Pilgrim

by James Jackson

  The old Jew sat at a trestle, his ledger open before him, his assistant at his side. Naturally, the locals despised him, would mutter darkly of his hidden wealth and epic meanness. But he had the last laugh, if he cared to laugh at all. Anyone could be bought; everything had a price. Friends and security, influence and patronage, Church and state. Many came within his grasp; most were entered in his book or pocket. He was untouchable.

  ‘You are?’ He peered warily at the stranger who had slid into position opposite.

  ‘A weary pilgrim who makes onward journey for the Holy Land.’

  ‘Who is not a weary pilgrim? You are distinct only in your seniority over those who pass through of late. We have been infested with ravenous and needy children, are glad to be rid of them.’

  ‘I am loath to consider myself distinct.’

  ‘If it is charity or absolution you seek, find a priest. If it is a youngster, find a brothel of specific flavour. If it is money . . .’

  He let the sentence hang, his eyes questioning and mildly hostile. The leader of the horsemen relaxed into the negotiation. His three companions waited outside, were available in case of hue and cry. He did not foresee trouble: the old Jew would not anticipate anything beyond the scope of his hook nose and basic greed. It made sense to convince him he discussed from a position of strength. People gave more of themselves when flattered or at ease.

  ‘Citizens tell me you are a wise and informed man, that little occurs before or behind the walls of buildings without your certain knowledge.’

  ‘Whether trade or wrongdoing, I discover all.’ The ancient moneylender leaned forward. ‘Do the citizens also tell you that they hate me, that they dream of cutting my gizzard from ear to ear?’

  ‘I have not heard them speak so.’

  ‘For they would not dare. Particulars are my shield and my sword, my security for long and contented life. Between birth and death, everything is transaction, and every transaction requires funds. Without my kind, existence is impossible.’

  ‘No idle boast, I am sure.’

  A flagon of ale was brought. The horseman studied his potential victim through amicable eyes, observed how an air of suspicion clung to the man, could only hazard how he might attempt to cling to life. Even a stone could bleed if squeezed hard enough. What a pity this local font of knowledge had never heard of the sheikh and his followers at the Assassins’ castle of al-Kahf.

  Reaching for the jug, the old Jew paused. ‘We talk in good faith?’

  You have no concept of my faith. ‘We do.’

  ‘So state your aim and we shall agree a fee.’

  ‘Information, news of a pious young man who travels on as I.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Otto of Alzey, a boy of noble birth whose family commends me to his side. They tell me he comes this way, that he rides a black mount with a grey mare beside.’

  ‘An intriguing tale. And intrigue costs.’

  ‘One gold mark for firm sighting and direction or I will depart for more favourable exchange.’

  As though from air, he conjured the coin between his fingers. A flick, and it was gone, another and it reappeared. The features of the aged banker softened at its sight. He extended his palm, took the piece, and hunched over to examine it. When he looked up, his face was twisted with the semblance of a smile.

  ‘Thus is friendship forged. You are a man of your word and your purse.’

  ‘I await the words you may impart.’

  ‘A youth Otto of such title and description indeed entered our city not four days past. He was eager to rest his horses, to purchase bread and varied fare for distribution to the starving children that he meets.’

  ‘What worthy soul he is.’

  ‘It was commented upon. His easy manner and generous spirit, his common touch and fine looks. Each drew its share of admiration or envy.’

  ‘While you have earned my thanks.’

  Libation was called for. The Jew decanted the contents of the jug into tankards, and the trio of new-found allies drank. One had become richer, another better informed. Toying with his cup, the horseman made his excuse to leave. There was arduous ride before him, the rigours of abstinence and the road to grow accustomed to. Tavern debauchery would hardly assist. The moneylender understood and bid farewell without remorse or a second glance. He should perhaps have taken more notice, for the long and contented life he had promised himself was now forfeit and rapidly approaching its end. Along with ale, he and his assistant had ingested sufficient digitalis, the poisonous extract of foxglove, to ensure massive and irreversible coronary. It would guarantee their silence, prevent casual remark or formal comment to the city authorities. Outside the inn, the horseman whistled and his steed was fetched. Ahead lay rendezvous and reckoning.

  ‘We commend the spirit of our dear sister to God and give her body to the earth.’

  It was at the beginning of the fifth week that little Lisa died. Like others, she had sickened and faded; like others, her mortal remains were laid to rest in one of hundreds of shallow graves that spotted the route along the northern shore of Lake Neuchâtel. Her fate and funeral were as commonplace as the rest. Just a small grouping of friends, bewildered or accepting, placing flowers, planting crosses, united in their grief. How many similar events they had passed in previous days. Their turn had come.

  The youngsters rose from their prayers and tried to wipe the sorrow from their eyes. Little Lisa was gone, returned to God, buried with the wood doll carved for her by Hans. And that was that. Roswitha sobbed, Zepp and Achim clung silent together, Isolda and Egon held hands. Beneath the heaviness of their loss, the children still had each other, the holy imperative to struggle on. It provided their reason and remaining strength.

  Kurt scuffed a stone with his foot and bit his lower lip. He did not care to cry, had no wish to display the weakness that he felt. Poor dead Lisa. He remembered her laugh, her curls, her devotion to them all. Consigned to moulder in the dust. There was no justice or purpose when she was merely seven years old, when more deserving candidates existed for the grave. At least she no longer suffered, was spared the toil facing them. At least his sister Isolda was alive, had discovered since Cologne a growing affection and regard for Egon.

  He stared at them both, wondering for a moment if it were he as brother who should protect and comfort her. But she seemed satisfied with the brawny son of the blacksmith, happy to weep on his shoulder, to entwine her fingers in his and find tenderness in the misery. Kurt was pleased for her. His friend adored his sister, was good and honest and kind, had saved him from certain drowning. That already made them brothers of a sort.

  ‘We have grieved enough.’ Hans turned from the graveside. ‘Brush away your tears. They will not feed or sustain us, will not take us to the Holy Land and the True Cross.’

  Roswitha was bundling her meagre possessions, shaking her head. ‘What do I care of that? My beautiful Lisa is ripped from me, my little cousin, my own blood. And you tell me to put away my sadness.’

  ‘I tell you to look to the path in front.’

  ‘It is a road of bones: our bones; the bones of every child who walks upon it. You are all too blind to see.’

  Achim lifted his head. ‘I am blind, but I see enough, Roswitha. The only way is to continue.’

  ‘He is right, Roswitha.’ Zepp chimed in in support of his twin.

  ‘You are so sure. Yet it has brought us here, to throwing soil on a corpse.’ She choked on her anguish. ‘We were betrayed and lied to, by our parents, by the preacher-boy Nikolas, by our own heedless passions.’

  Isolda stepped forward and held her trembling arms. ‘What is life without suffering and sacrifice?’

  ‘Where is salvation in this?’

  ‘We are all together, all blessed in the sight of God, all embarked on our one true mission.’

  ‘Little Lisa is not.’

  ‘She finds a different way. Ours is not to question the workings of the Lord.’

  Rosw
itha threw off her grasp and backed away. ‘You believe it? You judge Him a forgiving God after what you have seen, after the hunger, the pain, the death, the burials you have witnessed?’

  ‘How may any of us judge, my sweet sister?’

  ‘I cannot go on. I cannot, I cannot, I cannot . . .’

  Roswitha collapsed weeping to the ground, and Isolda was there for her as she had been for every child, caressing and soothing, rocking her in her arms. Kurt stood back, suddenly awkward at the emotion. The painful lump in his throat had grown, was forcing his distress and tears to the surface. He swallowed them down. At any moment he might break, could fall to his knees and pummel the earth. It would be inappropriate.

  ‘Listen to me, Roswitha.’ Egon had seated himself beside the two girls. ‘I am schooled in nothing but the forge. Yet Nikolas commanded us endure, no matter what we face.’

  ‘I have tried.’ The response was muffled.

  ‘We keep on trying, maintain our trust, as little Lisa did, as the apostles Paul and Peter did. It is our lot and our duty.’

  ‘So do your duty.’ Her face emerged raw and streaked with crying. ‘It will be without me.’

  ‘Are you to say that little Lisa died for naught, that you abandon us, turn your back on Christ?’

  ‘I return to the Rhineland and our village.’

  ‘She is not alone.’

  Albert had ambled to the centre, a bird-scarer turned scarecrow, his feet bound in rags, his body grown skeletal and pitifully bent in the past weeks. Kurt was not surprised. It had become harder to inspire him, ever more difficult to push and pull him onwards. The death of Lisa, the decision of Roswitha, had brought him to his own conclusion.

  ‘You also, brother?’ Egon rose and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘We shall miss you both rather than condemn you.’

  ‘I am tired, Egon. I grow more feeble and wasted with every furlong.’

  ‘Then you must make your peace and go, and pray for us in our hour.’

  ‘With all my heart.’

  They embraced, and the other children joined as Albert and Roswitha prepared to take their leave. There was no clamour, simply the melancholy of further loss, the exchange of paltry gifts, the shouldering of forage bags.

  ‘Take this willow basket, Roswitha.’

  ‘And this handful of grain.’

  ‘This shell is to be yours, Albert. Carry it and think of us.’

  ‘Look after our dear sister.’

  It was the turn of Kurt to say goodbye. He leaned and kissed Roswitha, whispered in her ear. ‘Remember us to our families. Tell them of our love for them, that there may come a day when we shall meet again.’

  ‘I will do that.’ She pinched his cheek and sniffed through her tears. ‘Return to us, Kurt. All of you must come back when this is ended and your mission complete.’

  Gunther laughed, his tone jeering. ‘A happy reunion, I am sure. You are unworthy, have no place in our midst.’

  ‘Be silent, Gunther.’ Hans was first to protest.

  ‘What is one death or a thousand against the goal for which we strive? What is little Lisa, your fatigue, your swollen feet, your empty bellies, when measured against the prize of Jerusalem and the True Cross? Begone, strangers.’

  Three down and they kept going. For the last time they had turned to wave, until the distant figures of Albert and Roswitha were sucked into invisibility. There was nothing else to do but continue, to put space between themselves and the earth mound and the memory that was little Lisa. For the whole day they walked. Kurt looked at the ground, tried to avoid conversation, attempted to ignore the despairing scenes unfolding at the wayside. Images merged. A young boy sitting alone and wide-eyed with the body of his brother; an arm projecting cold and bent from its makeshift scrape; children lying too enfeebled to move and too hungry to beg. The twelve-year-old shared what he could, distributing his reserve of carefully harvested water-lily seeds, giving away his precious flame-making flint and lump of iron pyrite. It would never be enough. And the son of the woodsman shadowed him, had sidled up and murmured his words of sham comfort. Fear not, Kurt. I am still with you.

  Towards sundown he found her. The light was fire-bronze across the lake, geese flew in formation as if in salute, and weary children could pause to rest in the evening stillness. Her corpse was merely another waiting for interment. They would have muttered prayers and passed by, crossing themselves as they went. It was not a matter for them. Yet something drew Kurt. He had glimpsed her flaxen hair, seen eyes that were closed, lips that no longer parted in radiant smile for him. Her skin was so pale. Slowly, he moved towards her, sinking to his knees, reaching to touch her. And then he howled. It was a primal sound like no other, an expression of agony and of a boy whose greatest hopes were crushed and worst fears realized. His sister and friends tried to pull him away, but he resisted. Throughout the night, he kept vigil beside his girl from Cologne.

  Heat shimmered off the Mediterranean and washed over the walls and fortress of Arsur. Perched on low cliffs, the town enjoyed a commanding view, benefited from its strategic location, its trading port, its role as conduit for goods and traffic from around the Christian and Moslem worlds. Close enough to Jaffa, the southernmost bastion of Outremer; far enough from royal circles in Acre to avoid prying eyes and the attention of the barons.

  He rode out from his kingdom in late morning, attended by his captains, crossing the plain towards the forested hills of cedar and cypress. Twenty-one years before, Richard Cœur de Lion, King of England, had clashed with Saladin on this very ground as he led his army south. It had been a ferocious battle. The Moslems had attacked with Nubian infantry and Turcoman cavalry, the Christians responding with a mounted charge by the Templar and Hospitaller knights beneath a cloud of hostile arrows. Richard was at the forefront, cajoling, directing, inspiring by example and a brute force that eventually put the enemy to chaotic flight. Quite a scrap; quite some general. A high point in an otherwise disappointing campaign. What the Lord of Arsur planned would be a little more conclusive.

  They followed the course of a dry river bed, slowing as they entered a narrow gully. The trees to either side were sparser here, stripped of branches and festooned instead with hanging and sun-dried human cadavers. They provided a striking if macabre processional route, gave stark warning that visitors were unwelcome on pain of death. Not that many would be induced to call or even to search for the location. The al-fresco morgue defined the boundary of a colony, a gathering-place for those with like minds and similar condition. In a valley beyond was the home of the leper Knights of St Lazarus.

  A lone and hooded form astride an Arab pure-bred confronted them with his hand raised. The voice was a bronchial rasp:

  ‘My lord deigns to venture from his marbled halls.’

  ‘When there is business to attend, I would journey to Hades if required.’

  ‘Welcome to nightmare of our own creation.’

  The Lord of Arsur reined to a halt. ‘You accomplished the objective with which I tasked you, seized gold and treasure beyond compare, arms destined for the infidels. I offer you my gratitude.’

  ‘We proffer our allegiance.’

  ‘It is as well. There are further targets awaiting your singular attention.’

  ‘Should they come so easy as the last, should reward be as great, you may consider them already destroyed.’

  ‘I vouch Saphadin will be displeased.’

  ‘As I wager he will be none the wiser.’

  Thus were plots born and wars begun, the Lord of Arsur reflected. He studied the green eight-pointed cross emblazoned on the mantle of the shrouded man. Like the Assassins, this band of rogue and leper knights were outcasts, reliant on his noblesse, dependable for he gave them food and water and motive. Without him they were sick and forgotten men. With them he had a catalyst, a fire-starter. One could not be fastidious when launching a bid for dominion.

  An intensity shone in the reddened and unblinking eyes beneath the hood. ‘Has
the barid revealed more of its secrets?’ The knight referred to the Moslem postal and carrier service interconnecting the centres of power.

  ‘My agents are diligent in their endeavours. There is not a letter I do not read, a pigeon or courier whose path I cannot intercept.’

  ‘It will prove useful.’

  ‘Every step taken by Saphadin, I shall be ahead. Any move, alliance, employment of his forces, I shall learn of and counter.’

  ‘Knowledge is your strength.’

  ‘And lack of readiness is their flaw. They sign for peace with the Franks, believe that such concord will yet hold for five years hence. It seems we are to rouse each side from its tranquillity and slumber.’

  ‘You will find us eager to play our part, glad at commencement of hostility.’

  ‘I ask for nothing less.’

  ‘From our Order will come chaos.’ The leper knight wheeled his horse and beckoned to his visitors. ‘Ride with me to camp and see for yourselves how we celebrate good fortune.’

  Festivity could take many forms. The Lord of Arsur and his officers stared about them as they paraded through grim lines of severed heads placed in multitude on upright spikes. Simple pleasures for straightforward folk. Above them, in wooden watch-towers, sentries stood guard. Among the trophies, more hooded men, some bent and crippled, others grasping boar-spears or resting on swords, observed them pass. A reception had been arranged.

  ‘You are industrious.’

  ‘None may refuse us our basic delights.’ The leper knight pointed.

  Ahead, surrounded by stone dwellings, stables and sanatoria, a parade ground of impacted and sun-baked earth covered the expanse. At one end, mounted on chargers, a troop of cowled Knights of St Lazarus waited; at the other, tied to stakes two hundred yards distant, were their prey. Ten captives from the defeated caravan of Saphadin shook in their bindings. They mumbled prayers or gaped mute and bug-eyed at the building drama to which they would provide finale. There would be no pleading, no bargaining, no alternative outcome. A piteous sight, had the audience been inclined towards pity. Sport could begin.