The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood - Volume 2 Page 38

They careered into the horse archers with shield and sword. In close combat these Muslims proved no match. Their speciality was with the bow. The knights made quick work of them and hacked them to death without mercy.

  The main threat still rested with the two larger lines that had passed them. A part of the first of these continued on to attack the pilgrims. The rest turned to face the knights a second time, their sabres raised.

  The pilgrims fled for their lives. The women ran screaming with their children under their arms. The men dropped back to try and halt the onslaught. They had no chance. The Muslim riders brought their sabres down. In only a few moments every one of the men lay dead on the ground.

  The thirty riders pursued the women and children. They cut them down from behind. Heads opened in a mass of blood. The lifeless bodies crashed to the ground, taking their children down with them. The Muslims spared none of the infants. They dismounted and hacked them down one at a time.

  The main body of the Muslim force charged at the knights again. They numbered almost two hundred against forty-eight. Three of the knights stood on the ground with swords in hand, their mounts killed in the initial exchange.

  They eyed the Muslim horde as it advanced towards them. Yet they did not turn and run. Each man whispered a quiet prayer of his own and stood his ground. The advancing force swallowed them up. By the time it had passed by, they were dead.

  Pelou and his knights regrouped. They saw the size of the force coming their way, but it did not deter them. Together they turned and in a perfect line charged as one. Pelou took the front with Dujon at his side. They hung low in the saddle with swords raised. Unlike the first charge they had made, their horses now raced forward at full speed.

  The battle cries of both sides filled the air. Each Muslim wanted only the death of the Christian knights. The knights, in turn, wanted only to stain the ground with Muslim blood.

  They came together. Horses cried out, as their bodies collided. The deafening clang of steel on steel rang in their ears. The knights fought with amazing courage. For every one that fell, three Muslims went with them.

  Pelou eyed his opposite. Unlike him the Muslim leader stayed to the rear of the battle. In his heart Pelou knew force of numbers would likely triumph here. There were just too many against them. He identified his best chance of victory in killing the man he had in his sights.

  He cut a line straight through the middle. Dujon fought at his side, covering his back. Their superior skill won through. The Muslim leader saw him coming and sent his two bodyguards out to protect him.

  Pelou knew these were likely his two best soldiers. But in that same moment the sound of the women and children screaming caught his ear. He looked beyond them to see the pilgrims fleeing for their lives.

  His heart raced, knowing that those in his care were under attack. “We have to get to them!” he shouted to Dujon over the din.

  “I am with you, my Lord,” Dujon assured him.

  “When we pass these two we go straight for them.”

  “I am at your side.”

  “Then we shall do it.”

  They spurred their mounts together. The distance between the four men vanished in no time. Pelou was too fast for his rival. He swung with his sword and took the Muslim’s head clean off. Dujon attacked with his shield. He blocked the swing from his enemy and drove his blade in low. The Muslim fell from the saddle as the Frenchman rode on.

  Pelou eyed the opposing leader. He saw real fear in the man’s eyes. This is no soldier he thought. He is a bandit, a murderer and a thief. The Muslim leader turned his mount to flee. But Pelou was in no mood to let him get away. He hurled his sword through the air, still at full gallop.

  The sword spun as many as twenty times in flight. But it found its target. The Muslim managed one slight groan as it ripped through his back and out through his chest. He slumped forward, his blood coating the mane of his horse. Pelou reached out with an arm. Without slowing or changing direction he grabbed the hilt of his weapon and yanked it from the dead man. It lifted him up over the head of his horse. The bandit crashed down under its hooves. It tripped over him and fell down hard. His corpse lay mangled on the ground.

  The two men sprinted on at full gallop. They raced past the cluster of trees. The sight that met their eyes filled them with dread. Bodies lay all over the ground. They saw men, women and children. The Muslims did not pick and choose.

  The bandits stopped the slaughter. They turned their attention on the two knights when they saw them ride up. Pelou and Dujon took out the first four men they encountered with ease. Two more came at them and fell. A half a dozen of the Muslims continued the attack on the women and children. Some of the women they seized and threw across the saddle. Pelou heard them scream as their abductors made off with them. But there was nothing he could do to help.

  The eighteen bandits in the group that remained organised themselves quickly. They split into two groups. The two knights managed to take one more each before they faced a proper counter attack.

  They had to fight for their lives. Their ability as horsemen, even against this enemy, stood them in good stead. No more than two men could engage them at any one time. Their superior skills came to the fore. Only for the fact that they had to kill these two knights, the Muslims would have fled.

  In the thick of the fighting the Muslims drew the two knights away from each other. Fighting alone they were not as strong. One of the bandits got in behind Dujon and drove a blade into his lower back.

  His body turned cold in an instant. He managed to raise his sword to fend off another blow, but could not avoid a second that came from the opposite side. The sword struck him across the side of the head. A huge gash opened above his ear. He sagged forward, though still conscious. They converged on him as one. Blood gushed from his mouth the moment four of them drove their blades into his torso.

  Pelou cried out when he saw Dujon fall. In a fury he lunged forward and drove his sword straight through the eye of one of the Muslims. The seven that remained circled him. He spun around on his horse many times, as he fought them off. It was as much as he could do now. But with each moment that passed both he and his mount grew more and more weary.

  Sweat poured from his brow and trickled into his eyes. The salty fluid stung them and obscured his vision. His long hair stuck to his face and head. Every muscle and sinew in his body ached. Slowly he felt his strength begin to ebb away. Every swing and block with his sword sapped a little more of it. Only his adrenaline and a fear of death urged him on.

  He gasped as a blade sliced his left arm. His chain mail was not strong enough there to fully protect him. When he swung around a rider charged his horse from behind. His mount staggered sideways and the sudden jolt knocked him from the saddle. He grabbed desperately for the reins with his other hand. In the process his shield dropped to the ground. His efforts proved in vain. As his horse struggled to keep its footing his feet slid from the stirrups. Fear gripped his heart, as he crashed down against the hard earth.

  Pelou survived on his wits now. He blocked another downward blow, holding his sword high in both hands. With a deft flick of the wrist he disarmed his enemy. He saw the shock in the man’s eyes before driving his blade deep into his heart.

  He spun around just in time to fend away another two strikes against him. His strength and courage amazed them. Six onto one he still remained on his feet.

  “Give me strength, God!” he cried. “But if it be Your will, Father, then take me. I commend my spirit to You!”

  The Muslims stopped for a moment. He seemed to mesmerise them as he spoke, but it did not last. Pelou knew he had to even the odds if he were to survive this. He stooped down and drove his sword through the chest of the nearest horse. Before he got up again he swung and hacked off the leg of a second. Both beasts cried out and came crashing down. Their riders hit the ground hard. One broke an arm, but the other got slowly to his feet.

  Pelou spun again to face the four others. Blood oozed ste
adily from the wound in his left arm. Still he fought on. One of the riders engaged him. In the same moment another got in behind. He could do nothing as the Muslim lunged at him. The sabre pierced the padding on his back. He cried out as it cut two inches into his flesh.

  It caused him to lose his momentum. Another rider charged him from the side. He staggered to the left when the horse clattered into him. With no defence now he walked straight into the arc of a sabre that slashed the whole of one side of his face. His vision clouded before he fell face first against the ground.

  The main battle had ended. Every one of the gallant knights lay dead. Less than fifty of the Muslims they had fought remained alive. Of those, at least half carried wounds of one kind or another. They joined up with the few that Pelou had resisted.

  The group looked down at his body. Normally they would have hacked him to pieces. But he had shown courage none of them thought possible. They left him there and rode away, a sixth of their original number.

  Pelou awoke hours later, his head throbbing badly. Blood caked his vest and armour and the ground around him. He managed with an effort to get to his feet.

  The buzzards circled overhead. Some had already feasted on the dead that lay all around. He looked to the women and children. Tears welled in his eyes. He had failed them. His heart broke in two at the gravity of it all. He dropped to his knees and cried harder than he had ever done before. “I am sorry,” he choked over and over. “I am sorry.”

  A terrible pain passed through his head. He clutched it in both hands, as he continued to cry. A black wave passed over him a second time. He did not resist it. He wanted death. His eyes closed. Then he collapsed again.

  France. The Franciscan monastery at Nantes in Brittany.

  June 11, 1612.

  Pelou awoke in a cold sweat. He sat up in his bed, resting on his hands. Taking deep breaths he stared into the darkness. The faces of the women and children outside Jerusalem continued to haunt him. Their eyes gazed up at the burning sky. They did not blink. Despite their terrible wounds none of them cried any more.

  Everywhere he turned he saw them. There was no escape. He could not hide away from it. The scar on his face throbbed from the tension inside his head. He rubbed it for a moment and then climbed out of bed.

  Sounds from within indicated he was not the first to wake. One of the monks eyed him when he stepped outside, but did not speak. They did not mind his being there, but none of them ever spoke to him. Everyone knew who he was. His reputation was no secret. But they kept at a safe distance from him.

  He walked topless and barefoot down to the Loire River. For a time he stared into the still waters, his mind still in the Holy Land. He stooped forward and threw water up over his face.

  The first light of dawn showed on the horizon. Birds danced about above him. They formed shadows against the dark sky. Pelou closed his eyes and breathed in deep. The cool clean air invigorated him. The morning had a cool mystique about it that hinted a beautiful day lay ahead.

  He opened his eyes again. A lone rider caught his eye in the distance. The horseman crossed the bridge further along the river on his right. A messenger from Rome perhaps? Do they even come this far north? He did not care especially.

  Pelou had been here nearly four years. Since the day he arrived he had not spoken. He had not gone back to his estates. Nor did he ever return to Jerusalem. The shame he felt would not allow him to.

  For a long time the Order had no idea of what had happened to him. They found the other bodies, but not his. A few different rumours emerged from that. Some said the Muslims took him. The cynical few said he had run away and left the rest to die.

  In time he made it home to France. He came straight to the monastery here in Nantes. He told the story to the abbot. His scars proved that what he said was the truth. This story found its way back to the Holy Land. It also made it to Rome. Nobody in the know thought poorly of Pelou.

  Still he felt riddled by guilt. The care of those pilgrims had rested on his shoulders. His shoulders. Yet he had not saved them. He failed to keep the oath he had sworn. The images of their broken bodies haunted him day and night. They would just not leave his mind. Everywhere he looked their faces cried out to him for help. Yet he could do nothing. He always saw their eyes. Eyes that looked straight through him.

  He threw more water over his face. It helped if just a little. For a moment he thought only of the coolness of it against his skin. His scar no longer throbbed. That was one good thing at least.

  The abbot walked down the grassy slope towards him. He eyed the muscled figure of the knight with a tinge of sadness. White and red stripes zigzagged across Pelou’s back. It was a self-induced punishment he exacted on his own body as part of his penance. Pelou heard him coming, but did not look around.

  “Good morning, Jean,” he said. “You are up early.”

  Pelou continued to look straight ahead at the large expanse of water. Near to the estuary, the Loire was quite wide here. He did not want to show any disrespect to his host. “I like to rise early,” he said.

  The abbot had to hide his surprise and obvious delight. It was the first time the knight had spoken in almost four years. “It is best, yes. The early morning air is always the healthiest.”

  Pelou did not respond. He broke a blade of grass and twirled it in his fingers.

  “Have you thought about when you might leave this place?”

  Pelou turned to look at him. “Why? Do you want me to go?”

  “No, no. I did not mean that. You know you can stay here for as long as you wish. You are one of us.”

  Pelou turned around again. He threw some more water over his head. It glued his long hair to the sides of his face. Droplets fell from the ends and trickled down his chest and back.

  “It is not good for you to hide away here forever though. I appreciate all the work that you do. But how long can a man till fields? A fighting man no less.”

  “I do not think about it much. In truth I do not think much about anything.”

  “Except the Holy Land?”

  Pelou did not answer. He did not need to.

  “You cannot carry that around with you forever, Jean.”

  “It is my cross to bear.”

  “It was not your fault.”

  It was the truth. But Pelou did not believe it. He did not want to. Closing his eyes again he stood up and flexed his arms. The expression on his face did not change. He still felt and looked grim.

  “It might do you good to talk about it one day. Really talk about it.”

  “There is nothing to say.”

  He only knew what Pelou had told him the day they met. Most who knew the story now thought it the will of God that Pelou survived. Others still said Pelou had abandoned the pilgrims. No one knew for sure. Only Pelou had walked away alive.

  “Twice I have cheated death,” he said. “And I do not know why.”

  “You can be sure there is a good reason. God did not want you to die.”

  “Why would He spare me? I failed Him.”

  “Only you believe that, Jean. No one else does.”

  Pelou shrugged. What made him so special? He did wonder often.

  The abbot could tell the truth just from looking at him. “If it troubles your conscience so much, know that you have my ear should you ever need it.”

  “Thank you, abbot. I will bear it in mind.”

  “Did you see the rider that came to the monastery?”

  Pelou looked at him again. “Yes. What did he want?”

  “He brought a message for you.”

  Pelou turned away again. “I am not interested.”

  “That is why I took the liberty to read it. I hope you do not mind.”

  The knight shrugged. He did not care.

  “It was a letter from the Pope. He signed it himself.”

  This time he did have Pelou’s attention. Despite his self-imposed exile, he still regarded the Pope as his one true lord and authority. “What does th
e Holy Father want with me?”

  “You can read it yourself.”

  “No, abbot. You can tell me.”

  “He wants to see you. In Rome.”

  “I cannot imagine why.”

  “He says he has a task for you. And only you.”

  “Surely there is another he can call on?”

  “If there were the messenger would have gone elsewhere. You should go. You are still a knight of the Order of the Holy Sepulchre.”

  “Until I die. I know.”

  “Then join the living once more, Jean. Put on your robe. God needs many types of men. He needs you too.”

  Pelou shrugged. “My heart is in it no more. I gave as much as I could. And I failed Him.”

  “Go to Rome, Jean. You may find the answer to why God wants you alive. I also think you might find the redemption you are looking for.”

  Rome Province. The Vatican enclave in the city of Rome.

  June 26, 1612.

  The journey to Rome took little more than two weeks. Pelou had agreed almost at once to go. He rode with the same messenger all the way there.

  It felt good to ride again. He had always loved it on the back of a horse. A few days before arriving they sent word on ahead. The Pope was delighted. He wanted so much to meet him. In recent weeks he had learned a lot about the great knight.

  Pelou marvelled at the splendour of the Vatican. He walked into the first of the great halls dressed in the uniform of his Order. Every person that cast eyes upon him stopped and gazed at him in awe. Few of them had ever seen a knight from one of the military orders. And certainly not in the Vatican. Pelou took it as a great honour to be there. Very few, if any, serving knights ever received such an invitation.

  The Pope’s face lit up the moment he saw him. The first thing that struck him was Pelou’s height and girth. He did not think he had ever seen a man of such size and stature. The Frenchman towered over him, even from a distance. Pelou had a presence that intimidated even one as grand as he.

  Paul cast his eye over him. A scar extended down one side of his face. He knew Pelou had acquired it in the defence of the pilgrims on that fateful day in the Holy Land. But Pelou’s was a face still pleasant on the eye. The Pope could not imagine how his guest had still not found a wife. With his looks and his noble birth most would want him. And then, of course, there was his reputation. Few knights, despite their greatness and devotion to God, could compare to this man.