The Knights Dawning (The Crusades Series) Read online

  The Knights Dawning

  The First Book in the Crusades Series

  James Batchelor

  Salt Lake City

  The Knights Dawning

  A Pendant Book.

  First Pendant Publishing Edition, November 2011

  E-book v1.1

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2009 by James Batchelor

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011916213

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission. Please do not participate in the piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Please purchase only authorized editions.

  ISBN 978-0-9840044-0-9

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  CHAPTER NINETY

  CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

  CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

  CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

  CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

  CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

  CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

  CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would not have been possible without the effort and support of a great many people, but the following should be mentioned specifically:

  My wife, Elizabeth, for her support and for never letting me give up.

  Dan Cutler, who's patience in tirelessly hashing and rehashing these subjects borders on the miraculous.

  And finally to the individuals in the reading groups, most of whom I do not know, for being willing to read new material and not being afraid to give their honest feedback.

  To all these people, I say thank you.

  For Jared:

  For everything he wanted to be,

  For everything he could have been,

  And for everything he was not.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  A word regarding the historicity of this book:

  Though I had always enjoyed reading it, I had never particularly wanted to write fiction (at least not in my adult life; as a child, I thought that was all I would write). So when the idea for The Knights Dawning came to me, the way I salved my conscience over writing a fiction novel is that I was writing historical fiction. Well, very early on in the project, it became clear that either the history or the story was going to have to give. While most of the major battles referred to by name as well as the historical figures such as Prince John and those surrounding him are all real, the history was not lining up. I found it would be necessary to sacrifice the story or bend the dates and experiences to fit the story I wanted to tell.

  Nevertheless, I refused to abandon the historical aspects altogether because I feel the story is lent a certain validity by having it occur against the backdrop of a very tumultuous time that actually occurred in our history. Even so, given the many liberties I ended up taking, I thought I should mention some important details. Everything referenced in the story: Damietta, The Magna Carta, King Richard, the Norman conquest of England, King John and his feud with Pope Innocent III, etc. are all true historical events that occurred during this period. Where the liberties were taken is in the details. The dates of Richard's death and the battle of Damietta, for example, do not exactly line up with the time I needed them to occur in order to make for a smooth-flowing story. They were a few years off, so I ignored that fact.

  The armor presented another challenge. The full suits of plate armor as we typically imagine knights wearing did not exist in that form until sometime later than this story takes place. But I wanted traditional knights for my story, so the armor obligingly jumped back in time to accommodate me. The size of the horses is also a matter of some dispute. It appears that destriers were not the massive draft-type horses I have depicted herein, but there was just something about a knight charging into battle on a Shetland pony that was distinctly underwhelming, so that fact, too, changed.

  Dawning Castle is another particular worth mentioning. When I planned this story out, I thought I would find a specific Norman castle in England that I liked and base
Dawning Castle's design and location around that. But I could not find any that suited me, so I created one from whole cloth.

  Most of these items are probably not a concern to the recreational reader, but the history buff may get hung up on these details. In the end I could not really call this historical fiction, but I still value the historical aspects of the story, so it was important to me to preserve them.

  With that, please enjoy The Knights Dawning.

  PROLOGUE

  Mount Alamut

  It was midnight when they removed the blindfold from Amir’s eyes. He was in a dark cave lit only by a few torches lining the stone walls. A brazier glowing red from the coals within stood before Amir. In the coals sat an iron pot filled with a liquid bubbling in a rapid boil and emitting an acrid odor. Twelve men stood with their backs to the cave walls, facing in toward Amir. They were largely obscured by the deep shadows in the cave, and all Amir could make out was their silhouettes. Amid the exhaustion, hunger, and intense thirst Amir was experiencing from the grueling series of initiation rites he had been subjected to, he felt something else now that he was not accustomed to feeling: fear. He began to fear what might lie ahead. An unusually large man, Amir was not wont to feel such emotions at the hands of other men, but he knew well the penalty for failing his initiation.

  One masked man in a long hooded robe stepped forward into the light of the brazier. He handed Amir a book that the huge man knew well. “Throw this to the ground,” he said. Amir hesitated for only a moment to perpetrate this action that would be viewed as a stoning offense to most of his friends and family. He himself had never particularly subscribed to these traditions, but it was these very traditions and rituals that surrounded and infused the education of his younger years. These actions contradicted everything he had been taught. The heavy book hit the ground, sending a puff of dirt up into the smoky cave. “Spit on it!” the robed man ordered. Amir hestated a moment longer before following this order. Was it possible that this was part of the test of the initiation and by obeying he was failing? “This book is a dead law.” The robed man was pointing a bony finger at the book in the dirt. “The only law is the word of Imam Hassan Ibn Sabbah. If you have not accepted that then you do not belong among us.”

  Amir did as he was instructed and spit on the book with the little spittle he could muster from his parched mouth. “Grind it beneath your heel!” The masked man ordered. Amir placed one massive boot on the cover and twisted his heel, breaking the spine and spilling the pages out on the dirt. “Who is the law?”

  “Imam Hassan Ibn Sabbah,” Amir said.

  “Who is the law?”

  “Imam Hassan Ibn Sabbah,” Amir said louder.

  “Who is the law?”

  “Imam Hassan Ibn Sabbah,” Amir yelled with all the strength he could rally.

  “Who do you obey?”

  “Imam Hassan Ibn Sabbah,” Amir shouted again.

  “How will you find your way back to paradise?”

  “Through the word of Imam Hassan Ibn Sabbah!”

  The robed man produced an old wooden cup from within his robe and filled it from the bubbling liquid in the pot. He dropped a handful of dark powder into it that sent an abundance of steam hissing from the cup. He then extended the dark brew to Amir. “Now you will experience the pleasure of paradise through the word of Imam Hassan Ibn Sabbah. Drink!”

  Amir looked at the cup skeptically. What did this man mean by ‘the pleasure of paradise’? Did that mean he had been found unworthy? Was this how they dispatched candidates that failed the initiation?

  “Drink!” the robed man ordered, obviously becoming impatient with Amir’s hesitance. Amir accepted the cup in acknowledgment of the fact that his life was in the hands of these mysterious men regardless of whether he drank this offering or not. He poured the burning liquid into his mouth. It had a bitter, acrid taste. He fought back his gag reflex and after several attempts swallowed it all down.

  It took only a few moments for Amir to identify the effects of the drink. He became light headed and euphoric. The cave swirled around him and he fell back on the cool dirt. He did not know what was happening to him, but it suddenly did not matter any longer. He was happy. The cares that brought him to seek out the Nizari, the worries over his raped country and the European devils who seemed to come in an endless torrent were of no concern now.

  He was vaguely aware of the men from beyond the torchlight closing in and lifting his limp frame from the ground. He felt the cool night air replace the stuffy air of the cave as he floated up to a softer, gentler place. Amir seemed to slip in and out of dream. He vaguely remembered being carried up the steep mountain trail that led to the fortress of Alamut. Then he was in paradise. He lay in a lush garden surrounded by beautiful women. Some of them were playing soft music while others tended to him. The foreign devils would be dealt with in time, but for now, Amir was nestled in Allah’s bosom.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Iberian Peninsula

  Richard unconsciously gripped the shaft of his lance tighter as he watched the Moors crest the hill beyond the valley. They were swarming like so many insects. And like so many insects, they would be ground under his heel- one more conquest, one more victory; an infestation that had gotten out of hand, quelled. Richard and his army had cut deep into the Iberian Peninsula marching under the banner of the Pope, though the Pope had not sanctioned this particular crusade. They were reclaiming the Iberian Peninsula from these filthy invaders, and he had driven them from village to village, town to town until he had pushed them against the Mediterranean Sea. Those remaining had combined their forces to make one last stand.

  His men stirred. Richard looked over the line of hired mercenaries surrounding his huge black warhorse. He hated these dirty, thieving, backstabbing whores almost as much as he hated the Moors, but they were a necessary evil to achieve his aims. The mercenaries were essential to achieving victory—to achieving glory—but they were also greedy, vicious, and treacherous, and they were all very overdue for payment. The booty Richard had counted on collecting during these raids had barely covered the expenses of feeding and maintaining the army. He had neglected to mention while enlisting their services that he did not have the money on hand to pay them. Should they discover his treachery... Mutiny was always an option for men of their ilk.

  But all that would soon be over. He would shortly eradicate the Moor scourge from this part of the country and the spoils available to his men would more than make up for what he owed them. They could have it all. It was not wealth that motivated Richard. He wanted the glory, the fame, and the power. This would prove once and for all to his family that he was indeed imbued with undeniable greatness. He would show them that he was worthy of all the respect his toadying lackeys gave him— a respect he was denied from his family. This would truly seal his reputation as the greatest warrior in the world, if not in history.

  He broke from his musings and turned his gaze back to the opposite hill and the business at hand, and his heart skipped. The entire hill was alive with bodies, and they were still streaming in from the far side of the hill top. He looked over his force scarcely a thousand strong. They were battled-hardened veterans, but they were also fatigued from this five year campaign.

  The enemy hill had to have at least five thousand men. He had not anticipated that so many Moors yet remained. But it wasn’t just Moors, he reminded himself. In the five centuries since the Moor conquest of the Iberian Peninsula, many of the unfaithful had interbred with their heathen conquerors and were now fighting for them as part of their families; they were therefore worthy of the same fate. Nevertheless, Richard was not oblivious to the strength of such numbers. The Moors must have received reinforcements. Richard’s scouts had reported nowhere near these numbers even in their latest report. Five to one, how could he triumph with such odds? Yet this battle was the culmination of six years of preparation and five years of nonstop fighting. If he turned back now it was all for naught. He could not pay
his men; he would have no glory; he would be disgraced. Victory was the only option.

  He glanced back down at his men who were looking at him uncertainly. What did it matter if he lost most of them? It was their privilege to die in this great struggle. None of them really believed in the Christian cause that they were fighting for anyway. Richard was no different, but he believed in himself and he would make a stand here.

  He wheeled his horse and spurred it into a gallop across the front line of his men. “This is it, men!” He shouted, standing high in the stirrups. His blood red armor glowed in the pre-dawn light. His massive frame that stood almost seven feet emerged larger than life over the lines. “This is all of the enemy that remains! They are scared and weak. Most of them are just boys that can hardly hold a weapon. You are battled hardened veterans. You are strong! They are weak! We will finish it here and return in glory to our homes where we will be greeted as the heroes that ran this vermin from our lands and took back what was rightfully ours. We will do what no one else could do in five hundred years! You have never failed and you will not fail when it matters the most."

  Richard held his lance aloft, the church's banner fluttering from the end of it just below his own crest. The men followed suit and raised their weapons aloft. “We will stand strong this one last time for everything we have fought for and for everything we believe in.”

  A great shout of support rose from his army. Richard donned his wicked looking helmet. The iron outer shell of his helmet was dyed red to match his armor, but the mask was devised to look like a face comprised mostly of bone. It was fearful to behold and gave this intimidating figure a fearsome presence indeed. This helmet added to the impression that he was something otherworldly, a demon sent from hell to collect souls.