Lions of the Grail: a gripping medieval adventure featuring an Irish Knight Templar

By Tim Hodkinson

PREORDER SWORD OF THE WAR GOD, THE EXCITING NEW HISTORICAL EPIC FROM TIM HODKINSON, NOW!

First in an adventure-filled historical series following Irish Knight Templar, Richard Savage, as he is forced to spy on his homeland for the King of England.

1315 AD. Ireland and England are ravaged by bitter war. Rotting in an English prison, condemned as a heretic, Irish Knight Templar Richard Savage is given one chance of reprieve. But there is a catch. He must return to Ireland as a traitor, and work as a spy there for the King of England.

Savage returns to his homeland, but even here he can trust no one. He soon discovers the Scots intend to invade and someone in Ireland is helping them. The King of Scotland also claims to possess a mysterious holy treasure, and many are flocking to his cause. And what's more, Savage discovers he left more than just memories behind in Ireland...

Amid feasts, tournaments, invasion and war, can Savage decide whose side he is really on, discover whether this holy relic is real and, above all, stay alive?

REVIEWS FOR TIM HODKINSON
'IReaders will be fascinated by the detailed descriptions of medieval life in all its filth and glory' HISTORICAL NOVELS REVIEW
'A brilliantly written historical adventure which will appeal to fans of Bernard Cornwell, George R.R. Martin, and especially Theodore Brun' HISTORICAL NOVEL SOCIETY
'A gripping action adventure like the sagas of old; and once finished, you just want to go back and read it all over again' MELISENDE'S LIBRARY
'An excellently written page-turner, with a feel for the period which invites you into the era and keeps you there' HISTORICAL WRITERS ASSOCIATION

READERS LOVE LIONS OF THE GRAIL:
'LOVED IT' 5* Review - Dennis, AMAZON REVIEWER
'Excellent read will read more by this author' 5* Review - Christine, AMAZON REVIEWER
'Totally brilliant... Can't wait for the next book' 5* Review - Ecobeech, AMAZON REVIEWER
'Fast paced lots of action. Recommended' 5* Review - Andrew, AMAZON REVIEWER

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Aug 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781801105460

Tim Hodkinson

Tim Hodkinson grew up in Northern Ireland where the rugged coast and call of the Atlantic ocean led to a lifelong fascination with Vikings and a degree in Medieval English and Old Norse Literature. Tim's more recent writing heroes include Ben Kane, Giles Kristian, Bernard Cornwell, George R.R. Martin and Lee Child. After several years in the USA, Tim has returned to Northern Ireland, where he lives with his wife and children. Follow Tim on @TimHodkinson and www.timhodkinson.blogspot.com

Book preview

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Also by Tim Hodkinson

Richard Savage series

Lions of the Grail

The Waste Land

The Whale Road Chronicles

Odin’s Game

The Raven Banner

The Wolf Hunt

The Serpent King

LIONS OF THE GRAIL

Tim Hodkinson

An Aries book

www.headofzeus.com

This edition first published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aries, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright © Tim Hodkinson, 2021

The moral right of Tim Hodkinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN (PB) 9781801105484

ISBN (E) 9781801105460

Cover design © Dan Mogford

Aries

c/o Head of Zeus

First Floor East

5–8 Hardwick Street

London EC1R 4RG

www.headofzeus.com

For Trudy, Emily, Clara and Alice

Contents

Welcome Page

Copyright

Dedication

Historical Note

Glossary

Map

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Part II

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Part III

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Author’s Note

About the Author

An Invitation from the Publisher

Historical Note

This book is the first in a series set during the Scottish invasion of Ireland in the Fourteenth Century, a conflict that was once described to me by a publisher as an obscure Irish war where everyone appears to be on the wrong side. When I heard that I just knew I had to write about it.

In 1314, Robert Bruce of Scotland defeated Edward II of England at the Battle of Bannockburn, ensuring the sovereignty of Scotland as a separate country. One year later Robert’s brother Edward took an army across the sea to invade Ireland, provoking a war that raged up and down the island for four years and continued despite the onset of one of the worst famines in European history. This is the backdrop to this novel and its successor in this series – The Waste Land.

Some of the characters in this work of fiction are based on real historical figures. While the Scots invasion of Ireland may be a bit of a historical backwater today, the players in that game were political heavy hitters. I will provide here a list of the main ones to give some context.

The Scots

Robert Bruce (Robert de Brus/Roibert a Briuis)

Robert Bruce probably needs no introduction. As the names listed above show, he was a man of mixed Anglo-Norman and Gaelic heritage. Through his mother’s side he is believed to have spent part of his early life being fostered among the Gaelic nobility of western Scotland or their cousins in the north of Ireland. On his father’s side he was related to many of the nobility of England. He began his career as a ‘young bachelor [knight] of King Edward’s Chamber’ and fought for King Edward I of England in what is now called the first wars of Scottish Independence. In 1302 he married Elizabeth, daughter of Richard de Burgh, the Earl of Ulster and staunch supporter of Edward I. By doing so he wrapped himself further into the web of allegiances and blood that crisscrossed the north channel at the time. Robert then decided, in his own words that he must join my own people and the nation in which I was born. Having himself crowned king of Scotland, he embarked on a long war which culminated in his decisive victory at Bannockburn in 1314.

Edward Bruce (Edward de Brus/Edubard a Briuis)

Edward Bruce was the Earl of Carrick, a lordship in south-west Scotland (not to be confused with Carrickfergus in Ireland). He was King Robert Bruce of Scotland’s younger brother and supported his brother in the Scottish Wars of Independence. In 1315, one year after the Scots defeated the English at the battle of Bannockburn, Edward invaded Ireland at the head of an army. Within a year he had taken half the island and had himself crowned King of Ireland.

Syr (Sir) Neil Fleming

Fleming was a young Scottish knight and captain in Edward Bruce’s army in Ireland.

Tavish Dhu/Thomas Dun/‘Black Thomas’

Tavish was a notorious sea captain and pirate who terrorised the Irish Sea in the early 1300s. As the fledgling Scottish kingdom lacked a navy, in 1315 Robert Bruce hired Tavish to ferry his brother’s invading army across to Ireland.

The Irish

Richard Óg de Burgh

De Burgh was Earl of Ulster and Baron of Connaught. Known as the ‘Red Earl’ he was immensely rich and at one point ruled nearly half of Ireland. He played a key role in fighting against the Scots during the reign of Edward I of England (a personal friend) and his daughter was married to Robert Bruce (who at that time was nominally on the side of the English King). ‘Óg’ is another Irish title usually interpreted as ‘young’ and referring to the young age he became earl (twenty). At the time of this novel, he is in his fifties and at the height of his power in Ireland.

Thomas de Mandeville

De Mandeville was the Seneschal of Ulster. The role of seneschal – an official title in medieval government – in Irish realms was slightly broader than the usual administrative remit and de Mandeville spent most of his tenure acting as a military leader.

Henry de Thrapston

De Thrapston was keeper (or castellan) of Carrickfergus Castle. In medieval life, a castellan was responsible for the running of a castle, overseeing both the domestic staff and the military garrison.

John de Bermingham

The de Berminghams (known in Irish annals as the MacFeorais) were a powerful Anglo-Irish clan who were barons of Athenry. De Bermingham became Justiciar of Ireland, which meant he ruled the island in the name of the King of England. The Lordship of Ireland (Tiarnas na hÉireann) refers to the lands in Ireland ruled in the name of the King of England by the justiciar (now called the ‘lord lieutenant’). The lordship was created as a Papal possession following the Norman invasion of Ireland in 1169.

The English

Roger Mortimer

Baron Roger Mortimer was a very powerful English nobleman with ties to Ireland through marriage. At the time of this book, he was part of a small ruling cabal of nobles who effectively governed England.

Edward II (Plantagenet)

Edward II succeeded his father Edward ‘Longshanks’ to the throne of England in 1307. His reign was a troubled one and due to the defeat at the hands of Robert Bruce, the onset of the famine and behaviour generally regarded at the time as not suitable for a king, he became very unpopular and was forced to relinquish a lot of his power to his barons, including Mortimer.

Fictional characters

Of the fictional characters, many have some basis in historical fact. John Barbour, a poet sometimes referred to as the ‘Father of Scottish Poetry’, wrote an epic account of the life of Robert Bruce within living memory of some of the events described in this book. At one point he listed the names of the chiefs of the Ulster army fighting against Robert Bruce and some readers may recognise a few of the names:

‘Brynrane, Wedounne, Fitzwarryne,

And Schyr Paschall of Florentine,

That was a knycht of Lumbardy,

And was full of chewalry.

The Mawndweillis war thar alsua,

Besatis, Loganys, and other ma;

Savages als, and yeit was ane

Hat Schyr Nycholl of Kylkenane.’

Brinrans, Weddens, FitzWarins,

And Sir Paschal of Florence,

who was a knight from Lombardy,

full of chivalry.

The Mandevilles were there also,

Bysits, Logans, and other men;

Savages too, and one

named Sir Nichol of Kilkenny

Glossary

Some of the names of characters and places and terms that appear in Lions of the Grail may sound strange to modern ears. In order to help the reader, this glossary of some of the more frequent words has been provided, giving the word as it appears in the book and its modern equivalent.

Galloglaich: Gallowglass – a heavily armed Scots-Irish mercenary

Domnall: Donal

Ui Neill: O’Neill

Tyr Eoghan: Tyrone (roughly equivalent to the modern-day county Tyrone)

Ceannaideach: Kennedy

MacHuylin: McQuillan

Cladh Mor: Claymore

Vikingsford: Larne Lough

Ui Flainn: O’Flynn

Syr: Sir

Le Poer: Powers

Aengus: Angus

Seneschal: A medieval position part judicial and part military. The Seneschal had to keep the peace and defend a district in the name of the earl and through him, the king.

Béal Feirste: Belfast

Hobyny: A small, highly agile Irish cavalry horse. The lightly armoured skirmishers who rode hobynys were called Hobelars. Hobynys proved so effective in war that King Edward II at one point banned their export from Ireland. They are thought to be the ancestor of the modern Connemara pony and the term Hobby Horse.

Map

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Part I

"Ghazan the King of the Tartars is now on the point of sending his vast army into the Sultan's lands to make war. Knowing this, we now intend to go to…Tortosa and cause much damage to the Saracens. We intend to go there and settle in to await the arrival of the Tartars."

— Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, in a letter to the king of Aragon, AD 1301

1

AD 1302

Tortosa,

former fortress of the Knights Templar,

Coast of Syria

Richard Savage wiped the sweat from his brow for what seemed like the thousandth time that day. Despite the perspiration running into them, his eyes felt as hot and dry as the sand around him. He blinked, trying to dispel the stinging sensation as he peered into the distance, squinting against the glare of the blazing sun. He could see the approaching dust cloud for definite now and hoped it did not signal approaching death.

Savage turned towards a nearby two storey, clay-built house that was the same light brown colour as the sandy countryside. He looked up to the flat roof where a black clad Templar sergeant stood on watch. He too was watching the approaching dust.

‘Can you make anything out?’ Savage said.

The sergeant, still peering intently into the distance, shook his head.

‘Not much,’ he said. ‘They’re kicking up so much dust. There are a lot of them that’s for sure. I don’t like it.’

Savage wondered just what ‘a lot’ meant. His orders were to guard this little road into the fortress of Tortosa. The two Templar knights, eight sergeants and ten turcopoles that made up the little force Savage was part of had already repulsed two attacks by cavalry skirmishers sent to probe the Crusader defences. Those had been bands of seven or eight light-armoured horsemen and easily sent running back into the desert.

Sooner or later, however, the whole Mameluk army would come charging down that road. What would Savage and his comrades do then?

He looked once more at the corpse of the boy that lay in the dust a little way down the road. The child’s blood had congealed to a sticky black puddle around him and flies were clouding above it. The little boy’s open, staring eyes were dark, like ripe hazelnuts. Savage could swear that no matter where he stood, they still looked at him, dead and unmoving but full of accusation. Savage longed to walk over and close the child’s eyelids but he knew to do so would provoke the wrath of brother Gui.

Savage had expected the discomfort of the heat and dust and the constant threat of imminent danger from deadly enemies on this expedition, which was his first taste of real action as a Poor Knight of Christ and the Temple of Soloman, a Templar. The last thing he had expected was that what would worry him most would be one of his own brethren.

‘Let the heathen bastard go to hell with his eyes open,’ Gui had roared. ‘Let him see his damnation coming as he descends into the mouth of Satan.’

What the boy had been up to, Savage had no idea. None of them did. He had appeared earlier in the morning, shepherding some goats up the road towards the castle. Whether he was there by accident or design no one knew. The old fortress sitting where the desert met the impossible blue of the Mediterranean Sea had been abandoned eleven years before when what was left of the once mighty forces of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, along with the Templars, Hospitallers and other military orders had withdrawn from their last strongholds in the Holy Land to Cyprus. Apart from a glorious twenty-one days two years before when the Templars had briefly but ultimately unsuccessfully reoccupied it, Tortosa had been empty ever since.

Savage guessed that the cool shade thrown by its stone walls and empty buildings provided the boy welcome relief from the scorching sun during days spent tending his family’s goats. He probably came there often.

Except today he came and found it was no longer empty. The Christians were back.

Savage felt enormous pride that his first action as a new Templar was on the start of a new Crusade. A week ago he had set sail from Cyprus on one of the sixteen new war galleys of the Templar fleet, loaded with knights, sergeants and auxiliaries of the Templars, Hospitallers and forces of King Henry of Jerusalem. The Grand Master of the Order of the Temple, Jacques de Molay himself, was onboard with them to personally lead the adventure. They had descended on the coast of the Holy Land like vengeful locusts, raiding Rosetta, Alexandria and Acre, places Savage had only heard about in chansons de geste and other heroic songs about the crusades.

With his own feet on the same land that Jesus himself had once walked upon, the words of the old crusading song, the Palästinalied, meant so much more to him now.

For the first time in my life, I am alive to myself,

Now my sinful eyes behold the Holy Land,

I have won what has been my lifelong prayer:

I am in the country where

God in human form did fare.

Now they had come to Tortosa, not to hit and run like Vikings but to dig in and re-fortify. This Templar fortress had been the very last foothold of the Christians in the Holy Land. Now it would be the bridgehead, the tête de pont, for their reconquest of it.

This time they would win, too. Their leaders had found common cause against the Saracens with the Great Khan of the Tartars, Ghazan. His armies would sweep south from Armenia while the Crusaders attacked from the western sea. The Saracen army would be caught and smashed between them like a nut between hammer and anvil. The Crusaders would then march on to victory. Finally, they would retake the holy city of Jerusalem itself.

Savage glanced at the dead child again, a nagging voice inside his heart wondering how many more innocents would die before they walked through those hallowed gates.

The boy looked about eight winters old: Too young to have ever seen crusaders in the flesh. Someone though, had taught him to hate and fear them. The mere sight of the red, equal-armed crosses on the white surcoats of the two knights, Brothers Gui and Savage, and on the black robes of the sergeants, was enough to make the lad hiss and spit like a cat. As Savage walked towards him, he had begun shouting in a language whose words Savage did not understand but whose angry cursing portent was clear.

The boy had turned to flee but Savage, despite the weight of his mail, was fast and had longer legs. He had grabbed the boy by the arm and hauled him kicking and screaming back towards their defences. Savage knew he could not let the boy go running off to tell his friends and family how many Christians defended the fort, but if he was being honest, he had no clear idea what he was going to do with the lad.

Brother Gui had no such doubts.

‘What are you doing Savage?’ the older Templar said, sword drawn, as he wrenched the boy away from Savage’s grasp. ‘This is a heathen Saracen. An imp of the devil!’

‘He’s just a child,’ Savage said.

‘You were not there when Acre fell, lad,’ Gui said, his voice hoarse and cracking. ‘You did not see what his kind did to us. I did. I was there. I saw Saracens rip unborn babies from the bellies of Christian women and dash them to pieces on the stones. I saw them rape and murder the women. I saw them behead our brethren, despite promising safe passage. God blessed me with witnessing all that horror so it would strengthen my arm when I have to do his work.’

Gui’s eyes were bright and held a faraway look in them that unnerved Savage. His breathing was heavy as if he had been running, even though he stood still. His teeth were clenched. Savage, eighteen winters old and in his first year as a knight of the Temple, was much too young to have fought in the last days of the defence of Acre. He now judged himself lucky. Whatever sights Gui had witnessed there had clearly injured his mind and darkened his heart.

‘Deus Vult,’ Gui said. His voice was now calm and even as he pulled the blade of his sword across the boy’s throat, opening the soft flesh and unleashing a torrent of bright red blood. The boy’s eyes widened in shock and fear. He tried to cry out but his windpipe was severed. He managed only a wheeze as his small hands clutched at his open throat as if trying to catch the warm life blood that gushed out of the wound.

‘God wills it,’ Gui said, translating the Latin battle cry of the crusaders into his native French, as he cast the child away from him like a dirty rag to finish dying in the dust of the road.

Brother Gui was now on his knees on the other side of the road. His eyes were closed, lips moving silently. Whether he was talking to himself or God Savage had no idea. The older knight’s gauntleted hands were clutched over the hilt of his sword. He had planted the weapon before him, point of the blade driven into the dust, so it stood like a crucifix.

Savage knew that beneath those leather gauntlets Gui’s hands were a horrible mess of caked blood and puss. Two nights ago, as their galley had approached the harbour of Tortosa, Savage had seen Gui drive the blade of his knife through his own palms, imitating the wounds Christ had suffered on the cross. Now those wounds were suppurating in the heat but if this was causing Gui pain or discomfort, the older Templar showed no sign.

‘Oh dear Lord,’ the sergeant on the roof exclaimed. ‘I can see them now.’

Savage ran across the road. He pounded up the stairs that ran up the side wall of the house to the flat roof to join the sergeant. The man was a grizzled veteran of the wars in the East, a soldier who had spent decades fighting the Saracens. Savage felt uncomfortable being set in command of such men, knowing they must look on him as an untried youth who owed his rank over them to the privilege of noble birth rather than ability.

The experience of the man also meant the look of concern on his face was even more worrying.

He pointed out towards the desert. Savage squinted against the blazing sun. The road they guarded led downhill from the castle which sat on a headland, to a clump of trees that flourished around a rare well that provided an oasis in the barren landscape. Beyond that the road led on inland into the barren rocks and sand of the desert.

At first Savage thought that he was looking at the strange trick of the light he had learned happened under the blazing sunshine in this harsh land, where it could appear that water shimmered in the distance. Then he realised this was no mirage. What he was looking at was the sun glinting on countless polished helmets, shields, sword blades and mail. Rank upon rank of warriors were approaching across the desert.

The Army of Babylon, the Mameluks of the Caliph of Cairo was coming, with a force large enough to sweep the crusaders right back into the sea.

‘There’s too many of them for us to deal with,’ the sergeant said. ‘We need to fall back to the castle.’

Then Savage spotted the horsemen riding up from the trees around the oasis and realised there was no time for anything else but fighting.

2

‘Those riders will storm the gates of the castle. They’ll take it by surprise,’ the sergeant said. ‘Then they’ll try to hold it while the rest of their army arrives.’

Savage swallowed hard, trying to dispel the knot of anxiety that had gathered in his throat. His heart felt like it was beating twice as fast as normal.

‘Well, that’s what we’re here to stop happening,’ he said. He laid a forefinger on the chest of the sergeant to emphasise his next words. ‘Brother Guillem: run to the castle. Warn them the Saracens are coming. The rest of us will take care of their advance party but then we’ll be coming after you. Tell our brethren in Tortosa not to bar the gates until we arrive.’

The sergeant, a look of gratitude mixed with relief on his face, nodded and left the roof, running up the hill towards the stark walls of the fortress that brooded there, the flag of the Templars once more fluttering proudly from the top of the keep.

Savage frowned. Since they had arrived two days ago there had been three banners flying above the castle roof: the flag of the Templars, the flag of the Knights Hospitaller and the flag of King Henry of Jerusalem. Now only the black and white battle standard of the Templars, the Beauceant, danced in the hot desert wind. Where had the other two gone?

He had no time to wonder any further, however. The Saracen horsemen were not far away, pounding up the slope towards the crusaders’ meagre defensive line.

Savage charged down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. Thankfully there was no need to dress for battle for there was no time. They had all spent the last two days in their armour – leather hauberk and breeches, mail shirt and chausses over them and surcoats over all – but it was too hot to wear the great helm and Savage needed that and his shield before the Saracen horsemen reached them.

He crossed the dusty road to where these last pieces of his protection sat in the doorway of one of the empty, rectangular, clay-built houses. Savage slung the shield over his shoulder by its strap and placed the helm in the crook of his right arm.

‘Archers: Up there and there,’ he said, pointing at the rooftop he had run down from and one on the side of the road. Four of the turcopoles with bows split from the rest and dashed up onto the vantage points. The rest gathered with the sergeants to form a shield wall across the road.

Brother Gui looked positively delighted. For the first time since setting sail from Cyprus he had a smile on his face.

‘This is what we have trained for. This is what we have prayed for!’ the Frenchman said as Savage joined him. ‘Now we get to kill the heathens.’

‘What will we do?’ Savage said, deferring to the older knight.

‘We fight horsemen,’ Gui said. ‘So we get the sergeants and turcopoles to form a spear hedgehog. A schiltron as I believe you Scots call it.’

‘I’m Irish, not Scots,’ Savage said.

‘Is there a difference?’ Gui said, turning down the corners of his mouth. ‘You both speak French with a strange accent. You and I brother, will charge them. Get your horse.’

‘The two of us will charge the Saracen horsemen?’ Savage said. ‘There are at least twenty of them.’

‘You question my orders, brother?’ Gui said. ‘There is no time for lack of faith. Mount up. Rejoice. We ride into battle for the Lord.’

At Gui’s command the sergeants and turcopoles formed themselves into a tight circle in the middle of the road. They pointed their spears out above their shields all around, providing a spikey obstacle that horses would by instinct refuse to charge into. It was a sound tactic, Savage knew, as he hauled himself into the saddle of his horse, proven to work against cavalry. Most recently the Scots rebel William Wallace had used it to defeat an army of the King at Stirling Bridge.

Gui’s other proposal, the heavy armoured knights’ charge against superior odds, was usually a last resort. There had been occasions on the Crusades where it had resulted in a miraculous victory, but more often it proved to be suicidal.

Savage had no choice in the matter. The discipline of the order demanded Savage obey the command of his superior without question.

He pulled on the great, flat topped iron helm and his nose filled with the smell of leather, metal and sweat. His ears were muffled by the leather and linen interior padding and his world view shrank to what was visible through the slit in the front. The heat became oppressive, causing Savage to gasp in a couple of deep breaths to stop himself getting light-headed.

His lance stood stuck into the ground beside his horse. Savage pulled it up and set it under his right arm. He shifted his shield round into ready position, covering the left side of his body, then turned to face the enemy.

The Saracen horsemen were nearly on them, perhaps less than a hundred paces away. Gui was also now mounted and had donned his helm. Both knights trotted their mounts onto the road, meeting in front of the formation of spearmen.

‘Into glory ride, brother,’ Gui said, his voice sounding muffled and metallic from beneath his helm. ‘Deus Vult!’

There was no time for further thoughts or words. The time had come for battle.

‘Deus Vult,’ Savage said, digging his spurs into the flanks of his horse.

The Spanish stallion surged forwards. Savage braced his lance under his right arm. His left arm was through the handles on the back of his shield and the reins were grasped in his left hand. Both knights charged downhill into a gallop.

The Saracen riders were skirmishers. They had swords, helmets and shields but were otherwise clad for speed in leather, linen and silk and mounted on small, agile ponies. The narrowness of the road had made them bunch together as they rode pell-mell, desperate to make the gate of the castle before it was shut in their faces.

Savage realised that Gui’s idea to charge into them may not be such a forlorn hope after all. He and Gui were on heavy horses, charging downhill, the weight of their armour adding to their momentum. If anything was certain it was that they would do some damage.

The distance between them and the knights galloping downhill vanished in moments. Savage gritted his teeth. He aimed his lance, picking the middle one of the three lead riders coming at him.

The Templars and the Mameluk horsemen smashed into each other in a cacophony of clashing metal and the cries of startled horses. Savage felt his right shoulder jolt as his lance hit its mark. With the weight of man and horse behind it, the cruel iron lance head powered through the Saracen rider’s shield, pinning it to his body as it punched on through his chest and burst out of the man’s back in a shower of blood and torn entrails. He gave a strangled cry as he was propelled backwards out of his saddle and off his horse. As he hit the ground Savage rode on, wrenching his lance up, back out of his fallen opponent’s body. At the same time he ducked his head behind the shelter of his large shield.

The riders on his left and right swung at him with their wicked, curved swords. He felt his shield buck and his ears rung as a blow landed on the back of his helmet but he knew he was unharmed.

Gui smashed into the horsemen on Savage’s right. He too toppled one of them with his lance. Chaos was unleashed. The dismayed, frightened cries of the horses mingled with those of their riders and the impact of the two knights’ charge shattered their formation. The lead riders were split apart, their horses wheeling to try to escape the onslaught of the iron clad warriors coming at them. As they did so they collided with the next rank of horses coming behind them. Two fell over, spilling their riders into the dust and under the thrashing hooves that were all around. Their screams mixed with the crunch of their breaking bones and shattering helmets.

Gui’s lance was still embedded in the man he had unhorsed. He let it go and tore his sword from its sheath. Striking right, then left, he severed one horseman’s arm at the elbow and slashed another across his back.

Savage pushed on into the press of riders. He raised his lance to strike again but as he did so he saw the sun flash on the blade of one of the Saracen horsemen’s scimitar as it slashed down, severing the sharp iron head from the weapon. Savage found himself holding onto what was little more than a long wooden pole.

He swung it sideways like a baton. The lance shaft smashed across the face of the rider who had broken it, flattening his nose and sending him sideways off his horse. Savage had no time to draw his sword but drove his shield at the rider on his left as he went by. The shield thumped into the man but he stayed in the saddle.

Then Savage found himself with space around him. He and his horse had powered right through the Saracen’s formation, scattering them in every direction in the process, and come right out the other side. Gui emerged beside him.

Savage tossed his broken lance aside and drew his sword. He and Gui wheeled their mounts around and saw that their enemies were in complete disarray. Five of the twenty riders were on the ground, dead or dying and another two were still mounted but with wounds so serious they would take no more part in the fight.

The remaining Saracens still had their objective of getting to the gates, however. Despite their lack of formation, they kept on riding up the hill, ignoring the threat of the two knights who were now behind them.

With a whooping like the wingbeat of a swan, the turcopole archers on the roofs let their arrows fly. With grunts and startled cries three more of the horsemen went down, impaled by arrow shafts. The remaining ten horsemen tried to ride on but went straight into the sergeants’ spear array. Their horses bucked and reared, refusing to ride onto the sharp points that protruded all around from the formation.

The archers on the roof shot another volley, taking two more riders down. The remaining attackers realised their cause was lost. Turning their horses downhill again, they fled.

Gui and Savage tried to strike at them as they rode past but inflicted no more damage. Before long the Mameluk riders had retreated on down the road, back to the trees around the oasis.

Savage trotted back up to the sergeant’s schiltron. He pulled his helm off, sucking in great chest-fulls of air, elated to be out of the stifling heat of the enclosing iron. His heart soared with the joy of victory and he was unable to stop the wide grin that spread across his face.

Gui joined them. He still wore his helm but Savage was sure that beneath it he too was smiling.

‘The Lord has granted us victory, brothers,’ Gui said. ‘Let us praise his holy mother, Mary and say the sacred words, Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere–’

‘Lords,’ one of the turcopole archers on the rooftop interrupted. ‘There’s more of them. They’re going to attack again.’

Savage whipped his head around. The trees around the oasis now thronged with warriors, their helmets and swords glinting in the sun. There were foot soldiers and cavalry. This was no small skirmishing force but the arrival of the Mameluk’s main army.

‘We need to fall back to the castle,’ Savage said to Gui. ‘We can’t fight that many men in the open but we can hold out against them behind the walls.’

‘What are you talking about, brother?’ Gui said. ‘This is a God-given chance. Very few are blessed with such an opportunity in their lifetimes yet you want to throw it away?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Savage said, his previous doubts about the older Templar’s state of mind returning.

‘The chance to become martyrs!’ Gui said. ‘To join the communion of saints in Heaven and sit on the right hand of the Lord. Come on lad. Let us embrace our sacred destiny.’

The Templar dug in his spurs and charged down the hill once again, sword brandished high, one man against hundreds. As he rode, Savage could hear the older knight bellowing out the words of the Palästinalied:

Christians, Jews, and heathens claim.

That this holy land is theirs.

God decides whose claim has merit

Justly, in His threefold name!

All the world is warring here, we see;

We Christians hold the rightful claim:

God will grant it rightfully.

Savage took a deep breath, preparing to follow his superior into certain death. He looked around. The turcopole archers had left the rooftops and were already running for the protection of the castle walls. The sergeants looked up at Savage with begging in their eyes. He could see they did not share Brother Gui’s thirst for a holy death.

Neither did he.

‘Back to the castle,’ Savage said.

He did not have to speak again. A moment later the sergeant’s schiltron formation dissolved and they were sprinting as hard as they could up the hill for the gates.

Savage spurred his horse and followed after them. Behind him in the distance he heard screams and the clash of arms as Brother Gui charged into the enemy. A pang of guilt stabbed through the shame that clouded his heart.

This soon disappeared, however, when he reached the fortified gate tower of the castle.

He could tell straight away that something was wrong.

3

‘Where are the rest of the guards?’ Savage said. ‘The Mameluk army is coming!’

He had ridden straight into the gate tower, expecting to be met by a swarm of defenders, but instead only two sergeants waited inside.

‘We’re pulling out,’ one of them said.

Savage gaped at the man in astonishment.

‘The Hospitallers are already all gone,’ the sergeant continued.

‘Traitors,’ Savage said through gritted teeth. He turned his head to the side and spat. ‘It’s true what they say: Never trust a Knight of the Hospital.’

‘There’s only a few of us brothers of the Temple left now,’ the sergeant said. ‘Our orders are that once your troop is back inside the castle, we’re to bar the gates, drop the portcullis then make for the harbour. If I were you, I’d do the same before all the ships are gone. I wouldn’t like to be left behind here when the Saracens break in.’

‘This can’t be right,’ Savage said, shaking his head.

He kicked his heels and rode on into the outer courtyard of the castle. It was deserted. He looked up at the keep of the castle and saw that all three flagpoles now stood bare. Even the war flag of the Templars was gone.

Behind him he heard the raised voices of the rest of his men as they ran into the gate tower. Then came the boom of the gate closing followed by a rattling of chains and the crash as the heavy portcullis – which had been repaired to working order by Templar artificers – dropped into place to seal the entrance. The sergeants then all poured out of the gate tower and peeled left, hurrying in the direction of the harbour which lay within the protective arms of the castle walls.

Savage rode in the opposite direction, through a gate in the second curtain wall into an inner courtyard. The clacking of his horse’s hooves on the flagstones below echoed ominously around the deserted towers. The castle stables sat on one side of the courtyard, up against the keep. The rest of the knights’ horses were gone, but the mound of still warm horse dung showed they had not left long ago.

A whinny made Savage turn and he saw a groom, a young lad of perhaps fourteen winters, leading what must have been the last remaining horse from a stable at the end. Savage rode over to him and swung himself out of the saddle.

‘Where are the rest of the horses?’ he said.

‘They’re either already left or waiting on the ships,’ the groom said. ‘This is the only one left.’

Savage felt bewilderment mixed with a sense of growing dread. His confusion was evident