XXXV

 

 

Somewhere in France – December, 1191

 

THERE WERE THREE knights blocking the fork in the road. Templars. At first, Gisburne thought they must have been from the ship. Yet his common sense told him this was impossible. But for a brief stop in the woods to dress and safely stow the skull – during which Galfrid, on watch atop a pinnacle of rock, had seen not a single horseman for a mile about – he and Galfrid had been riding at the gallop all the way. Their pursuers would have to have taken wing to overtake them, and even Templars did not have that power. Not yet, at least – though Gisburne did not doubt that Llewellyn was working on such a scheme. Then, as they drew up their horses, he spied a familiar shock of red hair and beard upon the central figure.

Tancred’s men.

Word had spread fast. Far faster than he had imagined. And somehow, Tancred had anticipated his move – had known, perhaps, that the skull was threatened, and if taken would be transported north. Nothing would surprise him. He was proving himself a formidable opponent; a skilled player of the great game. Perhaps he had such groups of men on every road leading out from Marseille. But now the one eventuality Gisburne had wished to avoid – direct, open conflict with Tancred de Mercheval – was irrevocably upon them.

Galfrid glanced nervously at the wooden reliquary box hanging from the cantle at the back of Gisburne’s saddle, then back at the distant trio upon the road.

“Have they seen us?”

“They’ve seen us.”

“So what this time?”

“Remember Paris?”

“Vividly,” said Galfrid. “But so will he. And, if you remember, I was knocked off my horse and almost killed.”

“You will have learned from that,” said Gisburne. He nodded in the direction of Fulke. “But my guess is, this one won’t.” He drew his sword. Even if they got past, they could not outrun them; they had to put them out of action. “Are you a scholar, Galfrid?”

Galfrid looked at him as if this were the most ludicrous question he had ever been asked. “Yes...”

“You know the battle of Cannae?”

“Of course, but...”

“I’ll take the right flank.” Then Gisburne’s mount reared up at the touch of his spurs, and leapt to the gallop. Galfrid groaned, spurred his horse and thundered after him, Gisburne’s pilgrim staff whirling about his head, everything now pinned on the strength of his master’s guess.

Gisburne’s guess was based on two factors. First, what he had seen of Fulke and knew of such men. Second, a more tenuous fact to which he had alluded outside Paris: Templars aren’t what they used to be.

For months after the news had reached England, it seemed there was but one word on everyone’s lips. Hattin. Hattin. It was uttered quietly, fearfully, as if the word itself had the power to infect and spread disillusionment and destruction. It was spoken with shock, and with awe. With anger and disbelief. Amongst ordinary people it was customary, when some disaster struck, to treat the terrible event with a kind of black humour. Thus, it was tamed. Made safe.

But there were no jokes made about Hattin. On that day, the whole Christian world had changed. It had faltered and shifted on its axis. From it, all sensed, there was no going back. The complacent now saw their terrible error. The fearful found justification for their paranoia, and began to see enemies everywhere – in every dark face, foreign custom and unfamiliar tongue.

Twenty thousand men had faced Salah al-Din’s army that day – twelve hundred and fifty knights mustered from Jerusalem, Tripoli and Antioch, plus many thousands of serjeants, Turcopoles, mercenaries and regular infantrymen drawn from the local population and beyond. Perhaps three thousand finally escaped the battlefield. Of those captured, some had been ransomed, others sold into slavery. The Turcopoles, as deserters from the Muslim faith, had been slaughtered where they stood. Salah al-Din had, of course, afforded King Guy himself the respect deserved by a king and fellow general. The Muslim leader had sense of decorum. But Reynald de Châtillon, upon whom he had sworn revenge and who spat insults to the last, he personally beheaded. Many across Christendom would have breathed a secret sigh of relief at that news.

Widely known as a humane ruler, Salah al-Din was also a supremely practical man. He had understood that the elite knights taken prisoner that day – some two hundred and thirty Templars and Hospitallers – were far too valuable a military resource to simply release. Ten years before, his army of twenty-six thousand men had been smashed by a far smaller Christian army at Montgisard, and all because of a contingent of just five hundred Templar knights. He had learned his lesson. And so, he had the Templars and Hospitallers taken at Hattin executed. In the space of a day, the Christian military orders had been decimated – almost to a point of collapse.

They had not collapsed. Doggedly, they had fought back from the brink. But in building up their numbers over the past four years, they had perhaps not been so choosy. So it was that a number of dubious characters – many of them ambitious bullies unworthy of the title “knight”, let alone the honour of wearing the red cross – had found their way into the Order.

Men who knew force, but not strategy – who believed that victory was found in the exertion of muscle and sinew, not of the mind. Men who had plenty of experience of fighting, but little of waging war.

Men like Fulke.

As Gisburne and Galfrid charged towards the three knights, Gisburne saw that Fulke had learned a lesson. He had ordered the three into a tight defensive formation, allowing no gap between. He would not have his attackers break him this time. It was no surprise to Gisburne that Fulke also put himself at the centre. He smiled, holding his sword high, so close he could see their eyes glint beneath their domed helms, Galfrid now almost level on his left side.

“Hah!” he cried and wheeled suddenly to the right. Galfrid veered left.

Gisburne switched his sword from his right hand to his left and drew it back.

Galfrid, meanwhile, brought the staff round in a sweeping arc. His opponent struck out at him as he passed, but the staff was far longer in reach than the knight’s sword. The blade missed Galfrid, struck the whirling staff, but could not hope to stop its forward momentum. It struck him full in the chest with a horrid crack, pitching him backwards over the cantle of his saddle to sprawl awkwardly on the ground.

On the right flank, as he closed, Gisburne had seen his enemy’s eyes widen in alarm behind the faceplate of the man’s helm. The last-minute switch of hands had taken his adversary completely by surprise – and put him at a fatal disadvantage. The knight – right-handed – had limited reach and power on his left side. Gisburne, meanwhile, now had the full sweep of the sword to his left. The knight raised his blade, knowing he could not strike Gisburne, hoping only to parry the blow. At the last moment Gisburne dropped his own, then brought it sweeping upward. It bypassed the knight’s blade completely and connected with the faceplate of the helm, striking so hard it jarred Gisburne’s shoulder and bent the faceplate out of shape. The knight lost his weapon, reeled backwards in his saddle, righted himself, fighting with the helm which was now jammed upon his head; the faceplate pressed against his cheek, half blinding him, his horse tottering in confused circles.

Fulke, meanwhile, had been so tightly hemmed in by his fellows that he could do nothing to repel the first charge, and sat impotent whilst those about him – those who he thought guaranteed his safety – were battered and unhorsed. The lesson he had not learned – that he should have learned – was something that de Gaillon had already drummed into Gisburne by the age of thirteen: “a good general never attacks his enemy the same way twice.”

Galfrid and Gisburne now wheeled around for a second pass.

Fulke roared and waved his sword – a gesture that revealed the terror it was meant to mask. They closed in around him. Gisburne parried a sword blow. Galfrid struck the Templar hard in the stomach, driving the wind out of him like a bellows. Gisburne struck again, sending Fulke’s sword spinning through the air. Fulke scrabbled for the mace at his saddle, knowing he would not – could not – be quick enough.

Something grabbed at Gisburne’s saddle. The knight with the crushed faceplate had wrestled his helm off his head, and now – one eye half closed, the cheek swollen like a rosy apple – was yanking the box free. It came loose, swung around and smashed Galfrid in the back, knocking the staff from his hand and him out of his saddle. His horse panicked and kicked. Galfrid kept his grip just long enough to slither to the ground.

The tables had turned. It was now two mounted men against Gisburne – and they already had the reliquary box in their possession. Galfrid snatched up the staff, caught the reins of his horse and tried to bring him back under control. But, unlike Nyght, the horse was not used to battle.

The mêlée was messy and confused. Gisburne dodged a swipe of Fulke’s mace as their horses barged against each other. He had no helm on his head – the great helm still hung upon his saddle. If just one blow connected with his skull, he was done for. He swung his sword in retaliation, but Fulke parried it. They remained locked for a moment, each struggling until Fulke grabbed Gisburne’s sword blade with his gauntleted left hand and held it fast. Gisburne pulled at it, suddenly aware that the knight with the swollen face was advancing behind him, battleaxe raised above his head. Gisburne could not get free, could not move or turn, and Galfrid was still yards distant.

Without warning, the other knight uttered a bizarre choking cry and fell, an arrow in his back. The axe clattered to the ground, and the box – still clutched in his other hand – slid from his grasp. Fulke looked on in astonishment, and Gisburne now saw that a black-clad rider on a dark horse was hurtling towards them, head and face completely obscured by black wrappings, bow in hand – a Saracen bow, short and compact. Gisburne took advantage of the distraction, hauling hard on his sword. It slid from Fulke’s grasp, slicing through the leather grip of his gauntlet. He howled in agony, his horse rearing.

The black rider – the same slight figure Gisburne had seen invade their room in Auxerre – leapt from his horse almost before it had stopped, flung down the bow and snatched up the fallen reliquary. Fulke, meanwhile, disliking the new odds, turned his horse about. Gisburne swiped at him as he fled. But the black rider was already back in the saddle, turning away to the north, the box gripped under one arm.

Gisburne looked around urgently, and saw Galfrid – alive and well.

“Go!” shouted the squire. “Don’t wait for me!” Gisburne nodded and made off after the departing black rider, already a good half-furlong distant.

Watching Fulke receding along the other fork, Galfrid stooped, tore the arrow from the stricken knight’s back, nocked it on the discarded Saracen bow, and took aim.

“Have a souvenir from England,” he muttered, letting the arrow fly.

The arrow clipped Fulke’s left shoulder. He recoiled, swayed, and fell.

Galfrid shouldered the bow, climbed into his saddle and galloped away after his master.