There was a bellow of approval from the men nearest, although Ivo was sure that only a half of the crew could have heard his words over the roar of the sea and howling winds. Still, he saw from their expressions that many of them were anticipating the fight with joy in their hearts.
Typical sailors, Ivo thought to himself. Never happier than when in a brawl.
Roger looked at him. ‘Soon now, Ivo. Are you ready?’
‘I’m almost double your age, lad. I’ve seen enough fights since I came here with my prince,’ Ivo said.
‘Aye. That prince is King now, isn’t he? And you’re still here,’ the master added pointedly.
Ivo felt his face stiffen at the reminder of his old shame. ‘How long?’ he muttered.
‘Soon. Very soon.’
CHAPTER THREE
Baldwin de Furnshill was crippled with shame.
He was brother to Sir Reynald de Furnshill, son of a knight, a man of honour and trained in the sword, and yet he had been bested by Genoese pirates.
When the men came over the rails, he stood back to give himself room, but before he could do more than slash inexpertly at the nearest attacker, a blow from a cudgel drove him to his knees. All around, he saw pockets of resistance as pilgrims attempted to hold the Genoese at bay, but it was impossible to stand against them for long. A number of the crusaders and pilgrims allowed themselves to be driven back towards the hold, while others dropped and submitted, craving mercy of the sailors. All were spared.
Baldwin’s head span, and as the deck rolled, he fell to the side, as helpless as a newborn foal. His legs were incapable of supporting him. But worse than the shocking pain was the shame. He should have died killing his enemies — that was the way for a knight’s son to fight! He wanted to reach for his sword. It lay near him — but he lacked the strength to lift it.
Two sailors from his own ship continued to fight, one with a short sword and a knife, the other with a long-handled axe, and side-by-side, they held their opponents at bay. They forced one sailor to spring back, while another caught a slash from the axe across his belly that made him howl. At last two crossbowmen were brought up and ended their final stand. Their bodies fell, and were thrown overboard like carrion to feed the fishes. No Christian burial for them.
He felt himself jerked up and shoved back against the hull, and sat, his head lolling, watching as the Genoese walked amongst them, snatching at jewellery and other valuables. Any who carried purses were relieved of them. Baldwin’s sword was taken, and now he felt a man yank at his purse, and there was a sudden release as the strings were cut and it was gone.
Another grabbed his hand. Baldwin looked up to find himself meeting the stare of a black-bearded man with a round face, burned the colour of oak by the sun. Baldwin tried to jerk his hand away, but the man laid a knife’s edge against his knuckle and then drew the ring off. It was Baldwin’s last possession given to him by his father, and he should have wept to see it taken, but he couldn’t. He was without feeling. Numb.
And then the Genoese began to scurry, sensing a new danger.
There was no attempt to conceal their approach. Roger Flor aimed the Falcon straight at the three vessels locked together, constantly adjusting the oar under his arm as he saw the way that the three moved. There was movement on the left-most galley. A man appeared, a thick-set fellow with a black beard that was trimmed neatly. He stood on the sheer, a hand on a stay nearby, and as the Falcon came closer, he turned and beckoned to another. This was a crossbowman, who stood at the rail, listening to instructions from the bearded commander.
Ivo eyed them warily. He knew how accurate Genoese bowmen could be, but while they were under wind, gaining on the three ships, the bowman’s ship was wallowing. He had a rolling, plunging deck to fire from. Ivo felt moderately safe.
He was right. The crossbow was raised, aimed and fired — but as the three ships breasted one wave, Ivo’s plummeted down another, and the bolt flew safely overhead.
‘If that prickle tries a trick like that again, I’ll have his ballocks,’ Ivo muttered, unnerved.
‘Scared, are we, Master Ivo?’ Roger Flor chuckled ‘Fear a quarrel from a Genoese bow?’
A second quarrel slammed into the wale-piece directly below Roger.
‘You fox-whelp whoreson!’ Roger bellowed, and roared for his own bowmen to return fire. Soon three men in the forecastle joined with seven in the fighting top, trading quarrels with the other ships. ‘Keeps the men busy,’ he said defensively, seeing Ivo’s eye upon him.
‘Yes, of course,’ Ivo said, and then, ‘Who is it on those ships? Can you see who the master is?’
‘It’s that Genoese bitch-son, Buscarel.’
Just then, another quarrel flew past Ivo’s belly and thumped into the wood behind him. He had a vision in his mind, just for a moment, of what that bolt could have done to him, and then he was roaring encouragement to the sailors. All were clad in their brown tunics with the red cross, apart from him. He was wearing a red linen tunic that left him cool in the summer at Tripoli, but here, about to enter a battle, he wished he had some armour: mail, a coat of plates and a helm.
He hoped and prayed he wouldn’t need it.
A clatter, and another bolt fell from chains at the lateen sail overhead. It was enough to inspire his rage. He drew his sword, his head lowered, as another bolt flew past, and then there was a cheer as the bowman in the Genoese ship was hurled back, a bolt in his skull.
‘A florin to that archer!’ Roger shouted, and then, ‘And another to the man who hits the other pirate!’
There was a loud cheer at that, but now the bolts were flying in earnest, and even Roger ducked as a pair came perilously close. ‘They don’t like me, Master Ivo.’
‘Few men do,’ Ivo said.
‘True enough!’ Roger said with a wide grin. Then: ‘Grappling irons!’
Three men had already moved forward with their hooks, and stood measuring the distance between the ships. There was only a chain between them; a half-chain. The men grew silent with anticipation as the distance closed. Five yards, two yards, and the men swung their hooks from both ships, all hauling to pull the ships together. While the rest of the sailors weighed the weapons in their hands, the Templars crouched, ready to attack, the Genoese scowling on their lower decks, all waiting, filled with the desire to kill.
One grapnel landed in the cordage overhead, and the Templar hauled on it with determination, while the others carried on tugging at their ropes. Then the sea moved, and the gap disappeared, the Falcon thundering into the side of the nearer ship.
And then the peace was shattered.
‘Board them!’ Roger screeched at the top of his voice.
There was a clash of steel against steel, and Ivo saw three felled by arrows, all together, but the others carried on, weapons aloft, screaming battle cries as they went.
Overhead, the man with his hook in the rigging climbed up the rope hand over hand, a long knife in his belt, and soon was at the yard. A Genoese saw him, and began to make his way up a stay, but the sail was already falling away, the upper fixing cut through by the knife.
‘To me, men of the Order! For God and the Temple!’ Roger shouted, and fixing the tiller oar with a rope, he snatched up a sword and ran at the side of the ship, leaping over and in among the Genoese.
Ivo followed, his own sword gripped in his hand, but as soon as he landed on the ship, he was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of their enemies. All about him were Genoese sailors, and he was forced to hack and slash from side to side, keeping them away, until at last some more sailors from the Falcon arrived at his side and began to flail about too, forcing the Genoese back. There was a man who had a long stabbing weapon, which held them up for some time, but Ivo grabbed the point and yanked at it, thrusting forwards with his sword at the same time. It caught the man below the chin and slipped in, down into his chest, killing him quickly. A second ran at him with an axe held high, and Ivo turned, whirling with his sword as the man’s blow fell, and sweeping off both wrists. The man stood staring, shrieking at the wreckage of his forearms, until Ivo reversed his blade and hacked off his head, moving forward all the time.