With a single word from their commander, they formed the battle line and rode out to meet the attack. Cait, watching from the church door, heard a movement behind her, and someone grabbed hold of her arm to pull her back. 'Please,' she said, 'I have to see.'

'De Bracineaux misjudged you,' said Baron d'Anjou. 'But I will not. We cannot have you running loose out there, can we? That would not do at all. Who knows the trouble you might make?'

Contempt and revulsion roiled within her as she looked into the baron's dead eyes. 'I beg you,' she said, swallowing down her loathing. 'Let me stay.'

'Very well, if only because I want to see it, too. We will stay here together, you and I.' D'Anjou moved close beside her, maintaining his tight grip on her arm. Others were pushing in around them now -villagers eager to witness the clash, and nuns praying for deliverance. The crowd gave a push, and Cait and d'Anjou were carried out into the yard. Soon almost everyone from inside the church had joined them, including Archbishop Bertrano and a very dazed and bewildered Brother Timotheus pressing a hand to his injured head.

The Templars urged their horses to speed. Levelling their lances, they prepared to meet the onrushing Moors. Up from their throats arose a cry: 'For God and Jerusalem!'

The battle cry of\the Templars was met and drowned by a mighty shout from the Arabs: 'Allahu akbarf they cried, spurring their mounts to a gallop. Over the snow they came, the horses' legs lost in a blurring cloud churned up by their swift hooves so that the riders seemed to glide like avenging angels flying to the fight.

'Now we see whether the Moors have mettle enough to stand to a real fight,' observed d'Anjou.

'The Templars are outnumbered,' Cait pointed out.

'Dear, deluded lady,' replied the baron, 'the Templars are forever outnumbered. That is how they prefer it.'

The two lines closed with heart-stopping speed and Cait, unable to look away, held her breath. At the last instant, the Moors split their line, dividing neatly in two. The main body of the Templars found themselves carried into the midst of a fast-scattering enemy and suddenly exposed on either flank.

This brought a cry from the watchers at the church. Some of the nuns sank to their knees, clasping their hands and crying to Heaven; others stood and gaped in open-mouthed amazement. All around her, Cait heard the quick babble of voices as the villagers discussed the manoeuvre excitedly, and the nuns prayed with increasing fervour.

De Bracineaux, a bold and decisive commander, realized the danger and signalled the retreat at once. Rather than allow his force to become surrounded, he chose flight. In an instant, the Templars wheeled their horses. Back they came, the Moors in close pursuit.

Halfway to the church, however, there came a rattling movement and out from among the houses of the villages another mounted force appeared. At its head was Rognvald, leading a score of Arab warriors with Dag and Yngvar beside him, and Svein and Rodrigo right behind.

The sudden and unexpected appearance of the knights sent the villagers into a rapture of delight. D'Anjou tried to shout them down, but to no avail. There was nothing he could do to make himself understood. He appealed to the priest. 'Tell them to be quiet!' he shouted at Brother Timotheus. 'Shut them up!'

'If they do not speak,' replied the priest neatly, 'surely the stones themselves will cry out.'

Rognvald's troops rounded on the retreating Templars, who now discovered themselves caught between two swiftly closing forces.

Surrounded, their retreat cut off, the Templars halted and de Bracineaux formed his soldiers into a tight defensive circle. Shoulder to shoulder, they took shelter behind a ring of stout shields and a lethal array of razor-keen lance blades. The Moors whirled around the circle, shrieking with exultation. Not a blow had been struck and already the foe was forced into its final stand from which there would be no retreat.

Around and around they flew, the swift Arabian horses spinning like black leaves in a whirlpool of white. The Templars remained unmoved as a boulder surrounded by surging rapids.

The battle began in earnest.

At first the great revolving wheel of warriors appeared content simply to surround the Templars, screaming, whistling, jeering and taunting as they spun around and around. Then suddenly one of the Moors broke from the swiftly circling pack and drove in to strike a glancing blow at one of the Templars-a quick darting chop of the sword and away again before the knight could react. No sooner had he returned to his place than another Moor repeated the slashing lunge, and then another, and another. Soon the Moors were striking at will-but to no avail, since the Templars refused to break ranks and attack. Despite their superior numbers, the Moors gained no advantage.

The diving feints continued for a time and d'Anjou, thoroughly fed up with the lack of Moorish courage in meeting the Templar challenge head-on, vented his frustration. 'Cowardly bastards,' he sneered with profound distaste. 'They refuse to stand and fight, the craven dogs.'

The Moors circled, the great wheel slowly revolving while those on the inner rim performed their wary darting sallies. Cait felt her heart, buoyed by hope, begin to sink. The Templars would not be drawn into a fight they could not win, and Hasan's troops appeared unable, or unwilling, to force the confrontation.

She watched, hands clenched beneath her chin, as her own frustration grew. A few more lunges, a few more wild sweeping chops, and suddenly a cry went up from the Moorish ranks. In the same instant, Cait saw the head of a Templar lance spinning into the snow. A moment later, another lance head was carried off.

D'Anjou saw it too, and knew what it meant. 'Filthy devils!' he spat. 'Stand and fight!' he cried.

Three more Templars lost their lances in rapid succession. The knights did not move. They sat firmly in the saddle as if anchored there, faces hard, staring grimly ahead at the whooping, gyrating foe. Now and again, Cait caught sight of Rognvald, Yngvar, Dag, or Svein, or one of the Spanish knights as they careered around and around in the ever-revolving dance.

The slashing attacks continued with increasing ferocity and speed. The villagers gathered outside the church watched with dread fascination as one by one the lance blades fell to the reckless Moorish swords. Still the Templars held their ground. Indeed, the first indication they gave that the attack was wearing on them came when one of their number threw down his headless, battered lance and drew his sword. De Bracineaux steadied his men with a command; the ring tightened further on itself, and they held on.

It was not until fully half of the lance-heads had been hacked off that the Templars broke from their rock-like stance. When it came, the charge was quick and savage. Cait did not discern any signal; it seemed to her that one moment they were inert and resolute as when the battle began, and the next instant all were in motion. Down went the ruined lances and out flashed the swords even as they spurred their mounts into the rotating wall of foemen.

They hit hard and fast-twenty Templars striking as one. The sound of the clash was like the crack of a gigantic tree the instant before it falls.

The force of the charge carried the Templars deep into the revolving ranks of the Moors. Those nearest the charge could not swerve out of the way in time and were simply struck broadside. Men and horses went down. More than one Arab was crushed beneath the weight of his mount.

The rearward ranks gave way to allow their comrades to escape the onslaught and all at once the Moors were thrown into confusion. Suddenly all was rearing horses and flailing hooves. The ferocity of the assault was devastating. Again and again the Templars charged, driving into their evasive enemy, their swords rising and falling in deadly harmony.