Lions of the Grail Read online

  The boy had turned to flee but Savage, despite the weight of his mail, was fast and had longer legs. He had grabbed the boy by the arm and hauled him kicking and screaming back towards their defences. Savage knew he could not let the boy go running off to tell his friends and family how many Christians defended the fort, but if he was being honest, he had no clear idea what he was going to do with the lad.

  Brother Gui had no such doubts.

  ‘What are you doing Savage?’ the older Templar said, sword drawn, as he wrenched the boy away from Savage’s grasp. ‘This is a heathen Saracen. An imp of the devil!’

  ‘He’s just a child,’ Savage said.

  ‘You were not there when Acre fell, lad,’ Gui said, his voice hoarse and cracking. ‘You did not see what his kind did to us. I did. I was there. I saw Saracens rip unborn babies from the bellies of Christian women and dash them to pieces on the stones. I saw them rape and murder the women. I saw them behead our brethren, despite promising safe passage. God blessed me with witnessing all that horror so it would strengthen my arm when I have to do his work.’

  Gui’s eyes were bright and held a faraway look in them that unnerved Savage. His breathing was heavy as if he had been running, even though he stood still. His teeth were clenched. Savage, eighteen winters old and in his first year as a knight of the Temple, was much too young to have fought in the last days of the defence of Acre. He now judged himself lucky. Whatever sights Gui had witnessed there had clearly injured his mind and darkened his heart.

  ‘Deus Vult,’ Gui said. His voice was now calm and even as he pulled the blade of his sword across the boy’s throat, opening the soft flesh and unleashing a torrent of bright red blood. The boy’s eyes widened in shock and fear. He tried to cry out but his windpipe was severed. He managed only a wheeze as his small hands clutched at his open throat as if trying to catch the warm life blood that gushed out of the wound.

  ‘God wills it,’ Gui said, translating the Latin battle cry of the crusaders into his native French, as he cast the child away from him like a dirty rag to finish dying in the dust of the road.

  Brother Gui was now on his knees on the other side of the road. His eyes were closed, lips moving silently. Whether he was talking to himself or God Savage had no idea. The older knight’s gauntleted hands were clutched over the hilt of his sword. He had planted the weapon before him, point of the blade driven into the dust, so it stood like a crucifix.

  Savage knew that beneath those leather gauntlets Gui’s hands were a horrible mess of caked blood and puss. Two nights ago, as their galley had approached the harbour of Tortosa, Savage had seen Gui drive the blade of his knife through his own palms, imitating the wounds Christ had suffered on the cross. Now those wounds were suppurating in the heat but if this was causing Gui pain or discomfort, the older Templar showed no sign.

  ‘Oh dear Lord,’ the sergeant on the roof exclaimed. ‘I can see them now.’

  Savage ran across the road. He pounded up the stairs that ran up the side wall of the house to the flat roof to join the sergeant. The man was a grizzled veteran of the wars in the East, a soldier who had spent decades fighting the Saracens. Savage felt uncomfortable being set in command of such men, knowing they must look on him as an untried youth who owed his rank over them to the privilege of noble birth rather than ability.

  The experience of the man also meant the look of concern on his face was even more worrying.

  He pointed out towards the desert. Savage squinted against the blazing sun. The road they guarded led downhill from the castle which sat on a headland, to a clump of trees that flourished around a rare well that provided an oasis in the barren landscape. Beyond that the road led on inland into the barren rocks and sand of the desert.

  At first Savage thought that he was looking at the strange trick of the light he had learned happened under the blazing sunshine in this harsh land, where it could appear that water shimmered in the distance. Then he realised this was no mirage. What he was looking at was the sun glinting on countless polished helmets, shields, sword blades and mail. Rank upon rank of warriors were approaching across the desert.

  The Army of Babylon, the Mameluks of the Caliph of Cairo was coming, with a force large enough to sweep the crusaders right back into the sea.

  ‘There’s too many of them for us to deal with,’ the sergeant said. ‘We need to fall back to the castle.’

  Then Savage spotted the horsemen riding up from the trees around the oasis and realised there was no time for anything else but fighting.

  2

  ‘Those riders will storm the gates of the castle. They’ll take it by surprise,’ the sergeant said. ‘Then they’ll try to hold it while the rest of their army arrives.’

  Savage swallowed hard, trying to dispel the knot of anxiety that had gathered in his throat. His heart felt like it was beating twice as fast as normal.

  ‘Well, that’s what we’re here to stop happening,’ he said. He laid a forefinger on the chest of the sergeant to emphasise his next words. ‘Brother Guillem: run to the castle. Warn them the Saracens are coming. The rest of us will take care of their advance party but then we’ll be coming after you. Tell our brethren in Tortosa not to bar the gates until we arrive.’

  The sergeant, a look of gratitude mixed with relief on his face, nodded and left the roof, running up the hill towards the stark walls of the fortress that brooded there, the flag of the Templars once more fluttering proudly from the top of the keep.

  Savage frowned. Since they had arrived two days ago there had been three banners flying above the castle roof: the flag of the Templars, the flag of the Knights Hospitaller and the flag of King Henry of Jerusalem. Now only the black and white battle standard of the Templars, the Beauceant, danced in the hot desert wind. Where had the other two gone?

  He had no time to wonder any further, however. The Saracen horsemen were not far away, pounding up the slope towards the crusaders’ meagre defensive line.

  Savage charged down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. Thankfully there was no need to dress for battle for there was no time. They had all spent the last two days in their armour – leather hauberk and breeches, mail shirt and chausses over them and surcoats over all – but it was too hot to wear the great helm and Savage needed that and his shield before the Saracen horsemen reached them.

  He crossed the dusty road to where these last pieces of his protection sat in the doorway of one of the empty, rectangular, clay-built houses. Savage slung the shield over his shoulder by its strap and placed the helm in the crook of his right arm.

  ‘Archers: Up there and there,’ he said, pointing at the rooftop he had run down from and one on the side of the road. Four of the turcopoles with bows split from the rest and dashed up onto the vantage points. The rest gathered with the sergeants to form a shield wall across the road.

  Brother Gui looked positively delighted. For the first time since setting sail from Cyprus he had a smile on his face.

  ‘This is what we have trained for. This is what we have prayed for!’ the Frenchman said as Savage joined him. ‘Now we get to kill the heathens.’

  ‘What will we do?’ Savage said, deferring to the older knight.

  ‘We fight horsemen,’ Gui said. ‘So we get the sergeants and turcopoles to form a spear hedgehog. A schiltron as I believe you Scots call it.’

  ‘I’m Irish, not Scots,’ Savage said.

  ‘Is there a difference?’ Gui said, turning down the corners of his mouth. ‘You both speak French with a strange accent. You and I brother, will charge them. Get your horse.’

  ‘The two of us will charge the Saracen horsemen?’ Savage said. ‘There are at least twenty of them.’

  ‘You question my orders, brother?’ Gui said. ‘There is no time for lack of faith. Mount up. Rejoice. We ride into battle for the Lord.’

  At Gui’s command the sergeants and turcopoles formed themselves into a tight circle in the middle of the road. They pointed their spears out above
their shields all around, providing a spikey obstacle that horses would by instinct refuse to charge into. It was a sound tactic, Savage knew, as he hauled himself into the saddle of his horse, proven to work against cavalry. Most recently the Scots rebel William Wallace had used it to defeat an army of the King at Stirling Bridge.

  Gui’s other proposal, the heavy armoured knights’ charge against superior odds, was usually a last resort. There had been occasions on the Crusades where it had resulted in a miraculous victory, but more often it proved to be suicidal.

  Savage had no choice in the matter. The discipline of the order demanded Savage obey the command of his superior without question.

  He pulled on the great, flat topped iron helm and his nose filled with the smell of leather, metal and sweat. His ears were muffled by the leather and linen interior padding and his world view shrank to what was visible through the slit in the front. The heat became oppressive, causing Savage to gasp in a couple of deep breaths to stop himself getting light-headed.

  His lance stood stuck into the ground beside his horse. Savage pulled it up and set it under his right arm. He shifted his shield round into ready position, covering the left side of his body, then turned to face the enemy.

  The Saracen horsemen were nearly on them, perhaps less than a hundred paces away. Gui was also now mounted and had donned his helm. Both knights trotted their mounts onto the road, meeting in front of the formation of spearmen.

  ‘Into glory ride, brother,’ Gui said, his voice sounding muffled and metallic from beneath his helm. ‘Deus Vult!’

  There was no time for further thoughts or words. The time had come for battle.

  ‘Deus Vult,’ Savage said, digging his spurs into the flanks of his horse.

  The Spanish stallion surged forwards. Savage braced his lance under his right arm. His left arm was through the handles on the back of his shield and the reins were grasped in his left hand. Both knights charged downhill into a gallop.

  The Saracen riders were skirmishers. They had swords, helmets and shields but were otherwise clad for speed in leather, linen and silk and mounted on small, agile ponies. The narrowness of the road had made them bunch together as they rode pell-mell, desperate to make the gate of the castle before it was shut in their faces.

  Savage realised that Gui’s idea to charge into them may not be such a forlorn hope after all. He and Gui were on heavy horses, charging downhill, the weight of their armour adding to their momentum. If anything was certain it was that they would do some damage.

  The distance between them and the knights galloping downhill vanished in moments. Savage gritted his teeth. He aimed his lance, picking the middle one of the three lead riders coming at him.

  The Templars and the Mameluk horsemen smashed into each other in a cacophony of clashing metal and the cries of startled horses. Savage felt his right shoulder jolt as his lance hit its mark. With the weight of man and horse behind it, the cruel iron lance head powered through the Saracen rider’s shield, pinning it to his body as it punched on through his chest and burst out of the man’s back in a shower of blood and torn entrails. He gave a strangled cry as he was propelled backwards out of his saddle and off his horse. As he hit the ground Savage rode on, wrenching his lance up, back out of his fallen opponent’s body. At the same time he ducked his head behind the shelter of his large shield.

  The riders on his left and right swung at him with their wicked, curved swords. He felt his shield buck and his ears rung as a blow landed on the back of his helmet but he knew he was unharmed.

  Gui smashed into the horsemen on Savage’s right. He too toppled one of them with his lance. Chaos was unleashed. The dismayed, frightened cries of the horses mingled with those of their riders and the impact of the two knights’ charge shattered their formation. The lead riders were split apart, their horses wheeling to try to escape the onslaught of the iron clad warriors coming at them. As they did so they collided with the next rank of horses coming behind them. Two fell over, spilling their riders into the dust and under the thrashing hooves that were all around. Their screams mixed with the crunch of their breaking bones and shattering helmets.

  Gui’s lance was still embedded in the man he had unhorsed. He let it go and tore his sword from its sheath. Striking right, then left, he severed one horseman’s arm at the elbow and slashed another across his back.

  Savage pushed on into the press of riders. He raised his lance to strike again but as he did so he saw the sun flash on the blade of one of the Saracen horsemen’s scimitar as it slashed down, severing the sharp iron head from the weapon. Savage found himself holding onto what was little more than a long wooden pole.

  He swung it sideways like a baton. The lance shaft smashed across the face of the rider who had broken it, flattening his nose and sending him sideways off his horse. Savage had no time to draw his sword but drove his shield at the rider on his left as he went by. The shield thumped into the man but he stayed in the saddle.

  Then Savage found himself with space around him. He and his horse had powered right through the Saracen’s formation, scattering them in every direction in the process, and come right out the other side. Gui emerged beside him.

  Savage tossed his broken lance aside and drew his sword. He and Gui wheeled their mounts around and saw that their enemies were in complete disarray. Five of the twenty riders were on the ground, dead or dying and another two were still mounted but with wounds so serious they would take no more part in the fight.

  The remaining Saracens still had their objective of getting to the gates, however. Despite their lack of formation, they kept on riding up the hill, ignoring the threat of the two knights who were now behind them.

  With a whooping like the wingbeat of a swan, the turcopole archers on the roofs let their arrows fly. With grunts and startled cries three more of the horsemen went down, impaled by arrow shafts. The remaining ten horsemen tried to ride on but went straight into the sergeants’ spear array. Their horses bucked and reared, refusing to ride onto the sharp points that protruded all around from the formation.

  The archers on the roof shot another volley, taking two more riders down. The remaining attackers realised their cause was lost. Turning their horses downhill again, they fled.

  Gui and Savage tried to strike at them as they rode past but inflicted no more damage. Before long the Mameluk riders had retreated on down the road, back to the trees around the oasis.

  Savage trotted back up to the sergeant’s schiltron. He pulled his helm off, sucking in great chest-fulls of air, elated to be out of the stifling heat of the enclosing iron. His heart soared with the joy of victory and he was unable to stop the wide grin that spread across his face.

  Gui joined them. He still wore his helm but Savage was sure that beneath it he too was smiling.

  ‘The Lord has granted us victory, brothers,’ Gui said. ‘Let us praise his holy mother, Mary and say the sacred words, Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere–’

  ‘Lords,’ one of the turcopole archers on the rooftop interrupted. ‘There’s more of them. They’re going to attack again.’

  Savage whipped his head around. The trees around the oasis now thronged with warriors, their helmets and swords glinting in the sun. There were foot soldiers and cavalry. This was no small skirmishing force but the arrival of the Mameluk’s main army.

  ‘We need to fall back to the castle,’ Savage said to Gui. ‘We can’t fight that many men in the open but we can hold out against them behind the walls.’

  ‘What are you talking about, brother?’ Gui said. ‘This is a God-given chance. Very few are blessed with such an opportunity in their lifetimes yet you want to throw it away?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Savage said, his previous doubts about the older Templar’s state of mind returning.

  ‘The chance to become martyrs!’ Gui said. ‘To join the communion of saints in Heaven and sit on the right hand of the Lord. Come on lad. Let us embrace our sacred destiny.’


  The Templar dug in his spurs and charged down the hill once again, sword brandished high, one man against hundreds. As he rode, Savage could hear the older knight bellowing out the words of the Palästinalied:

  Christians, Jews, and heathens claim.

  That this holy land is theirs.

  God decides whose claim has merit

  Justly, in His threefold name!

  All the world is warring here, we see;

  We Christians hold the rightful claim:

  God will grant it rightfully.

  Savage took a deep breath, preparing to follow his superior into certain death. He looked around. The turcopole archers had left the rooftops and were already running for the protection of the castle walls. The sergeants looked up at Savage with begging in their eyes. He could see they did not share Brother Gui’s thirst for a holy death.

  Neither did he.

  ‘Back to the castle,’ Savage said.

  He did not have to speak again. A moment later the sergeant’s schiltron formation dissolved and they were sprinting as hard as they could up the hill for the gates.

  Savage spurred his horse and followed after them. Behind him in the distance he heard screams and the clash of arms as Brother Gui charged into the enemy. A pang of guilt stabbed through the shame that clouded his heart.

  This soon disappeared, however, when he reached the fortified gate tower of the castle.

  He could tell straight away that something was wrong.

  3

  ‘Where are the rest of the guards?’ Savage said. ‘The Mameluk army is coming!’

  He had ridden straight into the gate tower, expecting to be met by a swarm of defenders, but instead only two sergeants waited inside.

  ‘We’re pulling out,’ one of them said.

  Savage gaped at the man in astonishment.

  ‘The Hospitallers are already all gone,’ the sergeant continued.

  ‘Traitors,’ Savage said through gritted teeth. He turned his head to the side and spat. ‘It’s true what they say: Never trust a Knight of the Hospital.’