It was not until fully half of the lance-heads had been hacked off that the Templars broke from their rock-like stance. When it came, the charge was quick and savage. Cait did not discern any signal; it seemed to her that one moment they were inert and resolute as when the battle began, and the next instant all were in motion. Down went the ruined lances and out flashed the swords even as they spurred their mounts into the rotating wall of foemen.
They hit hard and fast—twenty Templars striking as one. The sound of the clash was like the crack of a gigantic tree the instant before it falls.
The force of the charge carried the Templars deep into the revolving ranks of the Moors. Those nearest the charge could not swerve out of the way in time and were simply struck broadside. Men and horses went down. More than one Arab was crushed beneath the weight of his mount.
The rearward ranks gave way to allow their comrades to escape the onslaught and all at once the Moors were thrown into confusion. Suddenly all was rearing horses and flailing hooves. The ferocity of the assault was devastating. Again and again the Templars charged, driving into their evasive enemy, their swords rising and falling in deadly harmony.
Surprised, their formation broken, the Moors gave way before the assault. The swirling Arab ranks thinned at the point of attack and the Templars seized the first opportunity they had been offered. They drove into the weakened line and a small gap opened. For the briefest of instants the way was clear. By twos and threes, the Christian knights sped through the breach, smashing through the terrible whirling wheel.
By the time the gap closed once more, a dozen Moors lay dead in the snow, and not one of the Templars was unhorsed. Cait counted the fallen from Hasan’s force, and then counted them again just to make certain. But there was no mistake: the prince’s advantage in numbers had shrunk.
The Moors made an attempt to regain control of the field. Separating quickly into two divisions—one under Rognvald and the other under Hasan—they threw out two wings, one to either side of the Templars as the Christian knights reformed their ranks. But de Bracineaux was not about to allow his troops to become surrounded and trapped again. As the two wings closed on the Templars, the commander directed the whole of his force to meet the line of assault at its nearest leading edge.
Once again, the Templars’ heavier horses and armor proved sufficient not only to blunt the attack, but to drive through the more lightly armed Moors. The Arab wing scattered, leaving four more dead or wounded behind, and the Christian knights quickly turned to face an onslaught of the combined enemy wings. Again Cait counted the remaining combatants—Hasan’s troops, including Rognvald and her knights, numbered thirty to the Templars’ original twenty. What was more, the Templars now had the houses of the village at their backs; unless they were drawn into the open, they could not be surrounded again.
“Now the field is even,” remarked d’Anjou with evident satisfaction. “Let the slaughter commence.”
Cait bit her lip and did not dignify the comment with a reply. The archbishop, meanwhile, gathered the nuns around him and led the sisters in a prayer for a swift end to the battle and a peaceful resolution.
Thus, the two opposing forces faced one another across a narrow space—fewer than a hundred paces separating one from the other. And here they paused. The horses were growing tired. Steam rose from their nostrils and from their rumps and flanks.
For a brief moment all was silent, save for the murmured prayers of the sisters and archbishop kneeling in the snow. Then there came a movement from the Moorish line, and Cait saw Rognvald ride out a few paces into the open alone. “Renaud de Bracineaux,” he called, his voice loud in the hush, “for the sake of your men, I ask you to surrender.”
This brought a laugh from the Templar commander, who moved out a few paces to meet the Norseman halfway. “Surrender?” he laughed. “To you? Your confidence is commendable, sir, but it is misplaced. We are winning this battle.”
“You have fought well,” Rognvald acknowledged. “It would be a wicked waste to lead such good soldiers to their deaths. Lay down your arms, and the killing can stop.”
De Bracineaux laughed again. “The killing has not yet begun.” He turned then, and rode back to his waiting ranks.
“I give you one last chance,” Rognvald called after him. “By the God who made me, Templar, unless you forsake the fight, I swear you will not walk from this battleground.”
The commander’s reply came by way of a sudden charge. Even before de Bracineaux reached the line, his men were in motion, spurring their horses forward. Rognvald raised himself in the saddle and, with a sharp chop of his hand, signalled Hasan’s troops to meet the sortie. The Moors swept across the narrow space dividing the two forces.
It was only as the combatants closed on one another that Cait realized that something had changed within the Moorish ranks: they now carried lances. While Rognvald was exchanging words with the Templar commander, the Moors had replaced their swords with stout, long-shafted spears, which they now levelled upon the onrushing Templar knights.
The two forces collided with a crash like thunder. The clash shook snow from the nearby rooftops and shuddered the frozen ground. Seven Templars were unhorsed, and two of those did not rise; they lay in the snow with broken lance-shafts protruding from pierced ribs.
The force of the charge carried each side through and beyond the line of the other. As soon as they broke free, both sides turned and readied themselves for another foray. Again came the command, again they spurred their mounts to speed. Again the clash shivered the frigid air. Cait looked away at the last moment, and when she looked back four more Templars lay in the snow. Only nine were left to stand against Hasan’s thirty.
De Bracineaux knew he could not risk another attack so this time, as soon as they passed, the Templars reined up, wheeled their horses, and flew at the backs of the retreating Moors. They succeeded in cutting down three of Hasan’s troops, but the rest quickly surrounded the nine Templars. Lances were no use in close fighting, so they were abandoned in favor of the sword. This was the fight de Bracineaux wanted, and once again the heavier armor and skill of his men began to tell against the more lightly protected Moors.
One after another, the Moors fell to the Templar blades—three fell at once, followed by three more, and then two more in quick succession. Cait watched with growing apprehension as the Templars slowly cut their way through the Moorish ranks.
“De Bracineaux will have their hearts for supper,” said d’Anjou, almost glowing with exaltation at the splendid spectacle of carnage. “Perhaps I should start the cooking fire now.”
Cait tried to pull away from him, but he tightened his grip and held her to her place. “You wanted to watch, my lady,” he gloated. “You will watch!”
There came a movement from within the Moorish ranks, and Cait saw her knights moving through the press to join battle with the Templars, who had been forced once more into a tight defensive circle. Rognvald, with Yngvar at his left hand, pushed in on one side of the ring, and Dag, Svein, and Rodrigo forced their way in from the other. The Norsemen—larger than their Moorish comrades, and used to fighting with heavy weapons—shouldered the brunt of the offensive, driving in with relentless ferocity.
Rognvald, his arm rising and falling in deadly rhythm, rained devastating blows on the Templars before him. Shields, helmets, and swords were battered and broken before the Norsemen’s onslaught. The sound of their terrible hammering blows resounded across the battleground: Crack! Now a shield was riven. Crack! Now a helm split asunder. Crack! A blade shattered. Disarmed, the unlucky Templar left the saddle, diving for the ground rather than face Rognvald’s killing stroke. Whirling with dread purpose, the Norse lord singled out another foe.
Slowly the balance of battle swayed once more.
Yngvar and Svein each succeeded in unhorsing an opponent, leaving only six Templars in action. Seeing they were at last beginning to overcome the stubbornly valiant Templars, Hasan’s troops redoubled th
eir efforts. A great shout of triumph arose from the Moors as they swarmed in for the final assault.
Cait was watching Prince Hasan as he forced his way to Rognvald’s side and did not see the deadly struggle taking place at the far side of the dwindling band of Templars. But just as another Templar knight fell before the Norsemen’s blades, a lone rider broke free from the mass and galloped toward them with Yngvar and Svein in pursuit.
The fleeing Templar reached the church, reining up a few paces from where Cait and d’Anjou were standing; he was out of the saddle before his horse had come to a halt. Throwing off his battered helm, he lurched toward them. It was de Bracineaux. “You!” he said, reaching for Cait. “You are coming with me.”
FORTY-SEVEN
BLEEDING FROM A deep cut to his forehead, his face ashen with fatigue, de Bracineaux snatched Cait from d’Anjou’s grasp. Cait screamed and clawed at him, but he grabbed her arm with his free hand and, still clutching his sword, threw his arm around her waist. He lifted her off her feet and dragged her out from among the crowd gathered in front of the church.
“Here!” cried the archbishop, rising from his prayers in the snow. “Let her go! This is not the way, de Bracineaux.”
“Stay back, priest,” said d’Anjou, shoving him down once more. “This is none of your concern.”
“In God’s name,” Bertrano cried, “I beg you: let her go. End the bloodshed.” Struggling to his feet, he started after the Templar commander. “De Bracineaux!” he called. “Stop!”
“Keep him away!” shouted the Templar over his shoulder.
Baron d’Anjou moved to head off the interfering cleric. “I told you to stay back, priest.” He grabbed the archbishop by the arm and pulled him around. “Bother God with your prayers, and leave the rest to us.”
“Release me, sir!” Bertrano shrugged off d’Anjou’s hold. “You will not presume to tell me what to do.” He turned and started after the commander and his captive once more, calling for Caitríona’s release, and an end to the fighting.
The baron grabbed Bertrano’s arm and tried to pull him back, but the big man shook off his assailant, and bulled ahead. He reached de Bracineaux and put his hands on the Templar. “Put down your sword, commander,” the archbishop called. “Sue for peace. I will speak to them.” He took hold of the Templar’s sword hand and tried to break his grip. “Let the woman go.”
“Get back!” snarled de Bracineaux, elbowing the cleric aside. “D’Anjou! Keep him away from me!”
D’Anjou seized the archbishop by the belt of his robe and pulled him back a few paces. The churchman made a wild swing with his arm, knocking the baron aside; he turned and started once more for the Templar. D’Anjou lunged after him. “Stay back,” he growled.
Bertrano shook him off and turned. D’Anjou darted after him, appeared to make a grab, but missed. The archbishop took another step, then stumbled and went down.
He writhed in the snow, pressing a hand to his side. Several of the nuns hurried to his aid. One of them screamed when she took hold of Bertrano’s hand. Her own hand came away wet and red; there was blood in the snow, spilling from a gash in his side. “I warned you,” Baron d’Anjou said, wiping the blade of his dagger with a handful of snow. “You should have listened.”
Kicking and scratching, Cait succeeded in squirming free, but de Bracineaux got his fingers in her hair and dragged her with him. “You have cost me dearly,” he wheezed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Now you are going to repay me in full.”
Cait lashed out at him with her fists, swinging hard, the blows muted by the mail and padding. Wrapping his hand securely in her hair, he hauled her to her knees and pressed the ragged edge of his sword to her throat. She felt the cold steel bite into the soft flesh of her neck, and stopped struggling. From the corner of her eye she saw two Norse knights approaching.
“That is close enough!” de Bracineaux shouted as Svein and Yngvar came running up. “Any closer and the lady will lose her head.” As if to demonstrate the veracity of this threat, he tightened his grip in her hair and jerked her head up, pressing the sharp blade harder against the base of her throat. She felt something digging into her shoulder and realized it was the golden pommel of de Bracineaux’s dagger which was hanging from his belt. If she could get her hands on it, she might have a chance to defend herself.
“Let her go, Templar,” said Yngvar. “We mean to treat you fairly.”
“Do you think I would trust any of your promises?” replied the commander. “No, I have a better idea. Throw down your weapons and she may yet live.”
Cait edged sideways slightly, freeing the dagger from behind her shoulder. De Bracineaux punished her for the movement by jerking her head higher and pressing the blade harder still. She heard a horse galloping swiftly nearer. “Release her, de Bracineaux,” called the rider. She heard the voice and took hope: it was Rognvald. “Let her go, and we will settle terms of peace.”
“I will give you my terms!” roared the commander. “This woman dies unless you give me the cup.” When no one moved to respond, de Bracineaux forced Cait’s head down and started to draw the blade across her throat; she felt the skin break and blood begin to ooze.
Rognvald made to dismount, but the Templar commander shouted, “Stay back!” He pulled Cait’s head up and back, stretching her throat to show the cut he’d made. “Bring me the cup!” he screamed. “Now!”
Turning to those standing outside the door of the church, Rognvald called for the cup to be brought out. “You should think about your men,” Rognvald told him. “There are nine Templars still drawing breath. Their lives, and yours, are forfeit if you harm this woman.”
“The Devil take them,” de Bracineaux replied. “Devil take you all.” He turned his head toward the church. “D’Anjou! Where is that cup?”
Alethea appeared at the door of the church just then. “It is here,” she said.
“Bring it to me!” shouted de Bracineaux. “Bring it here to me!”
Holding the Sacred Vessel in both hands, Alethea stepped forward. A way parted through the crowd as she moved, walking slowly, and with grave deliberation as if in a holy procession. She held the cup high for all to see, and the morning light glinted off the gilded rim, creating a glowing halo of gold which hovered above her hands.
The commander saw the precious relic and his face twisted in an ugly gloating grin. Still he held his hostage firmly, the swordblade hard against her throat. Cait could feel the warm blood trickling down her neck and soaking into her clothing. She heard Rognvald say something; he was trying to dissuade the Templar from carrying his scheme any further. Some of the nuns and villagers huddled outside the church began to weep and cry out in their anguish. Cait heard it all, but the sounds meant nothing to her; she could only watch with mounting dread as Alethea drew step-by-slow-deliberate-step closer with the Sacred Chalice in her hands.
When Alethea had come within three paces she stopped. “Here, girl!” de Bracineaux snarled. “Give it to me!”
Alethea looked steadily at him, her features expressionless, and slowly knelt in the snow.
“Here!” said de Bracineaux angrily. “Here to me!”
She made no move to come nearer. Instead, Alethea stretched out her hands and raised the Holy Cup above her head as if in offering.
The Templar commander shouted again for her to deliver the cup into his hands, but Alethea, kneeling meekly in the snow, remained unmoved, holding the cup just out of his reach.
De Bracineaux gave a grunt of impatience. Releasing his grip on Cait’s hair, but still holding the sword to her neck, he reached out for the cup with his free hand. Leaning far forward, he took a half-step toward the cup. Arm extended, fingers stretching, he grasped the golden rim and plucked the Holy Chalice from between Alethea’s hands. As he reached out, the dagger at his belt swung free.
Alethea rose with catlike quickness. Her long fingers closed on the weapon as she came up. With a single, smooth stroke she drew the knife fro
m the sheath and drove the point of the blade up under de Bracineaux’s chin.
With a startled cry, he dropped the cup and the sword. Cait fell forward onto her hands, then collapsed face down in the snow.
De Bracineaux seized Alethea’s wrist and tried to pull the dagger away. Wrapping her other hand around the Templar’s, Alethea stepped nearer and, with all her strength, drove the knife blade to the hilt. The two stood for a moment in a weird and deadly embrace; and then, with a muffled cry of rage and pain, de Bracineaux pulled his hand free. He made a sweep with his arm and knocked the girl aside.
Alethea fell back in the snow. De Bracineaux pulled the blade from his neck and turned on her. He lurched forward, slashing wildly with the dagger as blood coursed freely from the hole in his throat.
Rognvald rushed in, sword ready.
Alethea lay where she had fallen, gazing up at him—neither trembling, nor cowering in fear, but with calm defiance. Commander de Bracineaux took one step and then another. Blood cascaded from his wound, staining his beard and soaking into his tunic. He reached for her, the knife gleaming red in the sun. But as he made to strike, de Bracineaux’s legs buckled beneath him. He fell on his side, blood spewing a bright crimson arc in the snow.
Rognvald, crouching behind his sword, put himself between Alethea and the Templar. De Bracineaux hauled himself onto his knees, regarding Alethea dully, as if trying to understand how a nun could have done such a contemptible thing to him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words came out in a dark, bloody bubbling which gushed over his teeth and chin, and splashed down his white surcoat, blotting out the red Templar cross on his chest.
Alethea rose to her feet, pushed past Rognvald and stood over de Bracineaux, gazing down with pitiless indifference at her stricken enemy. Unable to speak, he lifted uncomprehending eyes to her impassive face; his jaw worked, forming a single word: why?
The Mystic Rose Page 46