Whilst the crowd cheered, John stepped forward and picked up the dead Saracen’s sword, testing the blade with his thumb. His suspicions were confirmed; the blade had been dulled. It would not cut through hardened leather, much less chainmail. The Saracen had been given no chance.
‘Give that here, Saxon,’ Reynald said, and John handed the sword over. Reynald turned again to the crowd. ‘Bring the next prisoner! The skinny one!’
The lanky Saracen was matched against Tybaut, the old bull of a man who had fought in the first crusade. Tybaut made short work of his opponent, parrying the young Saracen’s clumsy first strike and dispatching him with a quick counter-blow to the chest. The older Saracen was next, and Reynald fought the man himself. The Muslim warrior was a confident swordsman, and at first the fight seemed even as he and Reynald traded blows. But the Saracen’s limp made him a step slow. When Reynald pressed his attack, the Saracen stumbled, lowering his guard. He was standing just in front of John when Reynald finished him with a vicious blow, nearly decapitating the Saracen and spraying John with gore.
John wiped the blood from his face and looked at his hand, smeared with red. He closed his eyes as memories surged up inside him: his brother’s shocked face; the pommel of their father’s sword, engraved with the head of a lion; John’s own face and hands wet with hot blood. He turned away from the ring and started to push his way through the crowd.
‘You! Saxon!’ Reynald called. ‘Where do you think you’re going? It’s your turn.’
John stopped. Around him the men stepped back, opening a path back to the ring. John stood clenching and unclenching his fists as he struggled with his dark memories. Perhaps this was how God had decided he would pay his blood debt; here, against this Saracen. He turned and strode back to the ring.
Rabbit’s nose twitched nervously as he presented John with his helmet. ‘Keep it,’ John said as he shed his shield. ‘And help me with my armour.’ Rabbit helped pull off the heavy coat of chainmail. John removed his tunic too, so that now he wore only his leather breeches and boots. His bare chest was already glistening with sweat under the intense sun. John drew his sword and stepped into the ring where the battle-scarred Saracen stood waiting for him.
Reynald stepped in front of John. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he hissed.
‘I’ll fight him fairly, or I won’t fight,’ John replied. Reynald looked from John to his opponent. John was lean and fit, but he was still smooth-faced, barely a man. His opponent was an experienced warrior, broad-chested and thickly muscled. Reynald shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off. ‘Like you said, he’s only a Saracen, flesh and blood. I’ll handle him.’
‘I like you, Saxon. I hope you live.’ Reynald stepped away, leaving John to face his opponent.
The Saracen swung his sword from side to side, testing its weight, and then stood still, his blade held low. John raised his own sword, holding it with both hands. His heart pounded in his chest, and sweat trickled down his face. He could hear men shouting in the crowd. ‘Five on the Saracen!’ ‘The Saracen in one turn of the sands!’ ‘Get on with it, bath-boy!’ Others began to shout his name, and gradually their voices merged into a chant: ‘Saxon! Saxon! Saxon!’
John took a step towards his opponent, and the Saracen moved sideways. John pivoted in the middle of the ring, while the Saracen circled around him. A drop of sweat stung John’s eye, and he blinked. Instantly, the Saracen attacked, his sword sweeping up from the ground and towards John’s groin. John parried, but no sooner had he blocked the blow than the Saracen spun away and launched another slicing attack at John’s head. John ducked the blade, but a moment later his face exploded in pain as the Saracen’s knee connected with his jaw. John stumbled backwards, stunned, and barely managed to deflect a wicked thrust aimed at his gut. The Saracen resumed circling.
John stood in the centre of the ring, breathing hard. His jaw was on fire, and he worked it side to side to make sure nothing was broken. The Saracen continued to circle, his sword pointed down towards the earth. John had never faced someone who fought like this: always spinning and circling. He had been trained to fight head-on, in a line. He thought back to the countless hours he had spent in practice with his father. John could hear the gravelly voice in his head: ‘Keep your distance, find a pattern, break him down.’
The Saracen attacked again, slicing up towards John’s face. John raised his sword, but at the last second the Saracen shifted his attack, cutting back down at John’s waist. John jumped backwards, and the tip of the blade missed him by inches. He chopped down at the Saracen, but the man was already spinning away. John’s sword bit into the dirt, and he barely brought it up in time to block a vicious blow aimed at his chest. The two swords locked, bringing him close to his opponent. The Saracen head-butted John in the face, sending him reeling backwards. John raised his sword to fend off another attack, but the Saracen had moved away, circling again.
John licked his lower lip and tasted blood, metallic and salty. His jaw clenched as anger rose in him, driving away the fear, the pain, and the sound of the chanting crowd until there was only him and his opponent. ‘Bastard!’ he snarled as he raised his sword and sprang forward, slashing at the Saracen’s side. The Saracen parried and spun away, swinging for John’s head as he did so. But this time John anticipated the move. He dropped to one knee to avoid the blade, then lunged forward, driving his sword at the Saracen’s gut. The Saracen just managed to deflect the blow, but not entirely. John’s blade slid past and sliced his adversary’s side, leaving a ragged crimson gash.
John stepped back, and this time he was the one to begin circling. His opponent, a grimace of pain on his face, stood holding his sword in one hand and clutching his side with the other, bright blood oozing between his fingers. John charged forward, stabbing at the Saracen’s chest. The Saracen parried, knocking John’s sword aside, and John reversed his blow immediately, swinging for his opponent’s neck. The Saracen ducked the attack and lunged at John, who sidestepped the blow and brought his sword down hard, knocking the Saracen’s blade from his hand. John kicked the sword away and stood facing his defeated foe. The Saracen sank to his knees, waiting for the blow that would finish him. John raised his sword, and as his anger faded, the roar of the crowd came rushing back to him. ‘Kill him!’ someone yelled. ‘Finish him!’
John hesitated. Honour and mercy, the virtues of a warrior: that was what his father had taught him. He had not come to the Holy Land to place more blood on his head. He lowered his sword and stepped away. ‘I spare you.’ The crowd booed.
‘Very chivalrous of you,’ Reynald said as he stepped past John. In one smooth motion, he drew his sword and brought it down on the captive’s neck, killing him instantly. The crowd roared its approval as Reynald hacked down again and again, severing the man’s head from his body. Reynald picked up the head and threw it to the cheering crowd. Then he turned back to John and put his arm around his shoulders. ‘You’re brave, Saxon; a man after my own heart. What’s your real name?’
‘Iain, my lord. Iain of Tatewic.’
Reynald frowned. ‘That’s no name for a knight.’ Franks could never get their mouths around ‘Iain.’
‘John, sir. You can call me John.’
‘Very well, then, John. You will come to the castle with me tonight, and you will meet our King.’
John spurred his horse as he followed Reynald into the courtyard of the palace of the King of Jerusalem. Reynald was dressed in leather breeches and a handsome green silk tunic. John wore his chainmail and crusader’s surcoat: the only clothes he owned that were fit for the occasion. They dismounted, handed their reins to the waiting servants and headed for an arched doorway at the far side of the courtyard.