P. Doherty - The Templar

‘Eleanor! Eleanor!’ She startled awake as her name was shouted. A group of horsemen — Hugh, Godefroi, Beltran and Theodore — came galloping up. Hugh threw himself from the saddle. ‘What is it?’ Eleanor pulled herself up; she had been so lost in her thoughts she’d ignored the growing noise from the camp. She turned and glanced out between the carts. In the far distance, the glint of armour and the flutter of coloured banners threatened whilst the dust-laden breeze carried the ominous sound of trumpet and drum.

‘Theodore believes the Greeks are massing for an attack. It will come soon.’ Hugh grasped Eleanor’s shoulders, his fingers squeezing hard. She glimpsed the fear in his eyes. ‘Eleanor,’ he whispered, ‘I love you, but in the name of God, is it to end here? For the love of heaven, Count Raymond has gone to meet the Emperor, so why are the Greeks attacking?’

‘Revenge!’ Eleanor stared out at the distant dust cloud.

‘I agree.’ Beltran had also dismounted and came swaggering across with Theodore, their dark faces sweat-soaked and anxious.

‘Negotiate!’ Eleanor rasped, pointing at the dust cloud.

‘Too late,’ Theodore declared. ‘Lord Hugh, we need to prepare.’

All along the Frankish line, the captains were trying to impose order. The Vicomte de Béarn and other commanders, garbed in full chain mail, conical helmets over their coifs, long oval shields fastened to their saddle horns, galloped up. They were desperate to close any gaps between the carts and deploy a mass of archers behind them. The vicomte reined in before Hugh.

‘What more,’ he yelled, ‘can we do?’

‘Close the line further.’ Hugh shouted back. ‘Close it fast. Place your horses here,’ he indicated each end of the line, ‘and here.’ He pointed to the centre. ‘Hold them in reserve. The same with some of the foot. Whatever happens, our line must not break. My lord,’ Hugh grasped the vicomte’s reins, ‘we must, if we can, treat with the Greeks.’

‘About what?’ the vicomte screamed back above the rising din.

‘Why do they attack?’ Hugh shouted.

‘Because they are Greek schismatics!’ one of the vicomte’s companions yelled. ‘Worthy of hell fire, jealous of our work!’

‘Nonsense, my lord.’ Hugh placed his hand on the vicomte’s mailed knee. ‘My lord, if we can, we must negotiate.’

The vicomte nodded. ‘There’ll be bloody bustle first,’ he murmured. ‘God wish the count was here. Hugh,’ the vicomte gathered his reins, ‘you remain in the centre.’ Then he was off.

Hugh began massing his own company before moving on to the Beggars further down the line. Banners and pennants were unfurled, crucifixes latched to poles raised and fixed on carts. Children, the aged and the infirm were sent back to the horse lines down near the stream under the protection of a group of women armed with spears, heavy arbalests and pouches of bolts. Rusty armour was hauled out of baskets and sacks. Short-sleeved mail shirts were quickly donned; body armour, buckram stuffed with wool, fastened securely. Pot-helmets, chapeaux de fer or kettle-hats, were hastily strapped on. Long shields were slung on soldiers’ backs or placed across gaps between the carts. Horns and trumpets shrieked. Eleanor was given a bow and a quiver. She peered between the carts and groaned. The Greeks were now moving slowly but ominously towards them. A long line of foot, shields locked, spears jutting out, a moving wall of barbed iron. Here and there the Greek ranks broke to allow squadrons of heavy horse to come through, their riders desperate to restrain their destriers and keep to the line of the march. Standards were raised to shimmer through the dust. The air throbbed with the clash of cymbals, the shrill of trumpets and the deep lowing of battle horns. Godefroi came riding up. Eleanor hurried across and grasped the bridle of his horse. He leaned down, his face and head almost hidden by the chain mail coif, and released the strap across his mouth.

‘Eleanor, I swear, if we survive today I will do some great service for God, assume the cowl, become the Lord’s monk.’ Then he was gone in a flurry of hooves.

Eleanor laughed, coughing on the dust as she walked back to the cart.

‘A lovers’ farewell?’ Imogene teased.

‘A true troubadour,’ Eleanor replied drily. ‘High romance. If he survives, Lord Godefroi will become a monk!’

Imogene’s sardonic reply that she would enter a nunnery was drowned by the raucous blast of trumpets. The Greek line of march was quickening. The earth shook with the stamp of feet, the clatter of steel, the shrieks and yells of men and the loud neighing of horses. All along the Frankish line men and women were notching arrows or pushing bolts into the grooves of crossbows. Hugh reappeared beside Eleanor, coif back, and clambered on to the cart. Eleanor peered between the slats as the Greek line stopped abruptly. The shield wall opened. Bare-headed men dressed in jerkins and breeches streamed out. They raced towards the Franks, leather straps whirling above their heads.

‘Slingers!’ Hugh shouted. ‘Hide! Heads down, shields up!’

Eleanor and Imogene hid beneath the cart. The air sang with the jarring hum of angry hornets. Polished pebbles smashed against the cart, followed by chilling screams from either side. Hugh, shield over his head, stood up.

‘Archers,’ he yelled, ‘ready — loose!’

The clatter of stones was answered with the twang of bows, the click of catches, followed by a sound like that of a giant bird’s wings snapping furiously. Eleanor stared round the end of a cart at the figures dancing in the dust clouds. She notched her arrow, pulling back the bowstring even as Imogene released the catch on her crossbow; both arrow and quarrel disappeared into the haze. Shouts of ‘Toulouse, Toulouse!’ rang out. Eleanor glanced down the Frankish line; corpses, bloodied and torn, were already being dragged out. On the cart above her, Hugh was roaring at them to ready and loose again. Eleanor did so, hands and fingers sweat-soaked, Imogene breathing curses beside her. Were they going to die? It was muscle-aching work. They notched and loosed, speeding arrow and bolt at that moving line of figures dancing like demons. All the clamour of hell surrounded them. Brief memories of Eleanor’s childhood sparked: her father, a distant figure riding into a courtyard, cloak billowing about him; her mother hastening out to greet him… Hugh, standing on the cart above her, shook her from the reverie. She heard him yell.

‘Axemen!’

The Greek shield wall had opened again. Long-haired, bearded mercenaries clad in leather hauberks were racing towards them, shield in one hand, two-headed axe in the other, a horde of shrieking men. Some collapsed in the dirt as arrows pierced them in the face and chest. Others reached the carts, climbing up to be met by whirling sword, mace, club and spear thrust. One of them broke through the gap between the carts. Eleanor tripped him up with a lance whilst Imogene, screaming hysterically, clubbed the back of his head to a bloody pulp. On the cart, Hugh and other mailed knights held off the attackers whilst those who did break through were caught by the waiting infantry. A nightmare vision of hissing steel, spurting blood, angry faces, hideous cries and the soul-wrenching sounds of metal and wood smashing out life. A brief respite, then a fresh ferocious assault. Eleanor felt delirious. Bodies were piled either side of her, then she heard a roar, and the attack began to falter, the axemen withdraw. Hugh, all blood-splashed clambered down from the cart. His chain mail had caught pieces of human flesh, his face was splattered with gore. Eleanor turned away and vomited, aware of Imogene’s arm around her shoulder.