“Prepare yourselves! They are coming,” James shouted.
The enemy unleashed a full-scale attack toward their line.
The horses of the enemy were trying to get across the surface, a strange mix of dry sand and mud. The song of running water near them was drowned out by the galloping horses of the enemy. Ughan’s center and their left wing of Mongol squadrons were on the move. Their other wing, where the Templars were stationed, was on hold for now.
When Red Herring saw them coming, he gave an order and the infantry stuck the points of their shields in the sand and pointed the spearheads of their lances toward the advancing enemy.
They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their shields side-by-side. Peter was impressed by the discipline of the English Crusaders and their Scot regiment. Like one long hand, they arranged themselves to face the enemy and to back their own cavalry. They also stuck their spears into the sand, ready to meet the approaching horsemen.
The Sun took his seat on the first row, ready to enjoy the bloody event.
They would use the same tactics used 80 years before by Richard the Lionheart, the daredevil king, still known in this land for his bravery and deeds. Peter hoped the strategy would work.
The enemy charged against them for glory. The opponents before their eyes had come here to win. They all were traitors, depending on the point of view, even some would say fighters for the new regime. Their shouts and battle cries were full of venom, hunger, and determination, like sea waves crashing on rocks.
“Hold the line!” James shouted.
The shield wall of the defenders was hit hard into the center by the Mamluks. Peter was almost blown away by the fierce strength which the enemy riders forced against them, trying to push them back or to jump over their heads. The horsemen used the animals’ force and pointed their speed and blind direction to the shield wall with the single goal of penetrating the iron wall.
But the spears between the Crusaders’ shields did their job; screams rang out. Although he was pushed back, Peter was supported by the men on his left and right and the warrior behind him. The young man felt a pain in his left arm from the first struck he had received, and his shield deflected another blow from the top of a mounted Mamluk.
But they didn’t break, nor did their spears. The iron-clad infantry line built of shields held. They pushed their spears onward and upward toward their assailants.
The horses’ cries—a dying howl—echoed into the valley as blood spurted. The terrifying noise mixed with that of the thousands of hoofs which tried to trample them. Still, they resisted.
Peter would die to prove to his sword brothers he was worthy. “Or foolish,” he thought. It was such irony that courage was often confused with stupidity; the foolish and the brave were sometimes one and the same. And Peter laughed, freeing his soul, ready to die for his friends. He smiled and stabbed a rider with his lance, piercing his scaled armor and penetrating the flesh. Peter used more power to pull his weapon from the dead body than he had to deliver it.
He pushed his shield a few inches forward and unbalanced the horse before him to pull his spear out more easily. In this part of the battle, it was unthinkable to be left without a primary weapon on the front line. And he felt that he had chosen the right move. The poor animal tried to escape the death trap formed by the Crusaders. The shield wall did not step back. The enemy cavalry pushed desperately in an attempt to destroy their defensive line, more and more attackers arriving and pushing forward.
It was a fight, thick and face-to-face, but the riders didn’t manage to penetrate the shield wall. Now, they were stopped and left to the mercy of the spears and archers. The mud was a death trap for all, especially for the warhorses. The air filled with grunting, shouts, and insults spoken in many languages. Edward’s men’s fury and unity would make eyewitnesses write songs about this day.
The Battle of the Lake, or the Battle of the Traded Souls.
They were young, they were bold, they were naïve, and they had the guts to stand against multiple enemies and to survive. But at what cost? Peter wondered. He heard a scream from a man near him. He glanced just to see one of their own soldiers’ skull was splintered from a blow and his blood mixed with brain flew.
The Mamluk mounted archers’ arrows flew toward them. But they used their superior shields and armor to deflect them and to stay protected.
If you want to be king of the hill you must first remove the current one. They were the bait, standing near the lake in the mud. But the Mamluks were deceived because they were standing against fully prepared warriors with not only one leader, but two of the best warlords of the time: Prince Edward and Sultan Baibars.
That day, the Sun became a witness of something rare: two men of wildly different ages, lands, experience, religions, and motives, united to prove, once more, that they deserved their thrones—to fight back and to defend the holy realm from the renegades.
They fought for peace that day.
And for what else? Renown echoed throughout history. Who would be the king of the hill?
This day, the hill was full of kings; all men fought together, as brothers, like real kings. Nobody gave an inch of ground to the enemy, as swords sang, shields were like drums, and the echoed sound made the Sun enjoy the culmination of this story.
Peter pierced another horse in the neck, and blood covered his face and he tasted it. He looked to his left and saw the battle-frenzied look of his closest relative these days, Sir James. His face, his hair, and his reputation had earned his nickname, Red Herring. He fought like a fish on land, tossing, hitting, biting, and hurting all the Mamluks who dared to face him. He raised his long, German blade and slew another rider through his shoulder, even though the enemy had the high ground from his saddle. The orphan helped to unbalance the animal. They formed a deadly duo.
Ivar was like scorpion tail, fierce and unstoppable. He cursed and swore, swinging his one-handed sword. But Red Herring was the main target, distinguished by the Scottish tartan tunic above his waist. He had the reputation for being the toughest fighter amongst the Crusaders on this cursed land. He was the most precious trophy after the sultan and Edward himself. His reddish face, full of rage, was like a flag for the attackers. They pushed toward him, hoping to cut off his curly head.
But it wasn’t so easy to obtain. Although his health wasn’t fully restored, he didn’t give the enemy a chance, as Peter saw from up close. Red Herring swung his magnificent sword, which shone in the Sun and was as red as his master, covered in blood. He used it like a peasant used his shovel and he didn’t hesitate to stab forward with it like a spear. He thrust his sword left and right, cutting all attackers who dared to approach him. He was like a windmill, covered in blood and anger—a fierce warrior from northern England. And he didn’t miss the chance to curse the enemy.
“Pigs,” the Scottish knight shouted.
Red Herring cut off the limb of a rider who dared to swing his curved saber over the head of the orphan. The Scottish knight managed to parry the stroke and to deliver a deadly counter blow over his elbow. The finest German blades cost a fortune but in such moments, one could understand their reputation of fierce durability. Certainly, Peter understood, watching the severed limb and the terror in the eyes of the dying man.
Sir James laughed. His desire to battle drove all around to follow his example. All men he faced and most of the second wave of attackers understood that it would be hard that day. They were forced against wild men from a faraway land, where the coldness made them strong, brutal, and fearless.
But the Sun was heavy and did his work for both sides.
The soldiers of the defenders started to tire from the heaviness of their battle gear and swinging and thrusting their long spears without pause. Every time they showed signs of fatigue, wings of knights approached the enemy riders, ready to advance, in full armor, with their lances. This forced the enemy horsemen to withdraw and regroup.
The renegade Mamluks retreated every time Edward’s
mounted knights approached from the wing and ordered their mounted archers to fire as many arrows as they could toward the Crusaders. The men on both sides knew that the Cristian knights were capable of a massive charge, as an unleashed force of steel. But Edward did not pursue the enemy and was back in his position with his main force as the renegades rode away to their own line.
“He has learned his lesson,” James was staring at the English prince. “He lost one battle because of lack of discipline before.”
After they repelled the enemy cavalry and borrowed enough time for the infantry to replace the wounded in the first row with men from the second row, they drank some water.
Peter tried to catch his breath. Hamo who stood next to him grinned with his pale face wiped out the blood from his sword.
“Longsword, you are still alive, eh?”
“He does well thanks to your lessons,” James said. “Kill them,” he pointed toward the enemy wounded riders who was in front of them and couldn't retreat to their brothers. And they killed them, ruthlessly. Peter stabbed a rider in the back who was lying with a face toward the ground. He didn’t like this act but deep in his mind, he knew it was the right thing to do.
He looked at the Sun with a hand close to his forehead. He hoped one day this sin would be redeemed.
It was a strange mix of armies and skills. Every time the renegade generals sent a wave of men toward the united forces of Baibars and Edward, the Genoese crossbowmen and Owen’s archers met them with their missiles. The cross bolts were like flying death to the horsemen; their body armor was nothing against the arrowheads. Meanwhile, the Crusader’s archers could not be reached by Ughan’s horsemen. They were protected by the best-organized and disciplined soldiers—Edward’s retinue, which had been hardened by many battles and were wild in their hearts, seeking glory and recognition over the sea.
Every time the opposite wave was repelled, Baibars’ Mamluk mounted archers followed them like a plague and delivered them death.
The killing continued all afternoon.
The renegade Mamluks and Mongols tried to push them to the lake. Peter hoped their supplies of arrows wouldn’t deplete soon. The combination of longbows and deadly crossbows were a formidable obstacle to the attackers. The arrows and bolts pierced the attackers’ armor and their horses with endless volleys, making the landscape an inferno. The soil and mud obstructed the enemy’s cavalry and advancing infantry. The sultan’s mounted archers did not stay behind.
The men-at-arms on foot and dismounted knights formed a fierce, defensive wall around their own shooters and were determined not to let anyone infiltrate their temporary kingdom near the lake.
The prince ordered his knights to dismount and help the footmen, men-at-arms, sergeants, and Genovese crossbowmen. Their back was to the lake and the enemy was pushing hard to drive them to the water but the infantry held them with the help of the dismounted knights. The English archers were led by the Welshman, and Owen looked very proud of this fact. The personal bodyguards of the sultan also fought on foot.
Peter observed that all of their men fought like cornered, wounded animals. They resisted and showed their teeth. The death they delivered by their missile volleys, combined with the iron wall, was a masterpiece of warfare. It seemed to Peter like something Vegetius would have written down for future generations if he had seen it.
He smiled. They were making history; this was innovative. The separate groups instinctively fought together. Their proud desire to prove themselves better than the Mamluks or the Italians or the knights was unimportant in the grand scheme. What mattered was their discipline and teamwork and their common goal—to win and to survive in the name of peace.
Still, their numbers were decreasing. A man behind the orphan fell with an arrow in the eye. Another screamed near him, cut down by a deadly saber swing. The fight was merciless. Peter could taste it; there was blood and entrails all around them. The battlefield smelled like a bloody bog.
Peter and the Red Herring were shoving back one more attack. One of the assailants stepped up against the young man and swung his spear. James cut the wooden shaft as Peter pierced the rider as he saw his spearhead coming across the enemy's neck. The surviving Mamluks and Mongols after the last attack retreated to regroup once more.
There was a little time for the defenders for water and calculation of the strategy. The opposing leaders sent against them all they had—Tartars, Mamluks, knights—but they only had mounted archers.
“The Master of the Templars, Bérard, didn’t believe in the effectiveness of archers on foot,” Sultan Baibars said from his stallion watching the enemy line.
“That’s true,” James confirmed.
“The renegade Tartar lord, Siraghan al-Tatari have the same opinion. He didn’t think any force could stand against their enormous and savage horde,” Baibars said.
“But they are lightly-armored and our missiles cut them down like an autumn harvest,” Owen commented.
With a single volley, they had erased an entire line of riders from this life, sending them to the underworld so fast that the attackers couldn’t retrieve their wounded. They were so many that they were forming an obstacle to the following attacks. Peter could see the determined faces of his sword brothers and their unwillingness to surrender to the enemy’s endless efforts. They looked ready to fight to the last man standing.
But the enemy weren’t toothless and they were numerous. They had knights, Mamluks, and Mongols on their side. They almost succeeded with their plot, the fat Ughan sweating near his comrades in his cruelty, with Berrat on his left and his officer, Barak, on his right.
“Traitorous bastards,” Baibars shouted.
If Peter told anyone that he had seen a Christian prince and a Muslim sultan united against mercenaries and traitors, who would believe him? These weren’t your ordinary heroes from a tavern story. They were Edward and Baibars, the towering prince who was called the Longshanks and the Fearsome Sultan, the Lion of Egypt, the Slayer of Crusaders. More than twenty years before, Baibars had stopped the Crusade of King Louis IX of France. In the same battle, Peter’s father, William Longsword, had been slain by Baibars. Longsword had had the same blood of the Lionheart and the same blood flowed in Peter’s veins—a royal bastard’s blood.
And in this rare moment, he didn’t give a coin. He was on the same battlefield as his friends, Red Herring, Hamo, and Ulf, and with great men like Baibars and Edward. Even Lady Eleanor, dressed in her battle gear, stood next to her beloved, warring husband. She was like a mother eagle who had brought together all of the men from the west. It was especially impressive that she had managed to unite different factions after an assassination attempt against her husband.
Peter felt proud. Yes, he would always be the street urchin raised in the poor district of Acre but he had put this behind him. Now, he fought for his new name. But, most of all, he fought for his own personal revenge, for the old monk, the man who had been like a real father to him. This vendetta made him determined to find Julian in the heat of the battle and to confront him. He knew, deep down, that this moment would arrive; fate always gave you another chance to fulfill your destiny.
Peter looked around. There were a lot of dead men from the both sides. He saw few archers lying with arrows stuck in their chests. There were drawn a grimace of despair on their lifeless faces. The young man wrinkled his face from the smell of blood and entrails scattered on the battlefield as if he were in a butcher shop at the market in Acre.
Despite their courage and termination to fight to the end, he could see some desperation on the defenders’ faces. Their shield wall became thin and it looked like the enemy’s force wouldn’t melt enough under the rain of arrows.
The Sun was watching. The heat was on their temples, and all the men were sweating beneath their armor.
***
The other men called him “seaborn,” born from the sea. But he had quickly become the Desert Wolf. His reputation and his Frankish look had earned him
his legendary status.
But he was beyond this. He wanted a calm place, far away from trouble and war. Yet, he had found that a man couldn’t flee from violence; it was everywhere. The world was surrounded by war and bloodshed. Killing was everywhere. Humans were the only species that killed each other. And for what?
The attacks had stopped for the time being. The enemy was regrouping. The entire battlefield was silent.
Ulf stood behind the shield wall, where the other wounded were dragged out and bandaged the wound on his left side under the ribs. The cut wasn’t deep but it had been enough to bleed and make him weak. It was a race against time—the more he bled, the sooner he would leave this world. He looked at the bandage. It was darkened from the blood. The pain was an awakening for him. He remembered his beloved one. She was gone and he missed her. Everything he had loved, once, had gone; maybe his time had arrived, too.
He smiled. Not yet. Not until he had silenced all of his enemies. They were in front of him, ready to advance. He noticed how the Crusaders—what was left of them—formed their shield line, with the archers behind and the cavalry on the two flanks: the Mamluk elite horse archers and the English knights. There would be massive bloodshed today. He didn’t want to miss his chance to exact his revenge. It occurred to him that he had trained for this moment all his life, learning how to survive the pain and to fight without retreat and fear. This was his trade.
He looked at the wagons behind the soldiers. One face smiled at him and waved him vigorously with a hand. Anna. He tried to return the smile. She winked at him, and her hair shuddered as her nanny lifted her on her shoulder and headed for the wagon with her. Anna sent him a kiss and laughed.
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 36