Knight Arrival - A young knight fresh from England, arrives at the Crusade.
Once and Future - Religious war comes the Britain
The Contestants - The story of a duel, to the death.
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I had just arrived in the Holy Land. Even the long slow journey from England had not prepared me for the heat. As a lad I had watched the blacksmith at his forge and felt the heat surge over me as he worked the bellows. But this! There was no respite, and I burned in that furnace with no escape.
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As I sat I said a small prayer to our Lady, this alone I knew: the Moors would be defeated. The birthplace of Our Saviour would be free again. Raised in spirits a little I struggled to my feet and prepared to call my page. Before I could speak a commotion at the edge of the camp caught my eye. A skirmishing party had returned.
I walked towards the point where they had entered. The noise was a rising tumult, men shouted incomprehensible orders, horses shrieked and stamped the ground. There was a clash of metal as shields and lances were flung to the ground and armoured bodies half fell and half jumped from their horses. As I joined the waiting crowd I could barely see the riders through the cloud of hot gritty dust that enveloped us all. But I made my way to a hazy figure who, unhelmed, was walking wearily towards the tents.
His face was white with dust but streaked with broad runnels of sweat. His hair was fair. Lank and wet, the dust was coating it with a sugaring of white. Even to my dulled nostrils he smelt strongly of stale sweat.
"How did you fare?" I asked.
"Michael is dead." He replied without emotion. "I saw him fall. I think a foot soldier slashed his mount."
"And could you not save him?" He looked at me carefully.
"No." He said, and began to walk unsteadily on.
As I followed on, I noticed his armour was incomplete. Sections were missing from the back and from inside the arms and legs. The helm that he carried was cut away and had no visor. That plate which remained was stained and dented. I was shocked but deeply intrigued by this grubby stranger.
"Sir, may I help you?" I said. "Allow me to carry your gear." Without a word he passed me his helmet and scabbard, complete with a heavy broad sword.
"So your friend, Michael, is in the arms of our Lord. This is sad news indeed sir. But his salvation is assured."
"You think so." It was not a question. Once again I was shocked.
"Come sir, you cannot believe in such a holy cause a Christian man could descend to the Pit?" He turned to face me and caught me in a gaze of pale blue eyes.
"As to Hell sir, I will tell you. We are surely already there."
Once and Future
It was a flower that finally broke his heart.
It had been a hard day. They were all hard now, but he had found food. A small family of Muslims had been attempting to ford a dirty stream, the man had fought of course but he was poorly armed and it had been an easy victory. Somehow 'victory' no longer fitted the daily fight to survive. once the fight had seemed glorious. The victims, enemies. The struggle, dangerous and exciting. Now the killing was merely a routine for survival.
He had not really meant to kill the mother and child. Once it might have been a justifiable cleansing. Now it seemed at best pointless, at worst just murder. But the instinct to kill now ran deep within him. The gun in his hand required its measure. In a wild and desolate world all life was predator or prey. 'Those who are not for us are against us'. That, he remembered, was the Crusaders uncompromising rule.
That day he had crossed the river, driven by hunger to venture into an area said to be a Muslim stronghold. the banks of the river were thick with sticky mud, barren except for some thin streaks of green algae. As he climbed the bank he felt heaviness in his heart. He had excepted, or really just hoped, that somehow the river would be a place of renewal. That its relentless flow, blind to madness of men and the fragile nature of life would wash out the poisons, the radiation, the deadly bacteria and the other cavalry of apocalyptic horsemen that attended modern war. But the river flowing, as it must, down the millennia, lent its purpose only to geology. Its brief role as life bearer now ended. It was now as barren as the rolling dunes that stretched away, to where shattered trunks of high trees stood watch on a kingdom of mud.
The Muslim stronghold was myth. The land on this bank was no better or worse than the Crusader territory he had quit. But at least on this side he would know his enemy. On the far bank he had been forced, in recent times, to defend himself against his own kind. He had not yet preyed upon Christians, but some did, and had he stayed, sooner or later the hunger would have had its way.
He slept that night in the ruins of a house in a barely recognisable village street. Heavy shelling had reduced the hamlet to rubble that now had now almost sunk beneath the endless mud. Like the bow of a sinking ship, the ruined house jutted above the mud sea, frozen in its long slide beneath the grey waves.
With dawn, the hunger. He had grown to know it as an old enemy, its little tricks, its sly deceptions. Now it was treacherously quiet. This was the dangerous time, the time of lassitude and the desire to lie quietly down and die. Now the will must drive the body, the urgent need to survive must defeat the oldest and most dogged foe.
As he moved forward with a soldier's practised skill, through the blasted land, he saw a small movement far ahead. He froze. 'Your movement is their signal' the Basic Training Manual reinforced the natural hunters instinct. His mud stained combat suit was invisible against the grey sticky dune.
Even at this distance he knew they were people. He squinted into the distance but could see little else. His binoculars had long been traded for more important basics, in the days when trading was still possible. He slid expertly down a low valley out of the line of sight of his prey. For prey they now must be, or death by starvation would surely take him. He kept to the valleys and the low ground. If they had seen him they might send out raiders, they too would stay low. He moved quickly, pausing cautiously at each twist and curve, scrambling low across the brow of the dunes. The adrenalin fired his blood and he stalked effortlessly despite his hunger and fatigue. He was certain of his kill.
Over the brow of a dune he saw them. Lord be praised, Muslims. He knew that in his desperation he would have taken any victim, and was heartily relieved that he had found a legitimate target. A party of three, man, woman and child. They were starting to ford a small tributary of the river he had crossed yesterday. They had packs and were obviously unaware of any danger. Elated at his luck he upholstered his gun and, lying flat on the dune top, he estimated the range. Too far for a certain kill, but impossible to get closer without revealing himself. The man would be armed of course, maybe with a rifle. That would mean the danger of being picked off as he ran closer. The river would slow the man down, but if he left it too long the packs might be lost in the stream. 'Be decisive. If you falter, it may cost you your life.'
The rote of basic training impressed itself on him through the fatigue. He must attack now. He charged down the dune weaving from side to side. The small group in the stream turned fearful and confused. The man reached into his pack and clumsily pulled out a shotgun. The woman and child held themselves together.
He slid to a stop, lifted his pistol, gripped firmly in both hands, and fired. The first shot ripped through the man's chest and hurled him backwards into the stream. The primary objective had been secured, now he must consolidate and defend his position. He had little awareness of his actions, the next two shots were simply a reflex action. But after, a woman and child floated dead in the water. He recalled only large, frightened, childish eyes, shrill cries and blood swirling in the stream.
Methodically he dragged the packs to shore and stripped them for their paltry bounty. He was, he reminded himself, and animal seeking only to survive. The fox does not grieve for the chickens. There was food, and despite a strange lack of appetite he quickly ate. Then it was time to move on, there might be others with their party and they might come looking for their comrades. There may even have been other hunters on their track. He moved on over the stream and onto the endless dunes.
It was noon when he saw the copse. A small splash of sickly green in the monotone sea of mud. With his normal care he circled the tiny stand of trees, staying low behind the dunes and gradually drawing closer. He lay flat against the mud and searched the copse for movement. Now he was close enough to see the detail. There were no more than six trees, but they had survived and enclosed a clump of rough grass. No sign of life stirred and he approached cautiously, such an oasis should be crowded. Did crowds exist, or was the very concept a relic of a dead and lush world? A world of plenty, surfeit, and decadence.
As he entered, the feel of grass under his boots was strange, firm yet soft. The sunshine dappled the grass through the branches of trees sugared with the light dust of pale spring leaves. After another careful reconnoitre, he walked to the base of an old thick tree and sat heavily down against the trunk. Then as the fatigue finally overwhelmed him, dangerous thoughts of that lost world swam irresistibly into his mind.
He had been a young man then, of course. Filled with the idealism and fervour of the young. These were the fat times. Life was good in so many ways, there was prosperity and peace of a sort. But the madness that afflicts the young males of humankind was in one of its cycles of ascendancy. The primal urge to fight was growing, fed by a heady mix of race and religion. The Muslims were a powerful pressure group and demanded justice for their people. Most did not realise the fires they were stoking. They wanted Islamic justice for Muslims and respect the Koran. But some evangelical groups had other more provocative ideas. Conversion of the State to the One True Faith was their objective.
The demonstrations were peaceful at first. But they grew in size and the inevitable street fighting began. That was where he had first met the Crusaders. A massive demonstration had been organised by a Muslim group calling for a new law to be passed. He could not remember now what law, or why he had been so deeply offended by it. At the time it had seemed important. He went to protest, but had stayed to fight. In the melee he had been badly beaten. He was dragged from beneath the feet of a crowd intent on kicking him to death, by a group of Crusaders. How courageous they had been, brushing aside the screaming mob with blows from their staves. Who could fail to be impressed by their stiff white uniforms, so clean against the swarthy, deadly crowd.
He had been invited to a meeting, and went half in curiosity and half In gratitude to his saviours. At that meeting, full of intense bright young men, he first saw Arthur.
He stood in a small group of newcomers, made shabby against the crusaders in their startling white. He was talking with them and his crusader sponsor, when a man mounted a small platform at the end of the hall. The man was thin, even gaunt, and tall. He had a mane of white hair and the face of an ageing god. A profound silence fell upon the company, as Arthur stood unmoving for a long, long minute.
Even before Arthur spoke he felt his heart rise within him. This was what he wanted. To follow this man. To serve him. To love him. When Arthur spoke he felt the magic of a new age dawning, men could be free again. A great and noble mission was starting, to return this land to its heritage. In quiet words Arthur painted a vision of a country verdant and clean, where free honest men could trust their fellows. A shared folk memory of noble days past that would be again. Arthur held his audience rapt in dreams of glory, and finished with the simple works that held his followers in thrall for so many years to come.
"I am Arthur, returned to save you."
The responsible media howled in rage, they invoked memories of every despot who wrought his will upon his wretched people. They dug in every archive for the background of this turbulent prophet. They found no trace. The popular channels knew a good story, and Arthur had his platform.
How he had swelled with pride when he first wore his new white uniform to take the Crusader oath. He was still amongst the first to join and take up arms to defend against the Muslim armies now gathering. Arthur was at the ceremony.
God, how he had loved that man. The vision, the Grail they had called it, burned in him, and in all the other followers. They had seen the honour, the purity of the new order. Men would be brothers. Men would be free. There would be peace in an idyll of shared tradition and love. But first the enemy must be defeated, alien ways must be cast out.
Militant Islam needed no encouragement to enter the battleground. Arthur was already a hate figure with a price on his head. At first the Police and then the Army were deployed to separate the warring armies. He found himself confronting both as the running battles swirled around the back streets and the mass demonstrations turned to battlegrounds. But Crusaders had a strategy. They never fought the members of the armed forces, they were tomorrow's recruits.
His white uniform became stained with the blood and dirt of a hundred skirmishes, always fighting, always running. But he found an easy refuge in every Anglo Saxon home. He remembered those thrilling days, the companionship of brave men and the support of a willing community. 'Our boys' fighting for the bright new future. And always Arthur, visiting the troops, kind, fatherly, godlike.
Then the defections from the military started. Some came for love Arthur, the vision, the Grail. Some in the military felt the deep disapproval of their own people. So they too, in their own way, came for love. He remembered they bought with them a new type of fighting. A detached professional killing, cool and dreadful. The stiff white uniforms gave way to battledress, heroism to discipline and order. They were no longer schoolboys in a dangerous playground, these were now the killing fields.
As he leaned against the tree he thought, 'Maybe that was the beginning of this. The professionals joined both sides, and bought with them the power of destruction that has ended the world. Maybe that was the end of the dream, and the beginning of the descent into nightmare.' Usually he fought down what he thought of as his soul, animals don't have souls he was once told. As an animal he might survive. Here in this green haven he found it difficult.
He felt a small surge of panic well up and struggled for control. He ate some plundered food concentrating hard on tearing at the coarse bread. But the frightened childish eyes entered his mind. He looked nervously around the copse. Perhaps he should leave. But his eye was caught by a speck of colour on the ground.
The flower was a simple daisy. White, with its tiny perfect eye staring to the sky. And he felt his heart break. It was not at all as he had expected, not like he had read in books. He felt an intense physical pain, a great rending inside. It was the end of hope. For a time he sat slumped against the tree. His hand rested on the holster at his hip. Once his soul had woken the debate was short. He had learnt quite early in his basic training that you did not use a gun to threaten or bluster. Once drawn from its holster it will be used.
With a single action he drew his pistol, placed the barrel in his mouth and with just the slightest hesitation, fired.
The Contestants
The young man moved cautiously along the corridor. On this upper floor, doors lined the passage. They were all closed. His ears strained for the smallest sound. The old house creaked and groaned in its restless sleep and jangled his nerves, already as tight as wire.
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The candelabra he held above his head flickered in a stray draught. As monstrous shadows danced on the walls the young man started and hugged the wall more closely. Overcoming his fear he drew the cutlass from where it hung at his hip. Its hilt was reassuringly familiar in his hand, he flexed the gleaming blade and watched the candle light dance on its silver surface. Here at least, was a kind of truth in a world of sham and deceit.
In measured steps he moved down the corridor, careful to make each footfall as silent as the waiting grave. From beneath the door at the end, facing him directly, he could see a thin line of light. There he knew his nemesis waited. Tonight only one man would leave that room alive.
He set down the candelabra; from its position on the floor it cast looming shadows against the door. He turned the handle, and with sudden explosive violence kicked it open. The door crashed back against the wall breaking the pervasive silence and echoing down the hall. A tall figure whirled round to face him, and with a single smooth gesture drew an epee from its scabbard where it lay on the table between them.
The room was large. A canopied bed dominated the space otherwise sparsely furnished. No words were spoken, but even as the tall figure of the Count moved back, his movements were easy and confident. Other men he had ruined had sought satisfaction on the duelling field. None had survived. This puppy had the impudence to invade his home. No matter, the outcome would be the same.
The young man saw the contempt in the Count's eyes as he stepped into the room. Here was a Master Swordsman; many deaths could be laid at his door. But a soldier lived by pragmatism. He fought or died. He knew the elegant games of the fencing parlour had no place on the killing ground. He leapt forward, slashing the heavy cutlass at the Count's head.
Surprised by the suddenness of the attack, the Count stumbled back. He felt the wind from the blade as the tip flew inches from his face, and waved his epee in an ineffectual parry. His attacker standing full square to him, swung the blade round over his head and bought it hard down to cleave his skull. This time his parry intercepted the cutlass and, deflecting the blow, the Count moved easily back to make his thrust. But the young man had already jumped back, beyond the reach of the lunging blade. The Count quickly recovered himself and the two men stood apart, wary as cats. Slowly they circled, weapons held before them, each seeking the smallest sign, the tiny weakness in the other that would surely mean his death. This was the Count's game.
He feinted a thrust to the left, drawing the young man into an uncertain parry. Then quickly slashed at his right side. The epee hummed through the air and slashed through the young man's loose sleeve. The Count was in control. As the young man recoiled shocked, the epee's tip flicked past his naked throat. It was the young man's turn to feel that deadly wind. The Count watched with satisfaction as the young man's sleeve became speckled with red and he began the probing end game. Waiting for a moment's hesitation that would enable him to drop his opponent with a single elegant thrust. A moment of truth where this young bull. would fall to the matador. A moment of high art.
A clumsy crash distracted him; the young man kicked a chair towards him. The Count easily sidestepped the tumbling object, but as he did so, the heavy cutlass flew down at him. He tottered back and the blade smashed into the chair. Splinters burst from the wreckage. Once again the cutlass fell and the parry shook his arm with its force. Again the Count retreated. He needed space to regain his advantage. But the young man was driving forward. The cutlass crashed down again and again. The blows were wild but deadly. As he warded off the flashing blade his ears sang with the dull grate of steel on steel.
At last the onslaught slackened. The Count studied this tiring young man. once again the epee flicked forward in subtle curves. Deceiving to the eye, the blade glinted in strange arcs. The young man caught the epee's blade with his cutlass, and as they struggled the Count looked triumphant into his victim's eyes. But as they parted the young man, with an awkward action, swung the blade at the Count's booted foot. A red gash appeared on his calf and he sprang back. The pain was an irrelevance, but his balance was altered. The first shadow of doubt clouded the Count's mind. His was a finely honed skill, the tactics of the brawl were new to him.
The Count feinted to the right exposing his left breast to the cutlass. As the expected thrust came, he swung further right past the searching blade, and lunged hard at the young man's heart. The Count felt joy rising as the epee struck home, but not to its target. As the young man twisted desperately away, his right arm was skewered. But even as he felt the blade bite his flesh, he slashed violently upwards with his cutlass. Its razor sharp back edge sliced deep into the Count's outstretched forearm.
Terror gripped the Count. His maimed arm could no longer hold the epee's hilt. He watched helplessly as the sword slipped from his hand. He opened his mouth to cry 'Mercy'. But the cutlass blade caught his throat before the words could leave. His head slumped to a grotesque angle, and the body crumpled to the floor. A tide of blood began to flow; the body arched and shuddered as the last vestige of life departed.
The young man dropped his cutlass, and gripped the epee dangling from his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and wrenched out the blade. Then from pain, which filled his mind; from fear, which churned his bowels; from disgust, at the ruined man, who lay before him; and for pity of the world, his victim and himself, he threw back his head, and, with all his heart, howled like a dog.
