Jack Ludlow - Mercenaries

Rashid was too wise to make a quick turn to meet him. William had drawn blood and that required a quick assessment to see how it would affect his ability to fight, so he rode on until he was out of immediate danger, well away from William de Hauteville. The point of his opponent’s lance was still embedded in his saddle, so he hauled it out and held it up to show the men on the walls of Syracuse, the implication being that it had missed him.

But he knew it had not, knew that he had torn mail and a long gash in his thigh which might hamper him if fighting on foot. There was no way to tell if that was the case until he needed to use the leg, so it was obvious to William that Rashid must at all costs avoid that kind of test. He now had his sword out, a blade already known to be of fearsome proportions, razor sharp on one side and serrated like a fine saw on the other.

William was approaching with no haste; if his man was bleeding let it flow and weaken him, and his sword was again a weapon shorter in length than Rashid’s. But it was easier to use, as long as it was not left exposed to a blow which, combined with the great bulk and strength of the emir and the weight of his weapon, could break it in two.

There was no cheering now, there was silence as both sets of supporters watched a fight about to come to the point of decision. They saw the way William de Hauteville manoeuvred his mount with just his thighs, wending it left and right as he approached the emir, seeking an avenue in which to attack. They saw Rashid spur his mount to close quickly, and soon the air was filled with the sound of metal on metal as the swords were used to swing, thrust and parry, that mixed with loud, dull thuds as contact was made with shields.

What they could not see was the blood running into the silk on Rashid’s horse, but both combatants knew it was there, the Saracen aware that the loss would weaken him, so he was trying to end this affair quickly, William de Hauteville knowing time was now on his side, that he must not seek a decision too hastily and expose himself to a blow that would equal the contest if not end it with his death.

‘William is trying to tire him,’ Drogo said.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Harald Hardrada.

Drogo indicated the line of Norman knights on either side, the men William led in to battle, every one of whom seemed to be with their leader in spirit, so intent was their concentration.

‘Ask any one of them and they will tell you. His sword work is defensive.’

‘He must win this,’ growled George Maniakes. ‘It will add months to their spirits if he does not.’

Out in the arena William was parrying more than attacking, but doing just enough of that to keep Rashid guessing, moving his mount forward and back in a display of stunning horsemanship. The emir was pressing hard, wielding his great sword with an astonishing amount of ease, a testimony to his might, and more than once William had felt his own sword arm give under a blow. He had hoped that being so unwieldy Rashid would gift him opportunities, but so far that was not the case, and for all he was bleeding the emir showed no diminution in strength.

William was tiring and perhaps if this went on long enough it would be he who would be rendered defenceless. In all the fights he had engaged in none had seemed to require so much effort and, wondering how long it had already gone on, and how much longer it might, he could feel in his upper sword arm the beginnings of strain.

The move he employed, outright assault, standing in his stirrups and leaning right forward, surprised Rashid just enough to get his sword out of position and him off balance in his seating. There was no time to attempt a kill — to do so would render William vulnerable — but he did get his sword point under the emir’s breastplate enough to push hard with both hands on his pommel, hoping for a result rather than expecting one.

It was that wounded thigh that did for Rashid: he could not hold his saddle and as pressure was applied to his stirrup foot it gave way and slipped free. His sword was in the air and as he tried to regain his balance he knew he was in maximum danger. Seeing William press forward again, sword angled across his body, ready to sweep at the point where his helmet met his neck, the emir did the only thing he could. He jabbed his other foot backwards, got it clear of the stirrup, and let himself slip on to the ground, his mount acting as a barrier to his opponent.

The emir tested his wounded leg, and it supported him, so Rashid used the flat of his sword blade to send his mount clear, and put a foot forward to swing at the forelegs of William’s horse to bring him, too, down on the ground. It was horsemanship which defeated the aim, as William swung his mount sideways and clear, his sword in the air. It did not stay there, it swept down on his stationary opponent and took the emir on the crown of his plumed helmet with such force that it went right thought the metal and sliced the head in two.

There was a moment when the body stood stock-still, sword embedded, but then the huge frame of Emir Rashid al Farza keeled over into the dust, with William de Hauteville, gasping for air, lying over the withers of his sweating horse.

As he rode back into the lines, those on the walls of Syracuse were silent. The Normans, led by Drogo, were yelling ‘Bras de Fer!’ And when that was translated for the Italians they too were happy to gild their champion with the title, Iron Arm.

It was only a patrol, twenty lances taken out by William and Drogo to alleviate their boredom, and because they had seen nothing to trouble them they followed the narrowing river that fed their siege lines and rode deeper into the hills than at any time previously. Many leagues from Syracuse, the country was high peaks, rolling mountains and deep valleys, so like very much of this island, but there was nothing to aim for. The nearest emirate of any size had declared itself neutral in the fight between what was essentially Abdullah-al-Zirid and George Maniakes.

The crossbow bolt missed Drogo’s thigh by a whisker and embedded itself in the flesh of his horse. Surprised, he was still able to shout a warning to the rest and spin round the animal, even if it was screaming in pain, then kick it so he could close with his brother. William had not seen the bolt but he could hear Drogo yelling and that spelt only danger. In less time than it takes for ten grains of sand to pass through a glass the whole party was riding flat out to get to safety and they did not stop till they were sure that had been achieved.

‘One man?’ asked Drogo, as he sought to bind the wound to his horse. He had already been required to remove the crossbow bolt and that, because it was jagged, had torn a great deal of flesh and brought forth much blood.

‘No one came after us,’ William replied, looking back up the valley from which they had made such a hurried exit, one that narrowed to a pass between two high peaks. ‘The crossbow worries me. It’s a weapon for a trained man.’

‘Maybe someone trained one of the peasants round here.’

‘A single Sicilian peasant attacks twenty mounted lances?’ William shook his head. ‘Might as well tie a rope round his neck.’

‘I think you’ve forgotten, brother, that we fled.’

William grinned. ‘You did, we just followed you.’

Drogo patted his wounded horse, an animal whose head was very low. ‘I can’t ride this poor fellow. I’ll have to go back to Syracuse on a packhorse.’

William, still examining the valley, was sure he saw something flash, a piece of metal which had caught sunlight. He nearly asked Drogo if he had seen it, but his brother was too taken with his mount. Looking round he saw the others were too busy with their own concerns to have noticed, and then, of course, doubt set in. The firing of one arrow did not make sense unless, William suddenly thought, it had been a mistake, an overzealous archer letting fly when he should not have done so. Were there more crossbowmen up ahead?