We carried on walking quietly like two poor peasants, the tumens of Szübeetej somewhere close behind us, perhaps already this side of the water. Later on, at dawn, some large thing, glowing red, rose over the hills on the Tatar side and began to swallow all the clouds like a monstrous fire symbolising the Mongolian threat. Then at last we saw a team of riders in front of us on the road. They must have been spies as every so often they left the track to observe the bank. They rode up to us yelling and warily surrounded us.

“Who are you?” asked their leader, a catfish moustachioed captain.

“We are not who we appear to be, but nobles with important news for the King.” Growled Móric.

“Watch your mouth! Do you think his Majesty talks to just any peasant?” The knight pulled out his sword.

“Put away that sword and give me your horse now or I warn you, you`ll pay with your life. I am Móric, the cupbearer and this is Detre, of his Majesty’s own knights. We have been on a spying mission in the Tatar camp and have important news for the King, and if you stand in our way you may soon lose your head.” The captain went pale hearing this, knowing that an ordinary peasant wouldn’t talk like this. He ordered two of his men from their horses and said. “I do apologise my noble lords for not recognising you straight away, but this clothing…We were actually looking for you here by the bank in case we could pick up your trail.”

“What? You were searching for us? How could you possibly know we were around here? Come on, tell us quickly! Actually… don’t worry about it! Lead us and you can tell us everything on the way.” the cup bearer hurried them along, focus drawn back to the imminent danger. The captain didn’t know much. All he had to say was that before the skirmish a rusyn escapee had arrived in the camp and brought news from the other side. We didn’t have long to question him as we rushed to the King at a frantic pace. We were not far from the camp when we saw Count Simon ahead of us. At first he was surprised to see his spies rushing towards him, but as we got closer he recognised us, waved us through, turned around and rode alongside us.

“So you managed to escape after all my lords? We had given up hope of ever seeing you again” he shouted as we rode on.

“How did you know we were in trouble?”

“A Rusyn crossed the river during the night. I pulled him from the water myself…his name is Ditro I think…”

“Dmitro”

“Yes, that’s right”

“So he managed to escape after all!”

“He said he used the chaos you caused to his advantage, ran through the dark of the forest and jumped into the Sajó. He showed some sort of blown up intestine swimming aid. He also showed your Coat of Arms, hence we rushed him to the King. He looked like he was on his last legs.”

“Indeed, he wasn’t well when he was with us, even before he jumped into the river.”

“He had two arrows in his back.”

“And how is he now?”

“Well…he was in a bad way when we pulled him out…and the arrows were deeply embedded…” The Count looked up towards the sky.

“Rest in peace. He was a brave man!”

“…But he lasted long enough to tell the King about Batu`s plan. The King’s jaw dropped in surprise on finding out that we are about to face the whole of the Khan’s army. He also told us you were in such danger that he thought your chances of survival were vanishingly slim. Nevertheless, our majesty sent us out after the skirmish to search the riverbank in case you did manage to escape.”

“By the way, what was the outcome of that?”

“After the news from the Rusyn they called in the Templars with Archbishop Ugrin and Prince Kálmán at the front and marched to the bridge. They arrived just about in time, although part of the Tatar party had already crossed, killed a few bridge guards and were preparing to attack the camp. At that point, our knights began to attack and the pagans who had planned to surprise us were themselves surprised. Our large warhorses rolled over the light Mongolian horses and it soon broke up into a close fight. Rather than face that some of the Tatars jumped into the darkness of the Sajó. The Templars killed a fair few Tatars and they would have advanced across the bridge if they had not been the target of a shower of rocks from the other side. So they came back, strengthened the bridge guards and, believing that was the end of the matter, went to bed.”

” So, you are saying our whole army is still asleep?” The cupbearer asked in shock.

“Well, the Tatars took so many losses it will take them a while to recover” Said Count Simon confidently.

“Quick! To the King!…No!..We are actually going there ourselves. My lord Count you must sound the wake up call. The whole army must be lined up in a quarter hour, because I can tell you that loss was as nothing to the Tatars. They have so many more, like grass in a meadow. I am almost certain that one troop, the force of old Szübeetej, is very close behind us.” Móric insisted.

“There is no way I can wake the whole army without the King’s order.” Quite rightly the Count hesitated.

“But as the head of the guard patrols, of course you can in the face of imminent danger! I can assure you the attack ahead of us will be dreadful. Anyway, call it on my behalf. If his Majesty questions you, this young knight will be your witness that the order was mine.”

The leader of the guards galloped away, not fully convinced, but just as we were stepping into the King’s tent we heard the horn, followed by all the horns of each of the forces. Within moments the peace was shattered by this ear-piercing cacophony.

CHAPTER VII.

Lord Béla was already up or perhaps he hadn’t slept at all that night, as he was ready and dressed in a crimson, pleated, half-moon shaped robe and in heavy, black buckskin boots. Sat at the round table covered with damask cloth and laid with wine and silver cups, he was in the middle of a discussion with Prince Kálmán and Archbishop Ugrin, the leader of the Templars. Behind the King, Fülöp, my brother stood on duty, with sword in hand. Already awed by the sound of the alarms, their expressions froze in surprise when the two guards announced our arrival. His Majesty`s mouth stayed open, and he crossed himself quickly before he stepped closer as if his eyes were lying to him and he was seeing spirits.

“So it’s true you are still alive?” Touching both of us. “I knew! I said …” turned to the others for reassurance “…no pagan power could triumph over these two brave knights.”

“You were right, your Majesty. You told us, we just found it hard to believe.” Agreed the Archbishop. A small smile crossed my brother’s face and he nodded in greeting to us, but immediately resumed his stance, protecting the country’s powerful ruler.

“Come on tell us the news! Hang on… Wait, let me just find out why the horns are going crazy.” roared the confused King and nodded towards the door. The cupbearer stepped up. “No need your Majesty, it was I who ordered that the horns be blown,” he admitted.

“What? Why did you do that without an order from me?” his Majesty inquired, shocked. Móric quickly explained the magnitude of the threat, and added that if we didn’t act straight away the overwhelming numbers of Batu`s hordes were certain to defeat us.

“You will have to allow us to follow the course we have been trying to convince you of for so long,” Archbishop Ugrin declared.

“What’s that?” Asked the cupbearer.

“They`ve tried to convince me to cross the bridge and attack the Tatar camp” replied the King.

“That’s the only way we can avoid being surrounded” explained Prince Kálmán.

“It won’t work! The other side of the bridge is packed with armoured tumens. Or do you want to run straight into the bear’s open mouth?” responded Móric impatiently.

“What would you advise then?” Asked grandmaster Rembaldus.

“Strengthen the defences at the bridge so those tumens can’t cross. That will isolate Szübeetej on this side where he can be crushed by our army.”

At that moment there was an earth-shaking sound from the direction of the bridge.

“What’s that?” asked the King, “Quickly Fülöp, send someone to find out.”

My brother hastened to the leather door, rolled it up and went out straight away.

“It can’t be anything else but the start of Batu`s attack,” Móric ventured, “In which case, I beg your Majesty, you must send forces both up and down stream to prevent the Tatars who have crossed getting any closer.” Yelled…But it was too late. The pounding of hooves approached from every direction, and from outside shouting could be heard.

“Quick, let me see the King”

“Tatars on horses are coming from all directions.”

The Archbishop of Kalocsa, pushing ahead of everyone, jumped to the door and ordered all the messengers to come in. They went on their knees and told us what they had seen.

“Hordes of Tatars are approaching through the marshland. The horizon is dark with them” blurted one of them.

“As many as there are stars in the sky, and it won’t be long before they will be at our rear.” added a second. The rest of them brought similar news. Fülöp returned, helping a bleeding knight into the tent.

“He has come from the bridge.” Fülöp explained, then, addressing the knight, “Come on, quickly, tell us what you witnessed.”

“Your Majesty, please don’t punish us for what I am about to say,” the knight began, going down on his knees, was waved on by the King, and continued. “The Tatars took advantage of the darkness to move their large catapults to the river’s edge and bombarded us with rocks at dawn. The rocks fell among us, shaking the earth and instantly killing at least twenty, including Count Péter, the commander of the bridge. Captain Márton then pulled the remaining forces back from the bank to prevent the loss of all. On seeing this the Tatars crossed the unguarded bridge, showered us with a deadly rain of arrows and attacked us in one great wave. The captain has sent me to warn you and request reinforcements.”

“So we have lost that strategic bridge?” The King collapsed on his throne in anger, “The Tatar hordes crossed the rising river before we could. We thought it was impossible. They are not even bothered by their previous defeat and have not only attacked the bridge again, but taken it over… is their evil strength so great that nothing can halt them?”

The king sat quietly for a while listening to the constant horns, screaming and clamour of forces readying themselves. He murmured, almost to himself, “Our camp is without walls or defences, their arrows shoot further, our horses sink where theirs can pass with ease, and soon they`ll have us surrounded on all sides. What would you advise to avoid complete humiliation?” The puzzled King concluded by posing this question.

“I could make a sortie with the Templars” Suggested Prince Kálmán. “If we can manage to reclaim the bridge quickly they won’t be able to call on reinforcements, and our larger forces would be able to defeat them. They don’t have an endless supply of arrows either, and once those are spent they will have to fight face to face, for which they have little capability.”

“I am with the Prince on this.”  Archbishop Ugrin chimed in, “And at the same time our light cavalry can push back at the closest of their forces, which would also be within range of our crossbows, Your Majesty, if you order them to the edge of the camp.”

The King regained his composure. “There aren’t enough of them.” he said, “But it’s good advice. Our armoured men can still reclaim the bridge. Until then the light cavalry, which can cope with the marshes will defend the camp. Go on then, hurry, before it’s too late!”

“With your blessing I should also like to go with them, your Majesty,” said the cupbearer.

“Go then! Although you must be very tired after your dangerous journey, right now there is no time for rest or consideration.” The King agreed.

“Do you want to go too?” the King asked me, fatherly kindness in his eyes. “I can also see Fülöp is also itching to go. Go then, both of you, and escort my dear brother. He needs the strength of your arms more than I need here in the middle of the regiment. Go on then, leave me alone.” said the King and turned to the servants who began to dress him in his gold armour. As my brother and I hurried to my tent to put on fighting armor, I was able to observe our forces rushing to ready themselves. Upon hearing the horn the heavy cavaliers had lined up first. Dozens of weapon bearers and servants were running up and down with no apparent order, helping their lords prepare. Some helped with putting on and tightening the plate and chainmail, others readied weapons, while still more were saddling horses, many of them to join the battle alongside their lords. The Knights Templars who fought during the night were first to be ready as their horses had not been returned to the pastures. Also quick to line up were the armed serfs who slept on the ground away from the tents. On foot and clad in uniform tunics, with their weapons in hand, but with little protection against arrows or mounted attackers. Some of the city forces were similarly equipped. Made up mainly of tradesmen who had left their workshops behind, hands better accustomed to worktools than weapons of war. The camp seemed really disorganised in the wake of the alarms, questions went unanswered and panicked cries from the many inexperienced fighters looking for their leaders. In complete contrast, the noble, young yet experienced knights of the light cavaliers, those with the best chance in a fight with the approaching Tatar, upon hearing the alarms just sent their servants to find out what was happening while they themselves remained at ease, reclining on their warm furs. Even after they found out the alarm had sounded for a genuine reason, they stirred into action at an easy pace, joking between themselves as young knights are wont to do, while waiting for their servants to bring their horses from the pastures. They couldn’t actually believe in an enemy so reckless as to attack our large army. They would have been right if we were talking about any enemy other than this cunning, vicious Tatar force which had brought half the world to its knees.

CHAPTER VIII.

It felt good to be back in my armour. I rode through the orderly crowds, high in the saddle, holding my liveried sword ready to paint its blade red with blood. I nearly squeezed the breath out of my horse in greeting, gripping his flanks hard between my legs, and he shook his freshly trimmed mane to let me know he was also happy to see me again. My brother and I, along with our weapons bearers, had to make our way around the edge of the camp, through the carts equipped with crossbows to join the ranks of the Knights Templar. At their head was Prince Kálmán wearing armour bearing the sign of the lion, and holding his lance high. Despite the perils ahead our weapon bearers were excited, which wasn’t unusual, as being brave and useful in battle could see them elevated to the rank of Knight. It would have been impossible to recognise the thousands of heavily armoured knights, faces hidden by vizors, if they hadn’t had their insignia engraved on their helmets. Already in line was the easily recognisable growling bear on the helmet of Archbishop Ugrin. Next to him on Rembaldus` was the upright dragon and, on that of the cupbearer Móric whose strong build was better suited to armour than ragged servant clothes, the emblem of an open-beaked Turul bird. The forces already arrayed were soon joined by the cross-bows of Count Simon, many other nobles and also those clerics who took up weapons to fight in the service of the Lord. The proud Templars, puffed up with their triumph of the night before, were mocking the guards from the bridge for how easily they had been routed.

“If it had been us on the bridge it wouldn’t have happened.” taunted one.

“Our men would never have fled from the pagan`s arrows” agreed another.

“Yeah, right, I would like to have seen those knights trying to repel those arrows that day in the Sződ marshes.” I whispered to my brother. That must also have occurred to Archbishop Ugrin because he turned uncomfortably towards the fidgeting prince who had yet to really fight the Tatars, but only joined the brief melée the preceding night, which was not a real battle.

“Take care not to be tricked into the marshland. In the mud heavy armour is more hindrance than help and gives no protection against their long range arrows.” said the Archbishop, the worry on his face hidden behind his heavy iron visor. Prince Kálmán had no time to reply before there was a loud shout from the other side of the camp.

“There! You can see the circle of Tatar riders!” He was pointing towards some black dots emerging from the greyness.

“True. But can you also see the light cavaliers riding towards them. I’m surprised the sky doesn’t crack open from their battlecry!” The Archbishop was stretching up out of his saddle for a better view. What he saw made him feel more confident, and his other worries receded.

The giant warhorses went pounding on, their riders pulling themselves up on their reins to get a better look of what lay ahead. However, away on the other side, by the pastures, came screaming guards fleeing from the bridge. One grey-faced guard, with a pointed moustache that looked like a stitching awl, was being helped by two others to ride away, blood frothing from his mouth tracing an island on his chest where an arrow was embedded. Others rode flattened on their horses, clinging on to their horses’ manes, hedgehog quills of arrows in their backs. Some on foot casting their weapons aside, petrified, running to the line of knights pleading for help. There were also some who stood firm, vastly outnumbered but choosing certain death in battle over retreat.

“We can’t wait any longer!” shouted grandmaster Rembaldus. “Most of our forces are set. Your Highness must order the attack if we are to have any chance of saving some of those poor souls from dying.” There was really no reason for any further delay. The Templars had formed up in a wedge shape and awaited the order, the very sight of them intimidating to all around. What was going to make things difficult was the terrain. We could only advance where the tussocked area rose from the flood plain. In places this was a hundred yards across, wide enough for the heavy cavalry, but some parts were far narrower, which would lessen the power of our attack. There wasn’t a lot we could do about that, so Prince Kálmán donned his heavy helmet with the aid of a servant, drew his sword, gestured to the horn-blower, then pointed the blade towards the enemy and waited. Moments later came the sound of the horn, soon overwhelmed by the clop of hooves, roars and fierce cries rising into one mingled, threatening hubbub. The Hungarian guards already engaged in what they knew could only be a losing battle, pulled back when they heard the roar, as they knew the heavy cavalry would be a sterner test for the foe. The Tatars looked fearfully towards the noise and, determining its origin, began to run from our bloodthirsty attack. Some reached the safety of the marshes. Those that could not soon found themselves with split skulls or perforated torsos.

Just as an avalanche rolling down a mountain buries everything in its path, so our curtain of iron trampled over the stunned Mongols in our bid to reclaim the bridge and break their power over Hungarian land. For a while it seemed that nothing could stand in the way of our advance. Certainly not those who simply turned and fled, but neither could the thousands of Tatars following the angry orders of their tumens. Their fusillades of arrows were useless, as were the barriers of lances they attempted to block our way with. The arrows broke in half on the heavy armour, and the lances snapped like matchsticks. Our fast, powerful wedge formation prised their lines apart and our battle-hardened knights barely slowed as they ruthlessly stabbed and slashed through the trapped enemy ranks.

The small Mongolian horses were petrified. Their bites clanked uselessly off the armour of our giant warhorses who brushed them off and trampled horses and riders alike. The iron tide flowed on, sweeping thousands to their deaths as a flooding river engulfs the land, carrying all before it and leaving nothing behind but bloody corpses and abandoned horses. For a time it seemed inevitable that our armoured men would reclaim the bridge, cut the supply lines of the Tatars and deliver us victory. Those were our thoughts, knowing neither the plans of the Tatars nor that our Lord in heaven had counted our every sin and forgiven none of them. All of a sudden the enemy ranks ahead parted and armed Hungarian prisoners were forced out in front of them to fight us. The poor souls dropped their weapons on seeing us and fell to their knees begging for mercy. The Tatar guards were treating them brutally to goad them into some sort of resistance when something unforeseen happened. Prince Kálmán, not wishing to draw innocent Hungarian blood, pulled his rearing horse to a halt, breaking the flow of our attack. Once stationary, it was difficult for our forces to regain momentum, and they were more vulnerable to attack. The Tatars loosed a fusillade of arrows dense enough to darken the sky, almost covering the rising sun. From the ranks of knights came screams of mortal agony as one after another fell from their saddles. Not all the wounds appeared deadly, some were only hit in the arm or leg, but faces contorting they fell in wild spasms and died.

“Poisoned arrows! They are shooting poisoned arrows!” The word spread between the knights, previously fearless but now with panic in their hearts. More than a few broke ranks and charged at the Tatars, but their heavy horses soon sank knee deep in mud, unable to move. Damned, brandished their swords and cursing their destiny they fell victim to the enemy. Others circled their horses while others took up a position in the middle of the battlefield to await the deadly arrows. It seemed not all the tips were poisoned, which settled the panic a little, and our disciplined force prepared for the worst. As the bison charges at the attacking wolf pack, angrily stabbing with its horn and treading on anything that comes under its feet, so our forces charged the Tatar lines, laying about them in a murderous frenzy. But just as wolves pull back from large prey and risk less nipping and pulling at its hindquarters, so did the Tatars retreat to safety and in run to attack us from the rear, pulling people from their horses and stabbing them to death with their lances. Many of us at the front were victorious in individual duels, but the arrows had done their work and our ranks were much reduced.

This unequal battle went on for hours, gallons of blood were spilt, splashing on helmets, running down armour and dripping from reins onto the ground, which had been churned up by the hooves into a glutinous mess which stained the horses’ legs a shiny red. To further increase our suffering the day had turned unseasonably warm and the air sat heavily on our chests, making breathing difficult. Overheating in our heavy armour, sweat dripped into our eyes. Humiliated by the turn the battle had taken, increasing numbers of enraged Templars broke ranks to pursue the cowardly Tatars, making themselves easy prey for their arrows. By the end there were few still standing with the Prince. Wave upon wave of Tatar riders arrived over the bridge we had failed to take, flooding the battlefield with their numbers until our remaining cavaliers seemed no more than a tiny island in a vast sea.

Justy as the waves of the sea thunder into a coral island and then ebb in a foaming swirl, leaving broken chippings on the shore, the Tatar attacked along our lines with ground shaking thrusts, then withdrew leaving corpses scattered in their wake. Prince Kálmán hoped that the King would be alerted to our dire situation and send in his heavy cavalry, but soon realised this was a vain hope and, viewing his thinning forces, contemplated a retreat.

“I don’t understand what is going on in the camp. Why isn’t the King sending reinforcements?” he demanded furiously of Archbishop Ugrin next to him. “From this close our archers would do some serious damage to those pagans.”

“Count Simon`s men appear to be holding their ground.” The Archbishop pointed to where the lines of archers were holding off the Tatars with their arrows, but even in those ranks there were more and more empty spaces. The proud Knight of Templars looked destined to soon become only history. The great master, Rembaldus de Carumb had fallen heroically in the previous battle, his body struck by a lance. He lay on the ground in no man’s land. He had lost his helmet somewhere and the scar on his pale face shone upwards at the sky. There were also lords Spiritual among the slain, including the Transylvanian Bishop Rajnald, Archdeacon Radius and Magister Albert. As for the nobility, it would have been impossible to tally the numbers of Lords and Colours saturated in blood. The Prince watching the debacle unfold, made the bitter decision to withdraw, turned his horse and waved us back to the camp with his mace. Those of us who survived, hearts heavy in defeat, followed him back. Even retreat wasn’t easy as the triumphant pagans harried us along the way. Afraid to face up to us, they followed and shot arrows from our flanks. Our tired horses stepped over the bodies we had cut down in our initial attack, when we still blindly believed the battle would end in triumph, but now we were dragging ourselves back in abject humiliation with sorrow in our hearts.

It seemed like a very long way back to the camp for the handful of us who had survived. It looked very different to how we had left it that morning. People were running around in a mad panic like bees in a kicked hive, and it looked as if no one was doing anything to defend against the Tatars. The few forces charging out of the camp were mostly breaking through the encircling Tatars to flee the field, rather than bearing arms to resist them. We could see the circle was tightening, meaning soon the King would be in danger, so, ignoring our own pain, we spurred the horses into a gallop and rode to his rescue. Tatars blocked our way, showering us with arrows. It was another blow to see Prince Kálmán take an arrow and fall forward onto his horse’s neck. Luckily, Archbishop Ugrin was there and, throwing away his sword, managed to grab him and prevent him falling off under the hooves of the horses.

Filled with rage at the injury to our Prince, I grabbed my long lance, which I had swapped for a sword after our initial charge, back from my weapon bearer. Whirling it above my head and heedless of danger I charged at the Tatar ranks ahead. My horse fought its own battle, breaking ahead and splitting apart their lines while, possessed with the strength of two, I stabbed, slashed and killed all in my path.  The Tatars pulled back in terror at the frenzied, slicing embodiment of death I had become. My attack opened a narrow passage between their lines through which the rest of our men followed. Brave Fülöp, who would follow me until death, led the way, then came Móric, Count Simon and the rest of the knights. As ice splits the hardest rock so our depleted Hungarian force pushed itself through the sea of pagans. The horses reared and bit, and our swords and axes smote the Tatars who fell like ripe plums from a shaken tree. My horse, stabbed with a spear, cried out piteously in a near human voice and collapsed beneath me. In the same instant a lance pierced my armour at the right shoulder, fogging my eyes with searing pain. Falling on my knees in agony I grabbed the handle of the lance with both hands and pulled it out with one swift action. I roared like a wild beast as the rough edged blade ripped at my flesh like tiny hooks. I put pressure on the wound to slow the bleeding, which also numbed the pain a little. Panting, I got myself up off the ground and looked around. Loose Tatar horses were everywhere around me, running amongst petrified looking pagans. Then I spotted my brother galloping towards me, shouting “Jump! Detre! Jump!” He stretched out an arm, grabbed my hand and pulled me onto his horse behind him. I was becoming groggy because of all the blood I had lost, and remember little of how we escaped the battlefield, my armour and his sliding against each other, lubricated with the blood from my wounds. It was a hard fight, but our party finally broke through the mongolian lines and reached the camp, where chaos now reigned. Only a few handfuls of slow, tired fighters were left of the large, proud regiments of that morning. Archbishop Ugrin, Móric the cupbearer, Count Simon, Fülöp and I, along with a few other nobles and vassals, stood with tears in our eyes in front of the king`s tent. In my weakened state it was some comfort that they had managed to save the seriously injured prince from falling into the hands of the enemy. Two knights with halberds lifted him from his saddle and carried him into the tent.

I took in the scene of desolation, which will be forever burned in my memory, as I was carefully lifted down from the horse, and leaning on my brother, I limped towards the tent. As far as the eye could see there were corpses, lances embedded in their bodies like sad memorials, or stuck with arrows pointing skyward. Many had already swollen and begun to stink in the heat. Not one of them had died in a proper duel. They hadn’t been beaten by skilled swordsmanship, but penned in like sheep and dispatched from a distance.

Guy-ropes hung loose and flapping, probably snapped by the first of those attempting to escape tripping over them. Everywhere was strewn with the wreckage of tent poles and carts, and everywhere masses of arrows were stuck, erect and pointing upward like giant thorns.

CHAPTER IX.

There was a constant flow of messengers who had been sent to deliver the King’s orders, many returning with various pieces of bad news. The King paid them no heed, instead giving all his attention to Prince Kálmán who lay shaking in pain. A pair of servants, who had already removed his armour, were folding his thick tunic up. Gergely, Bishop of Győr, not just a scientist but also an experienced practitioner of battlefield medicine, was knelt down, carefully trying to remove the arrow tip from the stricken Prince’s chest. While still on the battlefield the Archbishop of Kalocsa had broken off the shaft so it wouldn’t snag on something and further add to his suffering. Even though the Bishop’s touch was gentle, the Prince was hissing with the sharp pain of it. Despite his stoic heroism, he let out the occasional agonised whimper when the pain of the operation was particularly excruciating.

“I can’t get it out.”  the perspiring Bishop whispered forlornly into the King’s ear. “It’s in too deep, and so close to the heart I am too afraid to cut it out.”

“There’s no other choice we have but to push it through then, because if the iron is left in there it will kill him,” said the King hesitantly, but prepared to act. As if by saving this one life he could bring back a thousand more.  The Prince over hearing the whispering, hissed through gritted teeth. “Get on with it then!” and clenched his fists so tightly on the brocade he was lying on that his knuckles went white.

“It will take stronger hands than mine to pull it through the muscle” the old Bishop excused himself.

“Where is Detre?” Yelled the King only just now looking intently around.

“I am here your Majesty.” I said from the corner where Fülöp hat sat me down and bandaged my bleeding wound with a rag. “But I’m afraid I can’t help as a pagan lance has torn up my flesh too.”

“You as well? Just as a swarm of angry stinging wasps take down a bear!” the King swore loudly, then sadness settled on his face. “How much ruthlessly spilt blood…” he added, then turned to my brother. “You come then Fülöp.”

Fülöp, still in his sweat soaked felt hat and bloody armour, lent over the Prince, sat him up with one hand and with the other hand he pushed down hard to force out the offending arrow tip. He was biting his lip, something he only did when very discomfited by a task.

“Please don’t blame me for this agony my lord” said Fülöp quietly.

“Come on! Just do it! Hurry up!” Encouraged the Prince, but his body tensed reflexively, and his face paled in anticipation of the intensity of the pain awaiting him.  For the next few minutes the only sound was of Fülöp’s laboured breathing as he slowly but surely pushed the jagged arrow tip further through the flesh. Half the length of his fingers disappeared into the bleeding hole, but of the point there was still no sign. It was not until nearly the whole of my brother’s thumb was buried in the wound that the tip finally emerged through the tanned back of the Prince, tearing through the skin, crimson in the torchlight. Bishop Gergely, standing by, gripped it with his pliers and smoothly pulled it out. He then quickly put a bandage on the bleeding wound and laid the patient back down.

“Done! Now you must rest my lord, and you will soon be up and about.” he said when he had finished. Knowing there was no possibility this instruction could be followed, the injured Prince emitted a bitter laugh which swiftly turned into a wracking cough. “How is it possible to even think of resting in such perilous circumstances? As soon as I am better I will take the first opportunity to run.”

“That would put your life at risk, Your Highness” the Bishop warned.

“How so? Do you think staying here would prolong my life? Our forces are gone, most of the knights are dead, and those who have survived and the remaining foot-soldiers are under sentence of death with no light cavalry to support them. It’s a lost cause and can end only in defeat. There is no glory in that. Our one remaining chance is to find a way to escape, regroup, recruit and meet these pagan devils on another battlefield, another day.”

“Go then, brother, but I cannot follow you and abandon the remaining forces to their fate.” said the King determinedly.

 “It’ll do no good to stay here and die with them.” Countered the Archbishop of Kalocsa. “You are responsible for the whole kingdom. Should you be killed here it would be a death sentence for the entire nation. Who would there be to hold the country together? Fighting the Tatars is already enough. We don’t need a war of succession to deal with as well.”

“Look, we followed your orders to come here. We could have waited for Batu Khan’s army behind the safety of the ramparts, where there would have been no surprises, but instead, our armoured forces fought on tricky ground against the whole might of the Khan.”

“We know how badly the knights battling in the mud fared, but what happened in the camp? How did they force our army to turn and retreat? It isn’t as if facing a greater number in close combat were new to us, is it?” asked the Prince in a faint voice.

“There was no problem at the outset” Said the King as if narrating some tale from years ago “The attack by our cavalry units on those that crossed during the night was largely successful, we killed a lot of them and actually held them back for some time, but while their numbers kept increasing ours took a long time to form up. Some couldn’t find their leader or regiment, some couldn’t find their horses, still others tripped and tangled on guy ropes knocking over tents, which spread panic, many believing the enemy was already upon us. The confusion increased when the enemy counter attack began to push our troops on the battlefield back into the camp. That’s when their archers started attacking on our flanks, so many arrows whistling in, like dark clouds of swarming locusts. Our archers response was futile as our bows don’t have the range. Their archers killed thousands, but what really spread panic were the poison-tipped arrows. They created such a panic that our own soldiers trampled each other underfoot to escape them, running back into the camp as soon as they were sent out. A small group managed to break out through the pagan lines, and they survived. Then others followed suit, and once the light cavaliers had run the heavy armoured troops and foot regiments had no means of escape. That left lords and peasants all mixed in together, and although they can fight like lions, it’s only a matter of time before they are swallowed up by the godless pagans.

“Go, my lord. Leave this cursèd place while you still can!” begged the Archbishop of Kalocsa.

“And abandon those who have faithfully stood by me in adversity?”

“Believe me, it’s a greater form of courage to run for now than to stay here and die with them.” Ugrin said, trying to convince him.

“But how can I? How can I run away from this fate when the whole, blood-thirsty horde will be after me as soon as I try?” asked the King, no longer certain. “Fifty thousand knights couldn’t save our flag from shame, so how could I do it with only a few?”

“Swap your clothes with mine and go in disguise.  I will distract them by taking a party out another way.” suggested the Archbishop.

“You? Why should you subject yourself to such danger?” Asked the King in surprise.

“Isn’t it partly my fault we have ended up here? Please allow me to atone for my errors.”

“I’ll go with the Archbishop.” said Prince Kálmán before the King could reply. “It will be safer, and make the decoy more credible”

“I won’t allow it,” roared the King. “It would mean certain death for you.”

“If we stay here we will soon be dead. If we go now we may have some slight chance of survival” said the Prince in a quiet but determined voice.

His Majesty made no answer, instead commencing to pace up and down and punching the air with his fists, to the accompaniment of whistling arrows, clanging swords and mortal screams.

“So be it,” he said finally. “We must trust in God’s mercy. I will take two hundred fast horses with knights in light armour and go head north through the forest of Felvidék. You, with the guards and remaining armoured cavalry, take the easier route towards Pest. If you make it through, go pell-mell and avoid engaging with the Tatars. Get to safety as fast as you can.”

That was the end of our planning, as we were interrupted by a herald running into the tent, covered in blood and smoke.

“Your Majesty! The Tatars have broken into the camp and set fire all around. Our soldiers are all slain by arrows or swords, or else in flames.”

“We are out of time! Let’s go!” the King bellowed, taking off his shiny gold armour, which Ugrin immediately put on. All the other nobles and clerics made haste to get ready. There couldn’t take much more than the clothes they stood up in, and of course their weapons. All their gold and finery would soon, sadly, be in the hands of the pagans. Ernye, the master of horses and Móric the cupbearer selected those who would escort the King. The King himself was getting dressed, putting on plain leather armour over his cotton clothing. I, still a little unsteady on my feet, bowed down in front of him.

“Your Majesty, please don’t forbid me from going with you” I begged him.

 “What about your injury?” and he gently put his hand over the dressing the Bishop of Győr had only recently applied to the wound. “We will have to go full tilt, and that could be too much even for someone healthy. You will have a better chance of survival if you don’t come with us.”

“I have been serving you since my youth. Don’t send me away now, in this time of great peril.”

“For your loyalty you deserve reward, not death.”

“To die by your side would be a reward greater than any title.”

“If the high nobles of this country had only half your loyalty we wouldn’t be suffering this defeat.” Sighed the King with a heavy heart, remembering past betrayals. “Come with us then, brave knight, and if for some reason your injuries should slow you down, then your brother will be there to help you along.”

Fülöp stepped into the tent to report that the escorts were ready. “The Archbishop of Esztergom, with five hundred armoured cavalry and a couple of hundred on foot, has begun a diversionary attack.” he added, as the sounds of battle from the direction of the river grew louder. “He sends his regards to your Majesty, and said he will pray for good fortune in your escape.”

There were tears in the King’s eyes, but all he said was “Let’s go!”  He left the tent and went to mount his waiting Black Roan horse.

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