Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

For a brief moment I wondered about turning my horse and trying to flee. But it was hopeless — I could not outrun the arrow.

So I sat on the mare without moving. I stared at my executioner, wondering what was going through his mind as he drew back the bowstring and took aim.

I saw the arrow fly. It was no more than a very brief, dark blur and then, appallingly, I felt it thump into the target. It was not my chest. Beneath me the mare quivered as if she had been struck with a hammer, and her forelegs buckled as she collapsed on the ground. As I flew over her head I realized that the Saracens did not want to kill me. They wanted to take me alive.

I landed on soft ground, sprawling awkwardly. My sword flew from my hand, and I felt a sharp pain in my elbow as the shield straps held firm, twisting my arm sideways.

Dazed, I struggled up on all fours and managed to haul myself upright, my pride forcing me to remain facing my enemies. The mare was on the ground next to me, her legs kicking feebly. I saw the ribs heave one last time and heard a hollow grunting sigh emerge from her throat. Then she lay still. The mounted officer gave his reins a gentle flick and his mount, a particularly fine stallion, stepped delicately towards me. His expression framed by the rim of the iron helmet and its two metal cheek guards was of cold, bleak certainty.

He had no need to tell me what to do. I pulled my left arm free of the shield straps and let the shield fall to the ground. Then I reached up and began to unfasten my helmet, which had somehow remained in place.

I was fiddling with the lacing knot when something flew over my head from behind me. It smashed into the chest of the officer and the impact threw him backward over his horse’s haunch. He flung up his arms and, as he fell, I had a momentary glimpse of the butt end of a heavy spear buried in his chest. The next instant I heard a full-throated whoop of triumph that I had heard on my first full day at Aachen, and many times on the training ground below Hroudland’s great hall. It was the yell of victorious pleasure that the count released whenever he scored a direct hit on his target.

An instant later Hroudland himself burst out of the trees directly behind me. He was riding at a full gallop, hallooing and yelling, and charging straight at the Saracens.

He deliberately rode over his victim. I heard the sickening crunch of bones as the powerful war horse trod on the officer’s body. Then the animal crashed headlong into the next Saracen trooper in line and sent his lighter horse staggering backward. Hroudland already had his sword in his hand and before his opponent could recover his balance, the count had delivered a downward cut at the Saracen’s shoulder. The man must have been wearing shoulder armour under his mantle; otherwise he would have lost his arm. He swayed in the saddle, his arm now hanging useless, blood gushing from the wound. His horse saved his life; before Hroudland could deliver a second sword blow, the animal leaped sideways and carried its rider out of range.

Now Berenger and the rest of the count’s escort came pouring out of the tree line. Suddenly there was the thunder of hooves, yelling and shouting, and all the headlong chaos of a cavalry charge.

The Saracens knew at once that they were outnumbered. Without hesitation they pulled around their horses. It was astonishing how nimbly their mounts turned. They pivoted on their hindquarters and, like cats, sprang forward. Moments later they were in full flight, racing away from the pursuit. They had been driven off but they were not in disarray. The group split up, each man taking his own line through the orange and plum trees, weaving and twisting, and making the chase difficult. I doubted if Hroudland, Berenger and the others would catch them.

I stood in the clearing, shaken and exhausted. My legs were trembling with fatigue, and I could feel my left elbow stiffening where the shield straps had wrenched my arm. All of a sudden everything seemed very quiet. The skirmish had been very brief, yet had taken a bloody toll. My chestnut mare lay dead just a few feet away, and beyond her was the body of the young Saracen I had killed. Further off, right in the centre of the glade, was the corpse of the officer with Hroudland’s lance sticking out of his chest.

The very same qualities that often irritated me about Hroudland — his lack of forethought, his belligerence, his vain confidence in his own prowess — had saved me. His impetuous, raging attack had been typical of the man. If he had not been riding out ahead of his escort, he would have arrived too late. If he had not been so prone to acting on the spur of the moment, he would never have intercepted the Saracen officer in time. If he was not such a good fighting man, he would never have hit his target with his thrown lance.

Without question I owed him my liberty and very likely my life as well.

The count and the others rode back into the clearing some time later, their horses flecked with lather. There were no Saracen prisoners.

‘They got away,’ Berenger called, frustrated.

The group gathered round me and dismounted. Their presence was comforting. Never before had I felt so close to my Frankish colleagues.

‘Who were they?’ I asked through dry cracked lips. My throat felt raw and I was parched with a sudden, fierce thirst.

‘A patrol of the Emir of Cordoba’s cavalry, probably.’ Berenger lifted off his helmet and removed the felt cap he wore under it. He ran his hand through his crop of curls.

‘How did they come to be here?’ I wondered.

‘The Falcon didn’t get his nickname for nothing. He strikes fast. They must have been probing the defences of Zaragoza.’

One of the men sauntered over to the corpse of the young Saracen I had killed. Doubtless he was checking what there might be worth plundering from the body. With his foot he rolled the body over on its back. Now I saw the face clearly. It was indeed that of a young man, not old enough to have grown a full beard. He had smooth skin and fine, regular features. As I watched, the head lolled loosely to one side. My downward stroke had nearly decapitated the trooper. A great red gash opened, and I saw the white gleam of bone.

My stomach heaved. I doubled over and threw up its thin, slick contents at the feet of my rescuers.

‘Here, take a drink.’ Hroudland was holding out a waterskin to me. I straightened up and took it from him. The water had a rancid taste and was lukewarm. I drank it gratefully.

‘No point in hanging around,’ Hroudland said. ‘We ride ahead to the city and let them know we are here. They’ll be grateful to know we’ve driven off the Falcon.’

Instinctively I looked around for my horse, forgetting for a moment that the creature lay dead. Hroudland noted my error.

‘We caught one of the Saracen cavalry mounts running loose. You can ride that.’

One of his escorts led forward the animal. It was the thoroughbred that the Saracen officer had been riding. Someone helped me up into the saddle, another man handed up my helmet and shield, then the sword. The blade was chipped where it must have struck the neck bone. I hung it from a loop on the Saracen saddle, settled the helmet on my head, and rode after Hroudland who was already moving away at a brisk trot.

Half a mile further on we emerged from the orchard and there ahead of us was the city wall of Zaragoza just as I remembered — huge blocks of yellow stone carefully fitted to form a sheer rampart forty feet high with circular watch towers at regular intervals. Husayn’s crimson banner flew above the arch of the main gate. The great double doors with their iron sheets were firmly shut.

We sat on our horses, taking in the spectacle. Unlike Pamplona with its semi-derelict defences, the walls of Zaragoza were in perfect condition. There was no sign of dilapidation or weakness. The ground around the city wall had been cleared for the distance of a long arrow flight, and an occasional glint of sunlight on a metal helmet or spear point marked where Husayn had posted his soldiers along the ramparts. Doubtless they were watching us.