Under my sabatons, my shoes were scorched and sticky with blood. My feet hurt – the arches ached. The armour was a worse enemy than the infidel. I felt I’d broken my hips while asleep.
Gawain was in the gatehouse stable, lying in clean straw, exhausted. He opened his eyes, snorted, and closed his eyes again, his derision for the whole of the human race clear to anyone who knows horses. Pressed against him was Fiore’s charger, also curried and clean.
‘Good knight, bad horseman!’ John the Turk said. ‘Jesus love animals. Knights not so much.’
I clasped his hand.
He nodded.
‘Thanks, John.’ I saw that he had Fra Peter’s Mamluk horse groomed. The animal had a headstall and two reins through ring bolts.
‘Stallion!’ John said. ‘Want.’
I’d have laughed, but all I wanted was sleep. John got my armour off me in the straw, and I collapsed by my horse as he told me that Fra Peter had been taken to the ships.
I slept again, guarded by a new Christian convert whose brethren were sitting across the river. Had John not been loyal to his word, I’d have been dead many times, that campaign.
But Tartars – Monghuls – do not lie.
Thanks be to God.
I awoke in the darkness. I could not move: it took an effort of will to make my eyes open, much less to move hands or feet. Straightening my spine was an incredible effort, as was extending my legs.
But, like climbing a mountain, every bit helped. I began to gain control of my limbs, and I rolled to my feet like a badly wounded man. I was not. To crown the miracle of the taking of Alexandria, my fevered wound had closed and gone cold. I think – I like to think – that when I lifted the legate, his flesh healed mine.
Say what you will, Chaucer.
It was almost fully dark outside when I was dressed and armed, filthy, tired, and afire with the pains of two days of combat. John armed me in silence and sent a boy for Fiore. I found Fra William de Midleton in the yard.
‘We are ordered to hold,’ he said heavily.
The city was oddly silent. No cock crowed. No music, no muezzins. Of course. And yet, the silence was terrible.
I think you need to know that despite the encounter in the smoke, I didn’t give a rat’s arse for the Hungarian or d’Herblay in that hour. Essentially, I forgot them. Holding the gate became our goal – there was nothing else. You’ll see.
I looked at the open gate. ‘We should rebuild the gate. The ships have carpenters—’
Fra William shook his head. ‘There is a Moslem army just over the bridge.’
‘Not any more,’ I said. ‘My lord, did no one tell you?’
Fra William started. ‘How do you know?’
I was too tired to argue. ‘Fiore and I rode to find Fra Peter. Then we went and looked at the bridge. The Saracens were fleeing.’ I paused. ‘That was – a day ago? Hasn’t the bridge been burned?’ I asked.
Fra William shook his head heavily. He was as exhausted as I. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Scouted?’ I asked.
‘No, Sir William!’ he said. ‘Nothing has been done. They say that the king is surrounded by counsellors who say the city must be abandoned.’
I think I ignored him or didn’t believe him. I knew, I, a young knight, a Corporal, that by taking Alexandria we had cut the Sultan off from all his trade, shattered his resources, and severed his main link with Palestine and all his garrisons. Saint Louis had never struck such a stroke. Indeed, since the taking of Jerusalem herself, no Crusade had ever accomplished as much. With the fleet in the harbour and possession of the walls, in effect, we had crippled Egypt. And when the rest of Europe heard, when the Green Count came at our backs, we would have the whole of Egypt, and the Holy Land as well. King Peter’s strategy was solid. We had won.