He saw all this in the eyeblink it took to cover the twenty or so strides down the gentle slope, the garrons half-stumbling through the gripping-beast bracken, to plough into the centre of the milling mass of riders, a stone in the confused pool of it.
Hal rode close, almost belly to belly with the taller palfrey, which was wild-eyed and pawing the air. Hal backhanded the rider with a sweep of his shivering-crossed shield, cut across himself and missed, then was plunged on by the squealing, half-panicked garron he rode.
He reined it in viciously, trying to turn, saw Chirnside Rowan hook a serjeant out of the saddle while Nebless Sandie half-trampled, half-stabbed the luckless man with a furious flurry of blows. The knight with silver herons on his blue shield cut hard and savage and Nebless arched, howled and went off the garron like a half-filled sack of grain. Hal lost them in the sudden whirl of bodies, saw Jamie Douglas charge down on the head of the column, his face wild with mad delight – and then his world reeled.
The man who did it wore a new blue cloak and a feral snarl under a bristle of moustache, battering Hal’s bascinet with the wheel pommel of his sword while fighting to keep his horse facing front. Hal got his sword in the way of another cut, the bell clang of it loud even in the shriek and scream of the fight; the snarling-dog whirl of it broke them apart, then Blue Cloak surged back.
What did I ever do to him, Hal thought wildly, as the blows thundered on his shield, that he seeks me out?
Because he sees you as leader, he answered himself in the calm centre of the maelstrom within him. If you are downed, they win.
He flailed with the sword, stabbed, felt it hit, saw the grimace of pain that twisted the black moustache and felt a surge of triumph at that. He took a blow on his shield, another that whipped the ailettes off one shoulder, a third that cut a deep groove in the cantle of the saddle. The sweat rolled in his eyes, he slashed hard, saw the edge dent the arming cap and rattle Blue Cloak’s head sideways, saw the sudden limpness of the man as he fell away into the storm of hooves and mud.
‘Deus lo vult.’
The cry brought Hal’s head up briefly, as he fought for control of the garron, which just wanted to be away from this horror and was fighting the bit so hard he had to use both hands, awkward with sword and shield, to hold it steady. With the clear part of his blood-flushed head, he saw that Rossal de Bissot had timed it perfectly, waiting until the rear of the column had started to spur forward into the fight before launching his attack, bellowing the Templar warcry.
It was that which broke them – that and Malise. He had watched, stunned, as the riders fell on them, saw the shivering blue cross and knew who it was at once. There had been a long, long time of sitting, it seemed to him, watching the men on their little horses dart in with their long, vicious spears which seemed to include a hook and an axe as well. It was no longer than a few breaths, but he would have sat there forever, like a huddled rabbit, watching the slow curl and snarl of it – save for the cry.
Deus lo vult. It snapped him from the moment like a bell in a sleeping man’s ear. He heard himself whimper, his head full of all the vengeance that could be visited on him from the owners of both the shivering cross and the warcry – then he reined the palfrey round so that it screamed with the pain of the bit and spur and sped away like a gazehound on a scent.
Some serjeants saw him, which took their panic to the winking brim, then spilled it over; they hauled their own mounts round and spurred away after him; Hal saw them go, felt the sheer exultant relief, the shock of it. We have actually won this, he thought to himself.
Kirkpatrick loomed up at the plunging feathered feet of Hal’s garron. He had turned his back on a rider, seemed to be hauling on a rope like a man pulling on a heavy cart and he glanced up at Hal and grinned through the bloody bruise of his face.
Malenfaunt, fighting the horse, cutting furiously at speeding figures on little horses who would not stand still, suddenly felt himself flying backwards as the animal surged forward, hitting the ground so hard it drove the air from him. He knew, with a sudden stab of fear, thin and cold as a blade, that Kirkpatrick had hauled him from the saddle by the rope that bound them both.
‘Kirkpatrick,’ Hal yelled, grabbing the horse’s bridle. A maddened rouncey plunged, bucking, from a knotted tangle of war and the rider, shield and sword both gone, hung on with both hands until a vicious backhand swipe took him in the ribs and swept him from the saddle.
Sim Craw, his face like a wineskin of blood and streaming sweat, whirled a sword in one hand to flick the gore from it and forced his garron to Hal’s side scowling down at Kirkpatrick like a father on an awkward son.
‘Move yersel’,’ he growled.