped from his horse once more and stood as someone replaced his saddle. To the background murmur he simply laughed: ‘If any man be so subject to superstition, let him wait with the women.’

  A laugh rippled through the army, killing the fear as the earl waited and, as his new saddle was settled, he pulled himself up once more. As he settled into the saddle, there was a bang from somewhere nearby and his horse danced, startled. Its head snapped back just as the earl was leaning forward to comfort it. The two heads met with a crack, and de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, lolled in the saddle, fighting the pain and the need to slip into unconsciousness. The groan began once more, and this time, as the earl recovered and straightened in the saddle, it failed to dissipate. The man threw his commanding glance around all present, and he grinned.

  ‘Did I tell you about the dream of the countess?’

  The unhappy murmur stopped as de Montfort rubbed his head and grinned. ‘She dreamed that blood flowed from her arms like a fountain, and she took it to be a portent for this campaign.’

  It seemed an odd choice to lighten the mood, and Arnau watched and listened with a frown.

  ‘I told her,’ de Montfort continued, ‘that she spoke like a fool. I told her that only the childlike sons of Aragon feared such things. I told her that if God himself had appeared to me in a dream and told me I would die today,
then I would go anyway, just to prove the futility and stupidity of superstition. Spaniards and Occitans can revel in their pagan worries. Me? I have God by my side and nothing will stand in my way this day.’

  This raised a roar of a different kind from the gathered knights, and de Montfort laughed aloud.

  ‘Come, my friends. Let us kill a king.’

  And with that the small force of the Earl of Leicester began to move through the gate to face an army the size of which had approached the massed forces of the Almohads on the field of Las Navas a year before.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The price of vengeance

  12th September 1213

  The headcount of the force of the Earl of Leicester had revealed a total of two hundred and fifty-two knights, and six hundred and twenty-five mounted sergeants. The infantry had been left to help protect Muret, while the mounted force had been split into three lines, each numbering around eighty knights and two hundred sergeants. It would be an impressive force in the field on other occasions, yet given what they were about to face it seemed a small thing. Balthesar had been quoting the story of David and Goliath, and yet still Arnau could not believe such a thing would be possible today.

  The riders poured from the gate of Muret, across the open space between the town and the castle, bordered to each side by rivers, a place where fairs were held in happier times, and then on through the town. Their departure would not have escaped the notice of the enemy, yet the direction they had taken did not presage battle, for they did not turn across the bridge and make for the Occitan camp, but rode through town on the south road, as though heading upriver once more, towards de Montfort’s power base the previous winter.

  No one could be certain what was going through the minds of the enemy commanders, but the natural conclusion to take from this was that de Montfort was withdrawing, forming a new line somewhere to the south, perhaps allowing time for more reinforcements to arrive. No one in their right mind would suspect him of launching an assault on a force ten times their size. Had Arnau not been riding with them, he’d never have believed it either.

  Out of the town they rode, remaining on the south road, the camps of the enemy beginning to disappear into the distance now. At the moment the enemy conglomeration became little more than a smudge on the horizon, the front line reacted to some unseen signal and pulled to the right, off the road. In response, the lord Bouchard de Marly gave the same command and the second line followed suit, veering from the old road and out onto flat grassland, the third line coming up behind them as they changed direction, heading west.

  The ground was slightly soft after the rain the previous day, and by the time the second line crossed the turf it was already churned into a mire of mud. As they moved further, praying they were still out of sight of the enemy and that those camps remained quiet and immobile, assuming the knights to have fled, Arnau found himself once more questioning de Montfort’s plan and even his sanity. The turf was gradually giving way to marshland.

  As they rode, the horses were slowing, their pace turning into a sucking plod through the mire. If this got much worse, they would all but grind to a halt and risked being caught amid the swampy ground by any enemy who became curious. His relief when the river Louge came into sight, winding its way through the marsh, was palpable. Even crossing, saddle deep, through the small flow was a relief after the marsh.

  He watched the first line as they passed the river and continued into further swampland. The second and third lines followed suit once again, and Arnau reminded himself that the river would be at the worst part of the quagmire, and that every plodding pace they moved on from the flow would take them closer to solid ground. Indeed, before he had run out of curses for the troublesome terrain, they had reached better ground, and soon enough the horses were back to churning grass into mud and the riders were re-forming into good lines once more.

  They had ridden at a steady pace thus far in the early morning light, saving the horses’ strength for what was to come, but as they passed a high and wild hedgerow that gave way in the west to a gulley; suddenly the command for a trot came back from the lead riders. The entire force moved from a fast walking pace to a mile-eating gait in impressive unison. As the second line made it around the hedgerow, Arnau caught sight among the front lines of the reason for their increased speed.

  They were in sight of the enemy. Having made it far from Muret, out of sight, they had come upon the enemy camps from the far side, and already Arnau could see that little had changed since they had emerged from the castle gate. They had done it. They had taken the Occitan army by surprise. The enemy were pouring from their camps now in urgent panic, assembling ready for battle even as the riders of de Montfort bore down upon them.

  A call issued behind them, and Arnau turned to look, frowning to see that their commander, the Earl of Leicester, had diverged from the army, leading his third line off to the left, and hidden from the enemy by the hedge. Arnau tried to picture the terrain he had seen on their ride, he then realised what was happening. A third of their force under de Montfort had effectively vanished from enemy sight. They would be able to ride alongside the hedge into the gulley and come around from the west, flanking the enemy and be invisible until the last moment.

  By God’s bones, the earl was shrewd.

  Then the first and second lines were given the order to move up to a canter. The entire force surged forward, leaving de Montfort and his hidden riders behind. The enemy had formed into lines already, though it was already evident that they had been caught totally off-guard and were far from ready. As the order came for the gallop and they crossed the last few hundred yards of ground, Arnau could see them in brief flashes between the men in front. Their lines were a mess. They were not in good order, and banners were still being moved among them, some of their troops having fallen in under the wrong standard. Men were still fastening chinstraps, some had not managed to grab their shield or helmet in time. They were many, but they were panicked and unprepared, while the crusaders were full of vim and confidence and ready for the fight.

  Lord, was it possible? Could they actually win the unwinnable fight?

  ‘Though armies stand together against me, mine heart shall not dread,’ he muttered under his breath, quoting the psalms. ‘Though battle riseth against me, in this thing I shall have hope.’

  As they moved to a charge, a voice beside him finally drew his attention, and he realised that Balthesar had been speaking to him.

  ‘…must not forget our goal.’

  Ramon, beyond him, nodded. ‘Do not get bogged down fighting our countrymen. La Selva, de Comminges and the king himself will all be fighting beneath their standards. Look for the flags and make for them. God willing, we will revenge ourselves upon them today.’

  Arnau turned to the other side to see Tristán, face set in a grimace of determination.

  And then battle was joined.

  The front line smashed into the enemy force like a rolling cart into a field of wheat. Arnau managed to take in the banners of the opposition here and there and could see the flags of the Count de Foix, so similar to Aragon’s own colours but for the twin bulls, which meant that the front line was Occitan troops. They would find none of their true enemies there.

  However, even as they continued to surge forward, he could see that the Occitan first line was breaking fast, and behind them the second line held some very familiar banners. King Pedro himself and his nobles commanded that central second line and Arnau felt his blood surge as alongside his friends and every man in de Marly’s force they pressed on, aiming for the royal colours. The capture of the Aragonese standard and their king would ruin the morale of at least half the enemy force. It might just tip the odds and give them the edge. After all, Arnau thought even as he raced on, the Occitan commanders had favoured a slow and defensive campaign. It had only been King Pedro who had pressed for this advance. Without his influence, the rest might just break.

  The fighting between
de Barres’s first line and the Occitans had become bogged down now, but Arnau’s battle-experienced eye could already see that the crusaders were going to carry that part of the fight. Though the enemy lines were so much thicker and more numerous than their own, the momentum and ferocity of their charge, added to the steep difference in morale of the two forces, had changed the dynamic from a desperate fight against superior odds to just what Balthesar had predicted: Pedro of Aragon was this day Goliath while they were David, with a sling loaded and spinning.

  The second line ploughed into the fight now, de Marly urging them all on, pressing forward through the embroiled fight of the first line, aiming for the Aragonese force beyond. Arnau found himself tight in the press, unable to see much beyond the figures swarming all around him. He felt a blow land on his shield, but by the time he turned that way all he saw was a mail-clad man clutching a neck from which broken steel links were falling amid a torrent of blood. His gaze snapped back to his right to see a knight in very expensive, gold-adorned armour riding at him. Though he did not recognise the colours on the man’s surcoat, his shield also bore the Occitan cross, marking him as one of the Cathars’ more important nobles. Arnau angled towards him, baring his teeth and bellowing. The man was not why they were here, but the four of them would have to fight their way through the Occitans to get to the men of Aragon, and a noble was a prize target, his fall would take the enemy a step closer to rout.

  The man swung his large broadsword, a glittering rich thing, and Arnau caught it with his own blade, knocking it aside. Unable to do much more, he simply drove his horse forward into the knight’s mount. The nobleman cried out in surprise as Arnau barged him aside, and his horse lurched and tried to rear, incapable of doing so fully in the press. As the mount came back down and the knight attempted to recover his poise, Arnau was on him. His sword came around in a heavy swing and by the time the Occitan realised it was coming he had no time to parry it. The blade smashed into the knight’s chest, narrowly missing the horse’s ears in its passage, and Arnau knew from the strength of the swing and the power with which it struck that many bones had been broken in the man’s chest, and that he was doomed now to a slow and painful death. He would have liked to have given the man a killing blow to save him from what was coming, but at that moment something else struck the knight’s horse and it reared again, this time tipping the mortally wounded nobleman to the ground to be churned beneath the many dancing hooves of the two armies.