Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  “There,” Ivar pointed the flags of the sultan.

  “Go!” Ulf shouted. The ostringer, Hamo, Isabella, and the children rode away toward the force of the sultan under the cover of the dust the horses made.

  Peter looked at the Sun. He was ready. Today was St John’s Feast day and he hoped to have a chance to avenge his mentor.

  “Charge!” he shouted in his mind and smiled. He hoped the horses would understand it.

  He and Ulf led their headless chicken army toward the battlefield, aiming at the Tartar squadrons.

  The march of the horse was unleashed.

  ***

  A cloud drifted in from the right. More horses were riding in from the northeast.

  “Ughan’s battalions,” some of the Mamluks shouted. So, the reinforcements of the renegades had finally arrived—James looked at the banners and his heart sank. The disruption of the horses had bought them just a few moments of time, but that was over. Ughan’s forces would turn the tide against the sultan once again.

  “Damn these bloody traitors,” James said as he observed the newcomers. He wiped out the sweat from his forehead, squinting at the incoming battalions. Something was wrong. The horses were not slowing as they approached the Mongol squadrons. James looked closer. The horses were unmanned, tied together and guided by a few riders. They were not with the enemy. It was Peter on one of the horses.

  James watched as a cloud of frenzied horses cut into the Tartar squadrons from the right with demolishing speed.

  Disorder, confusion, and panic erupted. Men fell, trampled by their own horses. In the sudden turmoil, the Templars ceased their charging—for now.

  “Bloody hell,” James’ jaw dropped a bit as he observed the horses penetrated the confused rows of the Mongols. He saw dust and shadows as he heard screams of fallen men trampled by hooves of the galloping horses. He saw hope again.

  Screams rang out from behind Baibars’ line.

  A hidden battalion emerged from the mountain to the slope and lunged aimed to hit the defenders of the lake from behind.

  “Owen! Pelu!” James cried as he pointed to the enemy in their back. “Turn the archers.”

  But a new Bedouin battalion arrived from the east following Peter. They were led by an old man, nearly the age of the sultan. They did not attack sultan’s forces, instead, they cut off into the hidden enemy battalion which was about to attack Baibars from behind through the mud and the lake. They had been waiting, hidden in the trees and bushes on the high ground and, to strike the sultan’s forces at the right moment. The moment the northern battalion arrived seemed to be the time.

  For a moment, James was sure their miserable resistance would end. But as he noticed the two forces of the Bedouins clashed each other he grinned.

  “This was the plan, eh?” Red Herring thought. But he knew he had been lucky. He had never anticipated that Ulf would manage to bring Baibars’ daughter with bonuses: a battalion of Bedouins on his side and riderless army penetrating the wing of the traitors.

  “Father!” Anna smiled at him from the back of the horse she shared with a boy her age. Ivar nodded to the sultan, as did Hamo and Isabella.

  Soon Peter arrived, managing to escape from the chaos of wild running horses, followed by the Wolf.

  Still, the enemy force was larger and the battle wasn’t over yet.

  “They still outnumber us, three to one,” Owen concluded.

  “I can count, you bloody Welshman,” Hamo jumped from the horse and even through the pain, he embraced his friend. He saluted the Red Herring too.

  “I am glad you are well, Sir James,” Hamo said.

  “Peter! You are still alive,” Baibars’ face looked happy. He hugged his daughter while Ivar told him what had happened in the ruins the night before. “I am inviting you to join my little war against these traitors. What do you say?”

  The orphan looked at the Sultan then to James, who nodded to him.

  “I am where my friends are,” Peter said.

  “Good, now prepare yourselves, they will come again!”

  The battle was temporarily on hold as the Tartars tried to regroup. The horses that were left without riders soon stopped or ran away. The wind cleared the sand cloud over the battlefield.

  Another horn sounded through the valley. All men, no matter the religion or side, looked west.

  The Crusaders had come.

  Edward and his knights were followed by Hospitallers and some Templars who didn't follow their master, Sir Thomas Bérard. The view was magnificent; the Sun reflected off their shining armor and shields. Their banners flew above their helmets. There were almost 200 of them and they were followed by marching 200 men-at-arms and almost the same number of archers.

  “Isn’t he supposed to be dying?” Owen grinned.

  “The sultan promised to send his friend, the physician, to Acre if I fight today and write a letter to Edward,” James said. “Hamo, can you recognize the banners?”

  “Yes, sir. Robert the Bruce the elder and the younger are there, as well as de Grailly and de Vescy.”

  “Otto?” Red Herring asked.

  “And the fox, too,” he confirmed. “I see Lady Eleanor’s banner, too!”

  In astonishment, all their faces were amazed. She had recovered well from the recent birth of their baby and now she was riding next to her love, Edward, in her small armor suit.

  The towering Prince of England rode a white charger and bore his coat of arms: a red background with three golden lions. He was the tallest knight. He was dressed for battle, his fine chainmail with golden strings showed the enemy who was leading these knights. The presence of the prince meant that he was personally interested in the events in the valley.

  Edward led his men with confidence. He looked in excellent health as he finally stopped with Ibn al-Nafis and his men near Baibars’ forces.

  For a moment, James wondered if the prince would take the enemy’s side and overthrow the sultan. Yet, he knew the prince was a real knight, a man of honor who—most of all—believed in knighthood and brave deeds. He was like a reborn King Arthur. He would choose his friends’ side and deliver his revenge toward the traitors.

  The prince approached Baibars.

  “I salute you on my battlefield, Lord Edward.” The sultan looked at the princess. “Milady, Sir Otto … I hope you are in good health once more?” He addressed this last Edward.

  “I am grateful for your present. Your friend is a master in the art of healing.” Edward’s harsh accent was vivid again.

  Baibars smiled at Ibn al-Nafis and said, “You did a wonderful job, as usual, my friend.”

  Then returned his gaze to the Crusader.

  “You came to my realm as an intruder. Still, we reached peaceful terms not long ago.”

  Edward said nothing.

  “Now, a group of renegades and traitors are mounting a coup d’état. They tried to kill you, provoking war, then they tried to assassinate me, too. They kidnapped my daughter and now, we must face them in the name of peace!”

  Edward looked at the enemy line.

  “As a wise man once said, ‘War must be for the sake of peace,’” the Englishman said. “I am here today as a sign of sincere gratitude. I owe my life to you and your physician. What I hate most is a betrayal. I am here, also, for my friends; I cannot leave them to fight alone, to defend their names and mine alone. I brought them here; I will take them back home.”

  He looked at James and nodded.

  “I want revenge for the treachery. If they could make an alliance to fight you regardless of their religion, we can unite to protect the peace we made and the land.”

  Peter and James observed the two men: the sultan and the English crown prince. All men on their side of the valley witnessed the Crusaders and Mamluks join forces to fight the traitors.

  “So, we have terms. We fight, we win for the peace, then we go home.”

  “I agree to these terms, Your Highness,” Edward confirmed. The two men shook ha
nds in a sign of agreement. The real predators in the desert would fight together, united against the renegades.

  ***

  Edward’s knights positioned themselves on the left wing. The center was formed from the men-at-arms and their long, thick shields. Archers rallied behind them with the Genoese crossbowmen. On the right wing, what was left of the sultan’s men regrouped. There were many fewer of them since the first attack.

  “Because of you, I lost a good and experienced battalion in the sandstorm, but now—again because of you—I have my daughter back,” Baibars said to Ulf.

  Peter observed them.

  “I am in debt to you. But now I must protect her. Once more, I beg you. Fight for me, one last time.”

  The Desert Wolf looked at the sultan, then at the enemy line.

  “They must pay for my loss,” he spoke slowly. “This I will do in her name, not yours.”

  But this was enough for the sultan.

  The two opposite sides watched each other. The defenders’ line comprising Baibars’ regime and Edward’s was short and thin. No longer were Muslims fighting Christians; instead, today’s lords were up against those who wanted to rule tomorrow—renegades with no scruples, no morals, who were willing to use people’s faith to set them against each other.

  The Tartar squadrons were preparing to attack again. The renegade Templar Knights also were ready and waited for a good moment to charge Edward’s flank.

  “They will have only one chance to crush us and leave no witness alive. If they fail, their future hangs in the balance,” James stood near Peter. “They had opposed Emperor Fredrick, years before; now, they stand against Edward. Sometimes, they did things only for their prosperity, but this time, the whole order depended on their decision.”

  “I can’t believe they will fight against Edward,” Peter said.

  The sultan rose from his saddle and said something intended only for Edward, but the orphan was close enough to hear.

  “Watch and learn, young prince.” Sultan Baibars smiled proudly and turned his fine horse to his troops.

  It was not only Mamluks who formed Baibars’ line of defense; there were Mamluk foot soldiers, English men-at-arms, loyal Templar Knights, Hospitaller knights, archers, the Scottish regiment of Edward, Genovese crossbowmen, and Githa.

  “The battle of the traded souls is about to begin,” Baibars shouted.

  The soldiers looked at him in silence.

  “Because, they—” He pointed with his sword toward the opposite side of the valley. “They traded their souls for gold and power, regardless of their fate, their oaths, and their comrades. They trade our souls and our lives, too … into oblivion.” He paused, and observed the eyes of the men, assuring that he had their attention.

  “Who gave them this right? Who are they to think they could guide our path or choose for us? Do they have that right?”

  The eyes of the soldiers, Mamluks, Crusaders, mercenaries, and royals were wide open and staring at the sultan. Peter tried not to miss anything from the speech. For him, this was new: a sultan speaking to the common men—his men—in the face of a battle. He felt this would stay with him for life.

  “Do they have this right? No!” Baibars shouted. “We forge our destiny by ourselves.”

  The sultan’s face was red now; his passion could be seen in his eyes.

  “Together—” He stressed this word and raised his voice again. “Together, we fight as men who stand against the traitors, the same brethren who once were on our side, who once fought shoulder-to-shoulder with us.”

  He pointed at the enemy again, riding in a circle on his horse, giving enough time to all in the ranks to consider his words. Peter noticed the message being conveyed along the ranks, from one soldier to the next. Baibars stood again in his excellent armor and looked at his soldiers’ eyes, even the Christians.

  “The enemy wants to steal our legacy, to steal our land, our women, our pride, and finally, our lives and souls.” His face became darker. “Does their desire for power and this betrayal give them this right? No! No! We built this realm with our own blood, with the blood of our friends, even with the blood of the Crusaders.”

  He looked at the westerners. “At this point, we are a sword brothers, united to defend our kingdom, our land, our homes, and the peace, together—Mamluks, Saracens, Crusaders, Englishmen, Scotsmen, Genovese—even our women are here to fight, and for what?”

  “Welshman too!” Owen shouted. A ripple of laughter ran near the archer as Peter grinned too.

  The sultan let them think a bit, and continued:

  “To fight together for our right for our destiny to be chosen by us alone, not by traitors or by the enemy. Twelve years ago, we soaked the land with the blood of the Mongol invaders.” He talked slowly. “And now, we have a chance to show the enemy, once more, that they can’t take what doesn’t belong to them.”

  Baibars took a breath. “This is our homeland, and we will fight for it.”

  He looked at the eyes of his men.

  “Together.” Peter was looking at the sultan’s face. He looked determined.

  “Do you want our land overtaken by these vultures who have never raised anything? They only steal, kill, enslave, and loot. They call themselves the conquerors of the world. I said to them once and will say to them now, No!” Baibars raised his sword.

  “No!” he shouted again.

  He shouted, repeating this to the soldiers until they joined in the song and their mood was ready for battle.

  “No, no, no,” they all chanted as one, slapping their shields.

  “We fight, we kill, we kill them all on this field.”

  Peter had a tear in his eye, watching these men find the courage to fight and to protect what they loved. He felt a little pat on his shoulder. Owen smiled at him.

  “What about dying? He forgot to say some would die, you know,” he said. “Peter Longsword, do not die today, and you will have a fantastic story to tell.”

  The battle of traded souls was about to begin—the second battle of Ayn Jalut.

  ***

  Edward dismounted and embraced Sir James, then nodded to Peter, Hamo, and Owen.

  “I am glad you are alive, my friend!” the prince said.

  “I am glad you live, too, my lord,” Red Herring said.

  “Only thanks to you, men!” He meant not only his Scot friend but all of his fellows.

  Lady Eleanor approached and, with a tear in her eye, thanked Red Herring, Hamo, and the rest.

  “Longsword,” Edward said, facing the orphan, “in our veins flows the same blood that binds our fates. I owe my life to you.”

  “Sir ….” Peter lost his words.

  Lady Eleanor looked into the young man’s eyes. She smiled at him and kissed him on his temple.

  “You are blessed, Peter, to find your destiny and your path.” She turned her eyes to Owen, saying, “My beloved Welsh Мaster archer, I am glad you are here with us today. Thank you for your support.”

  Owen was at a loss for words. He rarely was. He bowed and kissed the princess’ hand. “In your name, milady.”

  Otto cut off the sentimentalities.

  The tactic was clear. Edward suggested and Baibars agreed that they would use the same strategy used by Richard the Lionheart near Jaffa, long before. It entailed a shield wall with crossbowmen and archers behind it and mounted knights on the wings.

  “We all have to be disciplined and not to leave the shield wall until Edward says—no attack until the signal. The infantry will meet the enemy’s charges with their shields and lances, and the missiles from the archers will do their business as usual,” James explained to Peter.

  By Edward’s order, all defenders had a red scarf tied on their right arm near the shoulder to distinguish the sword brothers in the bloody battle and the killing madness.

  The Scottish knight would command the heavy infantry in the center, supported by many good knights on foot. Edward would command the knights on the left wing.
Owen and Captain Pelu would lead the shooters. Hamo stood in the shield wall, too, despite his injury. Peter joined the shield wall, shoulder-to-shoulder with Red Herring and Ivar. He looked at the men around him; their shields overlapped and their helmets and weapons gleamed in the Sun. Edward’s regiment, which had stayed with him in the Holy Land, was full of his most loyal knights. They were eager to show their warring skills to the enemy.

  It was strange how the situation had turned around. A few days before, Edward had almost died. Now he was on his horse once more, commanding his fierce warriors, allying with the man whom he had thought was responsible for the assassination attempt. But even fierce rivals sometimes united their strengths against a common threat: the traitors.

  It was a shame, Peter thought.

  Everyone despised traitors. And he hoped to face Julian. He had to avenge the death of Brother John, but he wanted to do it for himself, too. Peter wouldn’t miss this opportunity for anything; it was so rare in life to have a chance for payback. He fastened his leather belt and checked his sword in the scabbard. With his right hand, he held the spear he had received from one of the soldiers.

  The ladies were positioned behind with the baggage wagons with some men-at-arms for protection. Githa had joined the knights from her order.

  “Wait for the signal!” Edward shouted. “Do not lose your ammunition, do not miss!”

  “Our crossbows are the deadliest range weapons,” Andrea Pelu said with confidence.

  “You are a dreamer, Messer Pelu, even after a hundred years. If one day, we meet each other on a battlefield, your crossbowmen’s arses will belong to our longbows and we will use them like pincushions,” Owen laughed. His fellow archers laughed, as well.

  So, a little challenge between the bowmen and the crossbowmen had formed. The Genoese and the English archers of the lady, led by a Welshman who was also tasked with protecting her. Peter had heard that Lady Eleanor followed Edward everywhere and everyone in the ranks adored her.

  Peter glanced at the English prince who smiled at Eleanor and she returned the smile. Edward was on his stallion and observing his troops. His face was calm but resolute, like a man who knew what he was doing. He had a reputation for a man who had participated in many tournaments. But now the tournaments were in the past. An open field battle lay ahead, where his soldiers’ experience and the strength would be pitted against the best in the world: Mongol hordes and the elite Mamluks. Peter wondered if he would endure. Edward had charisma and his people followed him without hesitation. But was that enough to lead his men and to survive this battle?