their own, some of them snapping against the hull, others slamming brutally into the shackled slaves wrestling with them, injuring several, and prompting Hugh to call for the oars to be pulled in.
The ship had been tossed helplessly through mountainous waves for hours when, over the almost deafening uproar, Martin heard a splintering crack as the aft hatch covers split open and dark blue water poured into the holds. Almost at once, the ship was wallowing dangerously when from above came the wrenching sound of timber being ripped apart. The mast had snapped, and Martin looked up in time to see it crashing down onto three crewmen while catapulting the hapless observer in the crow's nest into the churning sea.
Without sail or oars, the galley was at the mercy of the storm and the currents, pushed and pulled aimlessly by the angry sea. For three days and three nights, the storm didn't let up, the Falcon Temple bending to its rampaging will, somehow managing to stay afloat and in one piece.
Then on the fourth day, with the winds still not letting up, a lone voice cried out, 'Land!
Land!' Martin peered out and saw a man pointing dead ahead, but he couldn't see anything apart from the rising sea. Then he spotted it: a distant, dark mass on the horizon, barely discernable.
And then it happened.
Cruelly, and within sight of land, the ship started to break up. The carvel-built, even planking had taken a ferocious beating, and now it was giving up. Deafening groans were followed by what sounded like explosions as the entire hull came apart. Panic erupted among the chained oarsmen, while the horses below reared and whickered furiously.
'The slaves,' Hugh roared. 'Unshackle them before they drown!' His men scrambled to release them from their chains, but their freedom was short-lived as bursts of water thundered into the hull and swept them away.
Hugh could no longer forestall the inevitable. 'Put the longboat to sea,' he bellowed, 'and abandon ship.' Martin rushed to help secure their only means for survival and saw Aimard emerge, carrying a bulky leather pouch, and head in the opposite direction toward the forecastle. Martin yelled out to him just as another massive wave struck, and Aimard was hurled helplessly across the bridge and slammed against the chart table, impaling the side of his chest on its corner. He cried out in pain but then gritted his teeth and braced himself upright, one hand clasped against his ribs. Aimard pushed aside Martin's offer of help and wouldn't release the pouch, even though it was clear that its bulk and weight were adding greatly to his discomfort.
They barely managed to climb into the longboat, which was now level with die galley's deck, and the last glimpse Martin of Carmaux had of the Falcon Temple came as die battered vessel was finally consumed by the raging sea. The huge balk of timber that ended in the carved figurehead snapped like a twig before the awful might of the storm, any sound it made overwhelmed by the demonic shrieking of the wind and the hideous screams of the drowning horses. Looking at the eight other men in the longboat, Martin saw his dread mirrored in their desolate stares as, piece by piece, the ship disappeared beneath the mountainous waves.
It was the waves as much as the wind that drove diem on, tossing the longboat as if it were made of paper, but the shipmaster soon had six of the nine survivors manning oars and dampening the wildest swings. As he rowed, Martin just looked ahead blankly, fatigue and despair dragging him down. They had been chased out of the Holy Land, and now the Falcon Templewas lost. He wondered how long they would survive, even if they did reach land. Wherever they were, they were far from home, deep in enemy territory, and barely equipped to defend themselves against the poorest foe.
The longboat plunged on for what seemed like hours before the height of the waves lessened and, at last, they saw the land that the lookout had spied. Soon, they were dragging the longboat through the surf and onto the safety of a sandy beach. The storm still howled and the cold rain still stung them, but at least they had land beneath their feet.
After hacking out the bottom of the longboat with their swords, they pushed it back into the sea, which was still rough despite the passing of the eye of the storm. Anyone wandering the shoreline should not be made aware of their presence. Hugh told them that they were already on a northerly heading when the storm had struck, and he believed that the Falcon Temple had been swept around the island of Cyprus and then pushed headlong northward. Acting upon the seaman's knowledge and expertise, Aimard took the decision to avoid the exposed shore and march inland before heading west in search of a port.
The low hills soon gave them some shelter from the wind and, more important, from the eyes of any inhabitants. Not that this appeared to be a danger; they had seen no one, heard nothing but the shrieking of the storm. Even wildlife was absent, cowed no doubt by the violent weather. During the long and exhausting march, Martin could see that Aimard's condition was worsening. The blow to his ribcage was a heavy one, and the serious damage it caused was starting to take its toll.
Seemingly impervious to the pain coursing through him, Aimard pressed on bravely, always clinging to the bulky pouch while clutching his painful side.
When they first came upon a town, there was a momentary flare of fear that they might have to fight in their current state. Not only were they injured and weary, they also had few arms between them.
That fear was tempered by the hope that they could find food there. Both their fear and their hope proved unfounded. The town was deserted, its houses empty. At its center stood the remains of a church. Its walls were intact, but its roof was a charred skeleton of burned timbers held aloft on high stone columns. It was hard to tell how long ago this desecration had taken place. Certainly more than a few weeks or even months; years maybe.
Across from the church, a huge old willow drooped its leafy branches over a well.
Cautiously, the survivors dropped to the ground and rested. Of all of tiiem, Aimard of Villiers was in the worst condition. Martin was getting him some water from the well when he heard a sound, the gently melodic ringing of bells. The battered men rushed for cover and watched as a small herd of goats came through the narrow street. Soon, they were crowding around the well head, vainly scavenging for food, some dragging down the branches of the willow and gnawing at them. A goatherd appeared, a stooped and crippled old man, accompanied by a young boy.
Glancing at Aimard, who gave a brief nod of acquiescence, Martin took command. Using hand signals, he sent their small band fanning outward to keep watch, while he and Hugh approached the old man, who promptly fell to his knees, imploring diem not to kill him and to spare his grandson.
Like some of their brothers, Martin and Aimard could speak some Arabic. Even so, it took a while to pacify the old man and assure him that his life was safe. It took even longer to explain that they wanted to buy a goat and not simply take it by force. Not that they had money or valuables of any kind, but they managed to gather between them a few oddments of clothing that, while not adding up to the value of die goat, did at least make a bargain of sorts. While the goatherd and his young helper hauled water from the well for their animals, the knights slaughtered the goat and, with a flint, lit a fire and roasted the carcass. They invited the goatherd and the boy to share in the meal.
That act of kindness probably saved their lives.
The old man, from whom they learned the name of the town, Fonsalis, was grateful to be alive.
Late in the afternoon, he resumed his wanderings with his herd and helper. Well-fed and strengthened, the knights and crewmen rested once more, comfortable in the knowledge that they could resume their journey in the morning.
But their rest was short-lived.
The knight standing watch heard the sound first and alerted Martin.
Someone was running, coming their way. It was the goatherd's grandson. Out of breath and visibly scared, he informed them that a band of Mamelukes was heading their way. The old man had seen them before, had been robbed by them, and knew that they would be coming here for water.
They had no choice but to fight them.
With Aimard's support, Martin quickly formulated a plan for an ambush. Spaced well apart, the men would form a loose V formation, the open arms facing toward the approaching enemy, the point at the well.
They salvaged pieces of wrought iron from the ruined church to supplement their meager supply of weapons and unwound the rope from the wellhead. Hugh and one of the seamen pulled it to their positions at the open end of the V. They kicked dirt over the rope where it lay across the path of the approaching horsemen, and the men all took their places. Once he was certain they hadn't missed anything that could betray their plan, Martin slipped behind the well, crouched low, and waited.
