The Red King, page 11
part #2 of Roger of Huntley Series
Now he saw what had appeared to be victory turned into defeat in a matter of minutes, his invincible army running for its life.
“We should leave here, lord,” said Beha ad-Din, his long-time chronicler. “All is lost.”
Saladin could not believe what had just happened, but he didn’t allow himself to show it. “No,” he said. To his staff he said, “Beat the drums and keep beating them. Our men must know we are still here. That will give them heart.”
§
The pursuit extended across the plain, the Saracen army in full flight, the Christians at their rear riding for all they were worth. The Christian line grew ragged, the faster horses forging ahead, the slower ones falling behind. A huge cloud of dust covered the battlefield, obscuring vision. Units were jumbled up. Men no longer fought as a group but as individuals.
Richard and the first elements of the pursuit neared the pine forest. In the forest they could be trapped, Richard thought, picked off one by one. That’s what he would have done were he in Saladin’s place. The knights would be vulnerable to archers and footmen in the woods. They wouldn’t be able to form a line, and their cumbersome war horses would be a liability.
He reined in Fauvel, and his staff reined in around him. “Sound the recall,” he told a breathless herald.
“Recall?” cried Burgundy. “That’s insane. This is our chance to destroy—”
“I suspect a trap,” Richard told him. “Our knights will be at a disadvantage in the trees.”
Ignoring an arrow in his shoulder, the unarmored herald raised his horn and blew.
Gradually the knights halted their charge, and the fleeing Saracens disappeared into the dust cloud and the woods. At Richard’s order, the knights turned and started back toward the count of Dreux’s men, who had followed behind the main charge in a steady line, acting as a reserve, and whose banners now formed an assembly point for the disorganized crusaders.
The charge had covered miles. Richard’s knights were scattered like seed in a high wind. They rode back slowly, enjoying their triumph, men and horses winded. When they had reorganized, they would take place behind their advancing line of footmen, where they could get water and give their tired horses a rest.
§
The feringhees were entering the forest in pursuit of Saladin’s men, when suddenly a horn blew and they ceased their attack.
Saladin had been rallying his fleeing troops, riding back and forth, exhorting the men to re-form. His brother al-Adil and son al-Afdal helped, so did Qaymaz, who used a whip to halt his men’s retreat. Through their efforts, what was left of the sultan’s army was brought under some semblance of order.
Saladin halted his black horse and watched the crusaders’ leisurely withdrawal, and he saw a way to salvage a day that had appeared to be lost. “Form your men and attack the feringhees,” he ordered his generals. “Quickly, while they are not expecting it.”
§
The retreating Christians were relaxed and unprepared for further fighting when the Saracens came at their backs from the woods, loosing arrows, striking with swords and maces.
Now it was the surprised Christians’ turn to flee, their turn to be cut down from behind. James of Avesnes tried to rally the left wing, but in doing so, he was cut off by a party of the enemy.
In the center, Richard was surrounded, along with Alart and Andrew. Every infidel wanted to be the one to slay Malik Rik. That was fine with Richard. Instead of retreating, he wheeled and charged into his foes, laying about him with his Danish axe, Alart and Andrew guarding his flanks, the three of them holding up the Saracen attack by themselves. The rest of the knights saw them and took heart. Led by Burgundy, Lusignan and the earl of Leicester, they formed a hasty line with the count of Dreux’s men and charged once more. And now from the Christian right wing appeared the knights of the vanguard, who had so far seen little action.
This second charge was even more devastating than the first. Sensing victory, the Saracens had come on as a yelling mob. Their momentum, and the momentum of those behind them, drove them straight onto the spears of the charging knights, who bowled through them like a battering ram might go through the walls of a thatched hut. Then the Normans and Poitevins of the vanguard struck them in the flank, smashing their formation to bits and forcing the survivors once more into headlong flight.
Richard was out in front of his men, fired with the joy of battle, striking with a fury unmatched on the field. Even so, he had presence of mind to keep an eye on his battle line, which, as it had done before, quickly lost cohesion in the dust.
This time the force of the Christian charge carried them well into the woods. There was fighting among the pine trees and boulders. The land was broken and it was difficult to see any distance. The battle resolved itself into a series of individual combats and small group skirmishes.
Somewhere drums beat steadily, and that drumming worried Richard. As before, he was fearful of an ambush. He knew enough about Saladin and his tactics to suspect that this was the kind of maneuver the sultan would employ, feigning retreat and drawing the Christians into terrain highly unfavorable to them, where he could fall upon them with his reserves. Perhaps that had been Saladin’s aim from the first. Richard had no idea how many more men the sultan had—it could be few, but it could be many. Richard could not establish a battle line in these woods. He had only a small field of vision to either side. This was no ground for knights, and his footmen were far behind. He had won a great victory, he did not need to lose it here.
“Heralds! Sound the recall!”
§
Saladin watched his defeated troops fleeing past his banner. This time the constant drumming and the exhortations of their commanders did not stop them. It was only by the grace of Allah that the army maintained any organization at all. Many of these men would not stop running for days.
Qaymaz, no diplomat, stated the obvious. “This is a disaster.”
Saladin made no reply. He did not have to. His face was flushed with the shame of defeat.
The chronicler Beha ad-Din glanced over his shoulder as though expecting to see the Christians ride up at any moment, which, indeed, was exactly what he was expecting. “I beg you, lord, leave this place before Rik catches you.”
Reluctantly Saladin nodded. He was about to give the order when the infidel horn sounded again.
“They are pulling back,” Qaymaz said in astonishment. The blue sash on Qaymaz’s helmet was in shreds. His hawk-nosed face was splashed with blood. His black horse limped from a long gash in its flank.
“By the grace of Allah, we are saved,” said Saladin’s son al-Afdal, the Bull, who had fought well this day.
Saladin’s brother, al-Adil rode up. “What are your orders, lord? Shall we retreat beyond the River Jordan?”
Saladin’s jaw clenched. His dark eyes burned. “No, we stay here. Bring back as many of the men as you can and make camp in these woods.”
The commanders looked at one another. Al-Adil said, “Are you sure?”
Grimly, Saladin said, “You heard my order, brother. Obey it.”
Chapter 28
After the second recall, Henry of Deraa retreated behind the infantry line, where he reorganized his exhausted men. His squire, Teary, had somehow managed to stay by his side during the second wild charge and the fighting in the woods, and Henry gave the lad a thump on the back.
“Now that’s what I call fun—eh, boy?”
“If you say so, my lord,” a wide-eyed Teary said. Henry had a reputation for going through squires. They were either killed in battle or made knights. Either way, he did not keep them long.
Henry’s jocularity was feigned—he did it because the men expected it of him. He had followed Roger to keep the boy safe as he charged into the middle of the Saracen army. He had been so intent on watching Roger that he hadn’t paid enough attention to his own surroundings, and because of that he had been unhorsed by a spear thrust from the side of his blind eye. Henry’s knights—whom he had not known were following him—had dispatched the man who had unhorsed him, while Teary recovered Henry’s horse.
Shaking the cobwebs from his head, Henry had remounted, but by then the battle had turned into a massive brawl. There was no sign of Roger. If he had not been killed, he would be far ahead of Henry by now. There was no question of finding him, so Henry and his men had joined the general fighting, filling in with the knights of the Hospital.
Now the sun was setting over the sea. Henry bade his second in command, a scarred veteran named Guiles, lead his men to camp while Henry got a fresh horse.
“Where are you going?” Guiles asked him.
“To look for Roger.”
Teary made to accompany him, but Henry waved him off. “See to my tent,” he ordered. “Have a meal prepared for my return.”
Henry rode back across the wide battlefield, which had for the moment become a neutral site, as men from both sides retrieved the dead and wounded, observing the unspoken truce that sometimes followed these engagements. On occasion, parties from one side would even help parties from the other place the dead and wounded on horses, when a short time ago they had been trying to cut each other’s throats. Christian footmen had broken their formations and were looting bodies from both sides. Henry thought he recognized Roger’s squire, Tatwine, among them.
Henry still had arrows in his mail from earlier that morning, which seemed so long ago. He retraced Roger’s path into the battle, as near as he could remember it, walking his horse back and forth over a wide swath of ground. He searched the Christian bodies, resigned by now to his son’s fate.
He prayed that Roger was only wounded—that his life could be saved if he was found in time—but in his heart he knew it wasn’t true. Roger had charged into the heart of the infidel army to kill an old enemy. It had been a foolhardy move, and it could have had only one ending. Henry was sad, but he was proud of the boy. It was something Henry himself might have done. Now all he wanted was to find his son’s body and give it a proper burial.
Why didn’t the young fool stay at the abbey like he was supposed to? Why did he have to come out here?
Because he was my son. Because it was in his blood.
He came upon two figures standing over a body. Through the dust and blood that covered the two men, he recognized Balian and Henry of Champagne.
Henry walked his horse over to them. Balian and the count looked up, but gave him no word of greeting, and suddenly Henry’s blood ran cold because he thought the body must be Roger’s. Then he saw that the dead man was taller and heavier than Roger, and his hauberk ended in mailed gauntlets, whereas Roger’s hauberk had short sleeves. And the bloody surcoat was yellow, not white, as Roger’s had been.
Henry dismounted. The dead man’s face was unrecognizable because it had been hacked to pieces, but Henry recognized the green eagle on the slashed surcoat.
“Oh, God,” Henry said, and he made the sign of the Cross.
It was James of Avesnes.
Henry hung his head. Both Balian and the count of Champagne had tears in their eyes.
No one spoke. There was nothing to say. There was nothing but memories . . .
At last the count of Champagne turned away. “I’ll get someone to take care of him,” he said.
Balian said, “I’ll wait with the body,” and he knelt beside it to pray.
Henry rested a hand on Balian’s shoulder. Then he mounted and resumed his search of the battlefield.
Where was Roger?
Chapter 29
As he rode, Roger kept his eyes fixed on Dirk, unaware that his father and the entire Christian army had followed in his wake. Saracens tried to intercept him and he lashed at them with his axe. He wasn’t trying to kill them, he just wanted them out of his way.
Ahead of Roger, Dirk became aware that a Christian knight was coming toward him. Shock flared on Dirk’s face as he realized who the knight was. He stopped directing his men and began edging his horse backward.
Roger closed on Dirk, swinging his axe at anyone in his path. Arrows struck him and his horse, but Dirk was the only thing he could see—Dirk and what he had done to Ailith. Roger knew he was going to be killed, but it would be worth it if he could kill Dirk first. His flagging horse took another arrow, missed a step, then went on again.
Suddenly the Saracens around Roger were fleeing, and Dirk was fleeing as well. Roger didn’t know what had caused the enemy to run, and he didn’t care. He spurred his horse, trying to keep Dirk in view while at the same time dodging blows aimed at him by passing Saracen horsemen. Roger lost sight of Dirk in the confusion and roiling dust, then found him again. Dirk was riding away, with an occasional glance over his shoulder to see if Roger was still there.
The chase led across the wide plain. The Saracens didn’t care about Roger now, so intent were they on saving themselves, and Roger rode amongst them with impunity, keeping Dirk in sight all the way. Roger’s horse slowed from his wounds and Roger urged him on. He had lost Dirk once before, during the siege, and he wasn’t going to let that happen again.
Then they were in the forest, among pine trees and boulders. There was shade in the forest. It was cooler. Roger heard drums pounding ahead, a horn blowing urgently from behind.
Ahead of him, Dirk had suddenly halted and turned his horse. He looked like he was waiting for Roger now, a grin on his ham-like face. Roger went toward him, but his way was blocked by a group of Saracen footmen. He fought his way through them, chopping down furiously with his axe.
The Saracen footmen withdrew. There was a shower of arrows. Roger was struck. His already wounded horse made a plaintive noise and went down, throwing Roger. Roger lost his axe in the fall. He stood, drew his sword and started toward Dirk once more.
Dirk was taunting Roger now, enjoying himself, beckoning Roger to come on. Two horsemen rode by, shooting arrows. One arrow stuck in Roger’s mail, the other grazed his cheek. More footmen rushed at him. He struck at them with his sword, cleaving shields and armor and bone, cleaving helmets and skulls. And every time he put a man down, another took his place and Dirk was just as far away as he had ever been, and he was laughing now and that made Roger all the madder, and he went after Dirk all the harder.
Yelling faces with yellow teeth and fetid breath, oiled hair and beards—these were Roger’s fleeting images as he fought his way toward Dirk. His shield was hacked to bits, his helmet dented and knocked askew with blows from sword and mace, his chain mail split. Blood gushed from his nose.
He fought on. Dirk sat on his horse and grinned at him smugly, and Roger vowed to drive the blade of his sword through that ugly face.
Roger sucked in air. He grew unsteady on his feet, his throat burned with thirst. His right arm was too tired to lift the sword anymore, so he threw off his shield and switched the sword to his left hand, and kept fighting. Sweat blurred his eyes and it was hard to keep them focused. The Saracens had stopped fighting him now; they backed away, keeping just out of his reach, laughing as he swung his sword wildly at them. Laughing—that was the worst part, and he wanted to kill them all. Then the world was spinning, and suddenly Roger found himself on his hands and knees in the cool earth and pine needles.
He tried to push himself to his feet, got partway up and fell to his knees again, blood from his nose spattering the dirt. He was surprised that no one rushed at him to finish him off, then realized they were enjoying this spectacle. He tried to get up once more, took a few steps forward, swung his sword at the laughing Saracens one last time, then stumbled and collapsed full length on the ground. He couldn’t move. He was finished. And the rage burned inside him more fiercely than ever because he had not done what he had set out to do.
He lay on his face, awaiting the inevitable, blood from his nose pooling beneath him. The drums were still pounding. Roger was surrounded by grinning faces. Somebody kicked him in the ribs, then yelped because Roger’s mail hurt his foot. Roger had a disjointed view of a man on a black horse, a whip in his hand, a cut-up blue scarf around his helmet. He saw a face he had last seen on the walls of Acre, when the man had smashed Deaf Martin’s skull with a sledgehammer.
Qaymaz looked at Roger with eyes that showed no emotion. “Kill him,” he told his men. “Take your time with it.”
“I’ll do it,” Dirk said. He dismounted and took a spear from one of the footmen. “So nice to see you again, Roger. Sorry we don’t have time for a chat. Maybe I’ll start with your hand, as you did with mine. That would be symbolic, don’t you think?”
From the ground, Roger stared at Dirk contemptuously.
Two Saracen footmen pinned Roger’s right arm to the ground, and Dirk raised the spear for the downward thrust through Roger’s hand.
“Wait,” said a voice. The voice wasn’t deep, but it was steely with authority.
Dirk halted and turned toward the voice.
Roger turned as well. He saw a tall, slender man on a horse lathered from heavy riding. The man’s armor was plain but finely crafted. He had a regal bearing and was surrounded by bodyguards.
Saladin.
Saladin inclined his chin toward Roger, and the two Saracens let go of Roger’s arm and hauled him to his feet.
Saladin gestured at Roger’s tattered surcoat. “You wear the red skull.”
Roger straightened. Through thirst-cracked lips he croaked, “I do.”
Saladin’s deep eyes narrowed. “Are you commander of the Red Skulls?”
“I am, and we are called Death’s Heads.” Suddenly he was more proud of that Death’s Head emblem than he had ever been proud of anything in his life.
