Templar's Acre

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

Baldwin strode through the streets until he reached the Hospital of the Knights of St Lazarus. It was a large space — a fortunate fact, since there was a great force of men and horses gathering. It was roughly triangular, with the church dedicated to St Lazarus on the left, and the great gateway of the inner wall dead ahead. The tower of St Lazarus, which had been funded by the Order, was the other side of the gateway, and not visible from here. All the outer towers were built to be overlooked by those of the inner walls, so that defenders would always have the advantage.

The Templars stood patiently by their horses. They were the largest force here, and Sir Guillaume de Beaujeu was mounted on a massive black destrier who pranced and stepped with barely controlled excitement. This was no sweet-natured horse, but a trained man-killer that would kick, bite and stamp on any man in his path.

‘Quick, Baldwin — you can ride with a lance, can you not?’ Sir Jacques demanded.

‘Yes, of course I can!’

‘Good, then wait,’ he said, and beckoned a sergeant from his Order. The man carried a mail shirt that was several inches too big for Baldwin, but Sir Jacques insisted that Baldwin wear it over his padded jack. There was a pair of whalebone-reinforced gauntlets, too, and a helmet of steel, but Baldwin found this last to be too large for his head and loose, so the sergeant had to run to fetch a thicker padded coif for him to wear beneath it.

‘You will ride with the men behind the second rank, the squires and sergeants, Baldwin,’ Sir Jacques said as Baldwin drew the helmet on. It restricted his vision, and he found his breath disconcertingly loud.

‘I am glad. But of all the men in Sir Otto’s army, why me?’

‘Well, my friend, I thought you could do with the ride. And there could be benefits for a man who has ridden in a holy war. We shall see!’ Jacques said with a quiet smile. ‘But for now, please do me the favour of not getting yourself injured or killed, eh? Ivo would never forgive me. Keep your head low, aim for the heart, and keep your seat.’

‘Yes.’

‘You know how cavalry strikes. The heavy knights in the first wave will try to hit as one wall, knocking all opposition aside. The second wall will be the sergeants on the remounts for the knights, and finally the third wave is yours. These successive shocks are what should drive the force through the defence.’

Baldwin nodded.

‘You will ride behind my sergeant here. Do you keep with him and mark his position, so that when we all pass through the Muslim positions, we shall be together and capable of supporting each other. If you lose us, look for the Lazarus banner, and if you cannot see that, go to the Templar banner.’

There came a hissed command, at which the Templars mounted their horses.

‘God be with us!’ Sir Jacques said with a grin and trotted to his position.

At their head, Baldwin saw the Marshal, Geoffrey de Vendac, and beside him the tall figure of Sir Otto de Grandison, who looked about him carefully, eyeing the men all around, before lifting his heavy war-helm up and onto his head. A man passed him his lance, and Sir Otto raised it to the Templar Marshal in salute. The Templars set off, eleven knights all told, with another four English and three Leper Knights. And behind them, another three hundred men, mounted like Baldwin on heavy horses and armed with lances and a variety of other weapons.

And before them, Baldwin told himself, were two hundred thousand or more. He shrugged the thought away. His position was behind Sir Jacques. That was all he need worry about.

Glancing around, he was surprised to see a number of men bearing clay bottles with stoppers; they dangled from their saddles by thongs. They must be some form of weapon, but Baldwin was unsure what. His wrist was sore where it was burned, and he rubbed it against his chin, filled with expectation.

The movement of the horse beneath him was so familiar, it felt as if it was only hours since his last ride. This was what he had trained for since his seventh birthday: battle on horseback. He had practised for it so many times, and yet this was different. This time, it was for real. But the light and the strange atmosphere made everything feel like a dream. He leaned back against the cantle, then to either side, making sure the cinch strap was tight, and shrugged his mail over his back. It caught some hairs at the base of his neck and yanked them out. The lance he had been given felt solid enough. There was no looseness or rattling when he shook it. He felt for his sword, making sure it was firmly held. His mount blew, lifting his head and nodding, before shaking his head. All the brutes were the same — they were eager, like racehorses at the start.

He had a little knot of tension high in his belly — not fear, but anticipation. Baldwin was keen to be out and galloping, as was his horse. He patted the fellow’s neck — a good, hard slap to remind him that he had a rider and that his will today was subservient to Baldwin’s.

The Lazar sergeant beside him stared ahead, not looking to either side. At first Baldwin thought him afraid, but it was not that, it was merely a stare of concentration. Like the others he must keep his eye on his own knight, so that the line would remain solid as they came to blows. Looking up, Baldwin saw that the moon was almost full. Its light would illuminate the field and make their ride all the easier. But with luck, their attempt would be a surprise to the Muslims. If it were, their mission might just succeed.

There was a squeak of iron complaining, and the first gate was opened. The way between the walls was visible, the barred gates of the outer wall clear before them. An order was issued quietly, and Baldwin gripped his lance more closely as he saw three guards begin to slide the massive bars across to rest in their slot in the wall itself.

Jacques peered over his shoulder and grinned, and Baldwin returned it, and then the gates opened and they were off.

There was a hush as the men rode into the space before the wall. Baldwin saw them funnel into the darkness of the tower’s gate, and then he too was beneath the vaulted ceiling of the gate-house, and through, past the portcullis and gates, and his horse’s hooves thudded, muffled by the soft sand as they trotted gently onwards.

Sir Otto was looking carefully from side to side, assessing the total men with his force as he went. Gradually the Templars took up station behind their Marshal, he taking the point of their formation, while the knights were each followed by their own waves of squires on heavy horses, then their sergeants on lighter mounts.

Baldwin saw Sir Otto’s great destrier rear up, flailing his hooves in eagerness for the fight, and the knight held his lance aloft. All the men were in the plain now, and Baldwin watched the Marshal moving off, Sir Otto with him, and the standard-bearer of the Templars holding position between the two, the Beaucéant banner flapping as they trotted forward.

No cavalry could hold formation for long at the gallop. It was crucial that the front ranks should hit in one solid mass, punching through their enemies, and to achieve that, the charge must be launched as late as possible, so that all reached their gallop together moments before they struck the enemy.

Soft, warm air touched his face. An occasional splash of cool sand flung at him, leaving a crusty residue on his lips. A grain in his eye, making him blink and quickly rub at it. A picture of Lucia’s face. Baldwin found his mind wandering as he rode, random thoughts springing into his mind. Sibilla’s lover. The Cathedral Church at Exeter, the priest, the house being demolished and the sudden thought that he should come to the Holy Land. All so long ago now.

All this ran through his mind, and then he realised that they were already increasing their speed, and forced his mind to concentrate. They were cantering gently, covering the space between the walls and the army quickly. And then he heard the command from Sir Otto to charge, and immediately the bellow of rage, such as might issue from a charging bull, and Sir Otto leaned forward slightly, his lance point dropping, and there was an echoing roar from the Templars. All their weapons were lowered, and Baldwin felt his blood singing in his veins as they pounded onwards, and there, just ahead, he heard a shriek of terror, and a man sprang up from the ground, only to be trampled by the Templar horses. A mess of flesh and torn clothing. Two sergeants galloped past the line of knights, one desperately trying to rein in his mount, but their horses were paying no heed. All were thundering forward, to ruin and death. Suddenly Baldwin’s mind was clear again.

Ahead was the Muslim army. Lights from torches and fires illuminated their path as the three hundred men pounded on. A squeal told of a man impaled on a lance, and Baldwin saw his body sprawled in the sand a moment later, but then he was concentrating on the path ahead. There was the great arm of the catapult, and he saw that Sir Jacques was heading straight for it. The Templars were fanning out slightly, giving themselves more space, and now there was a rippling crash as the front ranks slammed into the paltry defence and through it.

Their arrival was a ghastly shock to the Muslims. The Templars poured through and over their sentries like a tide washing away the sand.

It was then that everything went wrong.

A horse gave a screech of terror and reared, falling into a latrine. Others, swerving to avoid it, rode past a tent, too close, and their legs became entangled with guy-ropes. One fell, crushing his knight, but already their moment was passed. More and more Muslim warriors appeared, wielding vicious axes on long shafts, spears, even a war-hammer or two, and the men were soon engaged on all sides.

Baldwin hurled his lance at one man and drew his sword, clapping spurs to his brute and riding on to the front of the battle. There was a hedge of bladed weapons glinting wickedly in the moonlight, and shouts and roars as the horses moved forward, only to be pushed back. A mount reared in agony, a lance jutting from his breast, and fell amongst their enemies, and Baldwin saw the rider, a sergeant, disappear under a flurry of swords and axes. There was plenty of space between the men, and he urged his horse on, spurring straight at three men who were running towards the Marshal. One had a spear, and was about to thrust it into the Marshal’s face when Baldwin crashed into him. The man fell under Baldwin’s horse, and he used his sword against the other two.

The Marshal glanced at him briefly and nodded. It was good to see his act had been acknowledged.

A shout, and he saw another group of Muslims nearer the catapult. They set themselves with lances and spears butted into the ground, small, round shields before them. Baldwin rode towards them with Sir Otto and two English knights, but they could not break through the bristling points. Baldwin would have ridden past them, but there was no passage, and he swore under his breath. More Muslims were advancing, warily, from their left, and Sir Otto waved on the rest of the sergeants.

‘Use them!’ he bawled. ‘Hurry!’

Two of the men nodded, and took up the pots they carried at their saddles. They hurled them into the men crouched before them, and a third man, who had ridden to a fire, came up with a lighted torch, and flung it after the pots. Instantly there was a loud shooshing sound, and a thick, yellow flame rose from the midst of the spear-men. The rest were thrown into confusion, and Sir Otto rode into the thick of them, plying a mace with a spiked head. Everywhere he went, the Muslims fell, and even when his sergeant was killed, stabbed by a spear under his chin, Sir Otto carried on.

Baldwin rode to his side, taking the place of his sergeant, and hacked with his sword. Inside his mail coat, Baldwin was sweating profusely. His mouth was dry and he craved a drink. A fresh flash and wash of heat heralded the detonation of more Greek fire, but when Baldwin snatched a glance, he saw that only their enemies were being burned. The catapult stood high overhead still, mocking them, and Baldwin suddenly felt rage at the thing. He spurred and whipped his beast, trying to force a path forward, but the press about him was too strong. He felt a blow at his side, and looked down to see a Muslim with anxious eyes staring at him. Baldwin thrust into his face, and saw the man fall, but even as he did so, he felt a hot lash at his leg. When he glanced down, he saw he’d been cut. It was bleeding, but not profusely. He slashed with his sword, backhanded, at the man who had stabbed him, and aimed another cut at a man with a bill, but had to duck under the fearful weapon’s blade, and then a man with a lance tried to paunch him at the same time.

‘Sweet Jesu,’ he muttered. A weapon flew past his face, almost taking his eye out, and he dodged again.

They had lost their momentum. Those with the fire-bombs were held back, and the knights were involved in furious hand-to-hand combats near their standard. Their position was precarious. He heard a rallying cry, and managed to jerk his mount’s head away from the group trying to encircle him, cantering back to the banner. Behind them all, he saw that Muslims were beginning to rush to take up positions.

Sir Otto was now wielding a hand-and-a-half sword with the ease of a child with a stick. He brought it down on the head of a man with an axe, and the man’s head was cloven in two. The knight looked over at Baldwin, who shouted, pointing: ‘We’re trapped!’

‘Not yet!’ Sir Otto bawled, and then bellowed at the men to retreat to the gate.

Sir Jacques appeared at Baldwin’s side. There was a thick smear of blood on his cheek, and his mouth was raw where a weapon had smashed into his teeth.

Baldwin rode at his side as the remaining men, perhaps only two thirds of the number which had left the gate ten minutes before, galloped at the men trying to entrap them. The Muslims were scattered like grain broadcast over a field, and the Christians continued until they reached the gates. And as soon as they were back inside, the gates were slammed, the bars sent across to block out the enemy.

The night’s assault was over. Baldwin wearily sat in his saddle and gazed about him at those who had survived the carnage as they rode back into the broad area before the Hospital of St Lazarus again. There were so few, compared with the glorious force that had gathered here only a matter of a few tens of minutes before. The only emotion he could feel was despair at the thought of all those good men who had died. He should have seen it coming, after the failure of the Muslim attack on the Templar camp. They too had become tangled in guy-ropes. But he had not thought.

So many had died. And all in vain.