Riding through the lines of plum and orange trees, I was reminded of the day I had first come there with Wali Husayn after our journey through the mountains. We had used the very same track for I recognized a small wooden bridge that crossed one of the many irrigation channels. Now, of course, the trees were in full leaf, their fruit nearly ripe, and there was just enough breeze to gently sway the laden branches. I was happy and relaxed as I rode, turning over in my mind what I might discuss with Wali Husayn. I hoped there would be the chance to share another pleasant evening meal beside the reflecting pool in his palace. All around me the orchards were very quiet except for the croaking of several ravens that circled over me. I saw no one. The hoof beats of my horse, the same nervous mare that had saved my life, were muffled by the soft earth between the fruit trees. I savoured the calm and stillness, glad to be clear of Hroudland and his snappish temper. He and his escort of riders would be at least a mile behind me. I felt an unexpected surge of pride at the idea that after two months’ march from Brittany, I would be the first person in the army to sight Zaragoza.
A movement some distance ahead caught my attention. A small troop of horsemen was moving at a walk across my path. They appeared and disappeared among the lines of tree trunks. It was difficult to tell their exact number but I recognized them immediately as Saracens; their mounts were their typical small, high stepping horses. They wore flowing mantles and I identified them as cavalrymen, for they wore helmets and carried lances. I congratulated myself that Wali Husayn had sent out an escort to greet Hroudland and bring him into the city, showing the count the same honour that the wali received from his own followers. For days I had been telling the count that Husayn was a civilized and cultured nobleman and I was hopeful that such a courtesy would help dispel Hroudland’s sour temper.
The riders were crossing my path about a hundred paces ahead and had not seen me. Perhaps they were not expecting a lone rider. So I called out a greeting. I saw the little group stop and turn in my direction. I reined in my horse and sat quietly as they trotted towards me. In my mind I was already rehearsing the formal phrases of welcome in the Saracen tongue which Osric had taught me.
The Saracen cavalrymen must have been fifty paces from me when I noted the colour of the scarves around their helmets and the banners tied around their lances. It was a plain green. With a sudden lurch in my stomach I recalled that every one of Husayn’s servants and soldiers had worn crimson.
Something was very wrong.
The riders were still coming towards me at a purposeful trot. My alarm sharpened my senses. Even at that distance I could detect that they were deliberately keeping their horses in check. It was not the disciplined riding of well-trained cavalry. Belatedly it dawned on me that they were hoping to get very close before I realized who they were — the enemy.
I snatched on the reins and wrenched my horse’s head around and kicked hard. The mare threw up her head in outrage and broke into a gallop. I leaned forward in the saddle and shouted in her ear, urging her on as we flew between the trees. Behind me I heard a triumphant cry and then whoops of excitement as the troopers took up the chase.
For them it must have been as easy as running down a wounded deer. My mare was not a creature to win races. She was very ordinary, more suited to a thirty-mile march than a mad, short sprint. Her timidity gave her extra speed at the outset, but she could never outpace the Saracen horses now in pursuit.
I stayed low, ducking under the branches of the fruit trees, occasionally feeling the lash of twigs and foliage whipping across my helmet. I felt the mare leap an irrigation ditch, and urged her on. The whoops and yells grew louder and nearer, and in what seemed only a few minutes I could feel the mare tiring beneath me. Her head began to droop and her breath was coming in gasps. I knew that very soon she would stumble and go down. We came to a clearing in the orchard, no more than thirty paces across, and rather than take a spear in the back, I pulled up the exhausted beast, and turned.
If I was to die, I thought to myself, I preferred to be facing the enemy. In a sudden flashback to my childhood, I knew my martial father would have wanted it to be that way.
My pursuers had strung out in a line. The leader was a lancer mounted on a small chestnut horse. He gave a shout of confident anticipation as he saw that I had turned and was at bay. Scarcely breaking stride he lowered his lance and rode straight at me. The point with its fluttering scrap of green cloth was aimed squarely at my chest.
Whether it was luck or the hours of practice I had spent on the training ground below Hroudland’s great hall, I responded as the instructors had taught me. I gripped my horse with my knees and thankfully the mare steadied for a moment, too tired to fidget. I concentrated fiercely on the lance tip. The green cloth tied around it made it so much easier. As it came darting towards me, I swung up my shield and slapped aside the point so that it missed entirely. My enemy was riding at a full gallop and went racing past me on my left hand side, lying forward in the saddle so that the small round shield slung between his shoulder blades protected his back. He was a youngster, scarcely into his teens, and his lighter weight had brought him to the front of the pursuit. He was probably in his first hand to hand combat, for when I looked into his brown eyes for an instant I saw they were bright with the excitement of battle.
Then, without deliberate thought, I was rising in my stirrups as I had seen my instructors demonstrate time and again. My borrowed sword was in my right hand, and as my attacker drew level, I chopped down the blade almost vertically. It caught the lad in the back of the neck, below the rim of his helmet. I felt the shock as the blade hit something solid, and then it was nearly ripped from my hand as the lad slumped forward on his horse’s neck. A moment later he tumbled to the ground, his mantle tangling around his corpse.
My hand and wrist was tingling from the shock of the blow, and I was gasping for breath as I turned to face my next attacker. Beneath me the mare was weaving unhappily from side to side, wanting to turn and flee. I knew she would be overtaken in a few strides so I struggled to keep her head toward the remaining Saracens. There were four or five of them — it was all happening too quickly for me to be sure exactly how many — and they had reached the far edge of the clearing. After witnessing the fate of their comrade, they were getting ready for their next attack. One man turned and handed his lance to a comrade, then drew a short, wide-bladed sword. For an unsettling moment, I had a vision of my family’s final battle. The shape of the Saracen’s weapon recalled the seaxes that my father’s followers had held when they faced King Offa’s warriors. I saw dark, bearded faces beneath their helmets, faces set in grim calculation. The trooper with the drawn sword rode forward a pace or two, and was joined by a companion who had kept his lance. Now I saw what they intended to do. One would ride at me on my left hand side with his lance, and while I fended off his attack with my shield, his companion would cut me down on my exposed side.
The two troopers took their time. I heard them exchange a few words and then they edged their horses sideways to increase the gap between them and make it harder for me to defend myself against their double- pronged assault. Now they settled in the saddle, adjusted reins, and prepared to charge. I saw the horses gather their hind legs under them, ready to spring forward. I knew I was finished.
At that moment, another Saracen rode out from the tree line. He was dressed like the others in flowing gown and metal helmet, but he carried a short staff instead of a spear. I guessed he was some sort of officer for he barked an order, and, to my relief, the two who had been preparing to charge me pulled back their mounts, and resumed their places in the line. I sensed that they were disappointed at being denied their victim.
My relief was short lived. The officer gave a second order, and one of the other troopers reached behind his saddle and produced an object I recognized. It was a curved bow, the twin of the one that I had learned to use in Aachen. Still mounted the archer strung the bow, then reached into a quiver hanging from his saddle and drew out an arrow. I sat there helplessly, thinking back to what Osric had told me in Aachen and I had scarcely believed: at seventy paces distance a mounted Saracen was expected to hit a target of less than three spans across.
The bowman facing me was no more than half that distance away. The Saracen officer saw no point in risking further loss to his men. He preferred that I was despatched like a mad dog.
For a brief moment I wondered about turning my horse and trying to flee. But it was hopeless — I could not outrun the arrow.
So I sat on the mare without moving. I stared at my executioner, wondering what was going through his mind as he drew back the bowstring and took aim.
I saw the arrow fly. It was no more than a very brief, dark blur and then, appallingly, I felt it thump into the target. It was not my chest. Beneath me the mare quivered as if she had been struck with a hammer, and her forelegs buckled as she collapsed on the ground. As I flew over her head I realized that the Saracens did not want to kill me. They wanted to take me alive.
