Holy Warrior

by David Pilling

  The woman was crying, in terror of her life. Her pursuers laughed at such easy prey. The hiss of drawn steel and the thump of mailed feet echoed in Hugh’s ears.

  He took in a deep breath, closed his eyes for a second, then stepped out smartly from the alleyway. The Saracen woman stopped dead, her eyes wide in shock, bloodied hands raised to her mouth. Under the blood and grime she was pretty, with an oval face and dark eyes.

  Like Esther…even now, at this moment of supreme tension, the memory of the Jewess of York rose in Hugh’s mind.

  With nowhere left to run, she gave a moan of despair and crumpled at his feet. Hugh glanced down at her, then up at the three crusaders who had chased her from the plaza.

  He swore inwardly. Two wore the arms of Sir William Latimer on their surcoats, a yellow cross against a red field; Hugh didn’t know Latimer at all, except by sight, and so far as he knew the knight bore no grudges against him.

  The third man wore the arms of John de Vescy, a black cross against yellow. After his adventures in Northumberland, Hugh would have recognised them anywhere; they frequently hovered before him in nightmares.

  All three crusaders were tough, brutish-looking characters. The look of triumph on their rugged faces changed to uncertainty.

  “Here, you,” one of Latimer’s men barked. “Move off and find your own plunder. The girl is ours.”

  Hugh gulped. He could almost sense a chasm opening under his feet. Whatever choice he made now would stay with him for the rest of his days.

  “No,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I can’t let you have her. It’s not right.”

  The crusaders exchanged bewildered glances. “Right?” said the other Latimer man. “What are you talking about? Soft on Saracen whores, are you?”

  “He wants the girl for himself,” said his mate. “Look, friend, I don’t blame you. She’s pretty enough. But she’s ours.”

  He spread his hands. “We’re reasonable men. Go away, right now, and we’ll say no more about it.”

  Hugh slowly drew his axe and falchion. At the same time he moved to stand in front of the girl. She had stopped weeping and stared up at him, her large eyes full of terror and confusion.

  “You won’t have her,” he said stubbornly. “Not unless you kill me first.”

  This met with silence. The Latimer men hesitated. He could read the uncertainty in their eyes. Was the girl really worth the risk? Yet there were three of them, and Hugh was alone…

  He glanced at the Vescy man. This one was older than his companions, about fifty, and had the look of a shrewd survivor about him.

  “Wait, lads,” he growled in a heavy Cumbrian accent. “I know this man. He’s a member of the prince’s retinue.”

  The other two stepped back. One, the first speaker, noisily worked up some phlegm and hawked it at Hugh’s feet.

  “Consider yourself lucky, you fucking weasel,” he rasped. “If you weren’t a friend of the prince, we’d tear out your guts and wind them round your neck.”

  “Watch your back in future,” the other spat through gritted teeth. “You can hide behind Edward’s skirts, for now, but we won’t forget this. Enjoy the girl. She might be your last.”

  Hugh stood his ground in silence as they trudged away. The Latimers cast dark looks at him, but the northerner didn’t spare a backward glance. Of the three, Hugh rated him the most dangerous. What tales would he carry back to his master?

  He became aware of the girl’s warm hand on his ankle. She mumbled something in her own language. Hugh wouldn’t have understood, even if her fist wasn’t stuffed into her mouth.

  Conflicting passions warred inside him. Terror, mostly, along with relief and anger at his own folly.

  What in hells did the girl want with him? Perhaps he could lead her away to some dark corner and rape her. Why not? There was none to stop him.

  The mere thought caused a wave of bile to rise in Hugh’s throat. Sick and disgusted, shuddering with reaction, he pushed her away with his foot.

  “Just fuck off,” he snapped. “Run away and hide somewhere. You can’t understand me, can you? Fuck off anyway.”

  She continued to stare at him. With a wordless snarl, he turned and hurried away to find his horse.

  The crusaders left Nazareth shortly before midday. They left behind them a scene of gory, reeking devastation. Edward and his men had come to slay, not plunder, and most of the houses and shops were left intact. The Christian churches were untouched, and a few of his more devout knights had broken off from the slaughter to offer up prayers in them. Nazareth itself was a mass grave, the streets and plazas carpeted with bodies. Men, women and children lay strewn about in heaps, slaughtered like animals.

  “If we cannot have this place, no-one shall,” Hugh heard Edward remark when the killing was done. The prince had done his share of killing and was spattered with blood. His followers clustered around him in the market square, which reeked like a charnel house.

  Hugh wondered if he was the only one of the crusaders who felt uneasy at what had been done. He looked about the faces of his comrades, all of them bloodied and panting with exertion, and saw only raw joy.

  Edward himself seemed weary. His heavy jaw was clenched, mouth drawn into a firm line. Hugh thought he detected a glimmer of uncertainty in the prince’s eyes, the left half-hidden under the famous drooping eyelid.

  Does he doubt? Hugh wondered. Or was Edward simply disappointed at the quality of the opposition? He had come to the Holy Land in the hope of fighting glorious battles against the infidel. Instead his first act was to wipe out a few hundred defenceless civilians inside a half-deserted town.

  “Deus Vult,” said Edward, marking the sign of the cross on his chest. His followers repeated him in unison. A few knelt on the bloodied earth and prayed silently, brows pressed against the hilts of their swords.

  When the prayers were done, the crusaders rode out of Nazareth and headed back towards Acre. Hugh again brought up the rear. He glanced, once, over his shoulder at Nazareth as it dwindled in the haze of late afternoon. It was a dead town now. Soon the carrion-eaters would come flocking to feast on the slain. He shuddered at the thought of lean shapes slinking out of the barren hills and valleys at dusk. Bands of hungry wolves, slavering at the chops in anticipation of fresh meat. After them would come the winged scavengers, falcons and ravens or whatever birds of prey dwelled in this Godforsaken country.

  Hugh was still haunted by the memory of being hunted through Sherwood Forest by a band of wolves. The swiftest animal had caught up with him and closed its jaws on his leg. His calf still bore faded teeth marks. They throbbed whenever he thought of his near-escape. He could still hear the wolves, baying among the trees. Their excited snaps and growls as they raced through the undergrowth, hot on his trail.

  Memory fused with the present. Hugh’s instincts, honed to a keen edge by years of training and experience, stood up and begged for attention.

  He glanced back again, in the direction of Nazareth. The town was lost to sight now, though the rugged peak of Mount Precipice was still visible.

  There was something else. A line of black dots, hovering in the far distance. Hugh reined in and swung his horse about so he could squint at the horizon. His comrades didn’t notice and rode on ahead at a canter, aiming to reach the gates of Acre before nightfall.

  Hugh shaded his eyes. A light wind had started to blow across the bleak plains, driving clouds of dust before it. He cursed as the storm obscured his sight.

  The hoofbeats of the crusaders faded away. For a moment Hugh was alone in the desert. He licked his dry lips and urged his horse forward a few steps.

  He heard the riders before he saw them. The dry earth trembled under their hoofs. Hugh swiftly dismounted and pressed his ear to the ground.

  Ten riders…no, twenty…forty…

  Seconds later he clawed himself back into the saddle, wrenched his beast round and drove in his spurs.

  “Gallop, you hobbled mule!” he ras
ped into her ear. She whinnied and took off at a fast trot, surging into a gallop as he slashed mercilessly at her flanks.

  Dust and drifting sand whipped across his face. Hugh blinked it away and drove his mount as hard as he dared. If she turned a hoof now, he was dead. If didn’t take the risk, he was dead anyway. The men behind him were coming on fast. He guessed they were expert riders, mounted on the swiftest of ponies. Hugh couldn’t hope to outride them. His only chance was to catch up with his comrades and warn them in time.

  The frantic pounding of his heart eased a little when the lances of the crusaders came into view, straight ahead. They still rode at a canter, while Hugh was at a flat gallop.

  “Turn about!” he yelled, his voice carried away by the buffeting of the wind. “Brothers, turn about – we are pursued!”

  The nearest sergeants heard him and looked behind, puzzled, for the source of the noise. A few of them slowed to a walk, while others sped on ahead to warn the rest.

  One of the sergeants, a stocky old campaigner with a fistful of scar tissue for a face, leaned forward in the saddle to stare at Hugh.

  “What’s all this?” he grunted. “Master Longsword, isn’t it? The prince’s sleuth-hound. Someone light a fire in your arse?”

  The prince’s sleuth-hound. This was one of Hugh’s more flattering nicknames among the common soldiery. He was aware of a couple of others. The Weasel. The Rat. Even the Wolf, a name he would have gladly done without. Most knew or suspected he was Edward’s spy. Spies were unpopular, and Hugh had to constantly watch his back. One day it might sprout knives.

  “We’re being hunted,” Hugh gasped, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “A hundred riders at least, probably more. They’re fast. We can’t outrun them.”

  The old soldier nodded grimly. “Right,” he said. “Get up to the prince and warn him. Look sharp!”

  Hugh didn’t need telling. He jabbed in his spurs again and galloped on. Behind him the sergeant yelled orders at his men to spread out and form line.

  The column was already breaking up. Edward and his household guard came thundering down the ranks, which split hurriedly to let him pass.

  “Longsword!” shouted the prince. “What’s happening? Are we followed?”

  “Yes, lord,” Hugh replied. “I heard them myself. A hundred horse and more.”

  Edward looked past Hugh, chewing his lower lip. Once again Hugh didn’t envy his master, who had to make a snap decision. The lives of his men hung in the balance. If he chose wrong, their bodies might all be cooling in the desert before nightfall.

  The low drumming of hoofs could be heard now. They approached from the southeast, the direction of Nazareth. In his mind’s eye Hugh pictured the mounds of dead littering the streets. Had their souls risen and come in search of the crusaders, bent on vengeance?

  “Advise me,” Edward snapped. Two of his closest knights, William de Valence and Othon de Grandison, visibly groped for words.

  “Stand and fight,” said Othon. “We are more than enough to hold off twice our number of Saracens. Form three lines of battle and wait for them to come on.”

  “Withdraw,” said Valence. “We dare not risk battle here in the open. There’s no shame in retreating to Acre. Send our fastest rider ahead to collect reserves from the city.”

  The two knights glared at each other. Edward glanced briefly at Hugh. Just occasionally, a silent understanding passed between them.

  “We’ll retreat,” announced the prince. “Let the dogs think we’re running away. Once they catch up, we’ll turn and show them what Christian knights are made of.”

  Seconds later his gallopers tore away down the line, shouting the order to retreat. The crusaders moved off in good order in three columns, riding four abreast, Edward and his standard bearer to the fore. Hugh took his place near the end of the line of the third column.

  This was, as he appreciated all too well, the place of most danger. If and when the enemy attacked, they would hit this column first. He glanced back anxiously, and his bowels dissolved in terror as the first line of Saracen horsemen stormed into view. A single word hammered inside his skull.

  Turcomans.

  Hugh had listened to tales of these warriors during the long voyage to the Holy Land. Expert light cavalry, born in the saddle, employed in their thousands by the sultan, Baibars. They lived as wandering herdsmen, originally from the mountainous regions north of the Holy Land.

  They were also deadly horse-archers, able to run rings around ponderous Christian knights, peppering them with arrows before galloping to safety. Their tough, sleek horses were faster than any other breed known to man.

  These were the men who now came in pursuit of Edward’s crusaders. More and more of them became visible through the whirling clouds of dust. Hugh counted fifty, a hundred, two hundred, then gave up. The air was full of their shrill cries, a high-pitched keening noise from deep in the throat, accompanied by the eerie blast of war-horns and racing thunder of hoofs.

  Edward had seen them too. He suddenly changed direction and galloped north, straight towards a range of barren hills. They reared above the landscape like the humped back of a whale, with no cover or vegetation anywhere in sight.

  Where the prince went, his men were bound to follow. The Turcomans thundered ever closer, howling like devils. Hugh crouched low over his horse’s neck, teeth gritted, expecting any moment to feel the bite of arrows in his back. The padding of his aketon offered only limited protection.

  He pictured himself shot from the saddle, a few seconds of raw terror as he lay and bled in the dirt, then the flood of Turcoman horses would sweep over him. His body trampled, mangled, ripped to shreds by hundreds of lashing hoofs. Crushed under the weight of men and beasts, until little remained of him save a red smear…

  Hugh forced himself to shut off these thoughts. The dry, reedy voice of his late master, John of St. Michael, echoed across the years.

  “Fear is the death of reason, Longsword. Never give in to fear. It is, of course, one of our primal instincts. I shall teach you to disobey your instincts.”

  One method of defeating fear was to live in the moment. Hugh forced himself to concentrate. He was still alive, and unharmed, and far from defenceless. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his falchion. He prayed the Turcomans would come within striking range. Perhaps he might cut down one or two before the tide washed over his head.

  Edward led his men towards a narrow valley, carved deep in the centre of the hills, as though some ancient god had struck them with an axe. The crusaders pushed their horses as fast as they dared, yet still the Turcomens closed on their heels. Hugh shut his eyes and mumbled silent prayers as the sound of the arrow-storm rose behind him; a terrible rushing noise, as if thousands of geese had taken to the air at once.

  White and red-fletched arrows rained down all around him. A sergeant to his left and in front cried out and jerked backwards, an arrow stuck into his neck. He lost control of his horse and pitched sideways, rolling over and over in the dust. Unable to help, Hugh galloped on past. The man’s screams were abruptly cut off as the Turcomens rode over him.

  Hugh cried out as pain exploded in his upper right shoulder. An arrow had thumped into his aketon, just as he feared, and pierced the layers of cloth and leather. The barb had only just grazed his flesh. Hugh winced at the pain and the warm sensation of blood trickling slowly down his back.

  The Turcomens were just yards behind him now. Their hoofs – thump-thump-thump – echoed to the pounding of his heart. Should he turn and fight or risk a spear in the back?

  God preserve me! He prayed silently. God and the Saints – I cannot die here, half a world away from home!

  Edward’s towering figure had reached the mouth of the valley. He suddenly checked his destrier, wheeled her about and flung up his arm. Trumpets screeched, and the knights of England and Scotland swung about to face their pursuers. With equal discipline their sergeants split into two companies and streamed away to reform on the flan
ks of the wedge of knights.

  Hugh was more spy then soldier, but had some training in this manoeuvre. He rode after the men who went left, ducking to avoid the arrows that streaked past his head. Another sergeant went down, man and beast together, their screams merged.

  The Turcomens swarmed closer. Now Hugh could see them properly, a roaring tide of men and horses, bearded faces contorted into snarls, dark eyes flashing with battle-fury. They brandished light throwing spears or curved swords, the hoofs of their horses crashed like waves on the surf. There were hundreds of them, perhaps twice as many as the crusaders.

  “Charge!” Edward bellowed, and the war-cries of his knights split the sky. The massed phalanx of armoured horsemen rumbled forward, lances couched, swords and battle-axes glinting in the bright noon sun.

  There was another shrill blast of trumpets, and the companies of sergeants on the flanks leaped forward in support of the knights. Hugh’s horse reared, and then he found himself galloping along, axe in hand, wedged between two other riders in the front rank. He caught a brief glimpse of the Savoyard knight, Othon de Grandison, roaring the Song of Roland as he tore ahead of everyone else, mace in one hand, sword in the other.

  “Roland, Roland, you know now you’re betrayed,

  “But in your heart is courage, and your voice is not dismayed.

  “Face ye now grim battle, take your shields and raise them high,

  “With honour we have lived our lives,

  “With honour we shall die!”

  Othon plunged straight into the Turcomens and was quickly swallowed up, striking them down right and left, like ripe corn before the sickle. At his heels thundered the tide of English knights. Edward was to the fore, waving his sword and shouting, and an instant later the two sides crashed together, horses shrieking, splintered lances sailing into the air, steel flashing, men and horses knocked to the earth.

  Hugh drove his axe at the nearest Turcoman face. The heavy blade split the man’s skull and bowled him from the saddle. He pitched backwards, lost among the throng; his horse screamed and twisted away.