by Jack Ludlow
William had already seen the great sword Rashid carried, even if that was still sheathed, but it was clear his lance was longer by at least a hand, and that was telling. The emir would have seen, before getting close, that difference in lance length and was looking at the Norman almond-shaped shield, so very different from his own round buckler, big enough to give protection to more of this potential opponent’s body.
‘Who offers me combat?’ Rashid asked, looking down, his voice full of confidence.
‘William de Hauteville, of Normandy.’
‘I know of you, but I want George Maniakes.’
‘He stands behind me, and through me you will have to go to get to him.’
‘Very well,’ Rashid replied, before hauling his mount round in its own length and letting out a great shout to his supporters, his lance once more raised in the air. ‘Allah Akbar.’
Silently, William crossed himself as they responded with a great roar. It was a strange reaction from men, the majority of whom must be Sicilian and Christian, who surely could not love Saracen rule? Perhaps they loved their city too much to want to see it fall, perhaps they hated Byzantium even more. Rashid, who had ridden far enough, had brought his mount round again, which meant any such thoughts must be put aside. It was time to fight.
The mere nature of the emir’s horse told William he would come at the same kind of fast gallop as the fellow he had killed on that expedition from Messina, while his would, as it always did, barely get above a hard canter, so if Rashid’s slightly longer lance made contact it would be with greater force than his own. At all costs he must stay mounted: on foot in single combat against a horsed opponent he stood little chance. How to negate that advantage?
They were both moving now, the gap closing rapidly and, as always, the whole world narrowed to what lay at the end of his lance tip. William had to close his mind to the thundering approaching hooves of Rashid’s animal, the flutter of his lance pennant and the rippling coloured waves of the silks that clothed both horse and rider. It had to narrow down to the slightest of gaps between the man’s round shield and his lower body.
The trick Tancred had taught him when he was a mere fifteen-year-old boy was a hard one to pull off. It required a degree of physical strength which, if not pressed home properly, would work against him, because it required a fine balance between extension and power. Already both men were standing in the stirrups, and both had moved their shields to protect their trunk, for a lance point hitting either William’s chain mailed chest or that leather breastplate of Rashid’s would slice right through them.
They were only paces apart when William made his move, taking his couched lance and jabbing it forward so that it was extended, the shaft running under his outstretched arm, the only thing to hold it his clenched and mailed right hand. Rashid saw the move and tried to adjust his own weapon, which was an error, because in a fight you should never be caught in two minds. In acting his bulk worked against him; he might be near a giant but his movements were restricted by that very size. Had he stayed committed he would at least have got his lance point onto the centre of William’s shield. As it was, doing something unfamiliar it wavered and as he felt the tip of his opponent’s lance on his buckler he sought to shy away.
With full force William struck his buckler at the base, the force of his blow, a split second before he too was struck, bending back that shield just enough to get his lance point through, to strike Rashid at the place where his leather breastplate met his upper thigh. He was good, swift enough to jam his shield sideways so that the point failed to skewer him, as William intended, but ran along the outer side of his leg, hitting the high back of his saddle and shattering the shaft.
William took Rashid’s lance on a high point of his shield, but in seeking to change his action that had lost a lot of force, although it still took and smashed the top half and spun William round so that he was nearly unhorsed by being flung sideways on to his saddle. Only the sheer strength of thighs moulded since childhood to stay aboard kept him on his mount until the two were past each other, the Norman already reaching for his sword, hauling on his reins to bring round his destrier and take Rashid before he could respond. Vaguely, in his ears, he could hear cheering from both sides, though he thought he could sense it greater from the trenches rather than the walls.
Rashid was too wise to make a quick turn to meet him. William had drawn blood and that required a quick assessment to see how it would affect his ability to fight, so he rode on until he was out of immediate danger, well away from William de Hauteville. The point of his opponent’s lance was still embedded in his saddle, so he hauled it out and held it up to show the men on the walls of Syracuse, the implication being that it had missed him.
But he knew it had not, knew that he had torn mail and a long gash in his thigh which might hamper him if fighting on foot. There was no way to tell if that was the case until he needed to use the leg, so it was obvious to William that Rashid must at all costs avoid that kind of test. He now had his sword out, a blade already known to be of fearsome proportions, razor sharp on one side and serrated like a fine saw on the other.
William was approaching with no haste; if his man was bleeding let it flow and weaken him, and his sword was again a weapon shorter in length than Rashid’s. But it was easier to use, as long as it was not left exposed to a blow which, combined with the great bulk and strength of the emir and the weight of his weapon, could break it in two.
There was no cheering now, there was silence as both sets of supporters watched a fight about to come to the point of decision. They saw the way William de Hauteville manoeuvred his mount with just his thighs, wending it left and right as he approached the emir, seeking an avenue in which to attack. They saw Rashid spur his mount to close quickly, and soon the air was filled with the sound of metal on metal as the swords were used to swing, thrust and parry, that mixed with loud, dull thuds as contact was made with shields.
What they could not see was the blood running into the silk on Rashid’s horse, but both combatants knew it was there, the Saracen aware that the loss would weaken him, so he was trying to end this affair quickly, William de Hauteville knowing time was now on his side, that he must not seek a decision too hastily and expose himself to a blow that would equal the contest if not end it with his death.
‘William is trying to tire him,’ Drogo said.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Harald Hardrada.
Drogo indicated the line of Norman knights on either side, the men William led in to battle, every one of whom seemed to be with their leader in spirit, so intent was their concentration.
‘Ask any one of them and they will tell you. His sword work is defensive.’
‘He must win this,’ growled George Maniakes. ‘It will add months to their spirits if he does not.’
Out in the arena William was parrying more than attacking, but doing just enough of that to keep Rashid guessing, moving his mount forward and back in a display of stunning horsemanship. The emir was pressing hard, wielding his great sword with an astonishing amount of ease, a testimony to his might, and more than once William had felt his own sword arm give under a blow. He had hoped that being so unwieldy Rashid would gift him opportunities, but so far that was not the case, and for all he was bleeding the emir showed no diminution in strength.
William was tiring and perhaps if this went on long enough it would be he who would be rendered defenceless. In all the fights he had engaged in none had seemed to require so much effort and, wondering how long it had already gone on, and how much longer it might, he could feel in his upper sword arm the beginnings of strain.
The move he employed, outright assault, standing in his stirrups and leaning right forward, surprised Rashid just enough to get his sword out of position and him off balance in his seating. There was no time to attempt a kill — to do so would render William vulnerable — but he did get his sword point under the emir’s breastplate enough to push hard with both hands on his pom
mel, hoping for a result rather than expecting one.
It was that wounded thigh that did for Rashid: he could not hold his saddle and as pressure was applied to his stirrup foot it gave way and slipped free. His sword was in the air and as he tried to regain his balance he knew he was in maximum danger. Seeing William press forward again, sword angled across his body, ready to sweep at the point where his helmet met his neck, the emir did the only thing he could. He jabbed his other foot backwards, got it clear of the stirrup, and let himself slip on to the ground, his mount acting as a barrier to his opponent.
The emir tested his wounded leg, and it supported him, so Rashid used the flat of his sword blade to send his mount clear, and put a foot forward to swing at the forelegs of William’s horse to bring him, too, down on the ground. It was horsemanship which defeated the aim, as William swung his mount sideways and clear, his sword in the air. It did not stay there, it swept down on his stationary opponent and took the emir on the crown of his plumed helmet with such force that it went right thought the metal and sliced the head in two.
There was a moment when the body stood stock-still, sword embedded, but then the huge frame of Emir Rashid al Farza keeled over into the dust, with William de Hauteville, gasping for air, lying over the withers of his sweating horse.
As he rode back into the lines, those on the walls of Syracuse were silent. The Normans, led by Drogo, were yelling ‘Bras de Fer!’ And when that was translated for the Italians they too were happy to gild their champion with the title, Iron Arm.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It was only a patrol, twenty lances taken out by William and Drogo to alleviate their boredom, and because they had seen nothing to trouble them they followed the narrowing river that fed their siege lines and rode deeper into the hills than at any time previously. Many leagues from Syracuse, the country was high peaks, rolling mountains and deep valleys, so like very much of this island, but there was nothing to aim for. The nearest emirate of any size had declared itself neutral in the fight between what was essentially Abdullah-al-Zirid and George Maniakes.
The crossbow bolt missed Drogo’s thigh by a whisker and embedded itself in the flesh of his horse. Surprised, he was still able to shout a warning to the rest and spin round the animal, even if it was screaming in pain, then kick it so he could close with his brother. William had not seen the bolt but he could hear Drogo yelling and that spelt only danger. In less time than it takes for ten grains of sand to pass through a glass the whole party was riding flat out to get to safety and they did not stop till they were sure that had been achieved.
‘One man?’ asked Drogo, as he sought to bind the wound to his horse. He had already been required to remove the crossbow bolt and that, because it was jagged, had torn a great deal of flesh and brought forth much blood.
‘No one came after us,’ William replied, looking back up the valley from which they had made such a hurried exit, one that narrowed to a pass between two high peaks. ‘The crossbow worries me. It’s a weapon for a trained man.’
‘Maybe someone trained one of the peasants round here.’
‘A single Sicilian peasant attacks twenty mounted lances?’ William shook his head. ‘Might as well tie a rope round his neck.’
‘I think you’ve forgotten, brother, that we fled.’
William grinned. ‘You did, we just followed you.’
Drogo patted his wounded horse, an animal whose head was very low. ‘I can’t ride this poor fellow. I’ll have to go back to Syracuse on a packhorse.’
William, still examining the valley, was sure he saw something flash, a piece of metal which had caught sunlight. He nearly asked Drogo if he had seen it, but his brother was too taken with his mount. Looking round he saw the others were too busy with their own concerns to have noticed, and then, of course, doubt set in. The firing of one arrow did not make sense unless, William suddenly thought, it had been a mistake, an overzealous archer letting fly when he should not have done so. Were there more crossbowmen up ahead?
‘It’ll be dark in an hour, brother,’ Drogo said, ‘best be on our way.’
William turned and looked down the slope they were on, over the barren screed strewn with loose rocks and as far as to the point where the river bent to follow its course into an adjacent valley, obvious by the thick line of deep-green trees that edged it.
‘Let’s get to the other side of the river and stop there.’
‘Why?’ Drogo demanded, following his brother’s gaze, ‘we can do much better than that before dark.’
‘I have a feeling we are being watched,’ William said quietly. Drogo was too sensible to react; all he did was stiffen as he mentioned the head of the valley without ever looking up it. ‘I saw something catch the sun.’
‘There should be nothing out here.’
‘That’s right, Drogo, especially not crossbowmen.’
They set up camp on the far side of the river, at the very edge of the trees, and William set guards while Drogo arranged twine and twigs to give early warning of an approach on what might, given the cloud-filled sky, be a dark night; the horses would remain saddled and no one was to sleep. Then the brothers ate and drank before shedding their mail.
‘We should not both go,’ William insisted. ‘Who will lead the men if we don’t return?’
‘They’ll elect someone just as they elected us,’ Drogo growled. ‘Now let’s get going.’
There was no arguing with his brother in that kind of mood, so as darkness fell they made their way along the riverbed to emerge from a line of bushes and stunted old trees that would get them to the bottom of that screed-covered slope without being observed. From then on it was boulder to boulder, always trying to keep out of sight of the point where the peaks narrowed to form a pass.
It took hours, moving slowly, testing each step to ensure they did not set off an avalanche of loose stones, and the point at which they first heard a voice had them sit still for an age until, speaking again, they could get some fix on its location. That meant a long route round a hillside in darkness, looking for foot-and handholds, solid rock or the odd piece of scrub. Close to the pass itself, they saw it was guarded, obviously by a strong, armed picket and moving even slower the brothers got themselves up above their camp so they could count their number. Fifty strong, they had small fires lit, ones that would not be seen from the riverbed and men were huddled around them cooking, eating and talking.
‘Look at the clouds,’ William whispered, touching his brother’s arm.
It was faint, and again it would not have been seen from anywhere but at this elevation: the cloud base in the distance was tinged with the very faintest colour of orange.
‘Fires,’ Drogo responded.
‘A lot of fires.’
‘An army?’
‘Has to be. Who else would be out here? It’s a wilderness.’
‘Abdullah?’
There was no need to answer that; the emir had got away from Rometta and there was no doubt he was determined. Here, behind this mountain barrier, was a perfect place to assemble his forces out of sight and since the Normans had really ceased to harry the littoral between here and the coast — for the very good reason there was nothing left to destroy — perhaps he could get his forces close enough to Syracuse to surprise George Maniakes. With his men engaged in a siege, he would be at a severe disadvantage, especially if the garrison of the city emerged to fight at the same time as Abdullah attacked.
‘Do we need to see more?’
‘No, Drogo, we need to warn the general.’
‘You did not actually see this army, did you, all you saw was the reflection of the fires on the clouds?’
‘No,’ William replied, ‘but why stand guard on the pass if there is nothing to hide behind it?’
George Maniakes moved forward to tower over William, then took one ear in his hand. ‘If you are wrong about this, Iron Arm, I will have both of these.’ William was terribly tempted to grab his balls and reply in kind; he d
isliked being threatened by anyone. ‘You have seen the terrain, tell me how we can use it.’
What followed was a lesson in generalship: for all Maniakes’s boasting he was good at commanding an army, his dispositions being made almost as William and Drogo spoke.
‘We cannot fight Abdullah and besiege Syracuse, and we must fight any enemy we have in the field.’ His finger traced the outline of the River Anapo as it wended its way across the plain, his finger resting where it opened out and slowed in a flat patch of country. ‘You say this is wooded all along its banks.’
‘Yes,’ William replied, ‘deeply wooded.’
‘Then that is where I want you and your cavalry. I will pull the army out of its siege works and take up a position here, but I will not let Abdullah see my full strength. If he comes, he must feel he can attack. We cannot leave the siege for too long or Syracuse will be as well supplied as ever it was. The Varangians I will hide behind my Italian and Bulgar levies. Once he does attack, you and your men will debouch from the tree cover and ride across his rear. Once you are formed up you are to bear down on his rear.’
‘He will turn to face us with everything.’
‘No, William, he will not. He will try to break through to Syracuse, try to beat his way past men he thinks poor fighters, but when he does so they will open their ranks and he will find himself attacking the Varangians. Your task will be to drive the Saracens onto their axes.’
‘When do we move?’
‘Not till the whole of his army is through that pass.’
Hidden by the trees, William stood relaxed, stroking his mount. He was too long in the fighting tooth now to be in the same nervous condition he had been at Bessancourt, and he knew that lined up alongside and behind him, the men he led were also experienced. To the west they could see the great cloud of dust sent up by the approaching host of Abdullah-al-Zirid who, it was hoped, had no idea of their presence, nor of that of George Maniakes.