When the lord under the walls saw the Order, he led his cavalry at us. He had more horse than we, but not many more, and their horses, while beautiful, were small. Nor were they in wedges. He led his Mamluks forward, and again I gathered my reins short, and Fra Peter turned; his visor was still up.
‘Abide!’ he called.
I was too eager.
We walked along the sands. In my memory, our formation was perfect.
To my right front, where the king was, the banner of Jerusalem wavered. And fell.
The hosts of Alexandria let out a great roar that rang from the walls, and the people of the city echoed their cheer.
Fra Peter leaned back. He was speaking to the legate.
Chretien d’Albret cursed. ‘The fucking serf! He’s going to let the king die. Charge, Gold! Lead us!’
He began to push his mount forward.
We were formed very close. I turned and thumped the butt of my lance against his chest. ‘Abide!’ I shouted.
Fra Peter made a set of hand signals with his bridle hand — to the southernmost wedge. To me, he held up his hand — flat.
Halt.
I could not imagine why we should halt.
But Fra Peter and Fra William had been very clear about obedience, and despite d’Albret shouting that I was a coward, I raised my lance and reined in. My whole command halted. Horse shuffled — somewhere close at hand, a horse let out a long fart.
The southernmost wedge plodded along the sand.
The Mamluks let their horses have their heads, took up their bows, and loosed their first arrows. They were at long bowshot, perhaps three hundred yards. A light cane arrow fell from the sky and hit me in the helmet.
Oh, armour!
There was a sharp ping.
Fra Peter’s gauntleted hand closed on air and pumped, once.
‘Walk!’ I called. I put my weight forward.
‘Now what? Gold, for the love of the Virgin! The king is down!’ D’Albret’s voice had an odd ring. He’d been an excitable boy and he’d spent too long with Camus, who imagined himself Hell’s emissary on earth.
As if Hell needs an emissary.
I looked, and the circle of the crusaders on the beach had been broken.
The three bodies of the Order were now in echelon, the southernmost slightly ahead, then the centre body with the legate, and then mine. Our angled line of three wedges was like a barbed scythe.
And Fra Peter’s fist pumped, once.
I heard the change in the hoofbeats as the arrows screamed in. I touched Gawain with my spurs — and he leapt forward.
The Knights of St John have been fighting in the Holy Land for two hundred years. One of their many tricks is this change of speed as the first serious arrow volley is launched. In three strides, Gawain and I were at a gallop, still with Nerio and Fiore leaning into me, their armoured knees behind mine. We were an arrowhead, a battering ram of horses and steel.
The Mamluks rode in close, trying to break our formation. By Christ, gentles, they were brave! They came right in, almost to our lance tips, to loose their arrows, and it seemed to me that in one beat of my heart they were impossibly far away and the next they were right atop us.
Deus Veult!
One shout, like a crack of thunder. This, too, we had practiced since Venice.
Our lances came down.
And they turned away. They had neither the formation nor the horseflesh for melee and they turned and shot over the backs of their saddles.
One man down — one at the front of the wedge — and the whole force would be dissipated into a wreck of falling horses and broken men.
God did not will that.
I do not remember closing my visor. But my whole world was limited to a single man, his beard dyed red, his armour gold and silver in the brilliant sun, his horse’s rump shining with sweat and the back of his saddle just two horse-lengths from me.
His arrows struck me. The first slammed into my breastplate like an axe blow, thrusting me back in my saddle like a good hit in a joust, and the second hit my visor — and penetrated it. I felt my death slide across my cheek.
But as I was not dead, I rode on.
Then everything changed.
The Saracen’s Mamluks charged us from under the walls, and moved diagonally to cross our front. But when they failed to break our formations, they evaded straight away instead of galloping lightly away from our impotent lances — and slammed into the rear of their own infantry.
In my memory, I pursued my hennaed Mamluk for hours across an infinite plain of sand. But then, in one beat of my heart, I caught him, and my lance struck him in the back. I imagine I killed him instantly — his coat of plates and mail failed against the force of my charge. My point went in, and the whole of my lance penetrated him: his horse had balked.
I lost my lance.
In two more heart beats I was deep in the Saracen army. Gawain was killing more effectively than I; he danced, his iron-shod feet like four iron maces. Weapons struck me — and it is in moments like this that you discover your training. I drew the Emperor’s sword without a conscious thought; it flowed into my hand, and I cut. I do not remember fighting men, only cutting at a mob. Gawain was still moving forward.
I had one thought, then, to cut my way to the king. If I raised my head at all, I could see the last of the crusaders on the beach, perhaps three hundred, now, the brilliance of their armour showing where they stood through the press of foes.
And next to me was Fiore, his arm rising and falling like an executioner’s axe, and on the other side of me, Nerio and his superb horse left a wake of red ruin. Miles was at Fiore’s left knee and Juan at Nerio’s right, and the five of us were the point of the Christian spear thrusting for the king.
And yet, as we slowed, I had time to be afraid.
Usually, in combat, there is no time to be afraid. Fear comes earlier, when you prepare, and wait, and later, when you consider, and shake. But on the beach at Alexandria, we took their foot so completely by surprise that we were at their backs, and I saw bearded, shouting faces suddenly turning to me. I had time to consider whether my four friends and I could, by ourselves, best the greatest city in the world.
I had no idea what was happening elsewhere. I spared no thoughts for the legate, unarmoured, in the midst of the press, or for Fra Peter or Fra William or any of the other knights. They were off to my left and they might have been in other spheres.
Ahead, I saw the flash of armour.
Now I was using my sword two-handed in fatigue, and desperation. The danger is hitting your own horse. As the horse moves its head — and horses move their heads often — you can catch the back of the neck above the mane, killing your own mount.
Fiore had no wasted his time.
At some point — hours? Days? We struck the Naffatun. They were veteran Mamluks armed with grenadoes of naphtha, a sticky stuff like tar that ignited on contact and burned armour and human skin, the very stuff of hell brought to earth. They had pressed far down the beach and burned two galleys that they’d caught aground, and now they hurled their bombs at us and charged with their swords.
Imagine that you see this through the narrow slits of your visor while your lungs struggle to pull in enough air through the tiny holes in your helmet. Imagine the stink of your own sweat on a sweltering day, wearing eighty pounds of armour, fighting for your life.
Something caught me from behind. I was taken by surprise, and in a moment, I was unhorsed. You always imagine that this will take time — but by Saint George, one moment I was horrified by the Naffatun and the next I was off my near side, down in the sand.