Spoiler! :
Also, here's a rough explanation of the types of armour shown in this chapter.
Spoiler! :
Chapter 4
21st July 1204-La Tour De Sang
21st July 1204-La Tour De Sang
Roger awoke to the sound of horns outside. There was a voice shouting in Arabic which, after speaking, was followed by a tremendous roar of men and stomping of feet. He lay on his bed for a few moments, facing up at the lofty roof of the quarters, which could only be described as a hall, his hands rested on his padded gambeson. Rubbing his eyes he sat up. Looking around as his eyes began to focus he saw that all of the rest of the Templars were still asleep. He still could not grasp that they would soon all be prisoners.
After several more minutes of quiet contemplation he stood up with a stretch and staggered over to his chest, quietly opening it. He took out his mail vest and slipped in over his head. The weight, although not much, caused his knees to buckle for a few seconds as he adjusted to it. Over that he put on his mantle and ran his fingers over its Holy red cross. Red, just like blood. Commander Leveque had issued a message in the early hours of the morning ordering that all men left ‘De Sang’ fully armoured, out of both fear of the enemy and also in an attempt to retain some pride. As Roger ran his fingers over the cross his mind flickered back to the day he had left home to join the Temple. He had stood outside his family’s small street-side house just outside London, his mother desperately trying to hold back the tears, his father with his arm wrapped around her. He had not known why she was crying; the Temple didn’t seem that bad to him; just like an adventure waiting for him. Even fighting in the Holy Land had a strange, heroic appeal. But he didn’t know the cruel reality of it all.
Torn from his thoughts again by the horns and voices outside, he reached back into his chest. Taking out his mail coif he slipped it onto his head. His armour still stank of dry blood from the previous night, making his stomach turn again, reminding him how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten since the previous morning. Grabbing a slither of dried bread from a bag in his chest he quietly nibbled on it. Once he had finished he took a pair of mail Chausses and put them on his legs over the hose underneath. Standing up he straightened his back in an attempt to look more imposing. Although he was naturally quite small, this improved posture and made him look slightly more like the rest of the Templars. He would need it when they left to surrender to the Saracens.
……
Hans strolled through the dark, candle lit passageway; there were many tunnels like this carved underneath the fortress and this was one of the deepest. With his hand resting on the hilt of the longsword that hung around his waist a smirk played across his face and his eyes were cruel and calculating. Externally he looked calm, as if he had no qualms with his plan, yet underneath he was filled with doubt; their plan may fail. Either way he knew that they would likely be killed. Hans chuckled, dismissing those thoughts. But so would Robierre if they succeeded.
Lost in his thoughts he barely noticed the glow of fires from the doorway ahead. Stumbling into the dimly lit room his sense of awareness returned to him. Gazing up he counted nine knights; some stood in their own groups talking, others were waiting facing the doorway for Hans’ arrival.
‘Ah men’ begun Hans, the feeling of defiance and power growing in him, giving his voice even more authority, ‘I see that we are all present now. Good.’ All of the men had turned to face him now and stood either resting on their swords or on their large shields, each adorned with a large red cross. ‘You all know why we are here, you all know what we must do, and you all know the price that we will pay for this.’ Despite their ominous fate the men gathered around Hans showed no sign of fear or despair. Hans was pleased; he felt like that was due to him. His strength and confidence grew as the men looked at him with both respect and agreement. This respect was a stark contrast to his childhood; stunted with hatred from his father. Expectations, so many expectations. Even when Hans met them, it would still not be enough to satisfy his father. He had shown no emotion when he was told that his father had been killed. His father had been on a journey to Prague when he was attacked. It was said to be robbers. ‘Not much worth stealing there’ Hans had thought; the memory of the news bringing him back to the present.
Ever since the debate last night in Robierre’s quarters several men had come to him to voice their agreement. It was in the late hours of the night, whilst Hans had sat alone in one of the fort’s many towers that he had come up with this plan. As they were leaving ‘De Sang’ their group would draw their weapons and throw themselves at the Saracens, all with the exception of Hans; Robierre was his. He hoped that this attack on the Saracens would provoke them to slaughter all, if not many of the Templars leaving the fort. Although a hefty price it would ensure that the Temple would be swept clean of traitors. And it was one they were happy to pay. With a final nod Hans left the room, shortly followed by his men and headed towards the hall where the garrison were gathering. He no longer had any worries about their task. In a calm trance he strode through the tunnels, through the bowels of ‘De Sang’, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword.
14th December 1200-England
The cold winds whipped around the trunks of the trees that surrounded the clearing. The remnants of the winter’s snow still lay scattered on the ground although under the trees there was little to be found covering the pine needles that blanketed forest floor. Out of the trees emerged a young buck. He was cautious; there were many other males in this area. Raising his head he sniffed the cold air, mist shooting from his nose, and turned his head slightly to check for company. He sensed none. But it was not other deer he needed worry about, for barely thirty yard away, Godfrey lay concealed in one of the pine trees that encompassed the clearing.
Holding a longbow in his hand he quietly drew an arrow from his quiver and placed it onto his bow, wincing at the click as the two materials met. Through the trees he again peered at the deer, it hadn’t moved. He had been waiting here since sunrise but had seen nothing all day. It was now an hour before sundown and if he didn’t leave soon he would have to walk back in the dark, or be forced to spend the night in the tree. Neither was an option he wanted to take. Pulling the string back he felt his shoulder muscles tense painfully. He had barely moved all day and pulling back the strong bow did him no favours; bows such as this were normally used by grown men in their thirties, never mind a fifteen year old boy. Placing the arrow head just above the deer’s chest to compensate for the arrow drop he breathed in, holding his breath for a few moments. The arrow string pulled on his finger tips and he almost lost the arrow but managed to hold it.
Just as his fingers were rolling of the string to fire the deer raised its head. A crashing sound came from the trees to Godfrey’s left. Godfrey cursed loudly; he could not lose this animal. He fired the arrow, the string flying forwards, the arrow shooting towards the beast. It was too late though, the animal had fled upon hearing the crashing and Godfrey’s curses from the trees.
Godfrey had begun to climb down from the tree to retrieve the arrow when a horseman burst through into the clearing. Godfrey gaped in surprise.
‘Father?’ stuttered Godfrey as he recognised his father’s horse and armour. The man dismounted and removed his helm, his long red hair and beard unfolding and dropping to his chest. He strode towards Godfrey and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy, his son, was almost half his size yet still had the muscles of a warrior. Black hair went down to his shoulders and the beginnings of a beard were visible on his son’s face. A face that bore none of the marks of war or its hardships. A face that looked like his. A face that Godfrey would never see again.
‘Yes Godfrey.’ Edward felt the lump in his throat rising, ‘It’s me.’ Edward forced a smile as he looked down on the boy; he was proud of his son. ‘You had best follow me. Climb on the horse, I’ll walk.’
Godfrey slowly climbed up onto the horse and wrapped his cloak round his body. It was cold. The sombre tone in his father’s voice and his change from his usual cheery self was evident, and put out in the warm content that Godfrey had in his heart for seeing his father. When his father finally opened his mouth to speak again, the words drove into Godfrey with the force of a punch. He closed his eyes and barely managed to hold in the tears. No longer would he enjoy training with his father. No longer would he enjoy an evening spent about a roaring fire with his father, his young eyes mesmerised by tales of war and conquest. No longer would he enjoy days spent hunting with his father, and days fishing on the lake.
His life had been torn away from him. His father had been called on crusade.
21st July 1204-Saracen’s Camp outside La Tour De Sang
Sunlight bled through the gaps in the prisoner’s tent. Godfrey peered through the haze, trying to make sense of his surroundings but to no avail. His eyes only allowed him to see a red mist before him, he knew why. Godfrey groaned with pain as he ran his fingers across his swollen face. He had been beaten during the night. Straining his eyes, he managed to get a rough glimpse of the tent. It was filled with men, most if not all were unconscious. Where the light burst into the tent he could see the silhouette of a guard but he could make out none of the man’s features.
Godfrey quietly rolled over and tried to crawl further away from the guard, using the mass of men sprawled around the floor as cover. The guard was alert though, and this attempt was feeble. He shouted something loudly at Godfrey, probably in Arabic, before running over and jabbing Godfrey in the back with the blunt end of his spear. Godfrey fell forwards, his face pressing against the sharp gravel. The guard reached down and grabbed Godfrey’s mail vest, pulling him round to face the guard. Lifting up his foot, the guard brought it down with immense force onto Godfrey’s stomach. Jolting violently before rolling over he vomited bile onto the floor. The guard laughed as he towered over the Templar, now reduced to a whimpering and vomiting wreck.
Then, through the tent’s covers, horns pierced the silence. The guard veered round as another man ran though the entrance. After a short conversation in Arabic they both left, leaving Godfrey to roll onto his back and breathe in deeply, trying to hold back more waves of vomit. Through the red haze that was taking over his eyes again he desperately tried to translate what the guards had said into English. It was not easy since he knew very little of their language. But just moments before passing out again he managed to translate it roughly.
‘They’re surrendering. The Templars have surrendered.’
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