This charge was more fiery and determined than the last; also the Turks had settled down to their shooting, and were not so alert. As he sped forward Roger saw in front of him an infidel whose horse had been baulked as he swung round; he aimed his lance-point between the shoulder-blades and sat back for the shock; the Turk saw him coming and lay flat on his pony’s back, the lance passed harmlessly overhead; but in the next stride they were up with him, Jack had reared up, and his ironshod forefeet crashed down on horse and man. Then they were on the crest, and looking down on the reserves of the Turkish army massed below; Roger had a glimpse of an endless multitude of ponies scurrying over the ground as far as the eye could see, and he was thankful that it was his duty to gallop back as fast as he could. He had time to notice that Jack’s Turk was wriggling on the ground with a broken back.
The feigned flight did not tempt the Turks to charge, but it had been a partial success, all the same. The enemy had lost a number of men who were not quick enough in getting away, and they realized that if they sat still, their horses facing forward, some more might be snapped up in another surprise attack. Accordingly, they halted on the hilltop, and there was a pause in the main battle, though the clamour on the left showed that fighting was still going on at the camp.
Roger found himself again in the front rank, and now Hugh de Dives was beside him once more. The veteran was as talkative as ever, and discussed the fight with a detached interest, as though nobody could possibly be hurt in such an absorbing game of chess. Jack was blown now, and tired enough to stand still without being incessantly ridden.
“What happens now?” Hugh was saying. “It seems we can’t catch them, and they are too cautious to do us much harm. You will notice that they have hardly killed a man of ours here, whatever they may be doing to the foot, and we caught quite a few of them. That is a well-trained horse you are riding, by the way; he smashed his man very nicely. If only our horses last out, we ought to win this fight after all. Those ponymen are under good control, but we are deep in their land, and their patience can’t last for ever; they must charge eventually, to get rid of us. If only these knights can keep their tempers and stand still. Remember what happened to the Count Palatine of Suabia, and the Count of Teck, when they were with Walter’s lot outside Chalcedon, and don’t try to charge till we all move together. If we sit tight and keep our order we ought to reach Antioch yet.”
This was the first hint Roger had heard that a more experienced warrior thought they might quite likely lose the battle, and it disquieted him considerably. He wondered how far Jack could carry him in a fast gallop towards Nicaea; the horse was getting his breath back, but he was no longer fresh. There was an arrow sticking in the front of the saddle-bow, and another in his shield; he dug the butt of his lance in the ground and pulled them out; where he sat he could see no blood on his horse, except by the off-fore fetlock, and that was probably Turkish. Hugh confirmed that Jack was so far unwounded.
The lull in the fighting was not of long duration. Presently a clamour arose on the right of the line, and was taken up nearer and nearer; then Roger saw a band of Turks riding down the ranks at a hand-gallop, shooting arrows as they came. Their reins hung on the ponies’ necks, and, with the bow in the left hand and the string in the right, they could shoot almost as easily to the left as in front. Luckily, they had not realized yet that Western mail was proof against their arrows, and they shot at the men and not the horses. They swept down the line, shouting and twanging their bowstrings, without doing any damage that Roger could see. The Duke was riding round his men, first in front of them to the right, with his shield towards the enemy, then to the left behind the line; he called out incessantly that they should hold their ground and not charge without orders. A second party of Turks rode by, and now they were learning from experience, and shot low at the horses; many beasts were wounded, though not mortally, for the weakly-impelled arrows could not penetrate from the breast to the heart, or split a skull. But a certain number were hit in an artery, many more were lamed, and all the injured animals shrieked and threw themselves about, causing gaps in the ranks. Some knights also were hit in their unprotected legs. Following his neighbour’s example, Roger inclined his horse to the right, crouched very low in the saddle, and guarded his left leg with the tail of his kite-shaped shield. He heard Hugh muttering beside him:
“This can’t go on. We must do something now. Here we are, being shot down one by one without striking a blow. We must frighten these Turks away, or we shall all leave our bones here. I’ve seen many a battle, I’ve fought for my bread all my life long, and I won’t wait to be shot like a strawfilled mark on a post. To Hell with the Duke! Will you follow, youngster, if I go after the next gang of bowmen?”
Roger was getting more and more frightened; it was wrong to disobey the Duke’s orders and break the line, but Hugh must obviously know a great deal about fighting; furthermore, he was talking sense, and something had to be done. He was terrified of leaving the protection of his companions, where he could only be shot at in front, but he was also frightened of showing his fear. His throat was dry, and his eyes smarting from the dust, his left arm ached from managing the heavy shield, and his sun-heated helm seemed to be eating into his scalp. Anything to finish this suspense, he thought; if he got moving again his stomach would either be sick or quieten down at last. He nodded agreement to Hugh.
The next band of Turks came along, about fifty of them, straggling in column at an easy canter, mocking at the pilgrims while they shot their arrows. As the tail of the band passed, Hugh pulled his horse out of the ranks and galloped diagonally to the left to cut them off from their main body; Roger and eight of his immediate neighbours followed him. Instantly the Turkish line on the hill was in motion; by the time they got abreast of the cantering archers there was a crescent of Turks hemming them in, and shooting at them from all sides. Hugh saw the danger, and swerved again left-handed, to regain the ranks of the pilgrims; this exposed his unshielded right side to the arrows, and a moment later he went down, with two shafts in his horse’s belly, and one in his own ankle. Roger knew he ought to stop and succour him, but he also knew that he was in deadly peril; Jack was at full stretch, excited by all the other horses galloping round him, and some of his rider’s fear had crept into the hysterical brain that all mettlesome chargers possess; Roger gave a tug at the reins, but when this had no effect he let his fear control him, and thundered back towards his own battleline. The skirmishing party was still in the way, and he saw that by hard riding he would just catch the last man; remembering how the previous infidel had avoided him, he aimed his lance low, and it was nearly wrenched from his hand as it entered the enemy’s body above the hip; they were riding at right angles to one another, and Jack swerved to avoid the pony’s quarters; as the Turk fell to the ground Roger raised the butt of his lance to clear it. Then he was through his own ranks, which made way for him, and trotting behind them to his place in the line. Of the ten who had ridden out, two more came back on their panting horses, and four on foot, but Hugh and two others were lying in front with their throats cut, and the Turks were back on their hilltop.
The Duke rode up to him; his face was black with dust, save where the red of recent sunburn glowed through the channels cleared by sweat, and his voice, from much shouting, was a husky croak. He thrust his horse up against Roger, and leaned out of the saddle towards him.
“You blasted baby knight! You rash, disobedient fool! Three good knights, and seven warhorses, lost for one unarmed infidel. Don’t you see that is what they wanted you to do. You should be blinded and castrated for murdering your comrades. If we weren’t all so near death I’d make an example of you this very minute! Now stay in your place, and if you charge without orders again I’ll ride you down myself!” and he passed down the line, croaking encouragement to his men.
Roger sat his horse with a heavy heart. The Duke evidently thought he had led the charge, and would hold it against him if lands and castles were g
iven out in the future; but worst of all was the feeling that he had been craven, when he might have saved Hugh de Dives. What had the older man said only that morning? “It is the first duty of a knight to stand by his comrade who is on the ground.” Certainly Jack had been difficult to stop, and he got the Turk he had been aiming at, but all the same he had left his old friend, unhorsed and with an arrow in his leg, to have his throat cut by an infidel in dirty woollens. All he could think of was that Hugh was dead, and by his fault. Then he began to remember that he had never heard of Hugh a year ago, that on the march he had regarded him as a long-winded bore and a social climber, pushing himself into the society of born knights. After all, he was not Hugh’s man, or bound to him in any way, and it had been impossible to pull Jack up. Furthermore, the Duke had not noticed that part of it at all; he obviously thought Roger had led the charge himself, which would have been rather a dashing thing to do. So he comforted himself—till an even more disturbing thought struck him. If an experienced veteran like Hugh could fall into a Turkish trap, so obvious when you saw it, what chance of life had he, or even the rest of the pilgrims, mostly young and vainglorious knights?
The agony of the Christian army continued. It was two hours since they had met the enemy, and still the arrows flew, and still there was no hope of closing with the lance. The clamour from the camp now had a shriller tone, more of panic than of defiance, and the shrieks of women could be distinguished. The Turks must be getting in amongst the followers. Horses dropped continually, and the line of dismounted knights in rear grew thicker, many of them seated on the ground nursing a wounded leg. If the whole infidel army had advanced within arrow-range, the pilgrims must have been overwhelmed; but they still tried to tempt the knights into partial charges, and only small bodies of them galloped along the line, while the rest watched from the hillside. The Duke and the other leaders rode round their men, keeping the ranks in order, but there was a note of desperation in their voices; they no longer promised victory, but appealed to honour to make their followers stand firm. A band of Turks, riding close, suddenly slung their bows, drew their little curved swords, and dashed into the front rank a hundred yards from where Roger was sitting; the unarmed men were easily repulsed, but it showed that the enemy was getting bolder. A young, white-faced knight, a few paces to the left, pulled back from the line with a curse, and began to walk his horse towards the camp. The Duke galloped after him, and seized his bridle. Roger could not hear what was said, but the knight returned sullenly to his place in the line. This was a revelation to him; this was the first battle he had seen, and he had no standard of comparison; now he knew that not only was it a stalemate, but that other people, just as sensible and brave as he, thought it was time to slip away. It was the right thing to do to be afraid just now, and therefore his fear increased. He had killed a Turk, which not many of them had done, he had taken his fair share of the front rank, now he must begin to look for safety before he was left unsupported.
Passive defence gives the novice too much time for thought about his own peril, and in a few minutes Roger would have been riding to the camp, in a surly mood of fear and self-pity, but at that moment orders and movement came to distract him. The right flank was in the air, and had suffered most from the Turkish arrows on the unshielded side; now the leaders were trying to wheel the whole line back through a slight turn, pivoting on the camp; at the same time they closed to the left, shortening the front and filling up the gaps. This meant that the Turkish left wing had to come down from their hill if they were to follow up, and the numerous dead horses made an obstacle in front of the Christian army. But it was not an easy manoeuvre to accomplish; wheeling in line is always difficult to undrilled troops, and when men are frightened, a movement to the rear is hard to halt. In fact, a few knights rode away, but the leaders were in the rear watching out for this, and a bunchy, crooked battleline was formed again. The difficulty of backing his horse, and then making him passage to the left, filled Roger’s mind and for the moment drove out fear; the wary Turks, suspicious of every tactical movement, hung back to see what was coming, and there was a lull in the arrow-shower. Someone had thought of another expedient for prolonging the defence; the cry went up for the dismounted knights to stand in the front line, and they moved forward willingly enough; they preferred to see the enemy and, anyway, if the line broke they had no chance of excape. Their long shields did something to protect the horses, and their lances kept off a Turkish charge. Roger immediately felt braver; there is an enormous difference between standing in the front rank, feeling exposed, and naked, and seeing the shoulders of a comrade between oneself and the enemy. The line was thicker, too, and it would not be so easy to turn Jack round for flight. He considered the future quite calmly; it was now midday, and they must hold out either till darkness fell on one of the longest days of the year, or till the Turks were out of arrows; at nightfall, if he was still mounted, he could try the long and dangerous ride to Nicaea and its Greek garrison; if Jack was shot, there was still the camp and its crossbowmen; water was near, there were plenty of dead horses to eat, and they ought to be able to hold out for several days. With the knowledge that he need not die to-day, his spirits lifted.
The infidels had realized that the Christian retreat was not a ruse to trap them, but a genuine admission of defeat; they came on boldly, and pressed closer to shoot their arrows. The dismounted men in the front rank prevented them from charging into the pilgrims, and also hindered insubordinate counter-attacks; but few knights had the spirit left to expose themselves more than was necessary. The Turks still concentrated on the right wing; they were edging round it now to outflank it, and this made things quieter where Roger sat, on the left centre. He looked over his shoulder at the camp. Half-pitched tents still flapped like sails, but more of them were flat than when he had looked last; a pack-horse galloped towards him with an arrow in its rump; there were riders among the tents, and unless they were knights deserting from battle, the infidels must have broken the defence. If rout came, he must flee at once, there was now no question of holding out in the camp. What would he do if he saw the Duke unhorsed before his eyes? It was a vassal’s duty to give his horse in battle to his lord, but no dismounted man would get away from this field. He prayed that nothing of the sort would happen, or that if it did there would be someone braver and more willing standing by. He was no longer hoping to fight well and make a name, only to see to-morrow’s sun; and still he had not drawn his sword or taken a blow on his shield.
The right wing was still hard pressed, and the leaders tried to repeat their manoeuvre. If they could bring it off, the line would be at right angles to its original position, and the battered flank would rest on the marsh. He saw the Duke behind him, waving his lance, and shouting to his men to form up on the new line; they all turned their horses and went slowly back. But the order to halt was not obeyed; three hours of being shot at without a chance for a blow in return, three hours of heat and dust and thirst, three hours under shield on a wooden warsaddle, had drained all courage from the knights. Most of them pushed on towards the camp in a disorderly mass, and among them was Roger. His heart was full of rage and misery; damn his oath and blast the Christians of the East; their leaders had dragged them into a wilderness to be a mark for arrows, but at last he had found more sense; this wasn’t how battles should be fought. Jack still had a few more miles in him, and he would get to Nicaea somehow if the infidels stayed to plunder the camp; he would take service under the Greeks, and attack the Turks where they stood behind stone walls, and couldn’t retire out of reach; suicide was a mortal sin. His lord could die fighting if he liked; the battle was lost and a man must look after himself; besides, so many were running away that it must be the right thing to do. He rode on, tears washing the dust from his cheeks, and tried to shut out of his mind the cracked shouts of the Duke and his horseless knights who still faced the enemy.
As they reached the camp a cloud of Turks galloped out at the other side of it, thi
nking that the fugitives were a rescue party. Roger was horrified by what he saw; the tents had been pitched hurriedly as the baggage animals came up, the big pavilions huddled as close together as possible, that their guy-ropes might make a barrier. Packloads had been thrown down higgledy-piggledy, and forage was mixed with clothing underfoot; many wineskins lay about, all empty. Here and there were knots of crossbowmen ensconced behind the tent-ropes, with clusters of women and clerks hiding among them, but many of the unarmed grooms and pages had been cut down as they fled for shelter. For the first time, he saw the ghastly slashing wounds of the Turkish sabre, so different from the deep bruises of the Western sword. A man was cowering against the belly of a dead pack-horse, and sprang to his feet when he saw the knights approach; Roger recognized him as the Breton priest who had sat next to him at supper on the first evening at Nicaea, in an earlier and happier life. Climbing stiffly out of the saddle, he dropped on his knees.
“Shrive me, father. This is the last day of all our lives, and I beg for absolution as one in peril of death.”
“You are not excommunicate, I suppose,” said the priest quite calmly, “and you haven’t committed any sin reserved for a bishop’s absolution? Oh no, I remember you, the good little Englishman. Absolvo te, etc. etc.… that is a conditional absolution, you can confess your sins when we have more time. Now, for your penance, you can go back to your lord’s banner, and fight the infidel. If you see another priest, ask him to come here, by the red pavilion with the dead horses; I should like to make my own confession. Be off with you now, I see I have a lot more customers.”
Knight with Armour Page 7