The Last Templar - Страница 38

It was the waves as much as the wind that drove diem on, tossing the longboat as if it were made of paper, but the shipmaster soon had six of the nine survivors manning oars and dampening the wildest swings. As he rowed, Martin just looked ahead blankly, fatigue and despair dragging him down. They had been chased out of the Holy Land, and now the Falcon Templewas lost. He wondered how long they would survive, even if they did reach land. Wherever they were, they were far from home, deep in enemy territory, and barely equipped to defend themselves against the poorest foe.

The longboat plunged on for what seemed like hours before the height of the waves lessened and, at last, they saw the land that the lookout had spied. Soon, they were dragging the longboat through the surf and onto the safety of a sandy beach. The storm still howled and the cold rain still stung them, but at least they had land beneath their feet.

After hacking out the bottom of the longboat with their swords, they pushed it back into the sea, which was still rough despite the passing of the eye of the storm. Anyone wandering the shoreline should not be made aware of their presence. Hugh told them that they were already on a northerly heading when the storm had struck, and he believed that the Falcon Temple had been swept around the island of Cyprus and then pushed headlong northward. Acting upon the seaman's knowledge and expertise, Aimard took the decision to avoid the exposed shore and march inland before heading west in search of a port.

The low hills soon gave them some shelter from the wind and, more important, from the eyes of any inhabitants. Not that this appeared to be a danger; they had seen no one, heard nothing but the shrieking of the storm. Even wildlife was absent, cowed no doubt by the violent weather. During the long and exhausting march, Martin could see that Aimard's condition was worsening. The blow to his ribcage was a heavy one, and the serious damage it caused was starting to take its toll.

Seemingly impervious to the pain coursing through him, Aimard pressed on bravely, always clinging to the bulky pouch while clutching his painful side.

When they first came upon a town, there was a momentary flare of fear that they might have to fight in their current state. Not only were they injured and weary, they also had few arms between them.

That fear was tempered by the hope that they could find food there. Both their fear and their hope proved unfounded. The town was deserted, its houses empty. At its center stood the remains of a church. Its walls were intact, but its roof was a charred skeleton of burned timbers held aloft on high stone columns. It was hard to tell how long ago this desecration had taken place. Certainly more than a few weeks or even months; years maybe.

Across from the church, a huge old willow drooped its leafy branches over a well.

Cautiously, the survivors dropped to the ground and rested. Of all of tiiem, Aimard of Villiers was in the worst condition. Martin was getting him some water from the well when he heard a sound, the gently melodic ringing of bells. The battered men rushed for cover and watched as a small herd of goats came through the narrow street. Soon, they were crowding around the well head, vainly scavenging for food, some dragging down the branches of the willow and gnawing at them. A goatherd appeared, a stooped and crippled old man, accompanied by a young boy.

Glancing at Aimard, who gave a brief nod of acquiescence, Martin took command. Using hand signals, he sent their small band fanning outward to keep watch, while he and Hugh approached the old man, who promptly fell to his knees, imploring diem not to kill him and to spare his grandson.

Like some of their brothers, Martin and Aimard could speak some Arabic. Even so, it took a while to pacify the old man and assure him that his life was safe. It took even longer to explain that they wanted to buy a goat and not simply take it by force. Not that they had money or valuables of any kind, but they managed to gather between them a few oddments of clothing that, while not adding up to the value of die goat, did at least make a bargain of sorts. While the goatherd and his young helper hauled water from the well for their animals, the knights slaughtered the goat and, with a flint, lit a fire and roasted the carcass. They invited the goatherd and the boy to share in the meal.

That act of kindness probably saved their lives.

The old man, from whom they learned the name of the town, Fonsalis, was grateful to be alive.

Late in the afternoon, he resumed his wanderings with his herd and helper. Well-fed and strengthened, the knights and crewmen rested once more, comfortable in the knowledge that they could resume their journey in the morning.

But their rest was short-lived.

The knight standing watch heard the sound first and alerted Martin.

Someone was running, coming their way. It was the goatherd's grandson. Out of breath and visibly scared, he informed them that a band of Mamelukes was heading their way. The old man had seen them before, had been robbed by them, and knew that they would be coming here for water.

They had no choice but to fight them.

With Aimard's support, Martin quickly formulated a plan for an ambush. Spaced well apart, the men would form a loose V formation, the open arms facing toward the approaching enemy, the point at the well.

They salvaged pieces of wrought iron from the ruined church to supplement their meager supply of weapons and unwound the rope from the wellhead. Hugh and one of the seamen pulled it to their positions at the open end of the V. They kicked dirt over the rope where it lay across the path of the approaching horsemen, and the men all took their places. Once he was certain they hadn't missed anything that could betray their plan, Martin slipped behind the well, crouched low, and waited.

They didn't have long to wait. They heard the Mamelukes long before they saw them, their laughter loud in the still air. Clearly, their acts in this region had given them an undoubted sense of invulnerability. The Mamelukes were rightly feared. Some fifty years ago, many thousands of young men from these parts had been sold into the servitude of the Sultan of Egypt. The ruler, never imagining what would be the result of his action, formed these young men into his National Guard and called them Mamelukes, the Arabic word for "owned." A few years later, the Mamelukes instigated a revolution and were soon in control of Egypt. They became even more feared than the men who had originally sold them into captivity.

Decked in leather and iron body armor and breeches, each horseman carried a scabbarded long sword and a dagger in his belt. Across the pommels of each of their horses rested a large circular metal shield, and pennants that hung colorfully from their spears fluttered in the dusty air around them.

Martin counted them. The boy's estimate was accurate. There were twenty-one warriors. He knew that either all of them had to die, or their own fate would be sealed. Should one of them escape, many more would return.

When the last of the Mamelukes had passed the position taken by Hugh and his companion, Martin heard the leader of the band reach the well and dismount.

Launching himself upward, Martin bolted out from behind the well as if discharged from a cannon and quickly cut down two men with savage sweeps of his broadsword. More men were in the process of dismounting when the rest of the survivors rushed out of their hiding places, screaming war cries and hacking away at the surprised horsemen with whatever weapons they held. The surprise was complete, its effect devastating.

The men that remained on horseback wheeled their mounts around and kicked them into a gallop, back the way that they had come. As they drew level with Hugh, the shipmaster heaved on the rope, drawing it tight. The horsemen never saw it. The first horses fell, the others colliding into them, sending the riders hurtling helplessly through the air. The knights were already racing toward the men, and before long no Mameluke remained alive at either end of the small battlefield.

But it was a small victory. In the dust of the entanglement, two seamen and two knights were dead.

Five men, including the injured Aimard, remained.

But they now had horses and weapons.

That night, after burying their dead, the survivors slept by the walls of the ruined church, taking turns at watch. Martin, though, couldn't sleep. His mind was still in turmoil, and he had gone into a state of extreme awareness of sounds and movements.

He heard a rustle coming from inside the church, where Aimard had been laid to rest. He knew that the older man was in great pain and he had heard him repeatedly cough up blood. He got up and walked in through the church's charred portal. Aimard wasn't where he'd left him. Martin scanned the darkness and spotted the old knight sitting up, the flames from a small fire dipping and flickering as wisps of wind curled in through the damaged roof. Approaching him, he saw that Aimard was busy writing something. It was a letter. By his side was a strange geared device, which Martin had never seen before.

Aimard raised his head, and his eyes glinted at Martin in the firelight. "I need your help with this," he said, his voice hoarse and raspy.

Martin approached hesitantly, feeling his muscles tighten. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

"It seems my strength has deserted me." Aimard coughed. "Come."

He pulled himself off the floor and, lifting the leather pouch with great pain, led Martin deeper into the church to an area where the ground was made up of paving stones, some of them marked with names and dates. Martin realized they were grave markers.