Jack Ludlow - Mercenaries

The words that floated towards the siege lines left no insult unspoken, and eventually the soldiers would be goaded into yelling insults back at him, which he seemed to enjoy mightily as proof he was succeeding. After half a glass of this farrago he turned his horse, and since he had taught it to prance, it danced its way back into the defences, its tail stiff and high as if to apply equal denigration.

Both the de Hauteville brothers were itching for activity: it had become plain that with nothing to raid and no one to fight there was little use in their sorties, and they had been stuck in camp since the incident in which they had subdued Maniakes. The general laughingly jested that William owed him an ear, and one day he was going to collect his due. William did not laugh; he had seen too often the way the man lost control.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Drogo the next morning, when he saw his elder brother mounted and mailed and bearing his lance and with it the de Hauteville blue and white pennant.

‘When our friend comes out, Drogo, I am going to shut him up.’

‘Are you mad?’

‘He has made me mad. Yesterday he insulted our mother and father.’

‘Yesterday he insulted everyone’s mother and father.’

William glowered at Drogo, blazing blue eyes at either side of his nose guard in a fair representation of fury. In truth it was sheer inactivity which had made him want to take on the challenge, plus the feeling that the emir’s behaviour was diminishing the spirits of those besieging Syracuse whilst bolstering those of his own side, and that was no aid to a speedy conclusion.

‘You think I can’t beat him.’

There was no chance of Drogo responding to that; his brother might have a more even temper than he, but you did not tell a Norman knight, even a blood relation, he was bound to lose in single combat unless you wanted to fight him yourself.

‘I think, in our family, that I am the one who will not stand an insult.’

‘You will just have to wait your turn.’

‘Does Maniakes know about this?’

William looked towards the general’s pavilion, to see the giant heading his way, trailed by Harald Hardrada. ‘He does now.’

Drogo looked in the same direction. ‘He might forbid it.’

‘He does not have the right,’ William replied as the usual morning fanfare blew out from the walls of Syracuse. ‘If I fall, you take over the command.’

‘God bless you, Gill.’

William nodded in response — only Drogo called him by the diminutive of his name in French — and then he spurred his horse. He was out in the open before Maniakes could stop him, and along the line the soldiers who manned the siege works rose to cheer, their yells of encouragement enough to drown out the emir’s trumpets. If his general had wanted to forbid this he could hardly do so now: his whole army was involved.

Slowly he trotted into the centre of what would now be an arena, then hauled round to ride parallel with the city walls, attracting the jeers of the defenders. He had turned back again by the time Rashid appeared, gorgeous as ever, but more impatient, his horse dancing early as its rider communicated his excitement. Slowly William rode towards him and the Saracen responded, until they were abreast of each other and, as was normal prior to any exchange, both men were making assessments of arms and equipment.

William had already seen the great sword Rashid carried, even if that was still sheathed, but it was clear his lance was longer by at least a hand, and that was telling. The emir would have seen, before getting close, that difference in lance length and was looking at the Norman almond-shaped shield, so very different from his own round buckler, big enough to give protection to more of this potential opponent’s body.

‘Who offers me combat?’ Rashid asked, looking down, his voice full of confidence.

‘William de Hauteville, of Normandy.’

‘I know of you, but I want George Maniakes.’

‘He stands behind me, and through me you will have to go to get to him.’

‘Very well,’ Rashid replied, before hauling his mount round in its own length and letting out a great shout to his supporters, his lance once more raised in the air. ‘Allah Akbar.’

Silently, William crossed himself as they responded with a great roar. It was a strange reaction from men, the majority of whom must be Sicilian and Christian, who surely could not love Saracen rule? Perhaps they loved their city too much to want to see it fall, perhaps they hated Byzantium even more. Rashid, who had ridden far enough, had brought his mount round again, which meant any such thoughts must be put aside. It was time to fight.

The mere nature of the emir’s horse told William he would come at the same kind of fast gallop as the fellow he had killed on that expedition from Messina, while his would, as it always did, barely get above a hard canter, so if Rashid’s slightly longer lance made contact it would be with greater force than his own. At all costs he must stay mounted: on foot in single combat against a horsed opponent he stood little chance. How to negate that advantage?

They were both moving now, the gap closing rapidly and, as always, the whole world narrowed to what lay at the end of his lance tip. William had to close his mind to the thundering approaching hooves of Rashid’s animal, the flutter of his lance pennant and the rippling coloured waves of the silks that clothed both horse and rider. It had to narrow down to the slightest of gaps between the man’s round shield and his lower body.

The trick Tancred had taught him when he was a mere fifteen-year-old boy was a hard one to pull off. It required a degree of physical strength which, if not pressed home properly, would work against him, because it required a fine balance between extension and power. Already both men were standing in the stirrups, and both had moved their shields to protect their trunk, for a lance point hitting either William’s chain mailed chest or that leather breastplate of Rashid’s would slice right through them.

They were only paces apart when William made his move, taking his couched lance and jabbing it forward so that it was extended, the shaft running under his outstretched arm, the only thing to hold it his clenched and mailed right hand. Rashid saw the move and tried to adjust his own weapon, which was an error, because in a fight you should never be caught in two minds. In acting his bulk worked against him; he might be near a giant but his movements were restricted by that very size. Had he stayed committed he would at least have got his lance point onto the centre of William’s shield. As it was, doing something unfamiliar it wavered and as he felt the tip of his opponent’s lance on his buckler he sought to shy away.

With full force William struck his buckler at the base, the force of his blow, a split second before he too was struck, bending back that shield just enough to get his lance point through, to strike Rashid at the place where his leather breastplate met his upper thigh. He was good, swift enough to jam his shield sideways so that the point failed to skewer him, as William intended, but ran along the outer side of his leg, hitting the high back of his saddle and shattering the shaft.

William took Rashid’s lance on a high point of his shield, but in seeking to change his action that had lost a lot of force, although it still took and smashed the top half and spun William round so that he was nearly unhorsed by being flung sideways on to his saddle. Only the sheer strength of thighs moulded since childhood to stay aboard kept him on his mount until the two were past each other, the Norman already reaching for his sword, hauling on his reins to bring round his destrier and take Rashid before he could respond. Vaguely, in his ears, he could hear cheering from both sides, though he thought he could sense it greater from the trenches rather than the walls.