They tried to regroup. Most of them were stopped and trying to turn their back toward him and to face the advancing infantry of the Crusaders.
Arrows began to rain down on the Mamluks.
***
The line of defense had moved their position so fast that it surprised the enemy. They were within shooting range again and the unmovable horsemen, blocked by the turmoil around the Desert Wolf, had become target practice. The first volley cut down a whole line of riders.
Ughan and his horsemen tried to charge the left flank of the Crusaders’ shield wall. The penetration failed and he turned around. Missiles flew from both sides. The Genoese reloaded their weapons—they were not quick but their effectiveness was enormous. Owen’s archers made up for their lack of speed. They felt comfortable behind the long shields of the men-at-arms and they shot faster than the horse archers of the enemy.
Edward and Baibars were on the wings, holding their positions. If they charged, they would leave their infantry unprotected. They had to await the perfect moment. The English prince had learned his lesson: discipline was the key.
Ughan was forced to stop because of the coming revolved and scared horses lost its masters from Crusaders’ arrows. The animals blocked his way as he cried out his orders. The soil was heavy and muddy. Berrat was down. Ughan was caught in a trap between the defenders and his own cavalry. This was their chance.
“Sir James, Now!” Edward shouted and pointed forward.
Red Herring raised his sword and shouted, “Sword squad, at the ready!”
The assault squad was ready. Twelve men—the bravest, wildest, stupidest ones—were ready to leave their mark on history. They raised their shields from the ground. The chosen ones—a dozen from Edward’s fierce warriors—had been given the task to penetrate the turmoil of the battle and to seize the enemy’s leader, Amir Ughan, and to end the resistance of the renegades. At the battle of Evesham, Edward had used this tactic: an assault party from his best battle-hardened warriors in a spear formation.
“Right, men. It’s our turn to steal the glory. You know your job! Go, go, go.” James gave a devil’s smile to his followers, who had volunteered for this mission. His sword brothers were as ready as ever.
Peter stood on James’ right and Ivar next to him; Bruce the Old was on his other side as Hamo too, and Jean de Grailly behind them with his long sword. The young man didn’t know the rest, but he trusted them with his life.
They ran, the twelve men, under the whistling sound of the flying arrows, toward their target—the kill that would end the battle.
Peter glanced at where the Templars were watching the course of the fight but they still didn't join. As he ran he thought he saw the blond hair of Julian. There were almost at their target as he heard the battle cry of the renegade Templars and they charged.
Peter and the rest of his companions penetrated the Mamluks around Ughan.
Sir James was like a wild animal; he pierced the line of soldiers around him. Screams and cries echoed through the valley; blood and death spilled. Peter lost his kettle helmet after a stroke he received from a rider but he managed to pierce the soldier down with his spear. Ivar parried another blow aimed at the orphan’s head. They were almost at Ughan. His personal guards were charging toward James and his followers. Peter clutched his shield tightly and held his spear pointed at the advancing horses. The cavalry hadn’t enough time to quicken their pace and this was fatal. Peter felt that the adrenaline conquered him. He hid behind the shield and met the horseman's strike in front of him. Then he swung his spear and pushed the rider off the horse. With a jump, he approached the fallen man and hammered the shield over the Mamluk's head. The young man turned and a horse pushed him on the ground and he dropped his spear. His heart was beating fast as he kneeled and felt a strong arm around his shoulder which helped him to rise.
“I did not teach you to lie in battle, Longsword,” Hamo grinned and used his shield to strike an enemy in front of him. “Come on, there is a plenty of opponents for both of us!” The lord from the Welsh Marches swung his weapon and cut down another Mamluk.
Peter stood and drawn his father’s sword from its scabbard and joined Hamo. His left hand was trembling from the blows he faced with the shield, as he thrust his blade forward and met the throat of another rider. Blood was on his sword as he ducked to evade a strike from above and swung his weapon toward the next rider.
The enemy was so many. His eyes met with the Mamluk on his left. His heart shrunk as he knew he couldn't turn so fast to meet the attack. But an arrow stuck in the rider's chest and he fell from his horse. He took a breath and heard the grunting voice of James around him. Peter turned around and saw his friends who fought fiercely and killed the disorganized bodyguards of Ughan. James cut down fast and ferociously the last man who stood near the enemy leader. Ivar lunged forward and grabbed their amir and unsaddled him from his stallion. Ughan was in their hands as James kicked him like he was a homeless dog.
“We got him!” The Scottish knight shouted. Peter felt some relieve in his chest as he observed that the Mamluks seem to hesitate now.
“Watch out!” Red Herring shouted.
Peter ducked instinctively, turned and observed what was coming. They all froze. The Templars were charging toward them. Peter inhaled sharp breath as his stomach shrank and he cowered behind his kite-shaped shield with a flat top. He wiped out the blood from his face and looked at the galloping enemy. They were in trouble, he thought an instinctively stepped back. He looked around and saw the determined faces of Hamo and James around him. They also prepared to meet the Templars.
“No mercy!” Peter heard Edward's war cry. He glanced at his left and saw the horses and the movement of armor, steel, and men. Their own flanks from mounted knights and Mamluks led by the English prince and the sultan were riding up from either side to protect them as Edward and Baibars would try to hit the enemy like a hammer from two sides.
Now we had to stand, Peter thought, and the knuckles of his fingers whitened by the force he used to hold his sword.
The ground was shaking from the galloping force of the warhorses. He observed the Templar Knights, who were approaching fast. They looked like a wave of steel which would trash them out from the battlefield. He held his breath as he watched the more dangerous threat of what had come before them.
We were doomed.
Peter had almost blinked when his eye caught Julian’s blond hair. He had expected this confrontation; their meeting seemed inevitable.
But—just in time—Edward’s horsemen arrived.
Riders flew through the air as lances pierced their targets. Horses fell to the ground and blood and dust covered the fighting men. The clash of swords and spears and broken armors and shields echoed in the valley. All men were frenzied into a savage killing. Blood was spilled, swords were broken, shields splintered, souls dispatched. Great was the noise of the battle with the ring of iron and the clash of steel, warrior’s battle cries, horse song and flying arrows. Yellow dust and sand were everywhere, preventing Peter from seeing clearly. He caught a glimpse of Edward, towering above them all, was swinging his long weapon.
Peter saw Owen and his archers.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m out of arrows,” the Welshman grinned and joined the melee with a spear followed by Pelu and the Genoese archers. Peter and the rest of the assault squad joined the fight with their last strengths.
The sultan’s forces cut into the enemy line, as well. There were no more clear battles or lines. The mix of soldiers under the Sun in the dust was staggering.
Julian passed near Peter. He saw him at the last moment and managed to turn around. The young man pierced the flank of his horse and forced him to fall under the heaviness of the animal.
“Murderer, I am here,” Peter shouted.
Julian stood and faced the orphan.
“Dog, we met again.”
Peter threw away his shield and held his sword with his
two hands.
Julian grunted and launched an attack toward the orphan with his sword pointed at the young man’s chest. Peter advanced his left foot to the left of the blond knight, receiving Julian’s strike in the middle of his sword. With his right foot, he stepped out of the way to the side and caught attacker’s blow at the mid-sword. Allowing his sword to run off toward the ground, he quickly responded with a downward blow toward his opponent's arm. But the blond knight stepped back and evaded the orphan’s sword.
They watched each other’s eyes, their hatred flowing toward each other. They had fought before but Peter was no longer the orphan he had been a week before. He had witnessed death; he had even delivered death himself. He had matured.
Julian advanced with his left foot and swung his sword from below, aiming at Peter’s left arm. The young man stepped back slowly and he heard the knight’s blade scratch his Roman vambrace. The Templar smiled, raised his sword over his head, and rushed forward again.
They crossed their swords again and looked each other as Peter felt the rotten smell from Julian’s breath.
“Who is going to save you now, mongrel? You will die like the old monk, dog. A street urchin useless dog. Where are your mom and dad?”
Peter’s nostrils flared and he gritted his teeth. Julian pushed the young man who stepped back, lost his balance and fell in the dust on his back. The blond knight approached him with his weapon ready to bring death. He raised his right foot and placed it on Peter's chest. The orphan felt the pressure from his attacker's weight as he recognized his boots he saw the first time he met Julian.
“You escaped my sword twice, dog, but now you will die, you and your friends.”
Peter's rage wrapped his mind and heart.
“No,” the young man shouted, “my name is Longsword. And I will decide my own fate.” He kicked Julian's left thigh then he rolled left and jumped on his legs. "Longsword," He shouted again as he lunged forward and faced him again. Peter raised his weapon and crossed it with his opponent’s at mid-sword. He immediately advanced and grabbed Julian’s blade with his left hand, kicking under the knight’s kneecap with his right foot. Julian howled in pain and Peter hammered his sword ferociously over the knight’s right arm and he cut off the Templar’s wrist.
His enemy screamed and blood flew from his arm.
Peter looked him in the eyes. Julian’s eyes burned with hatred as his lips set in a grim line and his mouth nervously contracted. The young man heard the dull sound of his opponent’s sword falling on the ground, followed by the Templar’s cry. Peter didn’t think; he just executed a technique that Hamo had taught him during their practice session one morning on their journey. He backhanded Julian’s surprised face with his pommel, and the knight collapsed backward. The young man observed his opponent’s severed right hand, still holding the sword.
“Die bastard,” Peter shouted.
A rider passed near Peter, and he stepped back, over a dead body, and almost fell on his backside. Sand clouds rose, and he couldn’t see a thing around him. He jumped fast, but Julian had disappeared into the fog of the battle.
“Where are you?” the orphan shouted toward the fighting men.
Something hard hit Peter’s head and he fell to the ground. The orphan turned and stared at his attacker’s face.
David stood over him with a bloody sword and was about to finish him.
“Because of you, our plan was ruined. You must pay,” the traitorous sergeant said.
Peter saw David raise his sword above his head.
“Die, mongrel!” the traitor shouted and his face twisted in a terrifying grimace.
“Ungrateful dog.” Red Herring appeared from behind the sergeant’s back. “Remember this bastard’s name: David, a piece of dog shit.”
James executed the traitor, piercing the short man’s neck with his sword. Retrieving his weapon, he then decapitated his former sergeant and put his head on the spear of his banner.
A horn sounded three times.
Sir James of Durham helped the orphan to stand and, side-by-side, they observed the battlefield. Hamo leaned on his sword and grinned.
“Longsword, you survived after all,” he said and together, they observed the formidable battalions of golden Mamluks who emerged from the hill. The sultan’s reinforcements finally had arrived. After seeing this, оne part of the enemy's soldiers began to surrender and the others started to retreat.
“We’ve won, lad!”
“The bastard disappeared!”
“Who?”
“Julian.”
“But I saw you cut off his hand. He must be lying somewhere on the field.”
Peter took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He stared at his trembling hands. His throat was dry as he needed water and rest. They survived and he smiled.
***
“No! We had to win, we had to…,” al-Rida stared with cow eyes to the battlefield. He was at a safe distance from the fight.
“Everything is ruined,” Sir Thomas Bérard, the Master of the Templars said as he stood near him. “This pompous bastard Edward showed up and we lost.”
The assassin sat on his horse and the muscles in his face tightened. No, there has to be another way, he thought.
“It’s all your fault. You had to kill him when you had a chance,” the thin and bleak master said. “But you failed me.”
“Nothing is lost yet,” al-Rida thought for a moment. “I can kill him now.”
They became silent as they watched the newly arrived battalions of the sultan.
“This dog somehow managed to call for a help,” Sir Thomas said with his gapped mouth stared at the horizon.
Al-Rida’s eyes were searching the bloody field.
“Here he is,” he pointed toward the last moments of the battle. Some Mamluks still tried to resist, others fought in groups to avoid the inevitable. One part of the Mamluks just fled. And he saw him. The towering prince of the Englishmen. The man who turned the course of the battle. He was riding his white war horse, still fighting and giving orders to his men.
A Templar Knight with pale face approached his master.
“We have to leave that field, my lord,”
“Where? We will be hunted,” the master said as his eyes rolled skyward. “Where is Julian?”
“He rode to kill Longsword,” the pale officer said.
“Longsword?”
“Yes, the bastard son of William Longsword, my lord.”
“Peter, the black-haired young man, the orphan from Acre?” Sir Thomas asked.
“Yes, the man I spared his life,” al-Rida confirmed.
“He was under our noses during all these years and we were blind to notice him,” the master said.
“My lord, we have to go,” the Templar officer looked nervous.
“I can kill Edward now, my lord,” the assassin said again.
“What will this bring to us? Our plan failed.”
“But without the word of Edward no one will believe that you are involved, my lord,” al-Rida said. “It will be your word against the word of his men.”
Sir Thomas Bérard took a minute to think about it.
“Maybe you are right. Can you do it for me, for the way I saved your life?”
“This is a matter of honor,” al-Rida said. “I will do it for myself.” The assassin focused on his target. He failed the last time but now it was different. There was no more the surprise effect. He drew his saber and was ready to face his fate once more. He knew that this time he couldn’t fail. He had to do it, because of his reputation. A week ago, he hesitated, he liked the prince. But now, observing how he had come and helped the man they wanted to destroy, Baibars, al-Rida wanted him dead.
And he rode to meet Lord Edward one more time.
***
“Look!” James shouted and pointed toward Edward.
Peter turned his gaze left and saw Edward the Saracen battled his way through the rest of the melee with his horse to the En
glish prince. James, Hamo, and the young man were about fifty paces away from them. They raised their swords and ran toward their prince.
“He is mine!” Edward said and his eyes flashed. All of his knights who were around him stopped. James, Peter, and Hamo approached and stopped as they observed the two Edwards.
Lord Edward rode toward the spy. He used the strength of his warhorse to push the other’s animal aside and the Saracen fell from his saddle. The towering prince’s face looked focused. He jumped from his stallion and faced, once more, the man who had tried to assassinate him. The same man he had allowed enter his inner circle of friends. The Saracen rose and recovered his saber from the dust.
Edward of England didn’t hesitate but lunged forward with his sword aimed at his opponent’s neck. The spy stepped aside, evading the blow, and counterattacked, swinging his blade. Despite his height, the prince wasn’t clumsy at all. Lord Edward parried the blow and grabbed his opponent’s tunic, dragged him close to him, and headbutted him with his helmet. The Saracen cried out and tried to step back, but the prince struck him again. The traitor swayed. On his forehead was a bloody mark left by the prince’s helmet. He dropped his saber and looked the Englishman in the eyes. Lord Edward stuck his sword in the ground, took the spy’s dagger and thrust it deep into the neck of the traitor.
The Saracen fell on his knees and looked at the letters of the scabbard, covered with blood, in his hands. The failed assassin stared at Edward as he tried to smile and collapsed in the dust.
Peter approached and looked at the man who spared his life a week ago. Now he was lying dead. He knelt down and read the letters on the scabbard. He still had a lot to learn to read, but these letters he already knew.
“Honor bound, Edward of England,” it read.
Peter stood and looked at the prince. Lord Edward chopped off the spy’s head and put it on a spearhead so that everyone could see it.
“He never forgets treachery, lad,” James said, and shouted toward Edward, “It was a good hunt, my lord!”
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 38