Knight Assassin

by James Boschert

  He felt loose and comfortable facing the big man before him. Montague’s anger and the pain Talon had inflicted early on to his ears was getting in the way of his judgment. Talon was relying on his speed and the skill he had learned long ago in the mountains of the Assassins to keep his opponent off balance. He allowed Montague to make the attacks with the purpose of tiring the man and it was beginning to work. Once again Montague rushed in, his stick whirling about his head, trying for a weak point; although he feinted and struck for another target, Talon blocked his stick with a loud click and deflected; then before he could think of another move, Talon reversed again and delivered a nasty blow to his opponent’s knuckles. The crowd were taking sides and cheering now. Talon danced out of the way and in a circle, with the angry Montague following him, jeering at him to stop and face him.

  Talon nodded then and stepped in to deliver a lightning-fast poke to the face that landed on Montague’s chin, drawing blood. The man yelled in rage, paused to glaring at Talon, then spat out a tooth onto the dirt.

  But he surprised Talon because he grinned in spite of that and shouted, “You are a worthy opponent, Sir Talon. By the time we are done you will be on your back, begging for mercy.” Then he rushed in and delivered some very fast blows up and down and from all sides. Talon was forced to retreat and block as many as he could but the sheer force of the attacks drove him back. The crowd of men was shouting like madmen now as they knew they were witnessing the closure of the fight.

  Talon suddenly found that his back was against a wall and his opponent’s bloodied face was floating in front of him looking dangerously confident. It was time to take the fight to Montague. He ducked a wicked swing that hit the wall and dislodged a few chips of masonry then dodged under Montague’s guard to whack his opponent hard on the knee. Montague swore and stumbled back, holding his stick up with one hand while he rubbed his knee. Talon gave him no respite but followed his opponent as he fell back, striking and stabbing with his stick at Montague’s face and other exposed parts.

  He felt a small flame of anger rising in him and knew that he should finish it soon or his more bulky opponent could overwhelm him. He struck hard at Montague’s guard and began to drive him back. Montague tried to regain the initiative but Talon was intent upon denying him any openings. With three more vicious and well aimed blows, Talon brought Montague to his knees. They were both tired and panting hard but it was clear to the crowd that Talon had the upper hand now and they were yelling at him to finish his opponent off.

  He knew he could, but something stopped him. Montague had fought well and without too much malice. Instead of knocking his man to the ground Talon stopped and let his stick fall to the ground. He took a step toward his opponent, who was still kneeling, looking dazed and offered his hand instead.

  Montague looked up, his scarred and battered face covered in blood and saw the hand in front of him. He looked at it for a long moment in the absolute silence now surrounding the two. Then with a crooked smile he took it, dropping his own stick at the same time. Talon pulled him to his feet where he stood shakily still clasping hands.

  “Can we be comrades, instead, Sir Montague? Is honor satisfied? I would be your friend.”

  Montague spat some blood through his split lips onto the ground and looked blearily at Talon. “You are a fighter, young pup. We should be friends, by God. I have never had to fight with sticks like this before.”

  The men who heard this applauded their approval. They laughed and cheered the two gladiators and came to surround them. They now had their arms around each other. Talon felt like he needed to support Montague somewhat as the big man was still shaky on his feet.

  The crowd was suddenly split; men moved back to get out of the way of someone and the severe face of Sir Martin appeared in front of the two men. He looked very annoyed. “This is a time for training, not for games.” he said loudly. “Get back to your work, all of you. Sergeants, where are you that these men are behaving as though they are at a celebration?”

  Max appeared looking apologetic. “Sire, the students were a bit over enthusiastic and...”

  “I fell on my face, sir,” Montague said loudly.

  Sir Martin looked at him, taking in the battered face and the blood-streaked hair. He was no fool and he understood what was going on, so he said, “See to it that you improve your balance in future, sir. We have to fight the Saracen, not be falling about all over the place getting wounded unnecessarily before then.” He looked hard at Talon as though sizing him up. He turned on his heel and left.

  Everyone was quiet as he left the scene. Then slowly men went off, talking among themselves about the fight and its unexpected outcome.

  Montague turned to Talon. “I was wrong to goad you the other day, Sir Talon. Will you accept my hand on that?”

  “Willingly,” Talon said and they clasped hands while the other students recommenced their training with sticks.

  Max strode back to the two men. “I think you two have had enough training for the day. Go and clean up, you look as though you need it.”

  Montague said to Talon, “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  Max answered for Talon. “He learned to fight like that in the Holy Land. You’re lucky you did not fight with knives or it would have gone very badly for you, Sir Montague. I have watched him kill a man much older who thought he could win against Sir Talon. He is far better to have as a friend than an enemy.”

  “I shall remember that in the future, Sergeant. I would like to hear of your life in the Holy Land, Talon. We will all be going there one day and I know nothing of it.”

  Later, Max sidled up to Talon. “I am glad that you won, Master Talon. I bet a lot on you.” He jingled some coins in his pouch. “The other sergeants thought you were finished when Montague challenged you.”

  Talon laughed. “For shame, Max. Aren’t the Templars forbidden to gamble?”

  Max grinned. “There are times when the opportunity cannot be missed. You as a knight have to hold to higher standards, so you may not. I, on the other hand, a lowly servant, must make my money where I can.”

  Talon laughed. He knew perfectly well that Max had no need of money. If he had, then the gold he brought to Talon would have vanished long ago. His affection for the battle-scarred sergeant grew.

  The training continued day after day in an endless series of drills on horse and off. The tactics used on horseback became clear to Talon as they progressed. It was a few weeks later that with Montague at his left stirrup and another man close to his right that the new recruits managed to charge in a straight line for the length of the long field. The thunder of the huge, eager Destriers in a wide, level line and the battle cry of “Dius Lo Volte!” as they charged was enough to heat the blood and give every man in the line the feeling of invincibility.

  The sergeants and several of the older knights who had been in battle explained that the shock of the Templar charge had often as not so fractured the enemy armies that it was only needed once and then it was a matter of dealing with the foe as they ran from the battlefield. They explained that as long as the line was level and every man was protected on his right side by his comrade’s shield they were almost impossible to stop. Coupled with the huge horses they rode which often towered over those of the enemy, it was a brave or foolish Saracen army that confronted the Templar charge.

  It became common knowledge that Talon had lived in the Holy Land, and many came to him to ask him to tell them of the country and what they might expect there. It was sometimes awkward for him as he could tell them almost nothing of the Templars in Palestine, never having been associated with them until just before he left for France. So he would point them to Max and tell them that he was really the person they should ask about their future lives.

  The Master Sir Greves called him in to discuss the people and cultures, as that man was keenly interested in knowing his enemy better. Max informed Talon somewhat scathingly that he was impressed by the Master of Mas-D
ieu; he had found it rare that a senior officer of that order was in any manner interested in the habits of the other side.

  “We have been badly led in the past by several of the most senior men in the Holy Land, Talon.”

  “How is that, Max?”

  “These men came to grief because they had offended God with their arrogance, thinking themselves and their men invincible. They die trying to prove it, charging into not hundreds of the enemy but thousands with only a couple of hundred knights.”

  “That sounds foolish. The Turks are not fearful men, and some are very great warriors.”

  “I know that, but these men knew little and cared less of the mettle of the enemy, so they would be swallowed into the dense packed ranks of the Saracen to disappear from sight as they were cut down. They only reappeared as their heads were carried off on the enemy spears for display in Baghdad or Damascus.”

  Talon discussed this with Max often. Max had spent many years with Philip fighting up and down the kingdom of Jerusalem and counted himself lucky that he had not been led by these arrogant hot heads.

  He shook his head. “We are the holy monk warriors of the Christian lands, Talon. But I fear that we are only human and not often well led. The Saracen might not amount to much when alone or in small numbers, but in large armies they can be formidable. They also have the ability to replenish their losses faster than we ever can.”

  Talon remembered the great cities and the endless lands to the east of Palestine and the vast number of Muslims who could, if united, flock to a single banner. He knew Max was right and he prayed that this might never happen, for if it did, then Palestine was lost.

  The days passed in a blur of more training and more drills, so that it became automatic for Talon and his companions to assemble quickly and move into a straight line, then on a shouted command to charge the whole distance of the hard, white fields and crush to pieces the straw figures aligned against them at the farthest end.

  He became used to the thick air warmed by many bodies that constituted the heating for the bare, barrack-like rooms, and the constant stink of unwashed bodies. He slept in a stone chamber with a low ceiling and rounded arches that dripped with moisture at night, with twelve other men. They slept under thin patched blankets with an oil lamp burning in the center of the room all night long, shedding a dim light on every bed. This, he was told, was to prevent any man from sinning during the night.

  He got used to the routine of getting up in the early dawn with his companions to dress hurriedly and cross the windswept cobbled yard to prayers in the muted light of the morning. He would break the ice in a bucket so that he could at least dash some water over his face. He longed for a hot bath but an amused Max had told him that this one thing he would not be granted while here in Mass Dieu so he had better get used to being filthy for a while.

  “The training will be over before long, Master Talon, and then we can take ship to the Holy Land.”

  “It had better be soon. The winter storms will put a stop to that if we do not take ship soon.”

  “You’re right. I hear that they are assembling a squadron of Templar ships that is due to sail within the week. It will be the last one from these lands this year.”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  Max put a finger to the side of his nose. “We sergeants get to know things, young sir. While you are busy training to be a great Templar warrior, we are listening to the rumors and talking about what is really going on.”

  Talon laughed at the mild sarcasm aimed more at the system than at anyone in particular. “So we will be on the ships... soon?”

  “That depends upon the officers like Sir Martin, Master Talon.”

  Max rode onto the field leading Jabbar three days later in the afternoon of an overcast day while the students were out on the training fields. He was dressed for travel and Jabbar had bags hanging off his empty saddle. Max was in a hurry. He rode over to the senior sergeant and spoke urgently with him, leaning down from his saddle so only the man he spoke could hear what he said.

  The sergeant nodded and Max rode directly over to Talon; he looked strained. “Dismount, Talon. We have to leave at once.” He did not elaborate.

  Surprised, Talon leaned down from his huge Destriere. “What is it, Max?” he asked in a low tone.

  Max said urgently, “We have to leave at once. I shall tell you while we are on the road, Master Talon.”

  Talon turned to Montague and tossed the reins of his Destriere to him, saying, “I have to leave Montague. Go with God.”

  There was not even time to say goodbye to his newfound comrades. He looked back at their puzzled faces and lifted his hand in parting, but then they were riding off in one direction while the sergeants were shouting orders at the rest, who wheeled and headed back to the other end of the field.

  Talon was impatient to find out what was going on but he left it to Max to tell him when he was ready. They had put a good mile or two between themselves and the Templar stronghold when Max turned in the saddle and said to him, “Word has reached the Master of the Templars here that you are a hunted man, Talon. I heard the news only a few minutes after the messenger left. The Master then called me into his offices and told me to get you away from here as fast as possible and onto a ship, if we can reach the port.”

  “Who could have known I was here?” Talon asked.

  “The Church has many ears and spies, just as we do. I think that the Master Sir Greves must have decided to get you away before there was any embarrassment. Even though we enjoy the direct protection of the Pope it is not a good idea to have unnecessary confrontations with the bishops and priests over an issue of witchcraft. I even had the help of Sir Martin to get everything ready. That man seems to have taken a shine to you.”

  Talon nodded. He realized that he was protected by the brotherhood of the Templars, but even they did not want to run afoul of the Church over something as serious as a charge of heresy and witchcraft. He sighed. “So we are to go to sea again. Once again I am to take ship and flee; this time I hope not in chains, but still a fugitive.”

  Suddenly Max turned in the saddle and lifted his hand for silence. They heard the pounding of hooves in the distance and before they could make off they saw Sir Montague and two of their erstwhile companions riding hard toward them. Montague was leading Talon’s Destrier by the reins.

  Montague reined hard as they came up to the two men. “Talon, you forgot your horse.” He grinned. “There is a man and several others, perhaps eight of them, riding after us. They have gotten wind of your route. We came to help.”

  “Montague, Gerard, Jeffrey, you are all mad. What will Sir Martin say?” Talon asked.

  “To hell with Sir Martin,” Montague said. “We can’t have a mob of bad men chasing after our friends.”

  “But you don’t...” He got no further.

  Max had caught the sound of others on the road. “Time for that later, sirs. You are welcome company; but now we have to ride hard, for we are pursued and we have a ship to catch or we’ll not be able to leave the country. Hurry! We fly to Aigues Mortes where there are ships of the Temple ready to sail and where we can find safety.”

  They rode hard for Aigues Mortes all that day and then on into the evening. Talon changed horses and led Jabbar to spare him although he was fit enough and ready to take his master where he would. Max rode a good, strong-boned animal that did not tire easily either. The three other knights who were now part of their group rode good, big horses themselves. All were silent and somber as they rode. Talon and Max in particular felt hunted again and nervously watched their backs.

  It was soon clear that they would not shake off pursuit in time to make it to the port.

  “How many men did you say there were behind us, Montague?” Talon asked as they rode.

  “I counted eight men-at-arms and another who seemed to be their leader.”

  “Max, we are five and all armed, but we can’t outride them to the town...”

/>   “You mean we have to deal with this now?” Montague asked. His face glowed with excitement under his beard.

  “Then we must take them by surprise, but we lack much time to do so,” Max answered.

  They had been cantering along a wide track that might have once been a Roman road, but it was in a sorry state of disrepair with breaks in the slabs and hedges of hazel and thorn very close to the actual track.

  “See that dark space over there?” Jeffrey asked. He pointed to a narrowing of the track with thick bushes on either side.

  The others saw it clearly. They could turn and face their enemy without fear of anyone getting past and coming in from behind. They galloped up to the narrow space and turned their horses to face their pursuers.

  They did not have long to wait. They were warned by the thud of hooves on the hard ground and the jingle of bits and metal as men on horses came into sight about a hundred yards back along the road.

  “Halt where you are,” Montague bellowed. He looked huge and menacing on his tall horse with his helmet pushed down over his forehead, his lance lowered, as were those of his companions facing the oncoming men.

  It was quickly clear to Talon that their pursuers were not as well horsed nor armed as were the Templars. “We could charge them just as we have been trained, and they would be dispersed easily.”

  There were chuckles of surprised agreement from his companions.

  “Time perhaps to put your training to good effect, Sirs,” Max muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

  In the few seconds that the men ahead of them were milling about the Templars moved quietly into a short, solid line; knee to knee, shields up, and lances down.

  A man who appeared to be the leader of the group ahead rode forward and shouted. “You have a criminal named Talon de Gilles with you. Hand him over and no harm will come to you. We want only him.”

  “By what authority do you wish to arrest him?” Gerard shouted.

  “By the authority of the Church of Albi. He is a heretic and is to be tried in that town.”