The Walls of Byzantium (53 page)

De Naillac had the long, unkempt hair and beard of the warrior monks from Rhodes and a reputation for common sense. ‘I fear that here we see reason supplanted by some strange idea of honour, but I cannot see we have much choice. However, with your highnesses’ permission, I will hold my knights back with the Hungarian main army. We may be needed later, I fear.’ He looked at d’Eu. ‘We of the Cross are less impeded by honour.’

D’Eu coloured and said to de Nevers, ‘Sire, the Hospitallers must be their own masters, but now we have it clear. The knights will charge.’

He turned to the rest of the men in the tent and threw down his goblet. ‘You have heard the decision!’ he shouted. ‘Forward in the name of God and St George; today you shall see me a valorous knight!’

Luke saw the man lift his helmet and turn to leave the tent. He saw the stricken face of the Admiral de Vienne, who would guard the standard that day, and he heard him say quietly to de Coucy, ‘When truth and reason cannot be heard, then must arrogance rule.’

De Nevers had risen to his feet. He was flushed and reached
for his sword and helmet, which lay on the table beside the map. Sigismund approached him.

‘Comte, my army is not yet ready to advance.’

De Nevers turned to him. There was something wild in his eyes. ‘Then you must get them ready quickly, my lord of Hungary,’ he said. ‘The glory of our Christian knights must wait on nothing!’ His young face was aglow with excitement. He raised a mailed hand as he walked to the tent door. ‘For God and St George!’

Luke was left with Sigismund, Mircea and de Naillac. Sigismund turned to him.

‘You said you were Greek yet you seem to speak Latin. You are educated but can you fight?’

Luke felt a surge of pride. ‘I am a Varangian, lord.’

The effect was less than he’d hoped for.

‘Ah, I’d wanted a rider.’

Luke drew himself up. ‘I am a Varangian who rides. In fact I ride very well.’

‘An educated Varangian that rides.’ The King smiled. ‘A wondrous combination.’ He put his hand on Luke’s shoulder. ‘Varangian, I want you to follow this French army in its charge. I want you to ride behind them and, when they are engaged, come back with the news to me. I will be bringing up my army as fast as I can.’

Luke nodded.

‘You will need an escort.’

Luke considered this quickly. ‘Highness, there are other Varangians with one of these armies. Three of them, recently joined.’

‘Yes, they are with me,’ said de Naillac. ‘What of them?’

‘They are my friends, lord,’ said Luke. ‘Since childhood. I would trust none more.’

‘Then you shall have them,’ said Sigismund. ‘Now go and find your friends and join the knights. And remember: stay alive. You are my eyes.’

Outside, all was commotion in the ranks of the French knights, with pages tightening girths and leading destriers to masters throwing back last beakers of wine before donning their helmets. The stench of defecation, human and animal, was overpowering. There were shouts of encouragement and forced jollity and curses as horse collided with horse, and a cheer went up as the red oriflamme of France was raised. Another, louder cheer accompanied the raising of the saltire of Burgundy and there was general tumult as de Vienne’s men hoisted the flag of the Virgin. D’Eu, who was to lead the first battle, was already in the saddle and cantering up and down the front rank, brandishing his sword in the air as he yelled orders.

De Naillac led Luke down the side of the ranks until they came to a gap separating them from the second battle which was to be led by de Nevers. Luke could see the green hauberks and banners of the Burgundy household knights and men-atarms who would surround the young Prince in the battle to come.

At the back of the second battle, they found the Hospitallers. Dressed in their white surcoats, they wore no other adornments and there were no pennants atop their lances. They held their helmets, square in the old-fashioned style, before them on their perfectly still saddles and the faces above the long beards were serious. Behind them, dressed in Varangian blue and with their axes slung at their saddles, were Luke’s friends.

‘Matthew, Arcadius, Nikko!’ he yelled.

Three heads turned and three faces lit up in delight.

Then there were embraces and jokes and laughter quite out of keeping with the Hospitaller tradition, and many, many questions, which Luke cut short.

‘We can talk later,’ he said and gestured to de Naillac, who was standing behind him, smiling. ‘The Grand Master is to give me a mount and some arms and then we are to ride out together. I will explain on the way.’

The horse was brought, then a sword without a dragon head for its pommel and an axe with two blades, and soon Luke was on his horse and cantering down the side of the two battles with his three companions. They reached a point where they were between the two armies and Luke could see how far the Hungarians had come in their preparations.

They were not ready. Not nearly ready.

He saw Sigismund in front of the horse archers shouting orders and men riding to the rear. The King turned in his saddle and waved. He looked worried.

Behind Luke, someone laughed.

‘Friend of kings now, Luke?’ said Nikolas. ‘Does the Pope write to you too?’

By now, the French front rank was beginning to move. It was as if the four of them were standing at the edge of a beach and some Flemish dyer had thrown all his colours into the surf. Beneath a thousand bright banners, the whole line surged forward with d’Eu at its head roaring, ‘
Saint Denis et Montjoie!
’ This army had boasted that it could hold up the heavens with its lances and it seemed that it almost could. Luke could see the Admiral and his knights raise the Virgin higher still and the shout that went up was deafening.

Luke turned to his friends. ‘We are to follow the charge,’ he bellowed, ‘but not engage with the enemy. Hungary will be
bringing up his infantry behind and we need to ride back to tell him what’s going on.’

‘Tell that to our horses!’ yelled Nikolas.

The second battle was passing them now, with de Nevers standing in his stirrups and turning to left and right, his sword weaving circles in the air. He was shouting something Luke couldn’t hear and his eyes were alight beneath the raised beak of his visor. Rank after rank trotted past and the destriers tossed their armoured heads and bit at their neighbours as they jostled for space and the ground shook with their passing.

Then they were ahead and the four Varangians fell in behind, keeping good distance between them and the last rank.

Luke knew how such a charge should go. His father had told him how the Templar knights had done it in the desert when they’d scattered the forces of Saladin. The trick was to start slow, the riders keeping rank knee to knee, to advance in close formation so that the whole line struck the enemy together. Only in the final moments of the charge would the horses be spurred into a gallop so that the impact would be overwhelming.

But this didn’t seem to be happening. The horses ahead of them were moving too fast too soon. They had at least a mile to travel and would be exhausted by the time they met the Turks. And what of the Hungarians? How would their foot soldiers keep up?

Luke looked over his shoulder. The Hungarians were still forming up and it would be some time before they were even ready to march. He swore beneath his breath and kicked his horse towards the knights in front.

Slow down, damn you. Slow down!

Up ahead, the chivalry of Europe was enjoying the ride. The ground was even and sloped gently away towards trees in the
distance beyond which stood the infidel. The distance was great but it was closing fast and although the sun was now high in the sky, the heat was bearable so long as their visors remained open.

But some older and wiser heads within the ranks began to worry.

‘Hold, d’Eu, damn you!’ yelled de Coucy. He looked around him and saw the rest of the front line was made up of young knights who were as inexperienced as they were out of control. It was a stag hunt not a cavalry charge. How would these men face their first Ottoman arrows?

Now they had reached the wood and were passing amongst trees that were well spaced so that the momentum of the charge was not lessened. The young knights hacked at branches as they passed with screams of joy as if they were already amongst the Turks.

‘Conserve your strength,’ bellowed de Coucy.

Then they were out of the trees and, one by one, the shouts faded and the horses pulled up.

Ahead of them was a deep ravine with what looked like thick undergrowth at the bottom of it. On the other side, a hill rose sharply and on it were the akinci horsemen, wave upon wave of them, with an arrow on every bowstring.

A ravine. A ravine and a hill. A wet hill to charge up when they’d already cantered for over a mile.

The riders behind them came up and horses collided and shouts turned into curses.

But d’Eu rounded on them. ‘What are you waiting for? Look at them! They’re unarmoured peasants! Kill them!’ So saying, he shut his visor with a sound that echoed through the trees. ‘
Saint Denis et Montjoie!
’ he shouted again and spurred his horse into the ravine.

Then all the visors came down in a ripple of steel and the battle cry went up and passed from rider to rider. The front rank followed d’Eu down into the undergrowth of the ravine, hacking at low bushes as their horses stumbled their way through. Then the hill was before them and the akincis were riding forward at the gallop and shrieking their terrible war cries. The knights of the front rank now couched their lances and kicked and kicked at their horses, horses that were tired and hating this new, steeper ground, which was slick with mud from the night’s rain. But their hooves eventually gained traction and the knights gathered some speed and began their long charge up the hill.

The akincis were coming down fast, expertly controlling their wiry horses with their knees as they aimed their bows. Then there was the sound of thousands of bowstrings unleashed. The arrows came low, not aimed at the knights but at their horses’ chests, which were padded, not armoured, and were exposed by the gradient of the hill. Scores of horses fell and their riders fell with them, pinned beneath their bodies. The knights behind, part-blinded by their visors, crashed into those in front and men were pitched forward to land in agony on the ground. Some picked themselves up only to be cut down by arrows fired at point-blank range.

It was carnage and some of the knights at the front wavered. But men of more experience were coming up behind, men who knew that Milanese armour could withstand all but the closest Turkish arrow, and these men rallied them and helped those that could remount.

D’Eu was unharmed and still in front and was driving his heels into the sides of his horse whose white eyes rolled either side of its armoured nose. His sword had been replaced by a
mace and he swung savagely at an akinci who dared ride too close, and the crack of the man’s skull was loud and gave heart to those around him.

‘Follow me!’ he screamed as he brought another Turk crashing to the ground.

The akincis were backing off now. They had done what damage they could and knew they were no match for these knights in close combat. They turned their horses and fired arrows behind them as they galloped away up the hill and the crusaders resumed their charge, heartened by the fleeing enemy.

But as the akincis dispersed, they did so out to the flanks and d’Eu could now see for himself how accurate Luke’s warning had been. Row upon row of sharpened stakes faced them fifty paces to their front, and behind them stood the serried and silent ranks of the janissary archers.

On a command, the archers released a storm of arrows, but this time high into the sky so that they fell on the knights like hail. The sound of metal on metal was deafening and the knights lowered their heads and those that bore shields raised them in cover. The arrows did not penetrate their armour but they hit and maddened the horses, which twisted and reared and tried to turn away. More knights fell to the ground, their armour too heavy for them to dodge the hooves that thrashed above them.

D’Eu was still in front and next to him was the knight with the oriflamme. He leant over and wrenched the banner away and lifted it high, swinging it in circles. He turned to the knights behind, raising his visor as he did so. ‘Who will ride with me?’ he yelled. ‘Who will join me in these Turkish ranks? Who will help me kill these heathen scum?’

Arrows were falling all around him but he seemed immune.
His courage was contagious and another cry went up and the whole line moved forward. De Nevers was now well ahead of his battle and his household knights were still with him, some unhorsed. He raised his visor. ‘I’m with you, d’Eu!’

Then there was a sound from their flank. It was a single trumpet blast and de Nevers turned towards it and his face changed.

Charging down the hill towards them, in perfect formation, were the sipahis of Rumelia and at their head was Prince Suleyman. These were not the undisciplined horsemen of the akincis. These were heavily armoured cavalry who charged as the crusaders should have charged. They were knee to knee and their lances were lowered and there were thousands of them.

Then a second trumpet sounded from the other side and de Nevers spun round to see more sipahis charging from their right. At their head was the Sultan’s second son, Prince Mehmed.

And the protection that the crusaders should have had from the Hungarian horse archers was far, far behind.

The knights on the flanks turned their horses to meet this new threat, dropping their lances to the ground and unsheathing their swords. They were still the flower of Christendom and more than a match for these vermin.

‘To me!’ shrieked de Nevers as he wheeled his horse. ‘Stand with me!’

The sipahis hit them on both sides, their lances lifting men from their saddles. They smashed into the Christian ranks, slashing with their scimitars to left and right and bringing knights down in droves. Screams of agony filled the air as the ground became strewn with fallen men and wet with their blood. The Admiral de Vienne was now holding the banner of
the Virgin and around him were the corpses of others that had held it before. He thrust it aloft.