The Battle of Ascalon

Disclaimer: The facts and persons depicted in this story, apart from the protagonist, are historically accurate, but I have taken some liberty with the details in creating this fictional account. 

Shouts of alarm rippled across the valley; a flurry of sharp cries of warning and trepidation. He cocked his head, listening intently - there it was, a soft drumming, right at the edge of hearing. It was unnerving - the sound grew to a crescendo, but the source remained out of sight. He eased his sword in and out of his scabbard, a frivolous exercise, but one that made him feel better, nevertheless.

It was the anticipation; the knowledge that something big was about go down; the hope that tonight might bring the protracted campaign to an end; most of all, it was the fear that he wouldn't live to see the sunset tonight. Fear, that he would never see her again.

Around him, a similar restlessness was reflected in the men around him. As the battle drew closer, a groundswell of mumbling could be heard, boots dragging in the sand as men shifted and fidgeted, and a general air of trepidation was noticeable  in the thick muggy air.

It was as though even the weather was against them - the air was warm and sticky, with not a breeze to be found. Hours ago, the clouds had scattered, leaving the sun to beat mercilessly down upon them. Any sensible person would have left the valley to seek shelter, avoiding the baking midday sun.

But they had to hold their position. It was critical, imperative even, that they held the line. This allowed the trickle of trade from the Byzantine Empire to reach Jerusalem - just enough to survive, and nothing more.

And so they sweated, standing in full armor at the mercy of the sun. Swearing, they all wished for this damned waiting to be over, but at the same time, were terrified of what would happen next. With the physical discomfort and dissonant thoughts, tempers were short, and frayed by the barely suppressed terror. No less than 5 fights had broken out, brief scuffles that, while short lived, were telling of the morale and cohesiveness of the army. Or lack thereof.

In his private moments, he had lamented about this ad nauseam, so much so that he was sick and tired of complaining about it. This was hardly a professional army, for gods sake. It was a Crusade, and the army was little more than a loose coalition of soldiers following a diverse group of nobles, each with different and often contradictory objectives. There was Count Raymond of Toulouse, friend of the pope, a well mannered and educated prince - rich beyond measure, he was the one bankrolling the campaignp. Alongside him was Bohemond, Prince of Taranto, a striking figure to behold. Handsome, eloquent, and a fearsome warrior, Bohemond was highly respected by the troops. While they directed the campaign together, both were, in fact, jockeying for leadership of the crusade, and more importantly, ownership over the lands conquered in the Levant. To make matters worse, the other princes, Tancred, Godfrey, and Baldwin, were no shriking violets either - they too wanted to command the coalition, and all of them would claim ownership of the lands.

A bugle played in the distance; a harsh, discordant, and unnerving sound that reverberated through the valley. The general call to arms, the signal that the enemy, and by extension, the battle was nearing. The enemy, led by Al-Afdal Shashanshah, vizier of the Fatimid Caliph, was at least twice as large as their own, and the Franks knew it. But they had to hold their ground, for it was essential to the survival of Jerusalem; no matter how unlikely victory was, they had to fight to the bitter end. 

They had all known this day would come, where the two armies would meet in open battle, the result of which would seal their fates.  And they had prepared for it. The night had been one of prayer, of tears, and of farewells. He remembered it clearly, down to the last detail - how he had held her in his arms; how her soft, cherry red lips felt as they brushed lovingly across his cheek; and how her small smooth hands felt in his, as she had wished him good luck and prayed for his return. Just as clearly, he remembered how they had danced skittishly around the elephant in the room - that he may never return again. 

This brought back memories, memories of the time they had spent together - the romance, the courtship, and finally their marriage, just before the beginning of the campaign. They had lain down on the grass outside their hut, gazing in amicable silence at the stars, cuddling to stay warm; they had held hands as they walked through the market,  pointing hither and thither, giggling at the idiosyncrasies of the merchants; and they had kissed in the dead of night, a warm passionate kiss, a private moment under the watchful gaze of the full moon. Love, a privilege of the lower class, had blossomed between them. 

He clenched his fist, and tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade. Not here; not now. He had to focus on the battle to come; on repelling the Fatimids from the Holy Land; on surviving.

The drumming grew nearer - hoofbeats, the clopping of thousands of hooves on the rocky ground. It sounded like rolling thunder, but drawn out, endless. They passed a bend in the valley, and now the enemy were in sight. There must be thousands of them! Arrayed across the battlefield, line after line of mounted men, dressed in gleaming armor and sitting astride huge battlehorses. A bugle sounded, and the advance stopped. 

For a few short minutes, the two opposing armies stood face to face, staring daggers across the battlefield, each sizing up the other. Then, another discordant blast scythed across the valley, and the battle begun.

He closed his eyes, and prayed in silence. The relics of the Holy Lance and True Cross held by the patriarch would protect them. It had to.

When he opened his eyes again, the enemy were almost upon them - he could see the fierce dark eyes staring out from under the visors. 

Thundering forwards, they swept into the Franks, a wave of death, and destruction.