Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  “Great warhorse,” Red Herring said. Peter noticed James’ face showing admiration without a hint of envy. As did Peter; the black stallion was one of the finest chargers the orphan had ever seen. A horse which had been bred and trained for war was one of the most precious possessions a knight could bring into battle. This black stallion had a short back, a well-muscled loin, strong bones, and a well-arched neck. It was a splendid charger.

  James had mentioned that he had an honorable stud back home. Everyone knew he had a passion for horses.

  “What was the name of the horse master who sold it to you?”

  “Simon,” Hamo replied and petted the horse. “It is an excellent animal, indeed.”

  Peter listened to the two knights as they talked. The orphan had heard the story of a recently-failed night raid against the Saracen border patrol involving Hamo. It had turned into a rescue mission of a caravan. Hamo had been hurt, but his fine destrier, which had survived the journey across the sea with its owner, had been pierced by Saracen arrows. An iron arrowhead had cut the steed’s main artery; the animal collapsed in agony. Hamo had done what he had to do. It was a great loss to him. He had fallen behind his fellow knights. That night, Hamo had lost his horse and Red Herring had saved his ass. Now, the arrogant knight had a new destrier.

  “I hope I will have the chance to restore my honor,” Hamo Le Strange said in a low voice intended only for Sir James’ ears, and the young knight rode ahead. But Peter had heard.

  “Ah, every young knight is a fool. The world won’t end from one failure.” Red Herring smiled and turned his attention to the ridge.

  A dust cloud betrayed the position of the Mamluks.

  Pressed by both the time and their enemy, the party ceased its conversation. Their wagon wasn’t fast enough, but the task required it to be. Owen and Hamo wanted to speed up, but James interrupted them.

  “If we are pretending to be pilgrims, we shouldn’t let some scout patrols scare us. Besides, the path to the Nazareth isn’t a war zone, according to the peace treaty.”

  “Why not? We are stupid and terrified monks, and when we see the fierce Mamluks we fill our pants with shit, don’t we?” Owen said. The other Crusaders laughed at this, but not James.

  Peter observed Hamo, who proudly rode his new horse. He was clean-shaven, his hair fell freely on his shoulders, and he never lost the smile on his face. He wasn’t familiar to Peter from the training zone or barracks, or the streets. But the orphan used to see him mostly in the taverns, and every time he was there, he was surrounded by pretty ladies. He was of an average height but his long, dark gold hair combined with his black eyes made him popular with women.

  The orphan understood why these men had been chosen for this mission, but he wondered about the role of the pale Frank.

  Red Herring rose from his saddle and observed the area.

  “Hamo, please stop dancing around like a stupid, headless lord from the Welsh Marches. Be a real guard leader, as you’re supposed to be,” the Scot shouted.

  “But, I am,” the golden-haired rider of the black destrier grinned. He was bold and handsome. He didn’t look like a man who obeyed other men but he did it.

  “I’ve never seen him listen to orders from anyone else but Sir James. He thinks he knows better than everyone,” Owen said. “He had great respect for Sir James of Durham.”

  “Why?” Peter asked.

  “In the Battle of Evesham, the Scot saved his arse.”

  Peter looked at the nearly thirty-year-old knight Hamo Le Strange. After a few hours, Peter could notice this. The Scot was the only person who could make Hamo behave properly.

  The whole adventure promised a little chance of success. Would they find the physician? Would Edward endure until they return? What time did they have? Peter couldn’t answer these questions. But he noticed that they didn’t show any sign of despair. Peter also noticed that the men spoke with pride that they were part of the prince's retinue, serving under his flag. And now James’ men were fighting for Edward’s life; his people loved him.

  He was new to this environment, inexperienced, but he could understand that. He also understood from David, that these men hadn’t received their wages for almost a year, but they still were holding together, as friends, as real brothers at war on a distant land, full of violence and death.

  Peter hoped to be accepted as a real member of the household one day, but he knew these hardened men wouldn’t let an outsider into their ranks so easily.

  He looked at the Sun and smiled to him. The desert wind brushed his face.

  Peter was anxious to see a real Mamluk scout party. His childish curiosity was stronger than his fear. He had never left the city before. He had survived on the street all his life. But this adventure was something different; now, he knew there was a whole other world outside the city walls. Unimaginable land, which waited to be discovered.

  “We are going south,” Owen declared, “along the sea. The Romans once called this road the Via Maris.” He guessed the lad’s question.

  “You are unbelievably clever, Sir Owen, as well as pretty.” Red Herring joked. Everyone knew Owen was an ordinary man, but one of the best archers in the lady’s service.

  Hamo led the group. His fine armor, gray surcoat, and the black horse he rode distinguished him from the others. He had no helmet and his hair danced in the wind. But his determined and focused face showed more than knightly arrogance and confidence.

  “We crossed the border, we are now in Mamluk territory,” James said.

  The Sun was devastating, making Peter sweat in the intense heat. The events of the past twenty-four hours had left him unclean. At first, he didn’t notice a chafing on his inner thigh. This was a mistake. His sweat toughened his dirty underclothes like hardened leather. With every movement, he felt his pants abrading his thighs.

  The sweat stung him like thousands of fleas biting at once, without mercy. He felt a constant itching, an uncomfortable desire to scratch his thighs but it was inappropriate in front of other people to behave like a mangy dog. He longed to wash up but, of course, this was impossible. He supposed it would turn into a wound, which he would have to treat. Peter felt shy but he knew he must ask the experienced soldiers how to treat such wounds, even if it was bound to provoke some teasing.

  They continued their quest through this sandy land. For now, only the Sun followed them.

  After a while, they reached a yellow, rocky ridge and came across a rivulet. Here, they stopped to water the horses and rest. Peter ran quickly from the eyesight of his companions to check the state of his thighs. Most of them sought the shade of a tree; some replenished the water flasks they carried. Peter quickly found some privacy behind a thick bush.

  He removed his robe and pulled his pants down, inspecting his skin.

  “It doesn’t look good” A serious voice from nearby startled him. Owen’s face didn’t show any sign of his usual, merry mood.

  The orphan was surprised; he expected jokes. The Welshman came near and looked at the abrasion on Peter’s thighs. The skin was red and raw.

  The archer said something in his native language, and the orphan did not understand a single word.

  “One of the first mistakes of inexperienced soldiers is to forget their hygiene.” Owen said, scratched his neck, and continued: “Sweat and dirt stick on their trousers, then sweat dries on the clothes, thick and hard. Before they know it, they have skin abrasions. In such dry, sandy place, this could become deadly painful.”

  Owen looked the orphan in the eyes and, with some sympathy, added, “You need to clean it and wash it well, then dry it. Wash your pants, too, with fresh water and let them dry. Put some clean, dry, cloth on your skin. You will need medicine soon or it will turn nasty.”

  Peter was thankful for the advice, though a little ashamed, with his pants around his knees; he hoped no one had observed them.

  He did exactly as the Welshman said. He hadn’t any clean, soft cloth. But he still had bandages on
his head, which he removed, washed, and wrung dry. He lay them and his washed pants under the Sun’s smile and waited. He wasn’t disappointed; before long, the clean bandages and pants were dry. He smiled to the Sun for its help. He tied the bandages around his thighs. The pain was terrible, but he was optimistic after the advice he had received.

  Why had this happened to him? Especially now, when he was on an important mission. He was like a new-born baby dressed in old and rough clothes.

  He needed not to think about it. But how? Every single step made him feel the pain in his flesh. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he wasn’t in the sandy wastelands, but instead in some safe place. His mind lacked images of good places. He couldn’t remember even one.

  He finished dressing and joined the others. Peter hoped this was another step to the manhood—a quick step.

  ***

  When Hamo came back from scouting ahead, he said that he had seen a caravan from the ridge.

  “Come and see, sir,” he said to Red Herring and spurred his stallion to the frontier of the cliff.

  “Look on your left.” Hamo nodded, patting his animal. Sir James stared at the dusty cloud beneath them and calculated their options.

  They saw a Templar party which was attacking a caravan. This, in itself, was not unusual. But the victims of the attack were another matter entirely. The marks of the travelers revealed them as royalty; they flew the banners of Ibelin.

  Almost twenty Templars—ten knights dressed in white tunics with red crosses on their chests over their chainmail armors and as many black-dressed men-at-arms with kettle helmets—surrounded their victims. There were already a dozen dead guards around the royal carriage, which was on its side with a door opened toward the sky. On the left of the wooden cart, there was a helmeted man in Hospitaller’s clothes, the only guard standing between the knights and the royal servants who surrounded their lady.

  James saw troubles. A lot of them.

  “We need to interfere,” Hamo said.

  “No, our mission lies elsewhere. We need to avoid complications.”

  “No, we need to help the defenseless. Isn’t that right?” His eyes looked like the devil’s and his tiny smile was provoking.

  James knew he was right. But he also knew he couldn’t easily control this lord from the Welsh Marches. Red Herring asked himself why he had wanted to involve Hamo in this mission. He was hard to control, he never listened to orders, and he was reckless and arrogant. But he was a real knight—brave, smart, and capable. He never left a man behind. Some day he would govern his own lordship, Red Herring thought. But first, they needed to survive this.

  “They need help, yes.”

  They interrupted the calm that their own men were enjoying by the rivulet.

  “Men, there is a battle before us and we will have to come to the aid of a royal person,” James said to his followers and they went there.

  The monk party turned in haste to the cloud of dust and troubles.

  The lady stood, looking fragile, her face hidden by a hood. She bore the marks of the lords of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. She was a royal lady and they rode to help her.

  The Hospitaller Knight, dressed in a black tunic with an eight-pointed white cross on his chest over his chainmail, did not surrender. He was surprised. This was a rare situation. The Templars and Ibelin were not enemies.

  And Hamo rode forward to meet the Templar’s leader.

  Red Herring smelled trouble; he looked at his fellow false priests and signaled to them to be ready to draw their weapons.

  “Who are you?” the lord of the Welsh Marches asked as he stood a few paces away from their leader.

  “Halt.” An ugly face met them. He looked from his saddle toward the monks with demand and arrogance and then to Hamo. “Roger of Sicily. And this is not your business. What is your name?” the leader of Templars said.

  Hamo didn’t reply, but he stared at the Templars’ captain.

  The warring action seemed almost over. The royal guards were dead and Hospitaller Knights’ bodies lay on the ground, as well. Just one still stood and held the assailants from their obvious target. The carriage and the cliff blocked the knights from two directions. The bodyguard stood between these obstacles with just enough space to face at least two attackers at once with his shield and sword.

  The rest of the Templars had surrounded the servants and half of them now turned their attention to the newcomers.

  James and his men were two hundred paces behind Hamo arriving from the western part of the road. The Templars and the Ibelin caravan were at least five hundred paces from him.

  “Prepare the shields, men,” he said. And he turned his gaze to the lady. “Hurry up!”

  Two of the Templars approached the last standing Hospitaller at once. One of them made an approach with his shield. The defender stepped to meet him. He realized it too late that was a feint. The other Templar kicked him from behind. The Hospitaller snorted out. He tried to step back and turn toward the second attacker but he lost balance and fell on his bottom.

  “Get up!” the taller of the Templars shouted. The knight with the black tunic and white cross over his chest turned toward them. He stuck his sword in the ground, looked at the attackers, and stood again.

  “Did you miss me?” The second knight smiled. He kicked dirt at the Hospitaller, who charged. He tried to push the first Templar but the taller knight was solid as a rock and didn’t move. The Hospitaller looked surprised. The second knight struck the member of the Order of the Hospital of St. John with his shield with a terrible sound. The defender collapsed.

  “Finish him!” Roger of Sicily cried from his horse.

  “No!” Hamo shouted.

  Hamo’s horse reared onto its hind legs and charged. The lord from the Welsh Marches spurred his horse toward the Templar’s captain. There was a ferocity at his eyes. He closed on him quickly and pushed his horse to the Knight Templar’s, which was pushed to one side and lost balance. The captain was taken by surprise and he fell.

  The Italian screamed; his animal had fallen onto his leg. Roger wailed in pain, trapped under his horse. Suddenly, the party of mail raiders in white tunics with red crosses on the chest moved. After them, the black-dressed sergeants with distinguished kettle helmets followed.

  Two knights remained near the fallen Hospitaller.

  James had his sword in hand, his red hair freed from its hood. He jumped from his horse, following the younger knight. The pale Frank stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Red Herring.

  “Stay together with your men and keep your Marcher Lord at bay. Stay behind the carts, use them to block the path of the horses,” the Wolf said calmly.

  Red Herring understood but was shocked at the way he had received this order. It wasn’t a command, nor was it a request. He was angry that someone else had told him what to do. He knew his trade; he was aware of what would happen next.

  The sound of the pack of animals’ breathing was in his ears.

  He turned to shout an order to the others; almost all the false monks had grabbed their weapons and shields and prepared themselves to meet the enemy. Like a pack of wolves, the Templars galloped to their prey.

  There was a fire in Hamo’s eyes. He turned his charger, seeing the raid closing fast upon him. He galloped to his friends, trying to get back to Red Herring to form their shield wall and meet the charging Templars together. James had seen them before; he knew they were professional killers in the name of God.

  But the Templars were also mercenaries, working for whomever paid best.

  James felt anger and when Hamo passed near him, he saw something extraordinary. The strange Frank was holding a green apple with his left hand, looking at the approaching knights.

  The nameless Frank was holding an apple but no weapon. He stared for a moment to the fruit and turned all his attention to the charging Templars.

  Sir James organized his men, ordering them to stand behind the wooden carts, far away from the reach of the rai
ders. Owen and Peter had turned around the other cart near the first one to protect their right side. They moved quickly, surprising the attacking knights.

  As far as the Templars knew, they were only stupid monks with some inexperienced guards. But below their ragged robes, they were dressed in leather armor. In their hearts, they were some of the best and most trusted warriors of Lord Edward and England.

  Unfortunately for the red-crossed attackers, they didn’t have this information. Yet. Most of the Templars rode past the man dressed like a wretched monk with an apple in his hands, walking toward the fallen Hospitaller. They were focused on reaching Hamo and the intruders.

  ***

  Peter forgot his pain. The blood in his veins was hot, his eyes were wide open, and the events around him seemed to slow down.

  The sword singing began.

  The riders hit them hard, trying to break the defenses of the Englishmen.

  A baby cried.

  The cry cut off the sound of swordplay in the valley like a knife through fresh ham. Most of the men pricked up their ears. Something was in the air, something apart from the crying baby. Even the attackers turned and slowed a bit.

  In this moment, the pale Frank removed his hood and, with no hurry, he walked to the Templar Knights who had surrounded the wounded Hospitaller. He left James and his men fighting with the charging attackers behind him.

  Peter tried to see through the shields and swinging swords over his head. He wanted to see the stranger. Red Herring and the rest formed a tight wall with their shields, wooden carts, and horses.

  The orphan observed the attackers’ faces. The religious bastards looked arrogant and confident, battling two-to-one against five guards and some ragged monks who were shaking from fear and wielding tattered shields and swords, bearing no armor. If Peter was in their shoes, he would think that the Templars would win, this was obvious. They weren’t in a hurry; they wanted to play with their prey, having been interrupted by these ragged newcomers from their hunt. They looked angry would have wanted revenge because somebody resisted them.