Templar's Acre

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Although his decision had been made, Baldwin watched the Templars with interest that second day, awed by their organisation and efficiency.

They rose and ate together in contemplative silence while one brother read from the Gospels. The camp, he learned, was always set out in the same manner, with the Marshal’s pavilion at the centre, with a portable altar set up in a tent alongside, where the Brothers all met for their services.

When it was time to strike camp, the Templars waited in silence until the order was given, and then all was taken up and carefully stowed away. At another command, they packed their paraphernalia onto their horses, and at last, on the final bellow, the men all mounted and prepared to ride.

It was an impressive sight, to see so many men ready and prepared to be commanded before performing the least task. Impressive and at the same time alarming, for Baldwin knew many knights — ‘ruthless individualists’ described them well — and to see these men submitting to a commander was a big shock.

At evening on the second day, he finished his meal and lay back. The effect of sun and sand on his face had made his flesh feel like old leather, and he was bone-weary. He soon drifted into an utterly dreamless sleep.

His eyes snapped open at the first shout.

A dark mass was rolling towards the Templar camp. There was a strange thrumming noise, as of drums, in the distance, a bellowed command, and then, before he had thrown off his sheet and blanket to snatch at his sword, he saw three knights were already at the outer edge of the camp, their great shields firmly planted in the ground, swords at their hips, their lances held low, butted into the sand. Sergeants joined them, the Marshal among them, while turcopoles took position at their flanks, and squires rushed forward with more lances, gripping them like their masters, the points low, menacing the breasts of any horses foolish enough to come close.

A shriek, and a whistle, a thwack as an arrow cracked into a shield. . and as Baldwin scurried towards the line of Templars he saw that the ghostly rolling blackness was a troop of cavalry cantering straight at them. He had his sword in his hand now, and threw the scabbard away, gripping the hilt with both hands.

This time, although he felt sick, he was aware of less fear than he had experienced on the ship.

There was a cacophony of noise as the first enemy mounts broke in upon the line of shields. Arrows zipped all about, and he felt one skim over the front of his breast, miraculously not breaking his skin. He had no mail.

There was a screamed command from the right, and he saw a pair of Templars rammed backwards. The foe’s horse, whickering high like a banshee, flailed at them with vicious hooves, blood spurting from a ragged wound where a lance had pierced his breast, and then Baldwin had to concentrate on his own post. A roar, a shout, and another horse was almost through, and Baldwin sprang forward, all thoughts of fear or anger passed. Now there was only the urgent need to support the front line, and he grabbed a shield that had fallen, his sword at the ready. The shield was a ponderous weight that felt as though it must drag him down, but he resolutely thrust the bottom edge into the sand and held his shoulder to it, peering over the rim.

Another horse was charging him. It was tempting, so tempting to drop the shield and run, but if he did that, he would present that spear-thrower with a broad back at which to aim, and he had no wish to die spitted on a Moorish lance. He grimly held his position as the leaf-shaped point hurtled towards him, and at the last moment ducked well below the shield’s protection.

The concussion as the brute crashed into his shield was tremendous. It felt as though his arm was shattered. There was a roaring in his ears as he felt the great mass of horse and rider roll him back, and then he was on the ground, beneath the shield, and the horse had gone over him. His face was full of sand. It was in his ears and mouth and nose. He could scarcely open his eyes, but he must, if he were to avoid the lance. Pushing the shield aside, he scrambled to his feet, and felt the sand trickle down beneath his chemise as he gripped his sword firmly once more.

The horse had passed him, but now turned and the rider spurred to aim at him.

Baldwin had no time to plan. He slipped his arm from the shield and waited. As the lance was almost on him, he hefted the shield up, blocking the weapon before it struck him, and felt the point pierce the wood. He threw the shield down immediately, and it took the lancepoint with it, its great weight bearing the lance to the ground, and making the shaft shoot upwards. There was a cry of pain from the Muslim rider, and then Baldwin’s sword span around, and the edge caught the rider behind the knee. A spray of blood hissed over Baldwin’s face, and then he saw another horse speeding towards him and turned to face it, sword up, before recognising the Templar’s symbol.

The knight glanced at Baldwin, but then his lance was down and he speared the Muslim almost without effort, so it seemed, and as he passed, the Templar flicked his wrist and the Muslim was thrown to the ground behind him, writhing.

Baldwin whipped round. A second Muslim was riding towards him, and even as Baldwin crouched, staring about him in an urgent search for another shield, the rider’s horse gave a loud whinny, stretched its neck and fell sprawling, its hindquarters caught in the guy-ropes of a tent. The rider was thrown, and landed on his head with an audible crack. He didn’t move again. Another man lay sobbing near the wreckage of a tent, his horse’s leg entangled in guy-ropes, and as Baldwin watched, a sergeant despatched the rider.

Baldwin’s first man lay moaning and choking still.

He had a narrow face, and a thin, black beard. From the look of him, he could not have been more than two years older than Baldwin himself. He looked up at Baldwin with agonised incomprehension, a hand pressed to his belly below his ribcage, and Baldwin could see he was dying. The blood seeped from his wound thickly, and there was a foul odour. His intestines were punctured too.

The man’s eyes were pleading, and Baldwin ended his misery with a quick downward thrust of his sword.

He saw the life leave the body as it slowly slumped, the man’s eyes on Baldwin’s face, until it was nothing more than a sack of bones and muscle. The dark eyes seemed to fade, somehow, and then go dull, like a dead fish’s.

For some reason, Baldwin muttered a prayer for the man’s soul. It seemed the right thing to do, but as soon as he finished, he wanted to weep. He had never prayed for Sibilla’s man, he realised.

He knelt, set his sword before him, and rested his brow on the cross as he begged forgiveness for that murder, and prayed for the man’s soul.

And afterwards, for the first time since killing him all those miles away, Baldwin felt as though God had heard his prayers.

Perhaps he was forgiven.