Chapter 65: The Last Mercy (Part One) (Bonus Chapter: Over 1000 Monthly Votes!)

Baldwin was still nervous, but Heraclius had glimpsed the king’s thoughts—indeed, Amalric I merely walked over, placed his hand on Cesar’s shoulder, whether intentionally or not, on the left shoulder—the very spot where Walter’s cross-sword had once rested—and then called out loudly, “Baldwin.”

Baldwin immediately ran over, and Amalric I seized his hand, clasping it together with Cesar’s.

“Child,” he said in a tone bordering on tenderness, “I rarely change my mind, but there are always exceptions—will you repay me? Though you do this not for yourself, but for a group of poor, unknown strangers you will never see again.”

“I will,” Cesar said.

“Then leave this repayment to Baldwin,” Amalric I said, releasing their hands and walking past the two boys: “Perhaps one day, you will remember how merciful you once were.”

——————

Upon hearing the news that no siege was needed, from the lowest peasant soldiers to the bravest knights, all were delighted—the peasants rejoiced at the prospect of returning home safely, while the knights longed for a fierce, satisfying battle rather than wasting precious time staring at stones battering castle walls.

Besides, if the siege dragged on too long, the peasants would be exhausted, and the knights would have to dismount and dig trenches, tunnel under walls, push siege engines…

The only ones who murmured slightly were the pilgrims hoping to earn some Qian Cai from this campaign—they couldn’t shoot arrows or swing swords, relying only on laboring at the fortifications—but when dismissed, they had received a few copper coins and grumbled their way off.

Even without carrying heavy siege equipment, the vast number of peasants, laborers, and their accompanying supplies meant the army did not begin its march until a full week had passed—and even then, it was still massive, imposing.

Horns blared; armored knights mounted their horses, banners gathering around and behind the king, each flag bearing three or four knights, more squires, and armed attendants, most of whom led extra horses carrying spare weapons and shields. Heavily armed infantry followed behind them, while light cavalry circled the group, including some converted Turks.

More conspicuous still were the Byzantine heavy cavalry—about thirty men, Maria’s dowry—who wore scale armor in small square plates, one-third carrying lances and kite shields—these were lancers.

The other two-thirds carried small round shields and bows on their backs—these were archers; among them, several riders had their horses armored as well, the elite of the force, their horse armor a mark of distinction.

Manuel I had not provided any infantry as dowry; surrounding these men were their servants.

Then came the mercenaries, who had done their best to equip their banners, horses, and armor, yet still looked disorganized—but it didn’t matter, for every face bore an excited smile, brimming with hope for the future.

They might die on the battlefield, but that didn’t matter—their souls would ascend to heaven; their decaying flesh was worthless.

The king had also given them a certificate: if they died in service, their families would receive compensation.

Of course, the army still included peasants—they were tasked with building fortifications after arrival, pitching tents, and other tedious, lowly duties, marching among rows of wagons piled high with supplies.

And of course, the priests and monks, walking at the front of the column, carrying crosses (not the True Cross) and icons; before departure, they had prayed, sprinkled holy water on every knight, and blessed their reliquaries.

Baldwin and Cesar rode alongside the king, though nominally they were Amalric I’s squires, in battle, the true squires were others—several young, trustworthy members of the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, fiercely loyal to the king and battle-seasoned.

But those who rode beside the king were not them—it was William Marshal.

This knight, who had traveled from London to Arazalu, had never lost a joust, except once when the king had shattered his lance—and once more, when he withdrew early from a melee to rescue his squire.

He had refused Amalric I’s affectionate entreaties to stay, citing his duty to Queen Eleanor and young King Henry—but upon hearing Amalric I planned to declare war on the Templar Walter de Lemesny, he leapt from his ship and raced back to Arazalu to lend his aid.

The king could not refuse such a knight; he welcomed this unexpected gift with great joy, clasping William’s arm and introducing him to the other knights.

The knights had heard of William Marshal’s name and were neither surprised nor jealous of his special treatment—perhaps because they all needed a strong ally.

The army’s pace was far slower than the envoys’; a week later, they reached the designated battlefield. Though the king did not believe the Templars would break their word, he still sent light cavalry to scout.

It was an open, flat stretch of sand; a man standing on horseback could see the castle of Tortosa in the distance.

On the agreed day—the Feast of Saint Martin (April 13)—the man on horseback saw the garrison on the castle walls change; the gates opened.

The black-and-white banners of the Templars fluttered in the wind, dust rising; the knights wore white robes, faint red crosses visible upon them.

“They’re coming!” the man cried.

He immediately dismounted to report; the king summoned his generals and Byzantine cavalry commanders, the mercenary leaders, and within the tent, they once again confirmed each man’s assigned tasks and contingency plans, spoke briefly, then stepped out and dispersed.

Messengers darted through the increasingly dense battle lines; drummers took their positions; knights made final checks of their gear and weapons, then moved to the front of the formation—when suddenly, the Templars’ envoys arrived again, pushing through the hostile crowd, entering the king’s tent, bowing, and presenting a sword.

This had become an established custom: some said it was to humiliate the enemy, mocking their lack of weapons; others claimed presenting the sword meant combat would follow, not negotiation.

In any case, the king accepted the sword calmly, then solemnly declared he came in the name of God to punish the impious, for they valued Qian Cai more than faith.

The Templar envoys immediately retorted: they were fulfilling the divine duty entrusted to them; it was the king who had shamefully conspired with the enemies of the Faith—he was the traitor, and his war would end in catastrophic defeat, and so on.

Cesar recognized one of them as the Knight Marshal he had met before, but from his gaze and tone, this seemed merely a ritual to be endured.

“Walter de Lemesny did not hurl my envoys in a catapult basket from his walls—I shall let his envoys depart my camp unharmed.”

The king ended his words; the Templar envoys immediately withdrew. After they left, Amalric I stepped out of the tent and looked at the sky.

“It’s time,” the king said: “Wait any longer, the sun will shine directly into our eyes.”

Both sides had formed their lines; from afar, it was clear that Templar Lemesny, though agreeing to meet in battle, had also hired and conscripted men—his forces were nearly equal to Amalric I’s.

Knights stood tall; Amalric I rode past them on horseback, appealing to God for the humiliation and injury he had suffered, accusing Templar Walter of disobedience and arrogance, and imploring his knights to cleanse this disgrace—his words were filled with sincerity, stirring every knight to fury and passion!

Moreover, he promised that since this war was fought to restore his honor, he sought nothing but honor itself—anything gained on the battlefield belonged to the knights and their squires.

These few words surpassed all his earlier speeches; the knights roared, and the mercenaries behind, hearing them, howled in turn, waving weapons, dancing wildly.

“The wind’s rising,” Baldwin said.

As squires, they stood at the edge of the line; the king would not enter battle at once, but no one could predict the war’s course.

The drummers, lined up, began their thunderous beat; with the rhythm, knights raised their lances and urged their horses into a slow, steady advance; foot soldiers and unmounted mercenaries followed—but as the horses quickened, a long, wide gap opened between them and the infantry.

But no need to worry: within moments, the knights closed to within a hundred paces, their horses broke into a full charge, and auras of varying intensity flared around them.

They shouted, “God’s will!” “Lord, grant us victory and life!” “Glory to God!” and the names of saints and the Divine, crashing into one another with full force.

Cesar had seen knights fight in jousts, but compared to this cruelty, those contests were less than a hundredth as brutal.

Here, no walls, no safe zones, no spectators—this was true slaughter; every lance aimed for vulnerable chests, exposed shoulders, shadows beneath helmets; spear tips glowed with either steel or divine radiance, as did the helmets on heads and chainmail on bodies.

Each knight shouted aloud, eyes blazing with faith in God and the saints—but faith varied.

A Templar knight pierced his enemy; his lance, like a sharp awl, punched through the opponent’s armor—not thin, yet it pierced through chainmail and chest. The victim was a young Knight of the Holy Sepulchre; he fell from his horse, motionless.

His companion cried out in grief, but his own lance snapped against a Templar’s shoulder; he drew his sword and charged forward.

But the Templar, struck on the shoulder yet only staggered, had already drawn his mace from his belt and struck once—sending the wounded friend tumbling from his horse.

He was luckier than the previous knight; the Templar’s mace tore through his robe and armor like a beast, yet he still rose from the ground.

The knight trembled, his body glowing with fierce white light, standing on the sand, frantically searching for his friend’s killer—but the white-robed, red-crossed Templars had already charged toward the king’s line.

“Horse!” he shouted, but his squire had not caught up—he was already pierced through the neck by a Templar sword-and-shield infantryman; the valiant knight now searched the battlefield, spotting a Templar sergeant on horseback, clad in brown, bearing only a small red cross, dueling a wandering knight in a skull-cap and chainmail.

Clearly, the unblessed wandering knight stood no chance; though skilled from real combat, he had no horse, no saint’s favor, relying only on instinct and agility.

But the sergeant merely raised his spiked mace and struck the wanderer’s temple—he fell silent, blood gushing from beneath his half-round helmet, life or death unknown.

A Knight of the Holy Sepulchre cried out loudly, drawing the sergeant’s attention; the sergeant spurred his horse toward him; the knight spread his arms, fearless, charging the towering steed.

The sergeant clamped his knees, raised his mace—but suddenly, the horse reared, lifting its front hooves; he lost balance, his weapon flew from his grip, and he tumbled from his once-reliable mount.

The knight glanced at him, did not strike again, merely seized the reins and leapt onto the horse.

But the sergeant did not live long; the king’s infantry had arrived—mostly mercenaries and Byzantines, yet fiercer than any; they overturned every obstacle, shattered every visible skull, slit every throat within reach…

Only knights blessed by the saints could restrain such beasts—but now, not only had all the Templars charged the king’s tents, even the disciplined sword-and-shield infantry had crossed the center line; they cared nothing for the conscripted and hired soldiers, as if these men were merely sugar lumps meant to lure ants.

(End of Chapter)