The Mystic Rose (47 page)

C
OMMANDER DE BRACINEAUX
glared at the messenger. “How many?”

“Thirty, my lord. Maybe more.”

The Templar commander turned and called, “D'Anjou, keep everyone in here.” Then, shouting for the sergeant to fetch his sword and shield, he strode from the church and out into a raw red dawn.

As soon as he had gone, the townsfolk rushed to the bodies of their wounded. Archbishop Bertrano moved to the stricken priest and the nuns hastened to the aid of their injured abbess. Annora waved them off, saying, “I am not hurt. Go and help the others.”

“Stay where you are, all of you,” shouted d'Anjou, but no one paid any attention to him. Within moments, the door of the church was open and villagers were crowding the entrance.

Cait motioned Alethea to join her. “Wait here with the abbess.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, but Cait was already dashing away.

She pushed through the press at the door and looked out. High clouds were coming in from the north, drawing a veil across the pale dawn sky. The Templars were racing to their mounts as de Bracineaux called them to arms. Above the shouting and clamor of men and horses could be heard the rhythmic drumming of hooves, and through a gap between the nearer houses came the attacking riders as they rounded
the lake and rode for the village. A moment later, the first rank came into view at the end of the wide expanse which served the town for a street.

Even in the pale light of dawn Cait could see from the turbans and battledress that the riders were, indeed, Moors—and they were coming fast.
Ali Waqqar!
she gasped. The bandits had found them and now joined the fray. Hands clenched in helpless desperation, she watched as they drew swiftly closer. Now she could pick out individuals from among the dark mass of advancing riders. There, in the center of the front rank, was the bandit leader. She recognized the imposing, arrogant bulk, and her heart sank.

But then a movement in the ranks caught her eye. The riders parted and Prince Hasan appeared in the gap, astride his black stallion, his warriors at his back. Beside him rode Halhuli; like those with them, they carried small round black shields and long, slender-bladed lances.

The Templars were quickly armed and mounted. The speed with which they had prepared themselves to meet the enemy was remarkable and, Cait thought, demonstrated their renowned and formidable discipline. They had met Arabs before, and were not afraid.

With a single word from their commander, they formed the battle line and rode out to meet the attack. Cait, watching from the church door, heard a movement behind her, and someone grabbed hold of her arm to pull her back. “Please,” she said, “I have to see.”

“De Bracineaux misjudged you,” said Baron d'Anjou. “But I will not. We cannot have you running loose out there, can we? That would not do at all. Who knows the trouble you might make?”

Contempt and revulsion roiled within her as she looked into the baron's dead eyes. “I beg you,” she said, swallowing down her loathing. “Let me stay.”

“Very well, if only because I want to see it, too. We will stay here together, you and I.” D'Anjou moved close beside her, maintaining his tight grip on her arm. Others were pushing in around them now—villagers eager to witness the clash, and nuns praying for deliverance. The crowd gave a
push, and Cait and d'Anjou were carried out into the yard. Soon almost everyone from inside the church had joined them, including Archbishop Bertrano and a very dazed and bewildered Brother Timotheus pressing a hand to his injured head.

The Templars urged their horses to speed. Levelling their lances, they prepared to meet the onrushing Moors. Up from their throats arose a cry: “For God and Jerusalem!”

The battle cry of the Templars was met and drowned by a mighty shout from the Arabs: “
Allahu akbar!
” they cried, spurring their mounts to a gallop. Over the snow they came, the horses' legs lost in a blurring cloud churned up by their swift hooves so that the riders seemed to glide like avenging angels flying to the fight.

“Now we see whether the Moors have mettle enough to stand to a real fight,” observed d'Anjou.

“The Templars are outnumbered,” Cait pointed out.

“Dear, deluded lady,” replied the baron, “the Templars are forever outnumbered. That is how they prefer it.”

The two lines closed with heart-stopping speed and Cait, unable to look away, held her breath. At the last instant, the Moors split their line, dividing neatly in two. The main body of the Templars found themselves carried into the midst of a fast-scattering enemy and suddenly exposed on either flank.

This brought a cry from the watchers at the church. Some of the nuns sank to their knees, clasping their hands and crying to Heaven; others stood and gaped in open-mouthed amazement. All around her, Cait heard the quick babble of voices as the villagers discussed the maneuver excitedly, and the nuns prayed with increasing fervor.

De Bracineaux, a bold and decisive commander, realized the danger and signalled the retreat at once. Rather than allow his force to become surrounded, he chose flight. In an instant, the Templars wheeled their horses. Back they came, the Moors in close pursuit.

Halfway to the church, however, there came a rattling movement and out from among the houses of the villages another mounted force appeared. At its head was Rogn
vald, leading a score of Arab warriors with Dag and Yngvar beside him, and Svein and Rodrigo right behind.

The sudden and unexpected appearance of the knights sent the villagers into a rapture of delight. D'Anjou tried to shout them down, but to no avail. There was nothing he could do to make himself understood. He appealed to the priest. “Tell them to be quiet!” he shouted at Brother Timotheus. “Shut them up!”

“If they do not speak,” replied the priest neatly, “surely the stones themselves will cry out.”

Rognvald's troops rounded on the retreating Templars, who now discovered themselves caught between two swiftly closing forces.

Surrounded, their retreat cut off, the Templars halted and de Bracineaux formed his soldiers into a tight defensive circle. Shoulder to shoulder, they took shelter behind a ring of stout shields and a lethal array of razor-keen lance blades. The Moors whirled around the circle, shrieking with exultation. Not a blow had been struck and already the foe was forced into its final stand from which there would be no retreat.

Around and around they flew, the swift Arabian horses spinning like black leaves in a whirlpool of white. The Templars remained unmoved as a boulder surrounded by surging rapids.

The battle began in earnest.

At first the great revolving wheel of warriors appeared content simply to surround the Templars, screaming, whistling, jeering, and taunting as they spun around and around. Then suddenly one of the Moors broke from the swiftly circling pack and drove in to strike a glancing blow at one of the Templars—a quick darting chop of the sword and away again before the knight could react. No sooner had he returned to his place than another Moor repeated the slashing lunge, and then another, and another. Soon the Moors were striking at will—but to no avail, since the Templars refused to break ranks and attack. Despite their superior numbers, the Moors gained no advantage.

The diving feints continued for a time and d'Anjou, thor
oughly fed up with the lack of Moorish courage in meeting the Templar challenge head-on, vented his frustration. “Cowardly bastards,” he sneered with profound distaste. “They refuse to stand and fight, the craven dogs.”

The Moors circled, the great wheel slowly revolving while those on the inner rim performed their wary darting sallies. Cait felt her heart, buoyed by hope, begin to sink. The Templars would not be drawn into a fight they could not win, and Hasan's troops appeared unable, or unwilling, to force the confrontation.

She watched, hands clenched beneath her chin, as her own frustration grew. A few more lunges, a few more wild sweeping chops, and suddenly a cry went up from the Moorish ranks. In the same instant, Cait saw the head of a Templar lance spinning into the snow. A moment later, another lance head was carried off.

D'Anjou saw it too, and knew what it meant. “Filthy devils!” he spat. “Stand and fight!” he cried.

Three more Templars lost their lances in rapid succession. The knights did not move. They sat firmly in the saddle as if anchored there, faces hard, staring grimly ahead at the whooping, gyrating foe. Now and again, Cait caught sight of Rognvald, Yngvar, Dag, or Svein, or one of the Spanish knights as they careered around and around in the ever-revolving dance.

The slashing attacks continued with increasing ferocity and speed. The villagers gathered outside the church watched with dread fascination as one by one the lance blades fell to the reckless Moorish swords. Still the Templars held their ground. Indeed, the first indication they gave that the attack was wearing on them came when one of their number threw down his headless, battered lance and drew his sword. De Bracineaux steadied his men with a command; the ring tightened further on itself, and they held on.

It was not until fully half of the lance-heads had been hacked off that the Templars broke from their rock-like stance. When it came, the charge was quick and savage. Cait did not discern any signal; it seemed to her that one moment they were inert and resolute as when the battle began, and
the next instant all were in motion. Down went the ruined lances and out flashed the swords even as they spurred their mounts into the rotating wall of foemen.

They hit hard and fast—twenty Templars striking as one. The sound of the clash was like the crack of a gigantic tree the instant before it falls.

The force of the charge carried the Templars deep into the revolving ranks of the Moors. Those nearest the charge could not swerve out of the way in time and were simply struck broadside. Men and horses went down. More than one Arab was crushed beneath the weight of his mount.

The rearward ranks gave way to allow their comrades to escape the onslaught and all at once the Moors were thrown into confusion. Suddenly all was rearing horses and flailing hooves. The ferocity of the assault was devastating. Again and again the Templars charged, driving into their evasive enemy, their swords rising and falling in deadly harmony.

Surprised, their formation broken, the Moors gave way before the assault. The swirling Arab ranks thinned at the point of attack and the Templars seized the first opportunity they had been offered. They drove into the weakened line and a small gap opened. For the briefest of instants the way was clear. By twos and threes, the Christian knights sped through the breach, smashing through the terrible whirling wheel.

By the time the gap closed once more, a dozen Moors lay dead in the snow, and not one of the Templars was unhorsed. Cait counted the fallen from Hasan's force, and then counted them again just to make certain. But there was no mistake: the prince's advantage in numbers had shrunk.

The Moors made an attempt to regain control of the field. Separating quickly into two divisions—one under Rognvald and the other under Hasan—they threw out two wings, one to either side of the Templars as the Christian knights reformed their ranks. But de Bracineaux was not about to allow his troops to become surrounded and trapped again. As the two wings closed on the Templars, the commander directed the whole of his force to meet the line of assault at its nearest leading edge.

Once again, the Templars' heavier horses and armor
proved sufficient not only to blunt the attack, but to drive through the more lightly armed Moors. The Arab wing scattered, leaving four more dead or wounded behind, and the Christian knights quickly turned to face an onslaught of the combined enemy wings. Again Cait counted the remaining combatants—Hasan's troops, including Rognvald and her knights, numbered thirty to the Templars' original twenty. What was more, the Templars now had the houses of the village at their backs; unless they were drawn into the open, they could not be surrounded again.

“Now the field is even,” remarked d'Anjou with evident satisfaction. “Let the slaughter commence.”

Cait bit her lip and did not dignify the comment with a reply. The archbishop, meanwhile, gathered the nuns around him and led the sisters in a prayer for a swift end to the battle and a peaceful resolution.

Thus, the two opposing forces faced one another across a narrow space—fewer than a hundred paces separating one from the other. And here they paused. The horses were growing tired. Steam rose from their nostrils and from their rumps and flanks.

For a brief moment all was silent, save for the murmured prayers of the sisters and archbishop kneeling in the snow. Then there came a movement from the Moorish line, and Cait saw Rognvald ride out a few paces into the open alone. “Renaud de Bracineaux,” he called, his voice loud in the hush, “for the sake of your men, I ask you to surrender.”

This brought a laugh from the Templar commander, who moved out a few paces to meet the Norseman halfway. “Surrender?” he laughed. “To you? Your confidence is commendable, sir, but it is misplaced. We are winning this battle.”

“You have fought well,” Rognvald acknowledged. “It would be a wicked waste to lead such good soldiers to their deaths. Lay down your arms, and the killing can stop.”

De Bracineaux laughed again. “The killing has not yet begun.” He turned then, and rode back to his waiting ranks.

“I give you one last chance,” Rognvald called after him. “By the God who made me, Templar, unless you forsake the fight, I swear you will not walk from this battleground.”

The commander's reply came by way of a sudden charge. Even before de Bracineaux reached the line, his men were in motion, spurring their horses forward. Rognvald raised himself in the saddle and, with a sharp chop of his hand, signalled Hasan's troops to meet the sortie. The Moors swept across the narrow space dividing the two forces.