Templar Steel

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘Get some help here,’ roared the king, but as he called, the knight fell forward into the dust, frothing at the mouth as his pierced lung filled with blood.

  ‘Sir Gerald,’ said the king again, falling to his knees and lifting the knight’s head, ‘don’t you dare die. That arrow was meant for me. This not your time. I order you to survive.’

  Sir Gerald looked up weakly and tried to speak, but it was no use and as men rallied to help, he choked to death in his king’s arms.

  ----

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Montgisard

  November 25th

  AD 1177

  On the far flank, Raynald had enjoyed spectacular success and had swept straight through the Saracens to burst out the back and circle around to attack their rear. It had been a remarkable result and the three-pronged attack had finally resulted in the rout of the far larger Saracen army. Men fled everywhere, pursued by Baldwin’s army, emboldened by their unlikely victory.

  Several hundred paces away, Eudes de St Amand, reined in his horse and removed his helmet. As far as he could see were hundreds of dead, the far majority being Saracens. The shock tactic of charging line abreast straight at the enemy had achieved the desired outcome and as he watched, those following up behind took over the task, leapfrogging the Templars to pursue the fleeing Ayyubid. Amand dismounted and looked around, his chest heaving as he drew in desperately needed lungsful of air.

  The rest of his men were equally exhausted, and all soaked with the blood of their enemies. Some carried wounds, many serious but all had continued the fight for as long as they could. The toll had been heavy but not unexpected. One of his knights walked over to join him, removing his own helmet as he came.

  ‘Brother Tristan,’ said Amand as the Marshal neared, ‘I bore witness to your bravery in the fight and you have my admiration.’

  ‘Our brothers were true to their oaths,’ said Tristan, ‘and fought with God’s strength.’

  ‘Let us pray it will be enough. Do we know the count of those who paid the ultimate price?’

  ‘The Seneschal is organising a muster, my lord, but we estimate about fourty. Everyone else carries wounds of some sort and almost all our horses are dead or will need to be killed such are their injuries. Sir Raynald has rolled up the right flank and the king has defeated the army on the left. The rest of Saladin’s men flee like birds from a fire.’

  ‘It is an outstanding victory,’ said Amand, ‘yet I feel we have failed in our own task.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Saladin has escaped. We almost got to him, but he lives to fight another day and that lies heavy upon my heart.’

  ‘Do not berate yourself, my lord,’ said the Marshal. ‘Our tactics enabled the rout of an army more than twice our size, a holy victory that secures our claim on Jerusalem. We should give thanks to God if only for that fact alone.’

  ‘Saladin is a powerful man,’ said Amand as fresh riders raced past them to pursue the fleeing Saracens, ‘and he will not take this lying down.’

  ‘With respect, my lord,’ said the Marshal, ‘perhaps we should let Saladin decide what he will or will not do. For now, we must look after our own men while the king’s army clears the field. The rest is up to God.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Amand, ‘come, let us look to our brothers and help ease the passing of those who are beyond help.’

  ‘My lord,’ said the Marshal as Amand turned to walk away, ‘there is something else you should know.’

  ‘And that is?’ asked the Grand Master.

  ‘My lord, I am sorry to report that during the fight, Brother Jakelin broke ranks and rode from the field.’

  ‘Brother Jakelin? Why would he do such a thing?’

  ‘I have no idea. One minute he was at my side and the next he was riding away as if the devil himself was at his heels.’

  ‘Do you suspect cowardice?’

  ‘No, my lord, he is an excellent fighter but whatever the motive, his actions weakened our line. When we find him, as we surely will, he must be punished according to the rules of our temple.’

  ‘That’s if he still lives.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Marshal.

  The Grand Master stared at the Marshal for a few moments before continuing.

  ‘You head back to help with the wounded, I have to report to the king. I’ll join you as soon as I can.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the Marshal and watched as the Grand Master walked his horse towards the rear of the lines.

  ----

  As the last of the fighting fell away, Baldwin’s servants joined him from the rear lines, bringing water and ointments for his affliction. Still shaken by Gerald’s death and hardly able to stand, he waited as they divested him of his armour before gently washing down his filthy body and donning him with a lightweight tunic. When done, he sat exhausted on a stool, sipping on watered wine while his generals reported in regarding their successes on the field.

  Baldwin glanced to one side, seeing the Grand Master walking towards him, bloody but upright and undefeated.

  ‘My king,’ said Amand as he approached, ‘this is truly a great day. Glory be to God for the victory.’

  ‘And to the men who had the courage and heart to make it happen,’ replied Baldwin.

  Amand dropped to one knee and kissed the king’s hand before getting back to his feet.

  ‘Did you get Saladin?’ asked Baldwin.

  ‘Alas no, but thousands of Saracens lie dead upon the field while the rest flee or have been taken prisoner. Lord Raynald has sent what cavalry he could spare to pursue the Ayyubid, but the day is yours, my king. Jerusalem is saved.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the king, ‘and your men are to be thanked for the part they played. Your charge was truly guided by the hand of God.’

  Before Amand could answer, one of the servants spoke up.

  ‘Your grace, look.’

  All heads turned to see a blood sodden Templar knight approaching the king. His pace was unsteady due to a heavy wound in his leg and in his hands, he carried a rolled-up Saracen cloak. As Baldwin watched he came to a halt and dropped to one knee.

  ‘Your grace,’ he said, his head bowed, ‘Lord Amand, please forgive my intrusion. I beg audience.’

  Amand stared at the knight, his face barely hiding his anger.

  ‘Please arise,’ said the king before the Grand Master could speak, ‘for today it is I who am honoured to be in your presence.’

  ‘Be sparing in your praise, your grace,’ said Amand, his voice cold as he continued to stare at the knight, ‘for this man is Jakelin de Mailly and there is an explanation to be had.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said the king, recognising the ire in Amand’s voice, ‘is this not one of your own men?’

  ‘Indeed he is,’ said Amand, ‘one who placed his brothers in danger by breaking ranks.’

  Sir Jakelin struggled to his feet and breathed deeply as he he gathered his thoughts.

  ‘Your grace,’ he said eventually, 'my lord Amand. ‘I confess I broke ranks and will accept any punishment you see fit to bestow, but I saw an opportunity too great to miss.’

  ‘You broke ranks,’ snapped Amand, ‘an act that is unforgiveable in our order. What possible excuse could you have to do such a thing?’

  Jakelin looked between the two men again as everyone fell silent around them.

  ‘Well,’ asked the king, ‘we are waiting?’

  Without saying a word, Jakelin unwrapped the cloak still in his hands and allowed the contents to fall at Baldwin’s feet. For a few moments there was silence as everyone stared at the decapitated head of a Saracen warrior.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked the king, turning to the Grand Master, ‘do you recognise him?’

  ‘Aye, your grace, I do,’ said Amand, looking back up at Jakelin de Mailly with renewed respect, ‘it is Saladin’s nephew… Taqi ad-Din.’

  ----

  An hour later, Jakelin de Mailly walked slowly along the ro
w of dead Templars, saying a silent prayer as he recognised each face. All the victims had been gathered together by their fellow knights and laid out with their hands cradling the hilts of the swords laying upon their chests. As he neared the end of the line, he stopped and stared down at the man before him, his heart sinking as he recognised his friend.

  ‘Oh Brother Benedict,’ he said quietly, ‘you so desperately craved the glory of battle and it has been the undoing of you. May God take you into his glory and recognise a man with a great heart and a true soul.’

  ‘He fought well,’ said a voice and Jakelin turned to see the Marshal standing behind him.

  ‘Brother Tristan,’ said Jakelin, ‘you survived.’

  ‘It was a hard fight,’ said Tristan, ‘with a terrible toll but because the sacrifice of Brother Benedict and the others, Jerusalem is now safe. We will hold a service in their names as soon as we return to Acre. What of you, are you wounded?’

  ‘Nothing that will send me to my grave,’ said Jakelin, ‘though my heart is mortally wounded at the sight of so many of my brothers lying in the dirt.’

  ‘It is time to think of the living,’ said the Marshal. ‘Come, let’s see if we can do anything to help.’

  ----

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Montgisard

  November 26th

  AD 1177

  It had been twenty-four hours since the battle ended. All of the Christian dead were laid out in straight rows, each covered by blankets taken from the abandoned Saracen caravan, and in the distance, hundreds of captives dug a huge ditch to bury those who had fallen, closely watched by Turcopole archers.

  Above the rows of dead, loomed the true cross, the golden effigy so important to Jerusalem and the rest of the Outremer. Beneath it knelt King Baldwin, William of Tyre and Raynald of Chatillon.

  The bishop of Bethlehem carried out a service dedicated to those that had fallen and as the rest of the men looked up at the golden cross in awe, the sun glistened off its surface as if reflecting the glory of God’s heaven. Many men, hard of heart and strong in battle, fell to their knees, dazzled by the majesty and they knew in their hearts that God had been with them that day. When the service was over, King Baldwin got to his feet and turned to face the army.

  ‘Men of Jerusalem,’ he called eventually, ‘we give thanks to God this day for delivering us from the evil of Saladin. You men, whether lord or knave, knight or foot soldier are all equal in his sight today and all will have an equal share in the spoils from the Ayyubid caravans.’

  A murmur of approval swept through the army at the generosity of the young king.

  ‘Yesterday,’ continued Baldwin, ‘was the feast day of St Catherine of Alexandria, and to honour our victory, we will build a great monastery on this very spot, dedicated to her and her memory.’

  Again, the sound of approval rippled through the massed ranks.

  ‘Take time to bury our dead,’ continued the king. ‘Tomorrow I will head back to Ashkelon along with my knights while those of you who answered the Arriere-ban will be paid from the royal treasuries. Take your reward and return to your wives and children carrying whatever bounty you are allocated with your heads held high and your backs as straight as an arrow. Do not be so humble as to forget to regale them with stories of the part you played in this battle for make no mistake, it will be remembered for all time. You made this happen, you are the victors, and Jerusalem is saved because of you. Bask in the glory for, without you, Jerusalem would now be in the hands of the Ayyubid.’

  The army got to their feet and raised their swords in salute, the air reverberating with cheers as the royal party turned away.

  ‘It is a good day, my lord,’ said Raynald as they walked.

  ‘It is,’ said the king with a grimace, ‘but now we have to leave.’

  ‘Are you well, my lord?’ asked Raynald with a look of concern.

  ‘No, Sir Raynald, I am not,’ said the king, ‘my affliction catches up with me and I feel my strength fleeing as I speak. I need to get to Ashkelon, Raynald. I need to get there quickly.’

  ----

  After the service, Cronin and Hassan walked towards the area of the field where the Templars had set up their own camp. Their pace was slow and considered and both knew that their fate would be decided in the next few hours. As they approached, Sir Richard of Kent recognised the sergeant and strode over to greet them.

  ‘Tom Cronin,’ he said offering his arm in greeting, ‘are the rumours true? Was it truly you who warned the king of Saladin’s plans?’

  ‘Amongst others,’ said Cronin, ‘not least of whom is this young man.’ He indicated Hassan at his side.

  ‘Ah, the Bedouin who wants to be a squire,’ said Richard, looking at Hassan, ‘yes I remember him well. Where are you headed?’

  ‘I have to report to the Seneschal,’ said Cronin, ‘it has been several weeks since I left the column, and much has happened.’

  ‘Indeed it has,’ said Richard, ‘come, I will take you to the Grand Master. Your survival and astonishing tale is to be celebrated.’

  They walked through the camp towards one of the few tents on the field.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Sir Richard, ‘I’ll let them know.’ He ducked inside and found the Grand Master talking to the Seneschal and William of Tyre.

  ‘My lords,’’ said Sir Richard, ‘please forgive the intrusion but the sergeant responsible for bringing the news about Saladin’s true intentions begs audience.’

  ‘Brother Cronin?’ asked the Seneschal.

  ‘Yes, my lord. Shall I bring him in?’

  ‘Give us a few minutes,’ said the Seneschal before anyone could reply, ‘we will call when ready.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sir Richard and ducked back through the flap of the tent.

  ‘Why did you delay?’ asked the Grand Master. ‘We should welcome him with open arms.’

  ‘There is something you should know,’ said the Seneschal, ‘especially as it affects our honoured guest here.’ He nodded towards the prelate.

  ‘Your manner intrigues me,’ said William, ‘what is it that causes you so much concern?’

  Brother Valmont glanced at the Grand Master, receiving a nod of consent in return.

  ‘My lords,’ continued the Seneschal, ‘before I left Acre to join our brothers on the march to Gaza, I received a package from Rome and was asked to have it delivered to the king himself. With war looming it became difficult to find the time to ride to Jerusalem, especially as all Templars had been ordered south. Subsequently, I sent Brother Cronin to the holy city on our behalf, tasked with delivering the package to the king. It was during this task that he managed to find out Saladin’s true intentions.’

  ‘After delivering the package?’ asked the Grand Master.

  ‘No, my lord, he did not actually get to Jerusalem, he was attacked and robbed on the way. The package was lost.’

  ‘And who told you this?’

  ‘Sir Redwood of Blancheguarde Castle. Cronin confessed all upon his rescue from the desert.’

  ‘What was in the package?’ asked William

  ‘Documents mainly,’ said Seneschal, ‘but there was also an artefact of considerable value.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘A bejewelled cross.’

  ‘What sort of cross?’ asked Amand.

  ‘I never saw the piece for it remained wrapped whilst in my possession, but I have now been told it was an elegant piece, made from gold and inset with the rarest of rubies. It was intended for the king.’

  ‘But why would such a wonderous thing be sent in a mere satchel,’ asked Amand, ‘surely such a treasure would have been secured and have an armed guard?’

  ‘Apparently, it did,’ said the Seneschal, ‘but the ship that sailed from Rome carrying them was beset with a contagion and many men died, including the guards. The satchel was eventually delivered to me by the ship’s Captain.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Raynald, ‘are you talking about the cro
ss of Courtenay?’

  ‘I have no knowledge of its name,’ said the Seneschal, turning to the prelate, ‘only the description relayed to me by Sir Redwood.’

  ‘If it is the one I am thinking of,’ said William, ‘the cross is a valuable artefact and belonged to Baldwin’s father, King Almaric. It has been in his family’s possession for generations. When Almaric married Agnes of Courtenay, he presented it to her as a wedding gift and had it renamed in her honour. Last year she asked king Baldwin to have it blessed by the pope. If we are talking about the same thing, then this is a disaster for all concerned. The Courtenay Cross is her most valued possession and Baldwin will not take it lightly if it becomes known it was lost whilst in your possession.’

  The Seneschal glanced towards the Grand Master, a look of concern upon his face.

  ‘Do we know who has it now?’ asked Amand eventually.

  ‘Brother Cronin does,’ replied the Seneschal.

  ‘Then bring him in. We need to find out the facts from the man himself before we can even start to address the issue.’

  The Seneschal left the tent before returning moments later, lifting the flap to allow the sergeant through.

  ‘Brother Cronin,’ he said as Amand got to his feet. ‘This is the Grand Master of our order, Eudes de St Amand.’

  ‘We met at Acre,’ said Cronin with a nod of the head.

  ‘And this is Father William of Tyre,’ continued the Seneschal. ‘He has the ear of the king himself and is well thought of throughout the Outremer. He is a good friend and you can speak freely in his presence.’

  ‘Father William,’ said Cronin with another acknowledging nod of respect.

  ‘Brother Cronin,’ said Amand, when the introductions were over. ‘I hear you have had a busy time these past few weeks and were instrumental in supplying the information that led to our victory.’

  ‘One amongst others,’ said Cronin.

  ‘Your modesty is most gracious,’ said Amand, ‘but our ranks are awash with rumours of your feats and we are grateful, not just for the part you played but for bringing such honour on the name of our order.’