“Then for the sake of heaven,” cried Pieter, “keep out of sight.”
The birds stopped chirping, and no living thing moved. Rudolf whispered to Helmut, “Listen to the wind … it has stopped. ‘Tis ne’er a good sign!”
Helmut nodded. Their ancient forbears had taught that the wind bore change into the world. Despite the relentless efforts of the Holy Church, it was these echoes of Odin—the ancient god of the Teutons—that yet moved lads as these. They feared both the stillness and the breeze, perpetually haunted by what might be.
“Look there!” cried Otto in dread. A distant field of winter rye began to bend beneath the insistent urging of a sun-heated gust. The shimmering green field now wended and welled toward the warriors. “The spirits are twisting in the grain!”
Chapter Eleven
TO ARMS!
The acrid smell of burning thatch wafted over the plain. “They’ve left villages afire in their wake,” groaned Rudolf.
The group murmured and crouched lower as the armies prepared to fight. The knights to the east were gathering in close ranks, the flanks of each charger pressed up against the next. Wil strained to see the army gathering from the west. “Templars!” he gasped.
A line of Knights Templar stood waiting like a white curtain of steel. Wil noted how much smaller their horses were than those of their opponents. The Templars preferred their spirited Arabian mounts and rode them in deep-set saddles. The warrior-monks sat confidently upon their sweated steeds, souls safe for all eternity and ready to do battle against the disordered rabble of evildoers now facing them. Their white habits bore a red cross over the left breast, and beneath they wore chain mail coats. Atop their heads sat metal helms that capped their chain mail hoods. In one hand, each grasped a kite-shaped shield emblazoned with a red cross; in the other, long-swords or lances.
The standard-bearer raised the Templar banner proudly. Wil had seen it in Weyer years before and had never forgotten its chequered black and white panels with the Templars’ red cross embroidered boldly in the center. “Methinks they’ve about two score horse in total and … there! There comes some host of footmen and archers from behind.” In fact, the Templars’ small army consisted of eight Knights Templar, about two score mounted mercenaries, three score footmen, and a dozen crossbowmen.
To the east was a smaller army: heavy cavalry numbering some twenty knights and supported by an equal number of footmen and a tithing of archers. Garbed in the varied-colored robes of an assortment of lords, they, like their enemies, paused to receive blessings from their priests. In a few moments, the commander kissed a raised crucifix and inspected his men.
Heinrich whispered to Wil as he pointed to his right, “Methinks those to be men of Otto. There, to our left would be the army supporting Friederich. The Templars always follow the pope’s choice.”
Suddenly, the first glint of steel shined in the west as the Templar master raised his long-sword. With a loud cry he led his cavalry forward, first at a trot. At the sound, the commander of Otto’s men answered. Undaunted by the white robes and the banner of the dreaded Templars, he abruptly ordered his own horsemen forward at a full gallop. His chargers thundered toward the dividing highway under shields glistening in the sunlight. In the dust behind, his leather-vested companies of footmen and archers sprinted forward with lances, pikes, and flails.
The pilgrims’ heads turned from east to west as the close-ranked Templars answered with their battle cry, “Vive Dieu, Saint Amour!” They stormed toward Otto’s line like a flashing fist of steel, lances leveled like a forest on end. Their ranks held tight and true as shoulder to shoulder they crashed into their foes. Otto’s commander fell at once, his chest impaled by the hard point of an unbending lance. His line then collapsed in utter confusion.
The Templars and their allies seized upon their foes without mercy. They were skilled in butchery and fought savagely with long-swords and glaives. Some swung Turkish maces—thick-handled sticks bearing a heavy, spiked ball on the end. With them, they smashed through their opponents’ helmets like rocks landing on eggs. In less than a quarter hour, many numbers of Otto’s men were strewn about the roadway; others fled for their lives.
A loud cry was heard from a small pocket of trees just beyond the battlefield. Wil’s spellbound company turned toward the sound and watched breathlessly as three of Otto’s knights were chased from their cover by a half-dozen white-robed Templars. One of the pursued knights rode a small horse, like those of the Templars. This horse and rider were nimble and quick, dodging two shots from a crossbow and outrunning a mounted swordsman. His two comrades, however, were riding huge warhorses and proved to be no match for the speedier Templar mounts. In short order, they were slain as their lone comrade raced a wide circle around his foes and dashed for the cover of the very wood in which the pilgrims hid.