Daoud's dark brown Arabian stallion sidestepped a knot of fighting men.
Daoud's heart beat slowly and heavily in his chest like a funeral bell.
The field was still a chaos. The battle was still in doubt. But in
individual combats more of Manfred's men than Charles's were falling.
Daoud had seen--and it had made him almost angry enough to want to break
out of his formation and pursue them--a group of Apulian crossbowmen
running off the field. Bands of Charles's knights were getting together
and overwhelming smaller bands of Manfred's.
It was the power of Christianity, Daoud thought. Charles's men had been
told by the pope himself that they were crusaders waging a holy war and
would be taken up into heaven if they died in battle. Manfred's
Christian warriors had been excommunicated, without the sacraments, for
over a year, and many of them believed that if they were killed they
would go to hell. Daoud could not be sure how strongly the men on either
side felt about these things, but it could be enough to tilt the battle
slowly in Charles's favor.
On Manfred's side, the only ones who felt they were waging a holy war
were the Sons of the Falcon.
Daoud recalled Lorenzo's words to Manfred months before: _I have never
in my life doubted the_ power _of religion, Sire._
Manfred himself had disappeared into one of these whirlpools of combat.
Daoud had searched everywhere for Erhard Barth, who should be pulling
Manfred's army together and giving orders, if Manfred would not do it
himself. He could find the marshal nowhere. There were no plans. There
were no leaders.
The Arabian's broad back rolled easily under him. He had kept the Sons
of the Falcon in formation, ordering them to advance, hoping for a
chance to strike a decisive blow. Staying out of the fighting they
passed, moving around the groups of struggling men and reforming ranks,
was frustrating for his men, but so far their discipline had held.
Staying together had protected them too. He estimated he had lost only
about twenty men so far.
Music, familiar martial music of the kind he had often heard in El
Kahira, flared up behind him, sending a thrill up his spine. The little
mounted Muslim band had kept pace with the Sons of the Falcon.
He and the Sons of the Falcon had reached the midpoint of the valley.
Benevento behind him and Charles's camp ahead were equally distant. In
both directions the sights were the same--horsemen flailing at each
other with swords and axes and maces, crossbowmen and pikemen struggling
among the horses' legs. Few arrows flew now, because an archer was as
likely as not to hit someone on his own side.
Daoud narrowed his eyes. He saw again at the north end of the valley the
brown hill, a bit higher than any near it, the cluster of men on
horseback.
Sunlight glittered on a helmet adorned with a crown.
He felt suddenly lifted up. He wanted to laugh aloud.
_Lord of the worlds! You have shown me the way!_
With one blow they could end the battle.
"Omar!"
His second in command rode to his side, white teeth shining in his thick
black beard.
Daoud pointed up the valley. "Do you see that red and black banner and
that group of knights under it? Do you see a gold crown shining on a
helmet? That is Charles d'Anjou, he who would steal our lord Manfred's
throne."
"I see him, Emir Daoud. May God send him to the fire whose fuel is men
and stones."
"May we be permitted to help God send Charles d'Anjou to that fire.
There is nothing between him and us but men fighting one another and a
line of foot soldiers we can sweep away with our arrows."
"I see, My Lord. I see."
"Pass the order to charge. Charge at the red and black banner."
"Gladly, My Lord. Death to Charles d'Anjou!"
The blue flags, signal for a charge, rose and waved over the Sons of the
Falcon. Daoud felt the tension build in the men riding beside him. He
unslung his double-curved Turkish bow and held it high for all his men
to see.
The naqeeb who carried the banner rode out before them, holding up the
green silk with its verse from the Koran.
"Yah l'Allah!" Daoud shouted. He put all his strength, all his will,
into the cry.
His men took it up.
"Yah l'Allah!"
"Allahu akbar!"
He brought the bow down to his side. The blue flags dipped. The
kettledrums rumbled and thundered to a crescendo. The trumpets blared.
He drove his heels hard into the Arabian's flanks. The horse catapulted
forward instantly, throwing Daoud back against his saddle.
He leaned into the cold wind, squinting his eyes against the rush of
air, feeling it blow through his beard. He looked to the right and to
the left. The Sons of the Falcon were racing beside him, these good men,
these warriors to whom he had taught his Mameluke's skills, these
comrades he had come to love.
_Now we are truly Sons of the Falcon. We dive to kill our prey._
His left hand held the reins lightly, giving the horse his head. At this
speed he had to trust the horse to find the way. They were partners.
They jumped over a dead crossbowman. They leapt a great fallen Frankish
charger. Daoud felt as if he had wings. He laughed aloud. They dodged
around a melee. He rocked to the jolting as the horse's hooves hit the
ground.
There ahead, the red and black banner planted in the soil of the hill
was much closer. Daoud could clearly make out the black rampant lion. He
could see the tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a blood-red cloak and
the helmet with the gilded crown. The man was staring this way, perhaps
only now becoming aware of his danger.
A crossbow bolt hummed viciously past Daoud's ear. To his right a man
cried out and fell from the saddle. Hamid. He felt a moment's pain.
No time for fear or sorrow. He crested a small hill and saw lines of
crossbowmen on a long rise of ground that ran across the valley. They
were far away, still small figures, but growing larger as Daoud galloped
on. They were turning their backs, having just fired. Their first volley
had hit only a few of Daoud's men, because the Sons of the Falcon were
still out of their crossbows' short range. Facing Daoud now were the big
rectangular shields they wore on their backs. The row of shields leaned
away from him as the men bent to draw their bows.
Charles d'Anjou and the men around him were gesturing and pointing. Did
they really expect these archers to save them?
Daoud pulled an arrow from his saddle quiver and nocked it.
"The instant they turn, shoot!" he shouted. He heard his order echoed as
the word was passed down the line. The red flags went up. He took aim at
the back of a man in the center of the crossbowmen's line.
The archers whirled, bringing their bows up. The red flags dipped. As he
felt his galloping horse's hooves leave the ground, Daoud released the
string. He saw the man he had targeted drop his bow and fall to the
ground.
The Falcons' arrows swept the crossbowmen like a scythe. The powerful
Turkish bows could shoot farther and be reloaded faster than the
European weapons. The few archers not felled by their volleys ran to the
sides of the valley to safety.
Charles was too far away for Daoud to read his expression, but his arms
were waving frantically, as if he were trying to conjure up knights out
of thin air. The men around him clutched at him, clearly telling him
they must ride for their lives. One of Charles's men had pulled the red
and black banner out of the ground and looked ready to gallop away with
it.
Daoud slung his bow across his back and drew his long, curving saif from
the scabbard. The noonday sun flashed on it as he held it high. His men
roared and brandished their own swords.
The band had caught up with them, and the trumpets and hautboys screamed
death to the enemy while the kettledrums rumbled.
There was nothing left to protect Charles d'Anjou now. There was not
even time for the French leader to run for it. He seemed to know it. He
had his sword out and he held up a white shield with a red cross.
Urging the Arabian on, shouting the name of God, Daoud raced toward
triumph.
* * * * *
On hands and knees Simon stared horrified as the long line of
red-turbaned riders charged at Charles's position.
The Saracen riders still had half the length of the valley to cross
before they reached Charles's position. The French foot archers--some of
them must be the same men Simon had briefly commanded before the gates
of Rome--were lining up to protect their king. There was time, but very
little.
"God have mercy!" exclaimed Antoine de la Durie.
Simon backed away from the hilltop, stood up, and turned. All down the
side of the ridge hidden from the valley of Benevento, rows of knights
sat on their great horses, hefted lances, thrust at the air with their
swords. Some were still struggling into their mail shirts with the help
of their equerries. Hundreds of faces looked up inquiringly at Simon.
Trees hid the rest of his army, farther down the slope.
He took the polished helmet Valery held for him, its top adorned with an
angry griffin spreading its wings, and set it down over the padded
arming cap that held it in place.
De la Durie, de Marion, de Puys, and ten more barons gathered around
him. They waited silently for him to speak.
He was shaking inwardly, and prayed that it would not show. He was
afraid of death and of defeat. But, thank God, he was no longer in doubt
about what to do. He knew.
"Over a hundred Saracens are about to fall upon King Charles. There is
no one near to help him. We must go down there now and stop them.
Straight over the side of this ridge. Mount your horses."
"But, mercy of God, Monseigneur!" cried de Puys. "That slope is long and
steep. There is a forest. The men will fall. The horses will break their
legs. We must find a path."
"There is no time to explore, de Puys. There are many paths down. We
will find them. The horses will find them. We must go now. In a moment
King Charles will be dead!"
The equerries holding the Gobignon and crusader banners rolled them up
to take them through the forest.
Valery brought Simon's favorite war-horse, the pearl-gray destrier
called Brillant. Simon braced himself for the effort, in full armor, of
mounting the huge horse. He set his foot in the iron stirrup, hoisted
himself, swung his leg, heavy with mail, over the saddle, and settled
himself. He drew the Saracen blade Roland had given him.
_A Saracen blade to fight Saracens._
He put fear and doubt out of his mind, drew a deep breath and roared,
"Suivez-moi!"
He spurred Brillant and slapped the charger's neck. "Good horse! Find a
way down."
Then he had plunged over the edge and into the forest on the other side.
He crouched, hiding his face behind Brillant's gray neck, as thick as a
tree trunk. A branch struck his helmet with a clang, stunning him
slightly, and he bent his head lower.
Twisted trees rushed at him and past him. All around him he heard men
shouting, some yelling in wild abandon, some crying out in fear. He
heard a terrible crash and clatter and the mingled screams of a man and
a horse. Behind him came a thundering like a landslide as more and more
of his knights plunged over the edge of the ridge.
He had time to think in jubilation that he had given a frightening,
difficult order, and the men had obeyed. Hundreds of knights and
men-at-arms were plummeting down this perilous slope because he had told
them to.
_If I die today, I die a leader._
But would they reach the valley in time to save Charles d'Anjou? While
they rushed and fell and fought their way through this forest, that
battle line of Saracens was galloping over easy, rolling ground with
only Charles's archers to impede them. Just now Simon was crashing
through woods so thick he could not see the battlefield.
Then there was light ahead and a meadow of brown grass. Brillant broke
through the brush at the bottom of the slope.
The red-turbaned line was a little past the place where Simon had come
out. They were riding those light, fast Saracen horses.
Where were the lines of crossbowmen? Gone--and now Simon saw bodies
scattered on the ground where the foot archers had stood.
Charles's banner was still on the same hilltop. In moments the Saracens
would be upon him.
"Faster! Faster!" Simon shouted, slapping Brillant's neck as the huge
war-horse ran at top speed to overtake the Saracen line.
* * * * *
Daoud charged on, his eyes fixed on the crowned figure under the red and
black banner.
The pounding of hoofbeats in the air all around him was suddenly louder
than he thought possible. He had been hearing the ululating,
high-pitched war cries of his men, but now heard screams of pain and
shouts of battle and deeper war cries, voices shouting in French.
Coming from the right flank.
He turned. He glimpsed a purple banner rushing toward him. A white and
red banner along with it. The horse beside his was thrown against him by
a blow that all but knocked him senseless. Caught between the two
horses' flanks, his right leg felt as if it were being crushed. As pain
shot up into his hip, he reeled dizzily in the saddle and clutched the
reins till his left arm ached, his right holding his saif aloft so as
not to stab one of his own men.
His horse fell against the one on his other side. All around him horses
and riders were thrown to the ground. The Sons of the Falcon were flung
about wildly, their forward momentum broken by some unimaginable force
that had hurled itself upon them.
At the sight, he felt a giant hand reach into his chest and tear his
heart out.
The Sons of the Falcon were buried under an avalanche of mail-clad
Frankish warriors riding huge armored war-horses.
_My God, my God! Why are you doing this to us?_
He wanted to fling himself down from his horse and smash himself on the
ground, screaming out his grief. In an instant he had been flung from
joy to the very darkest pit of despair. In an instant he saw that
everything was lost. His staring eyes were dry. This was all too sudden,
too shocking, even for tears.
Where had these devils of Franks come from?
Down out of the hills to the east. They were still coming, hundreds of
them, pouring down the forested slope and charging over the level ground
of the valley. Broadswords, maces, battle axes, rose and fell. Their war
shouts filled the air.
"Dieu et le Sepulcre!"
"L'Eglise et le Pape!"
"Le Roi Charles!"
He saw the green and white Falcon banner go down. He heard the band
instruments give out their last ugly sounds as they and the men who
played them perished under maces and axes. He saw with agony the deaths
of men he had trained and ridden with--Husain, Said, Farraj, Omar--heads
smashed, bodies cloven. He felt in his own body the blows that killed
them.
Daoud recognized the purple banner now. Three gold crowns. He had seen
it before in Orvieto. Simon de Gobignon had come at last to this battle.
He should feel hatred for de Gobignon, but all he felt was a numb
despair.
His few remaining men crowded against him, forcing him to fall back. He
rode back toward Benevento, away from the triumphant army of Gobignon,
crushed with sorrow. The Sons of the Falcon, the force he had taken a
year to build, had been destroyed in a flicker of time, as if the earth
had opened and swallowed them.
* * * * *
Lorenzo wept and cursed himself for being too late to warn Daoud before
the French attacked. He stood on the edge of the field, holding his
horse's reins in one hand and his crossbow in the other, watching the
French knights sweep across the valley from east to west, trampling
everyone in their path. Through his tears he saw the purple and gold
banner of Gobignon fluttering against the cold blue-and-white sky.
_Simon de Gobignon. If only we had killed him in Orvieto._
All about him, men rode and ran and fought. Singly and in twos and
threes, horses without riders ran wildly this way and that. He wondered
if Daoud was still alive. What had happened to King Manfred and the
other Hohenstaufen leaders? Charles d'Anjou still occupied his hill at
the north end of the valley. Almost overwhelmed at the moment help
arrived, he had never moved.
There were fewer and fewer of Manfred's men in sight, and more of
Charles's with their accursed red crosses.
A line of about a dozen horsemen was coming toward him at a walk. Most
of them wore crosses, but they looked like neither French knights nor
their Guelfo allies. Lorenzo rubbed his eyes to clear his vision of
tears and took a harder look. Two men rode in the center wearing
bowl-shaped steel helmets and gleaming gray mail shirts without
surcoats. They held short, heavy bows in their hands. The brims of their
helmets shaded their faces, but Lorenzo could tell that their skin was
browner than any Frank's or Italian's.
The men flanking them on either side wore conical helmets and what
seemed to be leather breastplates and carried long, curving sabers. Bows
were slung over their shoulders. One man on the right end of the line
was dressed in a steel cuirass.
Lorenzo realized that he was seeing the Tartars and their Armenian
bodyguards. And the man with the steel breastplate was Sordello. At the
sight of the old bravo, Lorenzo felt fury boiling in him. Back in
Orvieto, that man had deserted Daoud and him. Despite that, Daoud had
sent him money through Ugolini in Perugia and Viterbo, and Sordello had
sent them snippets of information. But Lorenzo had privately vowed that
the next time he saw Sordello he would squash him like a bedbug. And now
he appeared again, just after Simon de Gobignon smashed Daoud's final
hope of victory.
The Tartars talked and gestured to each other, surveying the
battlefield. Their attention and that of their guards was on a melee
that was rolling rapidly toward them. A boiling mass of horsemen, the
survivors of Daoud's Sons of the Falcon battling with the vanguard of
the Frankish knights, was struggling its way to the western side of the
valley.
Partly hidden from the approaching Tartars by his horse, Lorenzo readied
his crossbow. He hooked the bowstring to his belt and put his right foot
in the stirrup in front of the bow. He kicked out sharply, straightening
his right leg, and the bowstring snapped into place behind the catch. It
would be a pleasure to kill Sordello, but his first duty was to kill the
Tartars. And thus he would pay the French back for Daoud's defeat. This
would be much more satisfying than leaving poisoned wine in their tent.
He raised the bow, loaded a bolt, and stepped out into the Tartars'
path.
"You little monsters!" he shouted. The younger Tartar, Philip, brought
his head up, giving Lorenzo an even better shot. Lorenzo depressed the
catch, and the bolt smashed into the center of Philip's chest, right
through the mail shirt. His eyes huge, Philip fell out of the saddle.
His frightened horse galloped away.
Lorenzo ducked back and bent to draw his bow. A moment later something
hit the side of his horse and the animal gave an agonized whinny and
fell to its knees. By that time Lorenzo had his bow cocked and loaded
again. He rose up from behind his dying horse.
John was just drawing his bow for a second shot.
"For Rachel!" Lorenzo called, and shot John in the same place he had hit
Philip, the center of the chest. The force of the bolt knocked John
backward.
John toppled from his horse and slid to the ground. He cried out some
words in his Tartar language, shivered, and lay still.
Lorenzo stood a moment, breathing heavily. He felt the satisfaction of a
man who has done a hard job that he had long wanted to complete. There
was no satisfied blood-lust, no gloating over vengeance achieved. It was
just the good feeling of an archer whose arrows had gone true.
"Kill him!" Sordello shouted.
The Armenians and Sordello thundered down upon him. Lorenzo set the
crossbow stirrup on the ground and put his foot into it, but he knew he
would not have time for another shot. He tensed himself for the bite of
those saber blades into his unarmored body.
Then, like a curtain, the fleeing remnant of the Sons of the Falcon and
the French knights in pursuit on their gigantic horses swept between
Lorenzo and the Tartars' guards. Still clutching the crossbow, he ran.
A bay Arabian horse, riderless, its eyes rolling in frenzy, galloped
toward him. Lorenzo threw down the crossbow and sprang into the animal's
path, spreading his arms wide. The horse tried to dodge around him, but
Lorenzo grabbed the reins, dug his heels in and jerked the horse to a
stop. He spoke soothingly and rubbed its head, and when it was calm
enough, he scooped up his weapon and heaved himself into the saddle.
He felt a grim satisfaction at having killed the Tartars. But it was too
late, and not enough. Daoud's brave attempt to finish Charles had been
smashed, and the battle was all but lost.
He must get back to Rachel and Friar Mathieu. If, out of this tragedy,
he could rescue Rachel, that at least would be something.
* * * * *
Striking right and left with his saif, Daoud hammered on lifted shields,
on mailed arms, on helmets, on longswords. Few of his blows did damage,
but they forced a way for himself and his horse through the ring of
Frenchmen surrounding Manfred's defenders. Mustached faces, blind with
fury, thrust themselves at him, and he struck at them with fist and
shield and sword. He drove his horse into a narrow space between the
rumps of two huge destriers, pushed them apart like Samson bringing down
the temple of the Philistines, and was facing one of his own Sons of the
Falcon, a dark-skinned man with blood and dirt smeared over his black
beard.
"Ahmad! Make way for me."
"My Lord. I thought you were dead." Ahmad nudged his horse to one side,
enough to let Daoud through, and then with his lance drove back the
French knight who tried to follow him.
Past Ahmad, Daoud looked about and saw that Manfred's surviving warriors
had formed a large, irregular ring, facing an ever-increasing press of
crusaders. More of Manfred's followers were crowded inside the circle.
He saw some men move out and join those fighting the French while others
fell back and took a brief respite. Many dead men lay on the ground, and
many wounded who were too badly hurt to stand. The wounded who remained
on their feet were still fighting.
Daoud saw with a pang of sorrow that there among the dead lay Erhard
Barth, the landgrave. At least Manfred's marshal had died fighting for
his master and would not have to live with the memory of defeat.
The trampled brown earth within this ring was all that was left of the
Hohenstaufen kingdom. Daoud's anger was deep and weary, at himself for
failing and at the fate that had destroyed his hopes today. This
morning, he thought, he had imagined himself feeling like Baibars at the
Well of Goliath. Now he knew how Ket Bogha must have felt.
_Why does God test us so heavily?_
He looked for the green-plumed helmet he had seen from a distance,
telling him Manfred was here. There it was, in the midst of a ring of
knights with tattered cloaks and surcoats--Manfred's young poets and
musicians. It made Daoud's heavy heart feel a little lighter to see that
they had stuck by their king. He steered his horse over to Manfred.
"Emir Daoud! And still on your horse." The face under the bronzed helmet
was red and shiny with sweat. Manfred's expression and voice were
cheerful, but Daoud saw a deep, haunting anguish in his eyes.
"This is my fourth horse of the day, Sire." Daoud climbed down and bent
his knee to press Manfred's mail-gloved hand against his forehead.
"I had heard you were killed."
"That new French army that came at noon overran us." No need to tell
Manfred, if he did not know, how close they had come to winning. "Sire,
we have enough horses and men to break out of here."
Manfred shook his head. "Nothing is left for me except to decide how the
minnesingers will remember me after this day. To fall in battle will be
far better, surely, than whatever shameful end Charles d'Anjou might be
planning for me."
"But you need not fall into Anjou's hands," Daoud insisted.
"There is nowhere for me to escape to," said Manfred. "I have lost all
my fighting men. All my kingdom lies open to Charles."
"Sultan Baibars would receive you as a revered guest. Or the Emperor of
Constantinople."
_And we could take Sophia there with us._
Manfred shook his head with a rueful smile. "I would be honored to eat
your sultan's bread and salt. Or to visit that wonderful city,
Constantinople. But I do not want to see the shambles Anjou makes of
this land my father and I labored so many years to make beautiful.
And--I have been a king, and I do not want to end my life as an exile."
_But we are all exiles_, Daoud thought.
Manfred continued. "I thank you for all your help, Daoud. You must get
away while you still have a chance."
Tears burning his eyes, Daoud saw that the little space Manfred's men
defended had shrunk even as they spoke. He thought of Sophia, waiting
for him in Benevento. He thought of El Kahira, of Blossoming Reed, of
going before Baibars and telling him he had failed to stop the alliance
of Tartars and Christians.
He would never see any of them again.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment he sat in the Gray Mosque and heard
the voice of Sheikh Saadi.
_The Warrior of God is known, not by his willingness to kill, but by his
willingness to die. He is a man who would give his life for his
friends._
He looked again at the short, smiling man before him and said, "I will
stay with you."
Manfred put out a hand. "Daoud, you owe me no blood loyalty. I do not
ask you to die in my company."
"And yet, but for my advice, you might not be here today," Daoud said.
"I owe you that. I cannot leave you."
"Many of my own men already have."
"Then I must stay."