Holy Warrior by David Pilling

Author:David Pilling [Pilling, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-11-25T16:00:00+00:00

The Saracens had to move fast. Hugh measured the distance between his position and the ridge. Fifty paces, perhaps. If the intruders were spotted and the alarm raised, he would have to run that distance and up the slope beyond, all the while exposed to archers on the battlements.

Hugh had seen the curved bows of the Saracens at work. They were deadly accurate bowmen, and could have three arrows in the air in a matter of seconds. If he had to run the gauntlet from the maydan to the ridge, Hugh would be fortunate to cover a third of the distance before being shot down. His life depended on the padded jack he wore under his cloak. Perhaps the layers of wool and leather would be enough to cushion his flesh against the hail of arrows.

Perhaps…

Silence reigned. The maydan was quiet, and the sentries dozed. Hugh dug his nails into his palms to keep himself awake. He hadn’t slept properly since departing from Acre. How could any man, lost in the middle of so much danger?

Yet Maymun and his fellows sleep like babes, he thought. Hugh sighed and drew the folds of his cloak tighter. In England he had flattered himself that he was tough, hardened by war and battle and years of espionage work. Out here, on the other side of the world, he was barely a child.

He counted under his breath. A minute stretched to five, then ten, then fifteen. The night air grew chill. Hugh un-stoppered his gourd and forced down some watered wine. His teeth chattered with fear and cold.

At last the tension snapped. He overheard running footsteps from inside, and the slide of the bar being lifted from the gate. Hugh got to his feet, shook the stiffness from his muscles, drew his falchion.

“If anyone comes after us, kill them…Jesu, it will be a messy business!”

The gate swung inward. Hugh almost jumped out of his skin when the hinges squeaked. In the darkness and silence the noise echoed like the blast of a horn.

Maymun rushed through the arch first, leading two stolen horses by the reins. They were of the breed ridden by the Turcomen, all slender bodies, long necks and sloping shoulders. Their silver-grey coats gleamed in the moonlight with an almost metallic sheen.

The Saracen thrust the reins into Hugh’s free hand. “Mount, and ride for your life,” he hissed. “In God’s name, hurry! This accursed gate has betrayed us all. Soon the guards will be about our ears like a cloud of wasps.”

Hugh took the horse. She was biddable enough, thank Heaven, and was saddled and bitted. Even as he hoisted himself onto her back, a cry of alarm sounded from inside.

Maymun glared back into the shadows. His men filed out one by one, each with a horse in tow. He hissed at them in the Saracen tongue and leaped aboard his own horse.

Without another word the Saracen clapped his heels and raced away, across the flat ground between the maydan and safety.

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