Holy Warrior

by David Pilling

  A javelin whipped past Hugh’s shoulder. Three more Turcomen came at him, one with a spear, two with swords. A knight came charging in from the side and rode down two of them, trampling both under his hoofs. The third screamed and turned to flee. Hugh aimed a blow at his retreated back, missed, overbalanced. He clung to the side of his horse like a limpet, one hand dug into her mane, babbling curses. His terrified beast wheeled in circles, desperate to shake him off.

  “Out swords, Scotsmen! Give them the edge – the edge!”

  Robert de Bruce, lord of Annandale, flashed past at the head of his knights. The giant Scottish baron had doffed his helm and roared with laughter as he struck right and left with his broadsword, unseating a Turcoman with every blow. His men did equally terrible execution, cracking skulls, slashing off limbs, bathing their swords in blood to the hilt. The tide of steel and horseflesh tore straight through the heart of the enemy, tearing their ranks to shreds.

  Hugh kept his head down. Men swirled around him, crusaders and Turcomens mingled together, yelling as they hacked at each other. A rouncy lay sprawled nearby, limbs feebly kicking, his life-blood oozing from a great hole in his belly. A few yards away lay his rider, one of Lord Valence’s squires, the back of his head stoved in. The dead man’s blood and brains soaked into the earth around him.

  The fight lasted no longer than a few minutes, though to Hugh it seemed a lifetime. Suddenly the din of battle faded. He looked up to see the whole mass of Turcomens spurring away across the plain, flooding back towards the east. They left the battleground littered with their dead and wounded, perhaps two score in all. The crusaders had suffered far less. Protected by their mail, the knights lost not a single man. Hugh counted eight or nine dead sergeants. Riderless horses and ponies wandered about, eyes rolling with animal terror.

  Hugh spotted Edward among a cluster of his knights. The prince’s eyes shone with triumph. Whatever doubts he may have experienced in Nazareth were washed away by Saracen blood.

  “Longsword,” he called out cheerfully. “Got your sword wet, have you? Good man! We’ll make a fighting soldier of you yet.”

  He grinned and turned back to share a joke with his knights. One of them was John de Vescy. Hugh’s blood ran cold when the lord of Alnwick stared directly at him. Vescy’s eyes bored into Hugh for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he looked away, laughing at Edward’s jest.

  Hugh thought back to the confrontation with one of Vescy’s men in Nazareth. I am a marked man, he thought with a touch of despair. Will I fall to a Saracen blade, or Christian?

  The crusaders didn’t tarry. At any moment the Turcomens might come back with reinforcements. Once they had gathered up their dead and retrieved the horses, they set off towards Acre in a cloud of dust.

  6.

  Three days later Hugh found himself riding north from Acre in very different company. In placed of armed knights and sergeants, he rode with three Dominican friars, five hired guards, a trumpeter, a cook and his assistant, a barber and two servants.

  In their black and white robes, the friars resembled three skinny magpies. They wore wide-brimmed hats against the merciless June sun, but this didn’t prevent the sweat rolling down their lean, pinched faces in endless waves. Their names were Reginald Rossel, Godfrey Waus and John Parker, three English monks attached to the company as diplomats.

  Brothers Reginald and Godfrey said little. They clearly regarded themselves as a higher form of life. John, the youngest, was more approachable. Thin and nervous, constantly batting away the flies that buzzed about his horse’s ears, he refused to meet the eye of whoever spoke to him.

  “You ought to have stayed in England, brother,” Hugh remarked to him, shortly after they set out. “I wager you’re missing the cloister already.”

  John blinked and looked up at the sky, as if seeking inspiration. “Not at all,” he replied in his shy whisper. “In truth, I am glad of the adventure. The abbey is a dull place, fit only for old men and hermits.”

  His gooseberry eyes bulged, and he hurriedly crossed himself. “God forgive me,” the friar squeaked. “What have I said? If the others heard me…”

  Hugh gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Never fear,” he said with a wink. “It will be our little secret.”

  John smiled gratefully and was mute as a statue for the rest of the day. Hugh suspected the young man had been shown very little kindness in his life. Now he had made a friend, or thought he had.

  Hugh was disgusted with himself. Would he never stop manipulating people? It came easily to him – more so than he cared to admit – and was essential in his work as a spy.

  What kind of monster will I become?

  He thought of his old master, John of St. George, a ruthless, friendless, dried-up husk of a man, grown bitter and cynical after a lifetime of service to the realm. Hugh had encountered a few similar characters on the royal spy network, men (and one or two women), who had long ago bade farewell to their conscience. Morality wasn’t a survival trait in this game.

  His remorse didn’t last long. There was a mission to fulfil, and the little company was heading into dangerous territory. From Acre they followed the coast road north, leading towards the port town of Tyre. This was one of the semi-independent Christian lordships scattered about the Holy Land, currently ruled by Lord John de Montfort.

  Before departing from Acre, Hugh had been briefed on the journey by Edward’s friend and confidante, Othon de Grandison.

  “Step carefully in Tyre,” Othon warned him. “Montfort is said to be a proud man, and he is surrounded by foes. His father was murdered a few months ago by the Assassins. If – when – Baibars chooses to destroy him, Tyre will not withstand the Saracen host for a single day.”

  Hugh went cold at the mention of the Assassins. There were all kinds of dark tales and rumours of this exotic death-cult, who once had their headquarters somewhere deep in the mountains far to the west of Outremer, at a fortress called Alamut. The Tartars had hunted down the Assassins and destroyed their base, but members of the cult were still active, hiring out their deadly services to the highest bidder.

  “Some are in the employ of Baibars,” Othon explained. “The sultan has his own spy service, called the Qussad. A secret army of spies and assassins, highly trained, highly efficient.”

  The Savoyard gave him a knowing look. “It seems you have your work cut out, Longsword.”

  Hugh smiled briefly at the Savoyard’s cruel jest. He was the only member of the English spy network in the Holy Land – that he knew of – and had every intention of avoiding the Qussad.

  He quickly changed the subject. “Montfort,” he ventured. “Is he…is he kin to Earl Simon?”

  Hugh meant Simon de Montfort, late enemy of the Lord Edward and his father, King Henry. Simon had died at the Battle of Evesham, torn down and hacked to pieces on the field by Edward’s knights. Hugh had fought against the Disinherited, rebel barons who continued the fight in Simon’s name for two years after his death.

  “Yes,” Othon replied curtly. “Lord John’s grandsire was brother to Earl Simon’s grandsire. Have no fears on that account. The wars in England have no meaning here. We are all Christians, united against a common foe.”

  Hugh rather doubted that. The Montforts were a proud, tight-knit clan, and Lord John must have received word of his cousin’s bloody demise at Evesham. If he was anything like his kin, he would harbour a grudge against Edward and all his followers.

  “How has Montfort survived this long?” Hugh asked, gazing at the map of the Holy Land stretched out before him. From Tyre his route lay north, much farther still, through Sidon and hence to Tripoli and Antioch. This was daunting enough, but then he would have to venture east, far beyond the limits of Christian territory.

  “By keeping his head down,” replied Othon, “and paying regular tribute to the Saracens.”

  He sadly shook his head. “That it should come to this. Christian noblemen paying the infidel blood money in return for a few more ye
ars of life. The glory days of Outremer are long past.”

  Hugh raised his eyebrows at the Savoyard, surprised at his defeatism. “What are we doing here, then?” he asked. “Why come to the Holy Land at all, if there is no hope?”

  He instantly lowered his eyes and assumed a humble expression. Such insolence could earn him a thump across the ear, even a whipping. Othon was a knight and baron of Savoy, while Hugh was little more than a glorified clerk. Useful, but not important, and certainly not in a position to address great lords with anything but respect.

  Fortunately Othon was an unusually courteous and mild-mannered nobleman. He smiled gently at Hugh’s questions.

  “I didn’t say there was no hope,” he said. “To be precise, we have one hope, and one hope only.”

  Othon poked Hugh in the chest. “You are currently it. If the embassy to the Tartars fails, or you are killed or captured on the way, then we may as well go home. The fate of Outremer rests on your shoulders, Master Longsword, and the men who go with you. A heavy burden, no?”

  Hugh could only agree. It was at least a sign of Edward’s trust, that he should be given the task of leading the embassy. On the whole, he would have much preferred to stay in Acre, though part of him thrilled at the adventure that lay ahead. If he survived, the tales he would have to tell!

  If I survive…

  Hugh squinted at the road ahead. It rose and fell among the long range of hills to the north, rising to a spur of rock in the middle. West lay the glittering blue band of the sea. His heart ached at the thought of England, thousands of miles away, beyond the far horizon.

  East lay miles of open countryside, dotted with hamlets and small farms. The land was rich and surprisingly green, neatly divided into squares of crop fields. It was deceptively peaceful. Somewhere to the east the Saracen armies were on the march, crushing what remained of Christian Outremer with gruesome efficiency. Once the inland regions were conquered, Baibars would turn his attention to the cities on the coast.

  As Othon said, there was only one hope of stopping him. Edward had the idea of forging an alliance with the Tartars, the famous Golden Horde.

  When Hugh’s grandfather was young these fearsome horse-warriors had come pouring out of their steppes and threatened to conquer the whole of Christendom. Butchered every army sent against them, thrown down cities and castles with terrifying ease. Europe was only saved by the death of their leader, the Great Khan.

  Hugh’s task was to ride into the distant east, deep inside Tartar territory, and beg for help from Abaqa, il-khan of the Tartars in Syria. Only the Tartars had the military might to defeat Baibars. If they could be persuaded to ride to the aid of the Christian states, Outremer might be saved yet.

  The trio of Dominican friars carried Edward’s letters to Abaqa. Hugh would have preferred to carry them himself, but the priests wouldn’t hear of it.

  “We are the Lord Edward’s appointed envoys,” Reginald Rossel, the eldest of the friars, stiffly informed him. “You are our guard dog, nothing more.”

  He flicked a finger at Hugh. “Run along, guard dog. Back to your kennel.”

  Hugh mastered an urge to smash Rossel’s hawkish face, and saved up the insult for the future. In time, the Dominican would pay for it.

  He much preferred the company of the cook and his assistant, a couple of cheerful Cypriots with a grasp of plain English cooking. Hugh’s stomach rebelled at rich food, and he was almost pathetically grateful for the familiar diet of hard rye bread, soft cheese and wholesome stews.

  He was intrigued by the guards hired for the journey. These were five Saracen converts to Christianity, who also served the expedition as guides. They were hard, lean men, experienced fighters with the scars to show for it. At meal times they kept their own company, seated away from the rest, talking in low voices. Intrigued, Hugh made an effort to befriend their captain.

  At first he spurned Hugh’s efforts at conversation, replying in terse grunts or not at all. He was about forty, tall and sinewy with dark brown skin, handsome features and a little forked beard and moustache. Every morning he oiled and clipped his facial hair, seated cross-legged as he carefully studied himself in a little oval mirror. Hugh was amused at his vanity, but didn’t doubt the man was tough. His hands were those of a fighter, swollen and powerful, with a vivid white scar on the back of the left.

  “I hope to see you wield that sword,” Hugh said to him on the third day of the journey. “A strange weapon, very different to our Western blades.”

  The captain carried a long, curved sword inside a decorated brown leather sheath at his hip. It was broad-bladed, with a black leather grip. Hugh had seen plenty of these weapons, but never witnessed one used in anger.

  “We call it a kilij,” the captain said after a typically long silence. He spoke quietly, without looking at Hugh. His manner was distant, reserved, his hooded brown eyes forever scanning the landscape for danger or fixed on the road ahead.

  “Kilij,” repeated Hugh, rolling the unfamiliar word round his mouth. “May I see the blade?”

  The captain’s dark eyes flickered. After a moment, he deftly pulled the sword from its scabbard and held it upright.

  Bright morning sunlight rippled down the length of the finely wrought steel, oiled and polished to a mirror-like finish. Hugh gazed at it in admiration. The long blade curved slightly from the hilt, more strongly in the lower half, and the last third flared out and became much wider.

  Hugh dared to touch the outer edge of the blade. It was razor-sharp. “The tip is called a yalman,” said the captain, in the same low, deliberate tones. “You see how it widens. This greatly adds to the cutting power.”

  He gave the sword a gentle swish. “The swords carried by your Frankish knights require great strength as well as skill,” he went on. “That is why they are trained in arms from a tender age. The kilij does not require such great strength. Even the weakest of men can perform terrible feats with it.”

  Hugh was encouraged. Previously, he had needed to work hard to extract so much as three words from the Saracen. Now he had suddenly opened up. As a fighting soldier, perhaps the use and study of arms was his passion.

  “That thing you carry,” the captain added, with a wry glance at Hugh’s falchion, “is fit only to butcher sheep.”

  Hugh knew better than to be offended. “A fitting weapon for a butcher,” he replied with a shrug. To his delight, the other man briefly cracked a smile. It lit up the dour lines of his face, made him seem almost human.

  “Please,” Hugh said, “tell me your name. We have a long journey ahead, and I wouldn’t like to die in the company of a stranger.”

  “Maymun,” the other said. “It means blessed, thriving or prosperous. I have to say, I was ill-named.”

  This was his second jest in a little under a minute. Once again Hugh had put his manipulative skills to good use. He allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation.

  “Don’t get too complacent, Longsword…you never know what lies around the corner, waiting to trip you up.”

  Master John of St. John’s voice again, whispering in his memory. Still, Hugh was proud of himself. Now he had to make a friend of this man.

  “Maymun,” he said, “a strong name. I am honoured to make your acquaintance. I am Hugh Longsword.”

  There was a blur of steel as the Saracen quickly sheathed his sword. “I know,” he said mildly. “I have committed the name of every man in this company to heart. It is my duty to protect you all, and I cannot guard nameless men.”

  Maymun went back to his study of the landscape. Hugh feared he had somehow offended the man; these Saracens were said to be proud, even touchier on points of honour than Christian knights.

  Then Maymun started to whistle under his breath. Hugh’s spirits lifted when he recognised the melody. The Song of Roland.

  He laughed, and was rewarded with another brief smile from his companion.

  7.

  The company reached Tyre safely, and stayed there fo
r three days, awaiting news from Tripoli. Every church in the town was full, and those left outside knelt and prayed in the street for the salvation of the Christians to the north.

  On the first day Hugh joined in the prayers and said mass before the altar of a little stone church in the plaza. Father Rossel insisted that all the company should attend.

  “Outremer stands on the edge of destruction,” he informed them in his solemn tones. “The Devil is unchained in the Holy Land. His servant, Baibars, thirsts for the blood of all Christian folk.”

  He raised his eyes to the sky. “Only in prayer is our salvation. Only by abasing ourselves before God, and begging for the redemption of our sins, can this evil be averted.”

  “Beg him for dragon’s teeth,” said Maymun. “That you may plant them in the ground, and grow ten thousand swordsmen.”

  The friar looked down his long nose at the Saracen. “You think prayer is insufficient?” he asked coolly.

  “Every man should pray,” Maymun replied, “but God helps those who shift for themselves. The saying of mass alone will not defeat Baibars, father. Only swords and lances will drive the Mamluks from this sacred earth.”

  Rossel was not used to being contradicted. “I detect a note of admiration in your voice,” he said accusingly. “Your heathen blood calls to his.”

  “I am as good a Christian as any man here,” Maymun answered in a hard voice. “My parents were converts at an early age, and I was baptised at the font.”

  Hugh chose this moment to intervene. Brother Rossel’s thin face had gone red with anger, while Maymun would never back down; in recent days Hugh had spent much time in the Saracen’s company, and knew him to be brave, honest and stubborn to the point of pig-headedness. He also had little time for holy men, either Christian friars or Muslim imams.

  “Spare your breath for the enemy,” said Hugh. “What can be gained from fighting each other?”