Simon Beaufort - Murder in the Holy City

The men were well-trained, and it took only a few moments for them to take up their positions. Then all was silent except for the worried bleating of goats and the yapping of a small, ratlike dog. Geoffrey sat on his horse behind the last of the houses in the village, wiping away the sweat that trickled from under his conical helmet. He caught the eye of one of the soldiers from Bristol and smiled encouragingly. The young man tried to smile back, but was clearly frightened and managed only a grimace. Geoffrey appreciated why he was nervous. They were outnumbered more than two to one, and they had no idea of the composition of Hugh’s army. If Hugh had fifty knights, they were doomed, despite Geoffrey’s carefully considered tactics.

Geoffrey took a deep breath of hot desert air and cleared his mind of everything but the battle ahead. Then, faintly at first, but growing louder, he heard the drum of hooves on the road. He strained his ears and concentrated. Hugh’s men were advancing at a steady pace, not the breakneck gallop that Geoffrey had forced across the desert. Good. The slower they went, the greater were the chances of trapping the entire group between the houses, because they would not be as strung out. He risked a glance up the street, and saw the first knight trotting toward him. Then the plan swung into action.

Helbye waved to Barlow, dropped out of his tree, and went racing off to join Roger. Barlow began to move his goats forward, but the creatures scattered and milled about in every direction except the road. Geoffrey’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as he watched Barlow’s hopelessly inadequate attempts to control the animals. Barlow waved his arms about in desperation, frightening them, so that they ran in the opposite direction to the one he intended. The first horseman was already halfway through the village, and there was not a goat in sight. Barlow began to shout, and Geoffrey gritted his teeth in exasperation. Hugh’s men would hear Barlow yelling in English and would know he was no Bedouin. Then they would guess there was a trap, and Geoffrey and his men would be unable to hold them.

Hugh’s knight was now two-thirds of the way through the village, his comrades streaming behind him in a nice, tight formation that would have been perfect for Geoffrey’s plan. But Barlow had failed miserably with the goats, which were now moving in a nervous huddle away from the road toward the desert.

Then it happened. In a furious flurry of black and white, Geoffrey’s dog appeared, sharp, yellow teeth bared in anticipation of a goat repast. With terrified bleats, the goats first scattered, and then clashed together in a tight group that wheeled back toward the road. The dog followed, snapping and worrying at their fleeing legs.

The goats hurtled across the road just as the first of Hugh’s men reached the end of the village. It could not have been more perfectly timed. The goats, far more in terror of the ripping jaws that pursued them than of the mounted knights, plunged down the street, cavorting and weaving about the horses’ legs. The first few knights were helpless, hemmed in by a great tide of bleating, dusty bodies. Meanwhile, the dog had felled a victim and was engaging in a vicious battle that caught the interest of Hugh’s men.

One of them, however, was more interested in the dog than in the blood sport. Geoffrey saw puzzlement cross Hugh’s face, and then an appalled understanding as he recognised the animal. At that moment, chaos erupted at the far end of the village. Roger was in action, wheeling his great sword around his head at the hapless soldiers who came within his reach. Some tried to ride further into the village, away from Roger, where the three archers poured a lethal barrage of arrows down into the body of trapped men. The press from behind caused further confusion in the middle of the column, and Courrances and his men entered the affray, emerging from the houses with blood-curdling battle cries.

Hugh gave a great yell and kicked his horse forward, away from the chaos of goats. Several others followed, trying to break free to gallop to the open road ahead. Geoffrey and fifteen men from his small army left their hiding places and tore into the battle.

Hugh saw Geoffrey, and his face dissolved into a mask of hatred and loathing. He wheeled his horse around and drove at Geoffrey, oblivious to everything but the man who was attempting to foil his carefully laid plans. Geoffrey raised his shield to parry the blow, and felt himself all but dislodged from his saddle. Hugh swung again, the impact cleaving a great dent in Geoffrey’s shield. Then Geoffrey jabbed straight-armed at Hugh’s side and heard him grunt with pain.

Another man joined the affray: Wolfram, who had been Geoffrey’s man. Geoffrey had a brief vision of Ned Fletcher and rode at him hard and low, aware that despite all his nagging and encouragement, Wolfram was still not wearing full armour. He caught the young man a hefty blow with his sword; in blocking the well-placed swipe, Wolfram was knocked out of his saddle and fell to the ground.

Geoffrey whirled around as Hugh struck again and again, taking the brunt of the blows on his shield. Geoffrey was stronger by far than the smaller Hugh, whose skills lay in carefully executed swordplay rather than brute strength. But Hugh was fighting like a fool, letting his hatred blind him into exhausting himself before the fight had really begun.

But Hugh had not survived numerous battles while on Crusade by being stupid, and his innate sense of survival forced him to regain control of his temper. With a final lunge, he wheeled away and regarded Geoffrey from a distance. Hugh and Geoffrey knew each other well and had matched their fighting skills against each other many times in sport. Hugh was quick and cunning; Geoffrey was strong and intelligent. In their mock battles, Geoffrey imagined that they shared a more or less equal number of victories. His own success against Hugh now was far from secure.

In the brief respite, he felt a searing pain in his leg and looked down to see Wolfram at his side, armed with a dagger. Impatiently, Geoffrey kicked him away as hard as he could, and with a yell, rode at Hugh, using his superior strength to drive him backward, hoping to force him off balance. Hugh took the blows on his shield, reeling in his saddle at their force. Then he kicked out suddenly with his foot, catching Geoffrey’s horse with a stunning kick in the throat. The horse reared in pain and terror, forcing Geoffrey to use his sword arm to control it. While Geoffrey tried to calm his bucking mount, Hugh attacked with a series of quick jabbing thrusts, at least one of which pierced Geoffrey’s chain mail, sending a dull aching sensation through him. Geoffrey tore his horse’s head around and forced it away. Hugh followed.

Geoffrey sensed Hugh’s raised sword behind him, poised to strike at his back-like poor John of Sourdeval and the scribe Marius, Geoffrey thought suddenly, attacked from behind-and he whirled around in his saddle, raising his shield and swinging his own sword at the same time. It was not a wise manoeuvre, placing him awkwardly in the saddle, and without lending any real strength to his sword arm. But it was also not a manoeuvre Hugh anticipated, and his shield went skittering from his grasp. He recovered quickly and swung at Geoffrey, sitting unsteadily in his saddle, with a violent swing that took both of his hands. Geoffrey raised his shield, but the force of the blow unseated him, and he went tumbling to the ground, his helmet flying from his head.

He scrabbled to his feet as Hugh drove his horse forward, trying to trample him under its hooves. Geoffrey ducked and dodged, and escaped by the skin of his teeth at the expense of a painful kick on his leg. He gripped his sword and turned to face Hugh. Hugh now had the considerable advantage of height, and he rode at Geoffrey wheeling his sword like a windmill. Geoffrey dropped to the ground and scrambled away, feeling the whistle of the sword the merest fraction away from his bare head. He climbed to his feet again and considered running away. But then Hugh would break away from the melee and ride for Jaffa to kill the Advocate, and everything Geoffrey had worked for would have been for nothing.