The Knights Dawning (The Crusades Series)

by James Batchelor

  “Thomas?”

  “Richard…” he started to explain but realized he would have to admit his negligence if he did, “will not be a concern. What about the others?”

  John looked as though he would inquire further but did not. “Edward is not a problem… Even if he were here, he would not be an obstacle to us.”

  “William and Henry will not step aside for you.”

  “They are just pups! They could not stop us should we pursue this. Do you see it? We would go from miserable nothings, begging for a handout, to the most powerful land barons in all of England. Think then what possibilities would lie at our feet!”

  John watched as the excitement grew in Thomas’ eyes. “You see? You see?” he giggled delightedly. “This is what I have been talking about. This is how close we are to greatness, if we are only willing to seize it.”

  “We would need men,” Thomas said, “at least for a show of force if we are to be taken seriously.”

  “That is where Anisa and her friends come in,” John said delicately.

  Thomas was instantly suspicious. When it was he and John leading such a movement, he liked the idea. He knew they could control it. But the outsiders made him nervous. “She is a Moor, isn’t she?”

  “And?”

  “And? We are fighting the Moors, John. They are the enemy.”

  “Only because the Church has made them so. What have the Saracens actually done to us? What reason do we really have to hate them?” John said quickly, asking well-rehearsed questions. “You are not simple-minded enough to be bound by such foolish, manufactured racism are you?”

  “What I think about them is not important. What they think about us is. They see us as the enemy.”

  “That is an unfair generalization. All Saracens do not hate us, just as all English do not hate Saracens.”

  “John, what possible interest could they have in helping you do this, except to gain a stronghold in England?”

  “Help us,” John corrected him. “They are interested in garnering goodwill among the English. They are trying to find advocates who will help them appeal to the kings of Europe and the Pope. They are just people trying to live, and they are trying to stop the genocide in their home countries.”

  Thomas stared at him. “You do not honestly believe that?”

  “Thomas,” John implored him. “This could work. We have everything we need right here. A new and brighter day is about to dawn for us.”

  Thomas turned and continued walking. “I thought for a moment that you had a real plan. Handing the barony over to the Moors is not my idea of a real plan.”

  John did not follow him this time. “You are being too cynical, Thomas,” he called after him. “Think about it. Don’t you want something better for Hannah and Harry? A powerful father they can respect? This is your only chance.”

  Thomas continued down the hill in silence.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  “I tell you a house cat is lazier!” A familiar voice rang out not far behind William.

  “You’ve been touched! A sloth is renowned for being the slowest, laziest animal in the world. They have even coined a word to mean exactly that because of the sloth. Maybe you have heard it: ‘sloth’,” Neil retorted.

  “No, no,” David was shaking his head. “Slow I will give you, but a sloth will take steps for self-preservation when necessary. You can drop a mouse in front of my wife’s cat, and it might swipe a paw at it before it goes back to sleep. And that only if it is feeling playful.”

  “Self-preservation? A sloth’s method of self-preservation is to sit there and hope predators will think it’s already dead and leave it alone.”

  “That's a possum.”

  “Uh, sloths do it, too,” Neil said lamely. “Anyway, I’ll wager you drop a dog in front of your wife’s cat, and you will witness self-preservation.”

  “I am not so sure. That cat is so fat and lazy that I fully expect it would simply go back to sleep and assume someone would take care of the dog for it.”

  “Sir Knights, I beg you, accept my gauntlet and issue a formal challenge in a proper manner,” William interjected helpfully. “A knights’ duel would settle this matter once and for all.”

  “William, you decide,” David turned to William. “I say cats are the stupidest, laziest animal, and Neil says sloths. Which is it?”

  “Well, seeing as how I am an authority on animal husbandry, I am glad you two have chosen to appeal to my wisdom on this all important subject,” William said loftily, ignoring their derisive snorts. “The answer to the question you pose as to which is the stupidest, laziest animal is simple,” he said slowly and took a deep breath before expounding on it. “The answer is you are both wrong.” They stared at him in anticipation of the wisdom he was about to impart to them. “I had this French teacher once that was so—”

  David and Neil both groaned loudly, cutting off the rest of his explanation. “I ought to run you through for that,” David said, reaching for the well-worn hilt of his sword.

  “With that old sword of yours?” Neil laughed. “You better have him get the cut started for you.”

  “What’s wrong with my sword?” David pulled it from its scabbard and inspected the short, thick blade that he had carried since before he was knighted.

  “Nothing is wrong with that old, leaf-shaped blade. Particularly if you are fond of antiques.”

  “This was my father’s sword. It is very strong.”

  “It’s so strong because it’s an inch thick,” Neil laughed.

  “It has not failed me yet. Look, it even has this burnished hilt with my family crest on it,” he offered, showing the distinct hilt of the weapon that made it easily identifiable from other weapons of that variety. “William, you can appreciate that,” he appealed to his friend.

  “It is an old weapon, David. They have better techniques for forging stronger blades these days.”

  “Oh right, I forgot who I’m talking to. Sir ‘I-carry-nothing-but-Damascus-steel’.”

  “What, this?” William brandished the point of his spear.

  “That is not wootz steel,” Neil offered. “Wootz steel has clearly visible striations from where the metal is folded; this is something else altogether.” He moved his horse in to get a closer look at the head of the weapon.

  “Damascus steel,” David corrected him.

  “It was wootz steel before coming to Damascus,” Neil dismissed him. “Wootz is made by combining glass with iron ore and charcoal into ingots that are used to forge the blades. These ingots are melted and folded together over and over to make an amazingly strong and sharp metal the likes of which the world has never known. But this, I have never seen this. The blade is perfectly smooth, and the bands in the metal are much closer together than the wootz variety. Almost as if they were cosmetic. This metal has been folded many, many more times than a wootz blade.”

  William withdrew the head of his spear from their immediate inspection, feeling self-conscious.

  “How do you know so much about it?” David asked in irritation.

  “My uncle is a blacksmith,” Neil shrugged. “I often worked in his shop until I became a full squire. Where did you get that blade?” he asked of William.

  “From Jurou,” William replied self-consciously.

  “And your sword is made of the same metal?” William nodded. “I hope you thanked Jurou,” Neil said in amazement. “What you are carrying are not valuable weapons but priceless artifacts that may have taken a smith a lifetime to forge.”

  William said nothing. He knew they were valuable and had tried to refuse Jurou when he had offered them, but Jurou had insisted. It was on the eve of his first real battle that he had given him the sword. Suddenly, William was not sure he had shown the appropriate gratitude for these weapons that were like an extension of himself now. He could not imagine going into battle with a cheaply made weapon that may break or that was unbalanced . The weapons really were a marvelous advantage and had undoubte
dly saved his life more times than he could count.

  “You carry Damascus steel then?” David asked Neil, stubbornly refusing to be corrected.

  Neil shook his head. “I would carry wootz blades if I could afford them; but alas, I cannot.”

  “Yes, that Damascus steel does make quality weapons.”

  “Wootz steel is the best steel man has ever known. But not just anyone can make it.”

  “I have been all over the Holy Land, and I know where I can buy Damascus steel, but nobody ever mentions wootz.”

  “Wootz is the English version of the Indian word for steel, where people think it originated from, although it actually probably came from China.”

  “Well then, aren’t we insulting the Chinese by referring to it by an Indian word? We better just call it Damascus steel to avoid that all together.”

  “Wootz!”

  “Damascus!”

  “Wootz!”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  “So it was the fault of the mercenaries?” the voice probed in that calm manner that was beginning to infuriate Richard.

  “Well it certainly was not mine.”

  “Doesn't a good leader recognize the limitations of his men?”

  “I was well aware of their limitations, I just did not count on the size of the horde we were up against,” Richard said defensively.

  “When you saw the Saracens amassing on the opposite hill, why did you not change tactics while there was still time?”

  ”There was no time. Even if we had retreated at that point, they would have pursued, and things would have been even worse.”

  “Worse? What could be worse to you than utter, humiliating defeat and degrading captivity?”

  “I could be dead,” Richard suggested.

  “So you would rather be here than be dead?”

  Richard thought about it for a moment. “I suppose I would,” he grudgingly admitted.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  The training yard was, as yet, empty. The sun had just barely risen, but John had been up for some time. He was very nervous about this challenge. He had watched Richard progress and increase in strength to the point that he now feared that Richard was not only stronger than he was but also a better warrior. He was warmed up and well-practiced by the time Richard came stumbling into the yard, still trying to buckle on his armor. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were still blurry with sleep.

  “Ack!” Richard exclaimed, shielding his eyes from the first strong rays of morning light shining over the wall. “This challenge is ridiculous,” he grumbled to John. “And it is even more ridiculous that you would choose this unholy hour in which to do it.”

  “I would have thought you would welcome this opportunity,” John said seriously. “You are always insinuating you are superior in strength and skill; now is your chance to prove it once and for all.”

  “This is laughable,” Richard said, forcing a chuckle in one final attempt at levity.

  “Good, then it should be quite fun. Choose a weapon.”

  Richard passed the blunted metal swords and picked up a wooden practice sword. “I trust blood will not be necessary!” he grumbled.

  “I’m willing if you are,” John said seriously, determined not to back down from any challenge that Richard might issue. Richard only shook his head as he slid his helmet into place and walked to the middle of the yard.

  “Shall we say three clean strikes to the head or body?” Richard asked. John nodded and took his place, facing his brother several yards away. “We don’t have to do this,” Richard said one last time, and John smiled under his visor. He knew that for all his blustering and bravado, his younger brother was scared of him.

  “Call it!” John commanded.

  Richard sighed and said “Begin!” sharply.

  John took three quick strides and began raining a series of furious blows down on Richard. Richard blocked and parried as he fell back under the onslaught. He saw at once that this was not a game to John but a serious test of his machismo, as he feared it would be. John feigned to his left and Richard went to block the imaginary strike, only to receive a stunning blow to his other side. “That’s one!” John shouted before Richard had even realized what had happened.

  They walked back to their starting marks and noticed that the yard was no longer empty. The trainees had begun to fall out for their morning exercises, and the spectacle of the two eldest Dawning boys fencing was a sight indeed. Both boys were large and strong and skilled at their craft. They were widely respected and admired by the younger men for this.

  John could almost feel the tension rise as people began to gather round. Richard led this round with a sharp thrust which John did not expect. John slashed violently downward to block the strike, but he missed, and his wooden weapon struck the ground. Before he could retract it, Richard stomped down on it with his boot, wrenching it from John’s hand. Richard immediately delivered a wringing blow to John’s helmet, which sent him staggering back holding the sides of his visor in pain. The frustration John felt at losing this round in such an obvious way was only compounded when Richard gallantly returned his practice sword to him.

  They again took their marks. John was determined he would not be made to look the fool again by his younger, more inexperienced brother. John again launched into a series of blows at the outset of the third round, but rather than falling back under them, Richard matched him blow for blow. Richard swung at his legs, which John desperately blocked. Though the shot would not have counted in their contest, it had escalated beyond that now. When his guard was lowered to protect his legs, Richard slipped one gauntleted hand off his weapon and smashed it into John’s visor.

  John was furious and drew his sword back in both hands to return the blow. Richard quickly stabbed the wooden blade into John’s armored torso. “Hit,” he said, but John did not stop. He brought his weapon down on Richard’s shoulder so hard the wood shattered over his armor.

  Richard swore, dropped the wooden sword, and dove at John. John pivoted and shoved him past, but he did not get completely clear, and they both went down in a clash of metal. The struggle continued as they rolled on the ground. At last Richard came up sitting on John’s chest. He tore John’s helmet from his head and struck him across the face with it.

  A deep gash opened up on John’s chin, and blood poured from it, drenching his hair and covering his neck. John bounced Richard off of himself. Richard was inflexible because of his armor and unseated relatively easily. They both regained their feet and squared off again. Richard removed his own helmet.

  John smashed Richard across the face with a heavy blow. Richard instantly answered with two punches of his own that stunned John. John swung a wild left cross at Richard, which hit him and glanced off with minimal effect.

  Richard saw John was teetering and delivered two quick jabs followed by three rapid alternating hooks that left John lying in the dirt, bleeding from his chin, lip, and nose. The effusion of blood made his wounds look far more gruesome than they actually were. Richard stood over the brother he had bested and kicked his leg. “Now you know,” he said seriously. “I am better than you, I am stronger than you, Dawning Court is mine for the taking. Don’t ever forget that.” With that he turned and strode away, leaving his brother bleeding in the dirt of the exercise yard.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  They were riding into an unknown little town together, three young men that had decided on an extemporaneous trip south as was common to them in those giddy, carefree days of youth. The three friends had saddled up on a whim and decided to see where the road would take them. With limited supplies, they jumped from town to town, reveling in the new experiences each new place brought with it.

  Riding up beside a dark, middle-aged man with a craggy face and thick, unkempt beard, William leaned over slightly in the saddle, resting his forearm on his thigh. “Pardon me, my good man, but where might three newcomers find rest and refreshment in this town?” he asked jovially.


  The stranger looked up at William with no trace of civility; instead something more akin to anger showed clearly on his craggy features. “Next town over,” he said.

  His tone instantly irritated William. “Well, I can see that thinking is not your forte,” William rejoined in the same jovial tone he had been using. “You may not have understood when I said ‘this’ town that I meant the town that you yourself are standing in.”

  “I would hate to dirty up your pretty little outfit,” the villager threatened. “So why don’t you and your friends run along before I have to hurt you.” He said the last in a very menacing tone.

  ”Neil,” William looked up at Neil, who was watching quietly, “do you remember Lady Flaverly? The nasty old woman that used to tutor us in French? Doesn’t he look just like Lady Flaverly?”

  Neil squinted at him, “Mmm….” he stared thoughtfully.

  ”I mean Lady Flaverly if she had less facial hair,” William clarified.

  ”You know, I can see a resemblance. See if he will put on a bonnet.”

  William turned back to the red-faced villager and smiled, somewhat embarrassed, “Would you mind terribly? You do so resemble an old friend of ours, and we just want to make sure you are not her.”

  Neil leaned closer from his saddle and whispered to him, “Lady Flaverly, is that you? Est-ce que c'est vous?” he repeated in French.

  The villager was shaking with indignation. “Nobles,” he spat, “I wouldn’t pay a pound to save the whole lot a ya!” and walked away.

  Neil and William erupted into fits of laughter at his retreating back. David, too, forced a weak laugh but obviously had reservations.

  ”What is the matter with you?” William asked as he struggled for breath between fresh fits of laughter.