Holy Warrior

by Angus Donald

  In a few moments, the Berbers were all dead or gone from the field and I heard the brassy song of our trumpets sounding the recall. Looking around the field, I saw that many of the dead wore the black robes with the white cross of the Hospitallers - touchingly their horses seemed the most loyal of beasts, many standing beside their dead masters, and nuzzling at them, urging the corpse to rise - but that there were still three score or so of the black-clad Christian warriors alive, and several dozen French knights, and they, like our men, were trotting over to the great white banner with the snarling wolf’s head, which was our rallying point.

  Our own horsemen had not suffered too badly in that desperate fight, and I could see at least seventy of Sir James’s men, joining Robin and the Scottish knight by the flag. We formed up again but this time in two ranks; those who still had their lances, or who had thought to pick up discarded ones from the field, were placed in the front rank. The rest of us would follow the front rank in with our swords. From my position in the second rank, I looked forward over the heads of the lance-men and at the ranks of the enemy’s right wing a mere four hundred yards away. Immediately in front of us was a thick line of foot soldiers hundreds strong, each holding a long sword and small round shield; their chests were bare, their loins wrapped in brilliant white cloth, their faces were grim as they awaited out attack - and their skins were as dark as midnight. These were the fearsome warriors from Egypt - the mighty leapers, the drinkers of human blood. Behind them was another mass of Turkish cavalry, bows already in their hands. I shivered as I looked on the enemy host that we were shortly to charge; the sword hilt was sweaty in my hand, and I found I was gripping my shield tighter to my left shoulder. Another trumpet blast, and we were moving forward, sword in my moist fist, shield strapped tightly to my left forearm. The arrows from the horse archers began to fall on us, rattling against my shield and helmet as I crouched under their lash. I tried to ignore the stinging rain of deadly shafts and concentrate on keeping Ghost in line with the rest of the conroi. And we did not have to endure for long. We rose to the canter, then the gallop, and then we were upon them. The front rank spearing into the lines of dark-skinned men hurling them backwards, and we in the second rank following hard on their heels. A huge half-naked black man rushed at me from my left, howled some dreadful pagan war cry and then leapt at me, springing high in the air, higher than I sat on Ghost, and swinging his long blade at my head in the same movement. More by luck than skill, I caught it on the top of my shield and deflected it in a hissing flash over my head, and my own sword lanced out and took him in his muscular belly. He fell away, off my sword, screaming and spraying blood from his wound. But two of his fellows were running at me, one from the left again, and more dangerously, one from the right. I heard Robin shouting: ‘On, on, take the cavalry, take the cavalry,’ from somewhere close by but I was too busy to heed him. Instead of leaping at me, the dark man on my left crouched and swung his long grey blade in an upward strike at Ghost’s belly, hoping to eviscerate my faithful beast, but I dropped the pointed end of my shield, and parried his low blow before swinging overhand, across my body with the sword, clipping his shield, which was held above his head, with my blade’s edge and driving it past to chop into the gap between his neck and shoulder, slicing deep and dropping him with a nearly severed head. For a few moments my blade stuck in his collar bone, and I had to twist and tug to free it as his hot blood pissed up my face and right arm. I was off balance, having leaned far out of the saddle to my left hand side to strike the blow, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other dark man, just yards away, bringing back his arm for a massive strike at my twisted waist.

  The world seemed to slow; I could feel every heartbeat as if it were the boom of a mournful funeral drum. I knew what would happen next. I could not swing my sword round in time to parry his blow, and his long, heavy blade would arc into my side, smash through the chainmail, and cut deep into the side of my belly. I was a dead man.

  And then a miracle occurred. There was a rumble of hoofbeats, a big horse thundered past; a long spear took the Nubian full in the chest, lifted him off his feet and hurled him away, his naked body crumpling to the turf with his arm still raised, sword cocked and ready for the blow that would have killed me.

  The horseman reined in a dozen yards away. He pulled out his sword and raised it in salute and grinned at me: it was Robin. I straightened in the saddle and lifted my own blade in return. ‘Come on, Alan,’ he said, ‘no more slacking. We can’t hang around here, we have to push the cavalry off that ridge.’ And he gestured over his shoulder to where a huge mass of Turkish horsemen was milling about uncertainly on a low rise between us and the centre of Saladin’s vast army. ‘And on your best behaviour, too, Alan,’ Robin continued, ‘the King will be watching.’ And he grinned at me again. He cupped one hand around his mouth and bellowed: ‘On me, form on me,’ in his brass battle voice. ‘Trumpeter, sound “re-form”.’

  At the mention of the King, I turned and looked back at our lines, and saw a wonderful sight: the King, his golden ringed helmet marking him out of the crowd, was advancing at speed up the centre of the field. And behind him were a thousand fresh knights from England and Normandy. Their armour gleamed, lance points glittered, pennants fluttered gaily in the air, and their big horses shook the ground with the thunder of their hooves. They were headed straight for the centre of the enemy line. In a flashing moment, I saw why Richard had delayed his advance. He had let our men bleed the strength from the centre, sucking regiments to the right flank to face us, and the left, where the Templars and Angevins were still engaged in a furious mêlée. With the centre thinned by attacks either side, Richard was now about to strike it a powerful hammer blow. Would he succeed? It was too soon to say: Saladin still commanded a mighty host, and if Richard was pushed back, and Saladin counter-attacked, every man in the whole Christian army would be fleeing for his life by nightfall.

  Our cavalry, Robin’s men, the Flemings and what was left of the Hospitallers and French, were scattered all over the field. The brave Nubian footmen had died where they stood, cut down in droves by our horsemen. But the half-naked tribesmen had exacted a dreadful price for their deaths: scarcely a hundred mounted men were able to answer Robin’s call. I offered up a quick prayer for Richard’s success, and ours, and added a humble request that my life would be spared, too. And then we were off again: no neat lines this time, just the big, jostling crowd of Christian horsemen that Robin had gathered, bloodied swords drawn, grinning like wolves with the wild joy of battle and galloping madly up the hill any old how to savage the crowd of Turkish light cavalry at the ridge.

  I will not say the Turks were cowards; they had faced these same blood-hungry men three times already that day and been mauled in each encounter. It was in their nature as light cavalry not to stand and face the heavy horse of Christendom, but to sting and run, regroup and return, to harass and kill from afar. But nevertheless, when a hundred exhausted, gore-flecked knights rampaged into their front ranks, swords swinging, shouting ‘St George,’ and ‘The Holy Sepulchre’ and one lone voice hoarsely crying ‘Westbury!’ - the Turks fled, turning their neat little ponies and riding east as fast as they could. The dust boiled around them and thousands of fine horsemen showed their backs and galloped from the field.

  It was the beginning of the end for Saladin that day. Richard’s knights had smashed into the centre and the King and his men were busily chopping their way through the Sultan’s elite guards towards the man Richard most wanted to duel with face to face. But it was not to be. Under the combined assaults on the left, right and centre, the great Muslim warlord ordered the retreat, and with a pig-squeal of trumpets and a cacophony of cymbals, leaving the regiments of his loyal bodyguard to cover the withdrawal, he quit the field in a cloud of churning dust.

  We were too exhausted to pursue him. And I merely watched with a drooping head, my whole body aching with fatigue, as Richard’s men smashed the last formations of the en
emy in a series of lightning charges. The day was won, and praise God, I had lived through it.

  Many of our men had not. Sir James de Brus was dead. I came across his body as I was riding slowly back towards our lines. He had been hacked into several pieces by the Nubians, half a dozen of whom lay dead or dying about his shattered corpse. His horse had been eviscerated and stood by his remains, whimpering, with great fat purple-green entrails hanging around its blood-splashed hooves. I put it swiftly out of its misery with a deep cut through the neck from my poniard and marked the position of Sir James’s body by means of his upright sword thrust into the turf. I meant to return later and arrange for a proper burial for my friend, but the sun was low in the sky and I had no way of carrying the pieces of him back to our lines with dignity. I could feel the blood drying on my face in great scabs and when I looked at my hands it seemed that I was wearing a pair of red gloves, so thickly were they slathered in gore. More than anything, while it was still light, I wanted to go down to the sea and wash some of the battle-filth from my body. Then I wanted to rest for a month.

  I returned to our lines to find that my friend Will Scarlet, too, had died of his wounds. I felt a deep welling up of sadness in my chest as I looked down at his body; the blue eyes staring sightlessly upwards to Heaven, where I prayed he would now be warmly welcomed for his part in our venture. So many dead on this pilgrimage to Jerusalem; so much blood spilled in the name of Jesus Christ: I thought of the Jews of York who had killed their own children and taken their own lives rather than be slaughtered by blood-drunk Christians who believed they were doing God’s will; I thought of dead Ruth, whose deep eyes and womanly figure had so captivated me for a day or so, and which I now could no longer remember with any clarity. I remembered Sir James de Brus and the terrible scowl that he used to conceal a kindly heart, and poor dead Will, now lying at my feet, who had wanted to be liked by his men, and who had found a strange kind of happiness with Elise. And most of all I thought of Nur - of the shining beauty she once wore effortlessly, like a golden halo, and poor mutilated monster that she had become - and all because of me.

  The tears were streaming down the sides of my nose when my servant William came to me with a piece of bread, a hunk of pork and a jug of spring water. ‘Are you hu-hurt, sir?’ he asked, looking at the blood that caked my hauberk, face and limbs with deep concern.

  ‘I am well, thank you, William,’ I said, sniffing, ‘but I must wash before I can eat. Let us go down to the sea.’

  And so we took the narrow path that led away from the army, down the steep red-earthed cliffs and towards the blue water in a sheltered bay away from prying eyes. I could only move stiffly down that winding path, but Keelie gambled about us like the puppy she had so recently been, happy to be alive and curious about every scent that wafted past her black nose. I wondered at her energy - I myself could hardly move and I gave William my shield to carry for suddenly I found the weight of it almost unbearable. At the sandy edge of the wide Mediterranean, I stripped to the flesh and leaving William and Keelie to guard my weapons and clothes, naked as the day I was born, I waded out through the gentle wavelets and plunged into the cool embrace of the sea. I did not travel far out from the beach for my swimming skill was poor, but with the water only chest deep, I frolicked in the comforting swell like a dolphin, washing the gore from me in the last warmth of the sun, which hung like a great bronze shield far out to the west over the dark blue waters.

  Coming to the surface and looking back at the shore no more than forty yards away. I noticed something odd. I moved in towards the beach to see more clearly what was happening. There were two figures, men-at-arms, standing beside the mound of my clothes, and one stunted shape that appeared to be a dwarf beside them. I noted the colour of the surcoats, as I splashed forward through knee-high water, and my heart sank down into my bowels. They were scarlet and sky blue - and then I saw that the tall man standing slightly ahead of the other had a lock of white hair in an otherwise russet head. It was Sir Richard Malbête.

  ‘Come out of the water, singing boy,’ said Malbete. ‘Come closer and we shall have a pleasant little sing-song on the beach.’ His deep voice was rich with black mirth. I stayed where I was on the edge of the water, twenty yards away; naked, dripping, with my hands cupping my private parts. Sir Richard Malbête did not move: he stood there, one hand on his sword hilt, and stared at me with his feral brown eyes. The man-at-arms moved over the dwarf-like figure, and pulled a long knife from his belt. I saw that it was William, bound hand and foot, with a red mark on the side of his head where somebody had hit him. He was bound tightly in a crouching position, but he looked more furious than frightened when the man-at-arms put the knife to his throat. Beside the boy was the corpse of Keelie, her golden yellow head smashed open by some savage blow. I could feel a deep current of rage begin to flow in my heart, black and strong, at the death of that happy dog.

  ‘Come to me, singing boy,’ crooned Malbête in his deep tones, ‘or your servant will surely die.’

  I had no choice: it was a matter of loyalty. William had been a good and faithful servant to me and I could not save myself by running away and condemn him to death, even if it meant my own doom. And I did not want to run away; I was willing to crush Malbête with my bare hands if necessary or die trying. So I began to walk, very slowly towards the two men. I stopped, just out of sword-reach, by the mound of my clothes. Malbête showed his big yellow teeth. ‘This is going to be a great pleasure,’ he said in his deep, slow voice, ‘one that I’ve looked forward to for a long while. I came to this strand only looking for a quiet place to bathe, and look what I found!’ And very slowly he pulled the sword from its sheath, the metal grating against the scabbard lip and setting my teeth on edge. He grinned at me horribly and took a pace forward.

  Then I said: ‘Sir Richard, surely, you would not kill a naked man? Might I have permission to dress myself first like a decent Christian?’ I was trying to sound as humble as possible; and discreetly eyeing the area around the mound of my clothes at the same time. The other man-at-arms spoke then. Standing up beside William, he hauled out a heavy tangle of sandy leather belts from behind his body, from which hung my poniard and my sword. Dangling them from his fist, he said: ‘Was this what you were seeking, sir?’ and he barked out a laugh. His calling me ‘sir’ was in some ways worse than being called ‘singing boy’. Disappointment showed in my face and Malbête began roaring with laughter. ‘By all means, dress yourself, singing boy. I am in no hurry. I like to take my time over my little pleasures.’ With his left hand he gestured magnanimously towards the pile of my gear.

  I bent slowly towards the ground, keeping my eyes on Malbête, my hand reaching down, fingers extending, groping through the sand, feeling my way - and snatched up a fist-sized rock from the beach that I had been eyeing since I had left the water’s edge. Spinning fast, I whipped my arm forward and hurled the stone as hard as I could towards Sir Richard’s face. I have said before that I am a good shot, and I have boasted that I am quick in battle, but at that moment I was as fast as I have ever been. The stone hurtled from my fist and streaked towards Malbete’s head, half a pound of flying sea-smoothed rock aimed directly at his nose - and, just in time, he ducked. But God was with me that day - for the rock whirred over Malbête’s head and smashed into the mouth of the man-at-arms who had just moved directly behind him. It landed with stunning force. The man-at-arms dropped like a sack of meal to the sand, and Malbête curled away from me, keeping low, darting incredulous glances at the unconscious man-at-arms, and just giving me enough time to grab my shield. Then Sir Richard lashed out with his long blade and, with a flat crack, I managed to block it directly with the face of the shield.

  I took a step towards the fallen man-at-arms, trying for my weapons, which lay in a tangle at his side, but Malbête was too canny to let me near him. He stepped forward and slashed at my head, and then my right side in quick succession. I stopped his cuts with the shield, and backed away. I was su
ddenly conscious that I was totally naked and armed only with an old-fashioned shield. Sir Richard had regained his equilibrium. He swung quickly at my bare shins and laughed as I skipped out of the way of his blade. ‘This is going to be more fun than I had imagined,’ he rumbled, and I saw that he really meant it. He was enjoying the fact that the odds had moved a little in my favour, but it was clear that he still had no doubts at all that he could kill me easily. He slashed at me again, and seemed delighted when I stumbled. I was still trying to edge round towards my weapons, but every time I moved that way, he warded me off with a few well-aimed sword blows and I had to skip and dodge and block to stay alive. I stared at him, panting, over the rim of my shield; hating him with my whole heart and soul. I felt that dark current of rage move again, and this time it began to bubble up inside me, erupting in my brain as a black fighting fury - I knew I could not be killed by this man. I knew I would kill him - for Nur’s sake, for Ruth’s sake, for Reuben’s sake, for my own sake. This day his soul would be travelling to Hell.