The Templar

The third man was plainly not a knight. Short and plump, this fellow snorted and spat a thick gob of phlegm onto the ground at his horse’s hoof. His hair was black with white feathers at his temples, and he had the quizzical look of one who has seen enough fighting and death in his time. Behind him he led two packhorses, both heavily laden. He shifted in his seat, squinting ahead and resting a hand on the blade that sat in the rough, undecorated scabbard at his thigh. He glanced in Gregory’s direction and the latter saw his eyes narrow as he took in Don Ruy, but then his fierce, dark eyes met Gregory’s as he addressed his two companions in a light Scots accent.

‘Aye. Well, are we goin’ to join in or just sit and watch all the long day?’

With that, the fair man gave a high, giggling laugh, and then suddenly he drew his sword, whirled it about his head a few times, and slapped it sharply on his horse’s rump. In an instant he was off, racing down the hill, his sword flashing in the sunshine like a torch in the wind, hair streaming behind him. The man-at-arms clicked his tongue, but he had already dropped the reins of the packhorses, and his rounsey was moving to follow the fair-haired knight.

The warrior with the pockmarked face muttered a curse under his breath, spat, and then raked his spurs along his mount’s flanks. Before the other two could get far, he was level with them, his mount straining at the gallop, and Gregory could hear his hoarse roar even over the thundering of hooves.

By now, the band of malfechores had scattered the pilgrims, and two had stopped to take up bundles where they had been dropped. As Gregory watched, he saw a sudden gout of blood, and saw the ‘King’ spinning, a rider raising his sword for a second hack. Suddenly a great slab of the King’s head seemed to separate from the rest of his body, a third of his face and skull falling away to lie on his shoulder, exposing the pink and grey horror of his brain. There was a fine, pumping mist of red, and then he fell, thrashing, to the ground. His attacker lifted his sword in triumph, but then the three were on them.

First was the madly shrieking fairhead, who galloped full tilt at a group of four who were circling a pilgrim and taunting him. With a sharp sweep of his blade, he took the head and a shoulder entire from one man, rammed the horse of a second, bludgeoning the rider from his seat, and then stabbed a third through the throat; the dour man-at-arms came a little way after him, ducking below an ill-judged thrust like a tumbler, and stabbing viciously once, upwards beneath his opponent’s chin, so that his sword appeared through the top of his victim’s skull, then withdrawing it swiftly lest it become snagged as the corpse slumped and toppled from the saddle. Finally there was the apelike warrior, who gave a bull-like bellow like a berserker of old, and charged straight at the thickest mass of malfechores with a sword in one hand and a long-handled knife in his other. He rode with his reins dangling, gripping his mount with his thighs alone, guiding the horse by sheer force of will, apparently, or so Gregory thought, as his two blades flashed wildly, already red with the blood of his enemies. Gregory saw one man stabbed and bludgeoned from his horse, only to be trampled. Unconsciously, he had clenched his right fist, and was following the blows when he realised what he was doing and shamefacedly unfurled his fingers.

The battle was over in moments. Suddenly the evil-doers were bested, and leaving nine of their friends dead on the field, the seven survivors fled.

Last to go was their leader — the man with the curious set to his head. He screamed as the fair-haired warrior slashed at a young rider, and a thick jet of blood burst from the young man’s leg. The boy went white, and suddenly slumped, like a bullock struck with a spike in the skull, slowly toppling from the saddle, while the fair man hacked at him as though in a fury.

The leader shrieked like a demented woman, and might have ridden back into the midst of the carnage, but his mount was unnerved by the smells and noises of death, and with wildly rolling eyes, it turned and fled the field, cantering after the others.

Screaming with fury at seeing this new quarry escape, the fair man spurred his horse after them, but Pockface cast a look of exasperation at the heavens, sheathed both weapons, and set off after him, catching up with him and apparently remonstrating, throwing a hand back as though to indicate that their responsibility was to the wounded, not to killing any more. Gradually the two men slowed, and the fair man turned his horse’s head back to the battlefield, although his body language spoke of his reluctance.