An instant later Hroudland himself burst out of the trees directly behind me. He was riding at a full gallop, hallooing and yelling, and charging straight at the Saracens.
He deliberately rode over his victim. I heard the sickening crunch of bones as the powerful war horse trod on the officer’s body. Then the animal crashed headlong into the next Saracen trooper in line and sent his lighter horse staggering backward. Hroudland already had his sword in his hand and before his opponent could recover his balance, the count had delivered a downward cut at the Saracen’s shoulder. The man must have been wearing shoulder armour under his mantle; otherwise he would have lost his arm. He swayed in the saddle, his arm now hanging useless, blood gushing from the wound. His horse saved his life; before Hroudland could deliver a second sword blow, the animal leaped sideways and carried its rider out of range.
Now Berenger and the rest of the count’s escort came pouring out of the tree line. Suddenly there was the thunder of hooves, yelling and shouting, and all the headlong chaos of a cavalry charge.
The Saracens knew at once that they were outnumbered. Without hesitation they pulled around their horses. It was astonishing how nimbly their mounts turned. They pivoted on their hindquarters and, like cats, sprang forward. Moments later they were in full flight, racing away from the pursuit. They had been driven off but they were not in disarray. The group split up, each man taking his own line through the orange and plum trees, weaving and twisting, and making the chase difficult. I doubted if Hroudland, Berenger and the others would catch them.
I stood in the clearing, shaken and exhausted. My legs were trembling with fatigue, and I could feel my left elbow stiffening where the shield straps had wrenched my arm. All of a sudden everything seemed very quiet. The skirmish had been very brief, yet had taken a bloody toll. My chestnut mare lay dead just a few feet away, and beyond her was the body of the young Saracen I had killed. Further off, right in the centre of the glade, was the corpse of the officer with Hroudland’s lance sticking out of his chest.
The very same qualities that often irritated me about Hroudland – his lack of forethought, his belligerence, his vain confidence in his own prowess – had saved me. His impetuous, raging attack had been typical of the man. If he had not been riding out ahead of his escort, he would have arrived too late. If he had not been so prone to acting on the spur of the moment, he would never have intercepted the Saracen officer in time. If he was not such a good fighting man, he would never have hit his target with his thrown lance.
Without question I owed him my liberty and very likely my life as well.
The count and the others rode back into the clearing some time later, their horses flecked with lather. There were no Saracen prisoners.
‘They got away,’ Berenger called, frustrated.
The group gathered round me and dismounted. Their presence was comforting. Never before had I felt so close to my Frankish colleagues.
‘Who were they?’ I asked through dry cracked lips. My throat felt raw and I was parched with a sudden, fierce thirst.
‘A patrol of the Emir of Cordoba’s cavalry, probably.’ Berenger lifted off his helmet and removed the felt cap he wore under it. He ran his hand through his crop of curls.
‘How did they come to be here?’ I wondered.
‘The Falcon didn’t get his nickname for nothing. He strikes fast. They must have been probing the defences of Zaragoza.’
One of the men sauntered over to the corpse of the young Saracen I had killed. Doubtless he was checking what there might be worth plundering from the body. With his foot he rolled the body over on its back. Now I saw the face clearly. It was indeed that of a young man, not old enough to have grown a full beard. He had smooth skin and fine, regular features. As I watched, the head lolled loosely to one side. My downward stroke had nearly decapitated the trooper. A great red gash opened, and I saw the white gleam of bone.
My stomach heaved. I doubled over and threw up its thin, slick contents at the feet of my rescuers.
*
‘Here, take a drink.’ Hroudland was holding out a waterskin to me. I straightened up and took it from him. The water had a rancid taste and was lukewarm. I drank it gratefully.
‘No point in hanging around,’ Hroudland said. ‘We ride ahead to the city and let them know we are here. They’ll be grateful to know we’ve driven off the Falcon.’
Instinctively I looked around for my horse, forgetting for a moment that the creature lay dead. Hroudland noted my error.
‘We caught one of the Saracen cavalry mounts running loose. You can ride that.’
One of his escorts led forward the animal. It was the thoroughbred that the Saracen officer had been riding. Someone helped me up into the saddle, another man handed up my helmet and shield, then the sword. The blade was chipped where it must have struck the neck bone. I hung it from a loop on the Saracen saddle, settled the helmet on my head, and rode after Hroudland who was already moving away at a brisk trot.