‘We have to fight our way back to the gate,’ the Templar was bellowing at the Grand Master and, I supposed, me. ‘Some are flying to the river, but it is too strong to cross.’
William de Sonnac turned to me, his dead eye bouncing horribly against his cheek. With a grimace of impatience he fumbled for it and pulled it free, throwing it from him as if it were no more than a burdock he had plucked from his clothing.
‘What’s your name?’ he snapped.
‘Sir Petrus Blakke Dogge,’ I told him. Under the circumstances I couldn’t really blame him for not recognising me.
‘Petrus? English? Right, then. The bloody fools who forced our necks into this snare are all dead by now, or will be soon. We must warn the king not to come near the city. Are you with me?’
‘Yes, I am,’ I said. ‘And you, sir, will come with us,’ I added, nodding to the English lad, who was sitting rigidly upon his fidgeting horse, eyes as big as gull’s eggs.
‘I will find the brothers who remain and join you soon,’ said the other Templar. With a cheerful nod at me, he turned his horse and vanished into the dust. I never saw him again.
‘All men who can ride, to me!’ called de Sonnac. There were no more than six of us now. The men on foot looked up at us balefully, but there were few of them now, and still the Saracens came on, more than before. Someone handed me a lance. I sheathed my sword and took it.
‘Follow if you can,’ the Grand Master told them. ‘Find Artois, the damned idiot, and get yourselves out of the town.’
‘He’s dead in a house over yonder,’ said one of the knights – a Frenchman. He was weeping through his coating of dust.
‘Then save yourselves,’ barked de Sonnac. ‘Come on, you men! For the Temple, the Temple!’
‘Wait,’ I said, and grabbed the English lad’s reins, for we were all trying to untangle the snarled knot of horses and men, and I saw he was about to panic. ‘Where are the others? John and Guy?’
‘Gone, all gone. They shot us all down as we rode back … The other gate was closed, and so we turned and …’
But we were moving now, and I let go his reins and gave my poor horse the spurs once more. Straight away we were wading through a wall of townsmen, hacking to left and right until we were through. We rode down the wide street until we came to a crossroads. Beams had been thrown across the streets but we jumped them. A thick flight of arrows came from our right, and instantly a horse stumbled and went down on its neck, throwing the rider. Another man, a Frenchman whose shield I had seen in the front of the mad chase across the fields, tried to pick up the dismounted knight but as he reached for him another three arrows caught him in the back and he went down. Now, to my dismay, we were turning towards the source of the arrows, charging, howling out battle cries we could not hear. More arrows whistled by, and then the archers were all around us and we were cutting at them. Bricks were shattering on the cobbles, and women were hooting and wailing at us from the roofs and windows.
Five of us left, and the Grand Master. I glanced at the English boy. He looked more alert now, but not much.
‘Sheath your sword!’ I ordered him. Startled, he obeyed. ‘Shift your shield to your right arm!’ He did, clumsily, but we were not moving fast, for our horses were blown and hurt. The Grand Master had lost his shield, and at a nod from me the boy moved up on his right while I urged Tredefeu alongside him on the left. Seeing what we were doing, another man dropped back until the Templar was surrounded by shields. Arrows came again, and a big spar of wood thundered onto the cobbles next to me, sending Tredefeu lurching into de Sonnac’s horse. But that seemed to put a last spasm of desperate energy into the beasts, and we began to pick up speed until we were galloping along the cobbles, which were slippery with blood from the dead Franks and their horses, who lay everywhere here. I felt hooves crunch and slither on wetly brittle things but I did not look down. I recognised the wagon and the place where I had become separated from the charge. And in the mouth of the alley, propped against a cart of burst oranges, was Guy Curtbac, half his skull gone, his severed hands in his lap.
But here, at last, was the gate. An angry crowd of Saracen soldiers and townsfolk were clustered there, and as we came closer I saw Frankish knights fighting desperately in the gateway itself, dismounted, beating back the crowd that was flinging itself upon them as one enraged thing bristling with steel. They were trying to keep the way open and when one of them saw us he began to shout to his comrades, although his voice was swallowed up in the din.
‘Charge them, boys!’ It was the Grand Master, ordering us calmly through his hideous mask of hardened blood. The other Templars couched their lances and the English lad, mouth so tight it was little more than a white line below the nosepiece of his helmet, did the same. Oh, Christ. I followed suit. We barely had time to shake ourselves out into a line five-abreast, but there was a moment, as my head went down behind my shield and my lance steadied, when the Saracens realised they were being attacked from behind and twenty, thirty heads came round, that I felt the strength and the terrible power we possessed: so much weight, so much razor-sharp metal, hooves … My lance took a white-robed townsman in the shoulder and spun him round, the blade tearing free and striking a soldier full in the chest, something – breastplate, breastbone – stopping the point. The shaft bent itself into an arc and snapped, wrenching the end from my hand. I drew my sword but we were already through, hooves echoing in the cool, arched space of the gateway and then the sun again, and all around us, the fields …
The Grand Master had reined in. The Templars in the gateway turned and ran towards us. There were seven of them and five of us. I pulled one up behind me and gave up a stirrup for another, who threw his arms around Tredefeu’s neck and held on for dear life. When every man was mounted in some fashion we turned and stumbled down the road, for the horses, beyond the limits of their endurance, were done and could barely canter. Scattered arrows flew by. But we were moving faster than the people of Mansourah who were running after us. We had escaped.
There was the Nile, close by on our left, and further off, the Ashmoun Canal, marked with palm trees and reeds. Between us and the canal, the Saracen camp was still burning, and beyond waved the standards of the main army. Here and there across the plain, widely scattered knots of men were fleeing, some on horseback, some straggling on foot, but it was a terrifyingly small number, the tiniest fraction of the company that had charged into Mansourah. The king’s army was advancing, a long line sweeping towards the burning camp. Behind us, horns were sounding, and kettledrums were beginning to thunder. Twisting in the saddle, I glanced beyond my passenger’s shoulder. From the gates, and from the distance beyond the city, mounted soldiers were streaming. It was the Saracen force we had routed and chased into Mansourah, but doubled, quadrupled in size. They were not troubling to form into ranks, but were swarming into the plain, hammering towards us on horses that were fresher and faster than ours.
Tredefeu was starting to slow down, and every few steps he would falter and check his gait. The ground was uneven: we were in the gardens again, churned up from our mad charge to the city. Blood and sweat were running down Tredefeu’s legs from under the chamfron, and the gash on his neck was pulsing blood with every stride he took. Arrows were sticking out from the chamfron’s thick leather, and I realised with a nauseous jolt that one was jutting from my left thigh. And as soon as I saw it, my leg was convulsed in pain. I sucked the edge of my linen coif into my mouth and bit down as I snapped off the fletching. The head was not deep, the chain mail had slowed it down, but now I could feel the iron barbs gnawing at my thigh muscle.
The Grand Master’s horse had a flap of meat hanging from its right haunch, and every other beast was gashed and stuck with arrows. But the king’s army was rushing towards us: soon we would be swept up into its safety. The man with his foot in my stirrup was groaning softly and the hands knotted in Tredefeu’s mane were almost translucent white.
‘How do you fare?’ I said to him.
He shook his head and tried to speak, but only a thin hiss escaped his lips. I looked down: the front of his white Templar’s surcoat was soaked with blood to the hem and slashed open: in the gash I saw the cut edges of his mail coat and between them, a glistening roil of innards.
‘Hang on,’ I said to him. ‘Hang on, brother. Here’s the king, look? See his flag?’ But as I mumbled to him as if he were a child, Tredefeu stumbled as he leaped an irrigation ditch, jolting us. The man behind me gripped my midriff until I could not breathe, but the Templar gave a thin, agonised shriek and fainted. His hands let go of the horse’s neck and before I could grab him he had dropped. His foot caught in the stirrups and he was dragged through a plot of winter cabbages, helpless, his eyes staring blankly at the sky.
‘Don’t stop!’ yelled the man behind me into my ear. I cursed him, but then the Templar’s foot slipped out of its trap and he was gone. And suddenly Tredefeu stopped running. His body began to shake beneath me and white foam bubbled from his nose and mouth, streaked with bright blood. He was still walking, head down, but as I coaxed him, and the man behind me yelled vile French curses, he sank, slowly, carefully, to his knees, and laid his great head down on the ground. We were in a shattered vegetable plot, and my good horse gasped his life out into a tangle of trampled onions as I scrambled off his back, the Frenchman clinging to me like an ape until I shook him off. He looked at me, mad with fear, and took off running. I paused and glanced down at Tredefeu. He was still alive, one liquid brown eye staring back at me. Perhaps I muttered a prayer, or thanks – I do not remember. I probably did not. The Saracen army was very close now, and the ground was shaking with the fall of their hooves. I pulled off my shield, slung the strap over my shoulder so that it hung down my back, and took off after the Frenchman. There was a small grove of fig trees up ahead, and beyond, the French army was … But they had stopped. The line of knights, with the white and gold of France in the centre, was standing still, just past the burning camp of the Saracens, more than a quarter-mile away.
The Grand Master, and the other riders, were swallowed up in the ranks as I reached the fig trees. I ought to be safe by now, but the Saracens were gaining. I was roughly halfway between the two armies, but the Saracens were charging at full stretch, and soon I would be ridden over. My thigh was burning with pain but I forced it to obey me. Should I stop here in the trees and make my stand? But I could not stop. I was back in the strange dream, running for the sake of movement, stumbling out into the expanse of trampled stubble beyond the gardens. I began shouting at the French, telling them to come on, to fight. I could see Louis, or a shape that must be Louis, sitting on a horse beneath the gonfalon of Saint Denis. Still I ran, jumping over a ditch, crashing through a fence of reeds, and still the hoof beats rumbled behind me.
I was done. My breath was being squeezed shallow and the pain in my thigh was much worse. I was flailing now, wading through the air, which had suddenly grown very thick. The French line was very near. In two minutes I could have strolled to where the king stood waiting. The Saracens were whooping and calling out to their god. Tripping, I stumbled forward and crawled, then forced myself upright and turned to face my end.
Five packs of horsemen were charging through the gardens, several hundred in each pack, swords and spears and polished shields flashing. Trumpets were sounding. I drew my sword and took it in both hands. What a ridiculous way to die. I closed my eyes and found Iselda’s face somewhere in the turmoil inside my skull. I’m really, really sorry, I told her.
A sound startled me back into the world: a great mechanical clattering, a dry ripple tearing through the air behind me. Three Saracens were three spear-lengths away from me. One of them was drawing back the string on a short, curved bow, his eyes intent on me. And then he was gone. And his two mates: gone as well. A black shadow seemed to have toppled into the Saracen charge and sent horses rearing and falling. The front of each pack of horsemen dissolved into a mass of writhing limbs, horse and men thrashing together. Then another clatter and another shadow fell. Turning, I saw that crossbowmen had come through the line of French horses and were shooting over my head. Without waiting for the Saracens to recover I began to lurch across the field. Sheltered by a swooping, hissing cloud of crossbow-quarrels, I went, cursing and moaning in pain, until at last a crossbowman dropped his weapon and ran towards me. He caught me around the chest and, slinging my arm across his shoulders, half-dragged me back through the wall of horses.
‘God bless you, sir,’ he said, leaving me to stagger back towards the canal. I had gone only a few paces when I tripped again, and found myself surrounded by young, freshly shaven knights, who knelt and began to loosen my armour.
‘Were you in the city?’
‘What happened, man?’ They were talking at once, eager and fearful.
‘I think everyone died, my lads,’ I said, sitting up and trying not to snatch at the waterskin that someone was holding out.
‘The king’s brother?’
‘Dead. And William Longspée. All the English with him, save myself and one boy. We brought out the Grand Master of the Temple, who has lost an eye. The other Templars …’ I took another drink.
‘Dead? Every one of them?’
‘I don’t know. How many have come across the fields?’
‘Two score, maybe? Surely that cannot be everyone?’
‘The river … Some were trying to swim the Nile. But I don’t think anybody came out after the Grand Master and the rest of us.’
‘God’s stones, but you are a lucky man, Sir Englishman!’ said one young fellow, clapping me on the back, looking more worried than he sounded. Beyond the horses and their riders, still fretting where they stood, the crossbowmen were sending another volley into the air. The king raised his voice and gave the order to charge. Crows were already beginning to gather, away over towards Mansourah, and around us rose the sickly vapour of crushed and spoiled vegetables.
‘We’ll see,’ I told him. ‘We’ll see.’
Chapter Seventeen
Two days later the Saracens attacked us. But we were waiting for them. The king had managed to slip some spies into their ranks, and so we knew they would come at the rising of the sun. I remember standing all night in my armour, shivering in the midst of exhausted men. We had spent the day before raising embankments and spiking them with a strong palisade, and it seemed we were well defended. But at sunrise a vast army spread out over the plain around us and soon the camp was completely circled by Saracen troops: thousands of cavalry, many of them regiments of the Mamluks, the warrior lord-slaves of Egypt, and an even greater host of foot soldiers. The commander – a Mamluk, by his attire – taunted us, riding around us out of bowshot, adjusting his forces, until at noon there was a sudden thunder of kettledrums and blaring horns, and the vast noose of yelling, steel-waving men began to tighten around us.
It was my honour to be with the Templar contingent, what was left of it. Not an honour that I relished, but the brothers wanted to reward me for helping to save their Grand Master, and what greater reward than to die in their company? My spirits were quite numb by that time. I had been limping back to camp as the king made his charge against the garrison of Mansourah, and there I had lain for a day, having been stitched and dosed by various harried barber-surgeons. Apparently we had won what the chroniclers would call the Battle of Mansourah, even though the city was still in Saracen hands; and by the time the victorious army rode into the camp I, as one of only a small handful that had escaped from the town, was being called a hero. I never saw the English lad again. I supposed he must have died later that day, or fallen sick soon after. Warren died in Mansourah. Guy Curtbac, randy Simon, John de Motcombe and two hundred other men would never go back to England. But it was my own misfortune to find that I could walk and hold a sword after only a day of rest, just in time to have the honour of my presence requested by a grinning Templar brother.
I had limped across to where, by the light of torches, the retainers of the Temple
were building a barricade out of captured Saracen catapults and siege engines. Someone had found me a horse, and I was led over to the Grand Master. Guillaume de Sonnac was a ghastly sight. His missing eye had been stitched shut – apparently by a butcher – over the empty socket, which was leaking a thick, dark liquor, but his good eye blazed with fevered passion. He said nothing to me, but clapped me on the shoulder and indicated that I should take my place at his side. And then there was a long, long wait. No one was in a talking mood. The Templars told their rosaries and muttered prayers and paternosters. I sank into a sort of trance as the poison from an infected wound found its way into my blood, but it was merciful, in a way, because I remember almost nothing of those twelve hours before hell slipped its bonds.
First the Saracens attacked on our left, then they threw themselves on us. A dense phalanx of infantry rushed our barricade, ignoring the crossbow bolts that were slaughtering them at close range. The Grand Master gave a shout and we charged and threw them back. But as soon as we had retreated behind our barricade they came again, and this time the cavalry pressed the foot soldiers from behind, forcing them into the deadly hail from our crossbowmen. And then the Saracen archers let loose. The air turned black – this I swear, for over the barricade dropped a belt of arrows so thick that it put a wooden ceiling between us and the sun for a brief moment – and then arrows were lancing into bodies, horse-armour, shields. Again and again the shafts poured down, until we seemed to be fighting in a field of dark corn. We charged out again, but the sheer might of their numbers threw us back.
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