Knight-Proctor Von Desdel and his patrol of ten knights were within a hundred yards of the guard barracks when they heard the shout, the shot and the yelling.
'That's inside the wall!' He was already urging his charger forward. 'Sound that trumpet!'
* * *
Over on the Spianada, the Croats had heard the midnight bells without getting restive. The plan allowed the guards on the western outer walls to be changed and settle down before the northern postern would be seized. The biggest danger was the bastion on the northwestern corner. The king's artillery and the arquebusiers in the trenches were due to start a barrage on that when the charge started. The occasional cannon fire with its loading lulls allowed the sounds from the sleeping Citadel to carry well in the silent times.
They heard the trumpet. And the answer. And the bells begin to ring.
'Into those saddles!' yelled their captain. There was no time now to swing this whole thing into planned action. Now they must seize the moment—if it was there to be seized at all.
The Croats were some of the finest light cavalry in the world, with only the Ilkhan Mongols in serious contention in their portion of Eurasia. In many ways the Croats had the advantage over the Magyar—in speed, as scouts, and in tactical flexibility. The Croats had the first hundred and twenty men across the mole causeway before the Venetian cannon and arquebus fire began to make crossing it without heavy losses impossible. By the sounds above them, there was fighting on the north wall. But the traitors had at least prevented the barrage from above falling onto the galloping Croats.
And the gate was open! There were battle sounds from the watchtowers but they'd done it! If the Croats could get inside, they'd hold those towers, keep the gate open somehow, until the huge mass of Serb and Slav infantry who were waiting got in past the Venetian guns.
Yelling, the Croats spurred desperately forward, galloping horses spread out in a long race along the shingle. Then the first were in, under the raised portcullis, into the narrow roadway that led up into the Citadel.
And hurtling down on them, horses virtually shoulder to shoulder, were the famous Knights of the Holy Trinity. The sound of the metal shoes of those heavy horses on the cobbles was like thunder in the confined space.
In the moonlight and house-shadow-darkness, in the narrow lane, the Croats didn't know there were only ten.
There are places and times when light cavalry is superior to heavy cavalry—when maneuverability and rough terrain are factors, for instance. But one advantage that heavy cavalry always has is momentum. And armor—which adds to the momentum. In the narrow lane, neither terrain nor maneuverability offered any advantage to the Croats.
The Knights of the Holy Trinity hit them like a ten-pound hammer hitting a pin. Literally smashed the Croats back through the gate, riding down those that could not turn. The Knights wheeled and rode back in, preparing for another charge. A few of the later arrivals and some of the better horsemen who'd turned their mounts followed in on their heels, showing the advantages of the Croats' speed and maneuverability.
The portcullis crashed down behind them. The great gates were still open, but the heavy metal grid now had some thirty Croats trapped inside. Men were running out of alleyways, hacking at them, hacking at their unprotected mounts as they tried to fight the Knights. And more Knights had suddenly arrived at the fray. Some half-armored . . . but too many.
The Croat captain knew the moment had slipped away. He never even saw that the great gates were closing. He did hear his lieutenant outside the gates yelling for a retreat. Inside the walls they'd die, he knew. But then, very few would live through the retreat either.
* * *
Umberto awoke to a blurry vision. At first he thought maybe he was dead and that Maria's mother . . . God, he'd loved her . . . was there, waiting for him. But would Heaven have so much pain?
Then he realized it was in fact Maria. Maria as he had never seen her. Maria with tears on her face, holding his hand as if she never wanted to let it go, with something so warm shining in her eyes that she looked like an angel. She'd looked at the baby like that; never at him. Until now.
'Maria?'
'Thank God!' He felt the pressure of her hand on his. 'Umberto, don't you dare die on me.'
'Try . . .' Things slipped away again.
* * *
It was some hours later that he awoke enough to make sense of his surroundings. He was in the hospital tended by the monks of Saint John, up on the hill.
'Did we beat them off?' he asked, wishing his head would stop spinning. 'Alberto . . .'
'We did. We lost nearly fifty people, though. Alberto is fine, other than a broken finger. You two raised the alarm—because you slept at home. I am going to keep you there,' said Maria, fiercely.
* * *
The seven surviving Libri d'Oro plotters attempted to look defiant when they were hauled before the captain-general and the governor. Only Flavio Dentico really succeeded.
'Kill us, then. You will get nothing out of us!'
The captain-general scowled. 'We have torturers of sufficient skill to get the entire story out of you.'
The old governor cleared his throat and turned to Eberhard of Brunswick. 'Perhaps you would like to explain to them?'
The
