Michael JECKS: The Templar's Penance

Behind him was another man, slighter of build and calmer in appearance. He had the long, regular face, fair hair and blue eyes of a northerner, and he peered ahead with less rage, more calculation. His clothing was newer than his companion’s, and the horse he rode looked to be of better quality.

The third man was plainly not a knight. Short and plump, this fellow snorted and spat a thick gob of phlegm onto the ground at his horse’s hoof. His hair was black with white feathers at his temples, and he had the quizzical look of one who has seen enough fighting and death in his time. Behind him he led two packhorses, both heavily laden. He shifted in his seat, squinting ahead and resting a hand on the blade that sat in the rough, undecorated scabbard at his thigh. He glanced in Gregory’s direction and the latter saw his eyes narrow as he took in Don Ruy, but then his fierce, dark eyes met Gregory’s as he addressed his two companions in a light Scots accent.

‘Aye. Well, are we goin’ to join in or just sit and watch all the long day?’

With that, the fair man gave a high, giggling laugh, and then suddenly he drew his sword, whirled it about his head a few times, and slapped it sharply on his horse’s rump. In an instant he was off, racing down the hill, his sword flashing in the sunshine like a torch in the wind, hair streaming behind him. The man-at-arms clicked his tongue, but he had already dropped the reins of the packhorses, and his rounsey was moving to follow the fair-haired knight.

The warrior with the pockmarked face muttered a curse under his breath, spat, and then raked his spurs along his mount’s flanks. Before the other two could get far, he was level with them, his mount straining at the gallop, and Gregory could hear his hoarse roar even over the thundering of hooves.

By now, the band of malfechores had scattered the pilgrims, and two had stopped to take up bundles where they had been dropped. As Gregory watched, he saw a sudden gout of blood, and saw the ‘King’ spinning, a rider raising his sword for a second hack. Suddenly a great slab of the King’s head seemed to separate from the rest of his body, a third of his face and skull falling away to lie on his shoulder, exposing the pink and grey horror of his brain. There was a fine, pumping mist of red, and then he fell, thrashing, to the ground. His attacker lifted his sword in triumph, but then the three were on them.

First was the madly shrieking fairhead, who galloped full tilt at a group of four who were circling a pilgrim and taunting him. With a sharp sweep of his blade, he took the head and a shoulder entire from one man, rammed the horse of a second, bludgeoning the rider from his seat, and then stabbed a third through the throat; the dour man-at-arms came a little way after him, ducking below an ill-judged thrust like a tumbler, and stabbing viciously once, upwards beneath his opponent’s chin, so that his sword appeared through the top of his victim’s skull, then withdrawing it swiftly lest it become snagged as the corpse slumped and toppled from the saddle. Finally there was the apelike warrior, who gave a bull-like bellow like a berserker of old, and charged straight at the thickest mass of malfechores with a sword in one hand and a long-handled knife in his other. He rode with his reins dangling, gripping his mount with his thighs alone, guiding the horse by sheer force of will, apparently, or so Gregory thought, as his two blades flashed wildly, already red with the blood of his enemies. Gregory saw one man stabbed and bludgeoned from his horse, only to be trampled. Unconsciously, he had clenched his right fist, and was following the blows when he realised what he was doing and shamefacedly unfurled his fingers.

The battle was over in moments. Suddenly the evil-doers were bested, and leaving nine of their friends dead on the field, the seven survivors fled.

Last to go was their leader – the man with the curious set to his head. He screamed as the fair-haired warrior slashed at a young rider, and a thick jet of blood burst from the young man’s leg. The boy went white, and suddenly slumped, like a bullock struck with a spike in the skull, slowly toppling from the saddle, while the fair man hacked at him as though in a fury.

The leader shrieked like a demented woman, and might have ridden back into the midst of the carnage, but his mount was unnerved by the smells and noises of death, and with wildly rolling eyes, it turned and fled the field, cantering after the others.

Screaming with fury at seeing this new quarry escape, the fair man spurred his horse after them, but Pockface cast a look of exasperation at the heavens, sheathed both weapons, and set off after him, catching up with him and apparently remonstrating, throwing a hand back as though to indicate that their responsibility was to the wounded, not to killing any more. Gradually the two men slowed, and the fair man turned his horse’s head back to the battlefield, although his body language spoke of his reluctance.

Gregory himself now hurried down the incline to see if he could help any of the wounded, and soon he was on his knees praying for the hurt and the dead, walking from one to another. It took some while and it wasn’t until he had eased the pain of the worst wounded and given some solace to those who would die, that he could rest. Then, when he glanced up, he saw the fair man standing nearby, a slight smile on his face.

‘My lord,’ Gregory stuttered, ‘I … I don’t know how to thank …’

‘Pray, do not mention it, friend,’ the man smiled. ‘It is the duty of all to protect and serve pilgrims.’

‘You fought well,’ Gregory observed, gazing about him in some astonishment. He felt dazed. The action had been so swift, the rout of the felons so absolute, that until now he had scarcely had time to take stock. Now he recalled the ferocious battle with a twinge of jealousy. It was a long time since he had witnessed – let alone experienced – such a magnificent charge.

Near his knee was a hand, next to the long-bladed knife it had held, while its young owner lay a short distance away, his eyes glazed like those of a dead fish. Gregory would have felt sorry for him, but this was not one of the pilgrims: this was one of the malfechores.

A little farther away lay a dead pilgrim, bearing an obscene abdominal wound that had been augmented by a vicious slash across his throat. As Gregory himself knew, corpses would often receive three or even four blows after death. As lines of men met in the clash of arms, those in the front would fall and be trampled, and as the battle rolled forward over them, the wounded – yes, and the already dead – would be stabbed or struck by the second line of their enemies, and the third, just to ensure that they wouldn’t suddenly spring up and attack from behind. Swift and brutal, it was the way of things, but in this case it looked unnecessarily cruel. The fellow couldn’t have survived with that terrible wound – no one could. There was no need to make sure of him by cutting his throat. He was no soldier, merely a pilgrim.

Gregory could remember him. A rather dim-looking fellow, but always cheery enough. He had no boots, but never complained, just gave an occasional suck-in of breath when a thorn stabbed his foot, or a stone gouged a hole in his heel. A simple, happy boy, he didn’t deserve to die like this.

They were evil devils, these malfechores . All too often a single malcontent gathered a gang about him and set out on an orgy of violence before their brief period of fear and domination was done. Just like that hunchback, Gregory thought. He glanced about the field and saw no sign of the man. Typical, he felt, that the leader should flee, leaving his companions to die on the field.