Adam’s hands trembled as, piece by piece, he handed Sir Ivo the thick padded lining to his mailcoat, the coat itself with its chainmail hood, the surcoat and mailed gloves. He’d practised for this moment time and again, and had often rehearsed it in his head. He’d kept everything in perfect readiness, stored so that there would be no muddle when the rush to battle came. Even so, he was flustered, holding the coat of mail out the wrong way round, and almost letting the huge helmet slip out of his hands when the moment came to pass it to Sir Ivo.
‘See to Grimbald, quickly.’ Sir Ivo’s voice echoed oddly from inside the closed metal box of the helmet on his head. ‘No, leave the sword and lance. I’ll bring them. But my shield! Find my shield!’
Adam was only half aware of the trumpets braying nearby, and the shouts of rage when a dying archer was brought back down from the bank, shot through the face by a Saracen arrow. He was fumbling frantically to buckle on Grimbald’s padded protective coat.
The knights were ready at last, armoured and mounted. Their horses, sensing battle, pranced nervously as they mustered behind the gap in the embankment, where men-at-arms were pulling aside the upturned wagons and other debris that blocked it.
‘God wills it!’ yelled Lord Guy, holding his lance high.
All his life, Adam had feared Lord Guy, and sometimes, when his sense of helplessness had overwhelmed him, he had hated him. Now, as he saw his lord in the glory of his armour, riding his gigantic black stallion towards the breach in the bank and the enemy beyond, shouting his battle cry and urging his knights to follow him, he was struck with admiration.
A moment later, the ten Fortis knights and the fifteen others from the larger English camp had spurred through the gap and were out of sight.
‘God wills it! The Holy Sepulchre!’ Adam heard them yell.
He made for the bank, intending to watch the charge from the top, but he saw that the men-at-arms had hastily struggled into their protective jerkins and, ramming their helmets on to their heads, were streaming out in pursuit of the knights. He stood for a moment, not sure what he was supposed to do, then saw that the squires had scrambled into their coats of mail and were running with the men-at-arms.
He wanted to bolt straight after them, but common sense made him run to fetch his own thickly padded jerkin and the helmet Sir Ivo had given him. It wasn’t until he’d nearly caught up the last of the squires that he became aware of Faithful galloping up after him. He skidded to a halt.
‘Go back! Go back, Faithful!’ he shouted fiercely.
Faithful whined, stretched out his front legs and dropped his head on to them, looking up at Adam pleadingly.
Adam struck him across the nose.
‘No! Go back!’
With a reproachful look, Faithful turned and began to walk away towards the camp. Adam sprinted off again, not realizing that Faithful, unable to resist the temptation, was following him again.
Adam had never seen a full cavalry charge against an enemy, though he’d watched the knights practise often enough on the flat ground by the river that ran alongside the walls of Acre towards the sea. He’d heard endless discussions, though, among the men-at-arms, about the likely outcome.
‘It’s like this, Adam,’ Roger Stepesoft had kindly explained one long, slow afternoon on the ship last summer. ‘Your knight and your charger, they’re like battering rams, see. Go straight through the enemy, they do, like a – a . . .’
‘Mad bull through a herd of cows,’ Treuelove had put in.
‘Yes.’ Roger hadn’t been pleased at the interruption. ‘They scares the enemy. Terrifies him. But –’ he’d paused impressively – ‘your knight, he’s nothing without his foot soldiers. Why?’
‘I’ll tell you.’ Treuelove had become impatient with Roger’s slow style. ‘Knight gets knocked off his horse – he’s useless. Can’t hardly move in all that armour. Can’t see nothing with that box on his head. And if some bleeding Turk nobbles the horse, he’s done for.’
‘And that,’ Roger had concluded impressively, ‘is where your man-at-arms comes in. Protecting our knights, that’s what we do. Form a ring round them, once the charge is over. Stop them horrid little heathens from pulling them down.’
Adam had forgotten this conversation, but one sentence was ringing in his head as he ran.
‘Protect my knight!’ he chanted to himself. ‘Protect my knight!’
Gasping for breath, he ran into the cloud of dust which the horses’ hooves had churned up and heard, very close now, the unearthly din of battle, the banging of an infidel drum and the strange, blood-curdling war cries, the clash and grind of metal and the whistling scream of a wounded horse.
He had overtaken the last few squires by the time he’d reached the top of a small ridge, and he drew in his breath at the sight below. There were far more Saracens than he’d expected.
Sir Ivo was right, he thought, with a lurch of fear. It was a trap. We’ve fallen right into it.
The charge must have faltered here. The enemy must have been waiting for it. Their deadly hail of arrows had killed at least four knights. Three others, their helmets removed, were lying bound across Saracen horses and were being led away captive. In the middle of the confused mass of struggling men and horses, Lord Guy was waving his sword as if he was trying to form the knights up for another charge. Circling round, like hounds scenting blood at a bear baiting, the Saracen cavalry pranced on their dancing horses. They wore no heavy coats of mail and had nothing over their faces. Agile and fast, they darted into the crush to deliver a deadly stab with a knife-sharp sword, or to fell a knight from his horse with a crushing blow from a studded mace.
Adam caught sight of Sir Ivo at last. He was on the edge of the battle, couching his lance under his arm ready to launch Grimbald towards a Saracen ahead of him, but Adam, with a gasp, saw that two other Saracens were closing in on him, one on each side.
‘No!’ he yelled, and a moment later he was in the thick of the fighting, dodging trampling horses and flailing swords, ducking under lances, forcing his way through to where he could see Grimbald’s blood-streaked flank and the arrow embedded in his side.
With a final shove, he reached Sir Ivo just as one of the Saracen knights grabbed Grimbald’s bridle, and the other lifted his mace to lash out at Sir Ivo’s head. It was clear that Sir Ivo, who could see only straight ahead through the slits of his helmet, was unaware of the danger he was in.
‘On your left! Watch out!’ Adam yelled.
He thought, for a sickening moment, that Sir Ivo hadn’t heard him, but at the last moment the knight looked round, saw the mace descend and ducked. The massive weapon struck him on the back, but lightly, ripping his surcoat with its spikes, but glancing off the coat of mail underneath. The Saracen, caught off balance, swayed in his saddle and had to back away while he brought his horse back under control. Adam let out his breath, but now he saw that the other Saracen, who was holding Grimbald’s bridle, was jerking it violently, trying to make the horse rear. If he succeeded, Sir Ivo would fall and be easy prey.
Diving under Grimbald’s tossing head, Adam scrabbled at the Saracen’s hand, trying to prize it off the horse’s reins. The other man was closing in again, his mace held high. Sir Ivo, twisting in the saddle to take aim with his sword, had already lost one stirrup and seemed in danger of losing the other.
‘Get off! Get off!’ Adam screamed, shoving at the second Saracen’s horse with all his strength.
And then, just as Grimbald laid his ears back and skittered violently, preparing to rear, a yellow ball of fur launched itself at the Saracen holding his bridle, and the man howled with pain as Faithful’s teeth sank deep into his hand.
A savage blow in his side sent Adam reeling as the Saracen’s horse, terrified by the mastiff, lashed out with his hooves. Ignoring the pain, Adam leaped for Faithful’s collar, dragging him off just as the Saracen, with his free hand, tried to drive his dagger into Faithful’s head. Faithful, confused and enraged, turned snarling o
n Adam, and knocked him off balance. Adam struggled to stand up and put up an arm to protect his head against the flailing hooves, the trampling, shouting and bludgeoning above him. His other hand, clammy with sweat, lost its grip on Faithful’s collar, and the dog disappeared between Grimbald’s legs. Another violent blow in the shoulder almost knocked Adam to the ground again, and he looked up to see Sir Ivo lean forward in his saddle and thrust his sword at the older Saracen, who was raising his mace, ready to bring it down on Adam’s head. The blow caught the man on the neck, and Adam caught a glimpse of his face, and saw there an expression of surprise, almost of wonder, as he slumped forwards on to the pommel of his saddle, and his frightened horse carried him away.
Then, suddenly, the fighting was over. The English men-at-arms, hastily regrouping, sent a hail of arrows after the fleeing Saracen horsemen.
A ragged cheer went up from the English side.
‘Follow! Follow!’ Lord Guy bellowed. ‘Don’t let them get away!’
Adam watched as the knights jostled to separate themselves and settle their swords and lances. Then, with a gasp of horror, he saw that Faithful, wild with excitement, and attracted by Lord Guy’s waving lance, was snapping at Vigor’s hind legs. Worming his way between the sweating flanks of a dozen warhorses, he reached Faithful, grabbed his collar and yanked him back just as Vigor kicked out.
This time, Faithful gave into him without a struggle. Exhausted, his tongue hanging out, his yellow fur streaked with the Saracen’s blood, he let Adam drag him away, out of the press of horses and men.
‘Go back, Faithful, go back!’ Adam ordered desperately, cuffing Faithful hard across the nose and pointing towards the camp.
To his relief, Faithful dropped his tail between his legs and limped away. But as Adam watched him, groans and shouts of dismay from the mass of knights made him turn his head.
The knights were pulling their horses back and looking down at something on the ground. Men-at-arms were shouting and rushing forward. Lord Guy had disappeared.
‘He’s down! Lord Guy’s fallen!’ he heard someone shout.
It wasn’t Faithful’s fault. It can’t have been, Adam told himself. I got him away. Lord Guy wasn’t falling then.
But he had seen, in those few fraught seconds, how Vigor’s panic had made Lord Guy rock in the saddle, and how his feet had slipped out of the stirrups.
He looked over towards the Saracen camp.
What if they’ve seen him go down? he thought. If they have, they’ll come back and finish us off.
But to his relief the Saracens hadn’t noticed the Crusaders’ confusion. They were out of sight already.
‘Back! Retreat!’ he heard Sir Ivo call out. ‘Retrieve the wounded! Men-at-arms, form up around the horses. Keep your arrows on your strings. Knights, a walking pace!’
Adam, his heart in his mouth, fell in beside Roger Stepesoft, who had taken off his helmet to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He looked worried.
‘This is bad,’ he said.
‘What happened? Did you see? Is Lord Guy hurt?’ Adam asked him.
‘Don’t know. I seen his face, though. Horrible grey colour.’
‘He’s not . . .’
‘No. His eyes was open. He was groaning.’ ‘Was he bleeding? Where’s the wound?’
‘Didn’t see no blood. It was a bad fall off Vigor, though. Came down on his neck with a thump they’ll have heard in Acre.’
Adam said nothing as nightmare visions chased through his mind. Why hadn’t he just tied Faithful up?
‘Treue, he was close by,’ Roger went on. ‘Seems Vigor was restive. Not surprising. There was a slash across his rump would have felled most horses. Hey, watch out! Look up there, on the ridge! More of them devils. Don’t you doze off now, young Adam. Dangerous moment, a retreat. We’ll be shooting our way out of this one, more ’n likely.’
But there were no more attacks from the Saracens that day and the sombre English troop plodded the mile or so back to the camp without a single arrow being loosed from their bows.
The first thing Adam saw, as he stumbled wearily towards Sir Ivo’s tent, was Faithful lying across the threshold. The dog lay so still that for a moment Adam was afraid he was dead, but Faithful, recognizing his step, lifted his head and let his tail flop a couple of times against the ground.
‘Adam!’ Jennet was running towards him. ‘What’s happening? They’re saying Lord Guy’s been killed. It isn’t true! It can’t be!’
He stared at her, horrified.
‘Dead? It’s not what I’ve heard. A fall off his horse, that’s all.’ His voice was gruff with anxiety. ‘Give Faithful some water for me, Jenny. I’ve got work to do.’
Sir Ivo, who had been at the rear of the troop, had appeared on foot, leading Grimbald by the rein. The horse’s breathing was laboured and his head hung low. There were so many arrows sticking into the protective padding on his chest, flanks and rump that he looked like a hedgehog. Sir Ivo had taken off his helmet and was carrying it under his arm. His fair hair, dark with sweat, was plastered against his forehead, and Adam was shocked to see the weariness in his face.
‘Get me some water,’ Sir Ivo croaked.
He drained the goblet that Adam fetched for him in great gulps, and threw Grimbald’s reins over the post outside his tent.
‘Get me out of all this quickly, then see to him,’ he said to Adam. ‘An arrow’s got through under the padding. Low down. Nasty to get out. You’ll need advice from one of the older grooms. I must go to Lord Guy.’
He’s not dead, is he? Adam longed to ask, but didn’t dare. And if he is, it wasn’t my fault, was it?
‘Hurry, can’t you?’ Sir Ivo was impatient as Adam helped him struggle out of the unwieldy coat of mail. ‘Never mind about a clean robe. Any one will do.’
A few minutes later he was hurrying out of the tent.
Adam, his heart thumping, watched him push through the group of younger knights and squires, who were talking in hushed voices outside Lord Guy’s great tent. He paused for a moment at the entrance, and Adam saw Father Jerome come out and usher him inside.
What’s the penalty for causing the death of your lord? Adam asked himself. It must be death, but how will they kill me?
He had a wild urge to run and hide, somewhere, anywhere, away from the Fortis people. But where would he go?
He began automatically to tidy the gear of battle away, arranging it in readiness to be put on again in a hurry if the need arose. The familiar activity was comforting.
No one’s said anything about me yet, he thought. Perhaps they didn’t notice. Anyway, who said Lord Guy’s going to die? He’ll have a few bruises, that’s all.
‘You in there, Adam?’ came Jennet’s voice.
He went outside.
‘What’s going on? Have you heard anything?’ he asked her.
‘Course not. Who’s going to stop and talk to me?’ She frowned at him. ‘You look like death. Not wounded anywhere, are you?’
‘I got a thumping kick in the ribs,’ he told her. ‘Nothing serious. Just bruising, I think. Hurts when I breathe, though.’
‘Grimbald don’t look too happy,’ she said, walking round the charger, who was standing with his head drooping, lifting one trembling back leg towards the wound. ‘Here, look! An arrow’s gone right into him!’
‘I know. Sir Ivo says I’m to take him to one of the grooms.’
He unbuckled the horse’s padding and peeled it carefully off him. One or two of the arrows had pierced it and nicked Grimbald’s back, but the wounds were slight. One unlucky shot had found the gap between the edges of the padding near Grimbald’s tail. Adam drew in his breath at the sight of it, embedded half way up the shaft, and the slick of dark blood sliding down the horse’s flank. He lifted the reins off the post and clicked his tongue.
‘Come with me, boy. We’ll put it right.’
Jennet took the reins out of his hand and slipped them back over the post.
‘Wait!’ she
said. ‘I’ll get it out.’
‘Don’t be daft!’ Adam scowled at her. ‘You want to get me into worse trouble than what I’m in already? What do you know about horses, anyway?’
‘A lot more than you do. Or half the grooms at Fortis, come to that. My dad used to treat every horse and cow and donkey in the valley, remember? I’ve watched him get a spike like a spear out of the side of a mad bull that no one else dared go near.’
He said nothing. He remembered now Tom Bate’s healing way with animals. He’d been famed for it, even beyond Ashton. He walked round to Grimbald’s head and put a light hand on his bridle, then talked to him gently, stroking his long black nose. He didn’t want to watch what Jennet was doing.
Grimbald suddenly snorted with pain and trampled backwards, rolling his eyes till the whites showed and laying back his ears. But Jennet was crowing with triumph and holding the arrow above her head.
‘See? You didn’t believe I could do it, did you? It’s a nasty one too. Barbed.’
She leaned forward to examine the wound.
‘Not as bad as I thought. He’ll do now.’
Adam smiled at her. Jennet was so practical and steady that his worries suddenly seemed exaggerated.
‘You’re a marvel, Jenny. I think I know all about you then you pull some new thing and knock me flat with surprise.’
She sniffed.
‘I’ve had enough surprises in my life, thank you. Don’t wish any more on me, whatever you do.’
Salim couldn’t conceal his pride and excitement as he watched the Mamluk troop trot back into camp. He cheered them, and joined with everyone else in the hoots and jeers of derision at the sight of the four Frankish knights who had been taken prisoner. Helmetless but still in their coats of mail, they were trussed up like chickens and lying across their saddles.
There had been one death. The body of the Mamluk was carried reverently in on a pallet, wrapped in a simple linen cloth, and arrangements were made for his immediate burial. Everyone stood in silence as the little cortège passed by. No one had expected the Franks to fight back quite so fiercely. There was a feeling that the ambush had been worth it, but only just.
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