The Master twisted in his saddle, and his look swept from de Ridford to Rannulf and back to de Ridford, but he said nothing. De Ridford said, “Or are you afraid ?”
Rannulf laughed. He had no answer for de Ridford and gave him none, but turned, and galloped away across the break of the slope, where the road came out of the pass, and the Templars were gathered for their charge.
There the sergeants were rushing around with shields and extra horses. Rannulf found a sergeant and got his shield, and went around to take his place at the right end of the front line.
The man on his left gave a faint cheer of relief. “The dead man’s end. And welcome to it, brother.”
“Just keep your shield up,” Rannulf said, “and ride to the right.”
He slung the strap of his shield over his shoulder. He was sweating already under his mail. For a moment his chest tightened, and his breath stuck. His horse would not stand still, but trod forward two steps, backward two steps, shaking its head against the bit; with one hand he managed it and with the other got his helmet onto his head. The man on his right turned to him again, a boy whose fair downy beard scarcely covered his cheeks.
“Are we going to charge? What’s the order?”
“God wills it,” Rannulf said. “That’s the order.” He hitched his shield up on his left arm, and then the horns were blowing.
All together, knee to knee, the knights swung forward, and the clatter of their horses’ hoofs on the hard ground was like the roll of drums. With the slope before them they flowed at once into a gallop. Rannulf s belly churned. Out here on the far end he had to ride harder than the others, stay up half a stride in front, hit the Saracens first of all of them. His whole body felt too large for his skin, every nerve painfully taut.
He drew the weight of his sword into his hand, iron for his arm, fire for his gut. His horse carried him down over the summit of the pass. Now he could see the whole wide valley below him. The Saracens were a solid mass on the plain, their ranks picked out with green banners. Someone cried, “God wills it!” in a high quavering voice. Then his horse reached full stride, with all the other horses, and the horns blasted.
Swinging into the charge, he spurred his horse on, surging out across the open slope, and then up from his left, where they had been lurking all the while, half a thousand Kurds came thundering straight toward him.
The sudden sight of them galloping at him from the side brought a raw yell out of his throat. The Saracens had set a trap for them, and the Templars had ridden straight into it. He clamped his legs tight around his horse to hold it steady, and wheeled toward the enemy. The downy faced boy galloped on his left, beyond him, a solid wall of Templars, the whole line rotating around to face this unexpected attack, but the Kurds were sweeping down at them like a scythe.
The fluting Arab warcry trilled out through the dust. Rannulf held his horse back, the pivot for the rest of the line, and two Kurds converged on him. He sat deep in his saddle and braced his feet in his stirrups and charged his horse between them.
Their lances swung toward his chest. One iron point skidded off his shield and he struck the other aside with his sword. The Kurd on his left galloped straight on by; the Kurd on his right slowed, cocking back his lance to strike again; then the charging Templar line overtook him, and he went down under their driving hoofs.
Ahead the enemy rank rose up in a barrier of shields and lances. Dust rose in clouds, blinding, throat-clogging, billowing yellow through the air. Rannulf s horse slowed, blocked by more horses. A Kurdish lancer jittered along in front of him, trying to get a safe angle; when he got on Rannulf’s quarter he gave Rannulf the good angle, and the Templar lunged in and struck the Saracen rider down. To Rannulf’s left the downy faced boy was still fighting, his shield too low, his sword too high, and then a hedge of lances closed over him and he was gone. Rannulf slashed after him, trying to catch up with the rest of the line.
There was no Templar line, only masses of Kurds around him.
On his blind side a lance struck his shield square on and drove it back into his body and nearly lifted him out of the saddle. He shuddered it off. He lost a stirrup. With his knees he clung to his horse. Three men crowded at him at once, flailing blows at him so fast and heavy he could barely fend them off. He felt the sky redden. Felt the angel close above him. His horse screamed and reared and went over backward.
Sliding free, he landed on the ground on all fours, his sword still in his hand and his shield still on his arm, and had a moment, while they swarmed after the horse, to collect himself. He flung off the encumbering shield and darted out into the open. The air was so thick with dust he could hardly see, and his lungs and throat burned; before him in the haze a form loomed, a tiny horse, an archer in a green turban perched on its back. The second wave of the Saracen attack had reached him.
Rannulf leapt up from the ground, and the little horse shied violently backward. He grabbed its bridle with his left hand and with his sword struck across its withers at the bowman, point on, jab and jab and jab, and each time the sword bit flesh, and then once more and the green turban plunged away over the horse’s rump. An arrow sank into Rannulf s arm. Another slapped off his helmet. He vaulted onto the tiny horse and swung blindly around, looking for Templars, and seeing only the enemy.
Get out of here.
Like a voice speaking in his mind this order sounded, clear and cool. He obeyed it instantly, a command from God. He booted the little horse into a gallop; it carried him heavily, but it carried him, it had the good heart of most Arab horses. Grimly he struggled uphill, toward the clear blue sky.
Chapter X
In the third rank of the Templars, with Hilaire on his left and Pedro on his right, Stephen charged across the slope; his gaze was pinned to the back of the man in front of him, his guts felt like running water, his ears roared as if he were under the ocean. The forward surge of men and horses swept him on, and then suddenly the whole momentum of the charge shifted. Abruptly everybody was turning, swinging to the left, and he heard horns blaring and saw the black- and-white standards bobbing in the dusty air, and then he heard rather than saw the enemy attack.
They screamed, the Saracens, like women, or like demons. They crashed into the unready Templars, and armor crunched, horses shrilled, bodies thudded together. Ahead of Stephen the orderly black- and-white line vanished into a clutter of heaving backs and lashing arms. He drove his horse on, and then before him was a Saracen on a horse, aiming a lance straight at Stephen’s heart.
He shrieked. Wildly he flailed away with his sword, trying to hide behind his shield; when he had the shield up where it did him any good, he couldn’t see at all. On his left, hunched like a gnome behind his own target, Pedro was beating at the air with his sword, and Stephen remembered their training and pushed sideways to cover Pedro’s flank, and then from the little Spaniard’s other side a spear struck Pedro so hard it bore him up in a fountain of blood out of his saddle and into Stephen’s lap.
Stephen was screaming; his throat was raw, but he couldn’t even hear himself for the racket around him. Pedro’s body sprawled across him, getting in his way, and the lance came at him; he never saw the man wielding it, only the long three-winged blade and the haft all covered with blood, Pedro’s blood, and that he remembered forever. He struck at the lance with his sword, and missed, and then the lance caught Pedro again, and jerked him away into the morass, the din, the chaos.
He swung toward Hilaire, and saw an empty saddle there.
His horse wheeled around, needing no order from its rider, and clambered back up the slope. Another lancer came at Stephen, and while their horses strode side by side for several paces, the two men struck at each other, hitting nothing; then the lancer swung away. Stephen’s horse stumbled and he lurched forward up against the pommel of his saddle. Another rider galloped up beside him.
He recoiled, yanking his sword back to strike, and the rider shrieked at him—he heard nothing, but saw the mouth open in the
grizzled beard—and he realized it was German.
He jerked his sword down, swung his shield around, fell in beside German as he had been drilled to do; suddenly he felt stronger, safer. German led him on, up the slope, toward a dozen men, Saracens and Templars, fighting back and forth across the trail.
“God wills it!”
The Saracens saw them coming, and peeled off. The Templars swung around and fit into German’s line. They scrambled up the steep slope toward the pass. There, on the height, German turned, one arm raised, and drew the twenty-odd men who had followed him around in a long rank. Stephen looked back, and his breath left him in a yell.
The dust hung over the long decline like a filthy fog, but even through the haze he could see the bodies that lay there, twisted and trampled bodies, as far as he could see. And far down there, at the foot of the slope, he could make out vast packs of Saracens, moving steadily toward him. His belly knotted, his mouth gone dry, and his heart fluttered.
German bawled, “Rannulf! Rannulf!”
Up out of the dust a little horse labored, Rannulf on its back; seeing the other Templars, he swerved to join them, and rode in among them; his face was painted with yellow dust. A moment later, another of the knights of the Jerusalem chapter galloped up beside him—Richard le Mesne, whom they all called Bear.
German reached out and gripped Rannulf’s arm. “What’s this ?”
Rannulf had taken an arrow through the forearm, just below the cuff of his hauberk. The knight looked down, as if he had just noticed it, and flexed his hand. His head swiveled toward the plain.
“They are coming.”
“Yes.” German took hold of Rannulf’s arm in one hand and the shaft of the arrow in the other. “Can we stand them off here, on this ground?”
“How many men do we have?” Rannulf turned back toward the Templars gathered around him. For a moment his eyes met Stephen’s, without recognition, only counting him. “Maybe. But if we fail here—” German thrust the arrow on through the meat of his arm until the head came out the other side.
Rannulf gasped, and buckled forward from the waist, his mouth open. German broke off the arrowhead and drew the shaft back out of the wound. A squirt of blood followed it; Stephen turned his eyes away, sick.
“Aaaaagh.” Rannulf clutched his arm to his chest, his body still curled forward. The Preceptor sniffed the arrowhead and then the shaft of the arrow.
“It smells clean. You’re lucky.”
Rannulf gave his head a shake. “God give me no such luck again. We can’t stay here.” Spittle drooled from the corner of his mouth. He shook his head again. “Get back to the King.”
“I agree,” German said. “I’ll take command, since I seem to be the only officer. You ride on the right.” He tossed down the pieces of the arrow. To Stephen, he said, “Ride by me.” Stephen swung up beside him, grateful for the order. Straightening, Rannulf picked the little Arab horse up on the bit and galloped around to the far end of the Templar rank.
Stephen looked back over his shoulder again. The dust was lifting. The fighting had stopped. The white surcoats of the dead men littered the slope like scattered feathers. His belly hurt. Down there was Pedro. Hilaire. Now nameless white scud on the hillside. Behind his eyes a throbbing blind panic began, a desperate will to get as far from here as possible. With German on his right and a stranger on his left he trotted across the pass and back toward the Litani River, going faster with every step.
The Count of Tripoli said, “I’m getting out of here.” He was staring across the swampy lowland toward the pass to the east. “The river is still rising, and the sun is going down. Sire, you should withdraw us all back to the far side of the river.”
King Baudouin looked back over his shoulder. The Litani rolled along behind them in a broad boiling tide, brown as bean porridge, its surface streaked with white scum. Upstream the hills closed down sheer around it; downstream, the river spread out to cover the whole narrow plain. The King turned, and looked up at the pass again.
The sun had gone down behind the peaks. The foot of the hill was deep in shadow. He knew Tripoli was right.
He said, “The Templars are still out there. We can’t abandon them.”
Tripoli said, “Let the Templars take care of themselves.” He swung his horse around, toward his men, gathered on the soggy ground behind him.
The King was staring at the pass; he thought he saw some riders up there, but he could not make out who they were. He turned to Tripoli again, to ask him, but the Count was riding toward his men. Baudouin pressed his lips together and turned his back. Let Tripoli take care of himself, then.
Some of the other nobles sat their horses a little way up the plain from the river, watching the pass; old Humphrey de Toron was among them, the constable of the Kingdom, and the King’s uncle, Joscelin de Courtenay. Baudouin rode up to join them, peering toward the pass again.
“Up there.” He reined his horse over to Humphrey de Toron, who had been his father’s closest friend. “Can you see? What’s going on up there?”
The old man shook his head. “It doesn’t look good.” He cast a look behind him, at the river, and shook his head again.
Among the other men with him were Balian d’Ibelin and his brother, Sibylla’s knight. Balian called out, “Sire, we should cross back to the other side of the river, before the night falls.”
“No,” the King cried, and flung out his hand. Now he could see what men those were that flew down toward him from the pass. “There are the Templars. What are they doing? Where are the rest of them?”
Humphrey stood in his stirrups, squinting across the valley. Balian’s head swiveled; his brother said, “Where? I don’t see anybody.” And then Balian himself seized a horn and put it to his lips.
The King’s horse bounded at the sudden shriek of the horn. Baudouin rode forward a few steps, the horse snorting and sidestepping under him. The oncoming knights all wore white surcoats; certainly they were Templars, but there were far fewer of them than had ridden over the pass in the other direction. Above them, the hammock of the pass was empty a moment.
Then, all along it, through the last true sunlight, a surging wave of Saracens crested the horizon, brimmed over, flooded down the slope, and behind them came more, and more, an endless tide.
The King let out a yell. Behind him, Balian’s horn sounded its three shrill notes, again and again. All along the river, the Frankish army was wheeling around to answer that call. A raw shout went up from a thousand throats. The King loosed his horse; first of all of them, he charged out to the support of the Templars.
Humphrey de Toron in his black armor raced up on his left, Balian d’Ibelin on his bay horse pressed in on his right. The King did not draw his sword, and he had no shield; his arms were shaking, and he could barely close his hands on the reins, much less wield a weapon. His legs hung like stones from his knees. He felt the thundering of the horses’ hoofs like something beating against his body. He splashed across the marshy ground, and then the land tipped steeply up, and his horse began to work hard.
Above him on the slope, the retreating Templars slowed. With the oncoming Franks to bolster them, they swerved around, facing uphill again, to meet the Saracens rushing down the slope toward them all like an unrolling wave. The King gave a cry, lost in the myriad cries of his men: “God wills it!” Then the two armies slammed together.
The impact almost knocked him from his horse. Around him men were fighting hand to hand, the rip and clash of steel ringing in his ears, and the screams of the dying. He reined his horse hard to one side to avoid a charging Turk, and from his right old Humphrey de Toron flung himself forward and bore the enemy down. For a moment in the furious tangle of men the King saw nothing, save fragments and flashes of color, and heard only a volcanic roaring; his horse staggered; a blow across his ribs nearly flung him from the saddle. Then suddenly his horse wheeled and galloped off, and between him and the Saracens, an open space appeared, as the Christian army s
hrank back toward the plain, and the Saracen army shrank back toward the heights.
A horn blew, up there in the pass, over and over, an alien command. The King gasped for breath and gripped his saddle with both hands. In the midst of a hundred other horses, his horse carried him back another twenty yards. There, again, he turned, and saw the distance between his men and the Saracens grown wider than a bowshot. The fighting had stopped.
He wiped one numbed hand over his face. Turning, he looked for old Humphrey, for Balian, for his uncle Joscelin, and instead came face to face with German de Montoya, the Templar Preceptor.
“What happened?” His voice was hoarse. “Why did they give up?”
“They haven’t given up,” German said. “They think they’ve won.” He leaned over and spat on the ground. “They think we’re trapped here, what with the river down there. They can wait. By tomorrow morning, they’ll have brought up the rest of their army, and they’ll finish us off then.”
King Baudouin clenched his teeth. He threw off the craven weakness in him that wanted to cry and run. God would help him, if he kept heart. The Saracens had given him a space, at least, a chance. But just a little space. The sun was gone. The sky was lusterless, like paper. Like the skin of his hands, when he took his gloves off. “Come with me,” he said, and with the reins wrapped around his wrists he rode along the front of his army, German at his flank, until he found Baudouin d’Ibelin and his brother Balian, slumped in their saddles, and staring into the east, where the first night hung dark and empty behind the hills.
“Where is Humphrey de Toron?”
Balian swung toward him. “He went down. Didn’t you see him, Sire? He was right in front of you.”
His brother whispered, “God, God, we are in it now. Look at this.”
German de Montoya said, “We have to try to get back across the river.” Behind him, silent, a handful of Templars formed a ragged double column. Rannulf Fitzwilliam was among them, riding on a ridiculously small horse.
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