Pilgrim

by James Jackson

  In the background, his companions fished in a stream and idled beneath the August sun. Isolda would not venture too close to where the horses stood. She blushed pink whenever she gazed at Otto or caught his easy glance. Even at a distance, her demure infatuation was plain, her confusion of emotions, her vulnerability to the lean muscularity and natural charm, writ bold. The traveller was an aristocrat, scion of a knightly line. Yet he was unaffected, had no arrogance in his manner, no haughty disregard for the unfortunate and the weak. Kurt was proud and grateful to have him near.

  ‘Once we are done with Max, I shall make a bread poultice for the ankle of your sister.’

  ‘She is obliged to you for walking her this far on horseback.’

  ‘None are in my debt, young brother.’ Otto lowered the leg and slapped the stallion on its haunch. ‘As a Christian, as son of a Hospitaller knight, I am duty-bound to help.’

  ‘It has slowed you.’

  ‘What need for haste is there? We should rest, restore our strength and aching bones.’

  ‘Our crusade demands we forever push forward.’

  ‘Sense dictates we tarry awhile. There are many children whose lagging spirits we could revive, whose injuries we should dress. Jerusalem will remain a city, Outremer a kingdom.’

  ‘In seeking comfort, do we not commit sin?’

  The youth shrugged, checking over his saddle-pack. ‘We shall each discover a path, whatever our pace and however it is ordained.’

  ‘What is your path, Otto?’

  ‘To be worthy of my name and true to the Lord; to find my father in the Holy Land.’

  ‘He is lost?’

  ‘Vanished these ten long years. Now I am of age enough to follow his trail and determine his fate.’ He looked up. ‘And you, Kurt. What is your preferred course?’

  ‘Adventure and escape.’

  ‘Not liberating Jerusalem from the Saracen? Not praying before the True Cross? Not lighting candles and worshipping in the Holy Sepulchre?’

  Kurt silently reproached himself for his shallowness. ‘You think me a fool.’

  ‘I believe you honest. Adventure and escape is worthy reason. It is fervour and zeal that kills.’

  They worked on, Otto combing out the tails of his mounts, Kurt arranging the saddle of Maximilian and the cargo of Gerta into semblance of piled order. Beside the stream, Zepp had caught a fish, was landing it with all the eagerness that starvation could bring. Four hundred and fifty miles from Cologne, and rib-cages jutted more pronounced from wasted bodies, eyes had sunk deeper in their hollows. Thank God for respite and for Otto of Alzey, Kurt decided.

  He unsheathed the sword, admiring and turning the blade, playing the light off its edges. What balance it had, what power it gave.

  ‘Already the warrior, young brother?’

  ‘I will never be a knight as you will be, but I may dream.’ He slipped the weapon back to its scabbard and surrendered possession.

  ‘Nobility is in the heart, Kurt. I have met lords with the blackest of manner, beggars who are courtly and chivalrous.’

  ‘Then what is it to be a true knight?’

  ‘A beret of quality will assist.’ With a deft flick of his foot, the older boy propelled his discarded velvet cap from the ground towards Kurt.

  The youngster caught it. ‘I am serious, Otto.’

  ‘It is to have courage and desire to serve; to acquire humility and a will of iron.’ He held the sword in one hand, and leaned to retrieve his long couteau d’arme dagger with the other. ‘These blades are mere symbol of more potent ideals.’

  ‘Your father taught you well.’

  ‘He left a memory of kindness. The rest I gained from my old tutor in Alzey. I would wish to disappoint neither of them.’

  Memory of kindness. It would be nice to inherit that from a father, Kurt supposed. Older boy and disciple walked over to their friends. Another fish had been caught, was being divided and eaten raw.

  His mouth bulging, littering scales and bones, Achim turned towards the footfall. ‘Has Kurt told of our Cathars, Master Otto?’

  ‘You are fortunate they suffered from debility.’

  ‘They are dangerous?’

  ‘It is rumoured so. They are heretics with two Gods, one good and in command of the spirit, the other evil and in control of the flesh. Their quest is to battle against the sinful God, to liberate the spirit by destroying the flesh. Children they hate. To them you are the continuation and product of man, of material and evil things. For a better world, you must die.’

  ‘But we do nothing wrong.’ The voice of Isolda was low with concern and confusion.

  ‘When people are set in their minds and route, they are not always enlightened.’

  ‘They would kill us for their divinity?’

  ‘As others might for no reason.’

  Kurt took a morsel of fish. ‘Do not be afraid, Isolda. These devils live far distant, and Otto keeps sword and dagger with him.’

  ‘I doubt I shall have use for either.’ The sixteen-year-old broke off a piece of dry tack and offered it to her. ‘Besides, we enjoy harmony and not enmity in our valley.’

  ‘There is still Gunther.’

  The children groaned and Otto chuckled. ‘He will not again trouble us.’

  Isolda received and chewed the biscuit as though it were holy sacrament. Her brother noticed how shyly her eyes dipped, how inexorably she was drawn away from her first love towards her perfect knight. Poor Egon. Against the wit and apparent worldliness of the older boy, the son of the blacksmith was dull and common fare. He seemed to accept his demotion with sad docility and stoic grace. Things happened; the seasons changed. There was little point in contesting.

  Conversation and the sharing of food consumed the hours, reached into the late afternoon and the onset of evening. Shadows fell in the valley, and Kurt stood away from the group, listening to their talk, staring to the south. He had come too far to retreat as Albert and Roswitha had done, had cut himself loose from his past without knowing his future. The world was so wide and the mountains so high. He prayed fervently that what lay ahead was good.

  Another mountain, a different place. Close to Tiberias in northern Palestine, rising from the wilderness, sat the hunched mass of Mount Tabor. It was the site of the Transfiguration of Christ, where the Messiah had taken three disciples to pray and appeared to them with his face and raiments shining as the sun, and the voice of God spoke from a cloud. That was then. In the year 1212 its contours hosted a forward encampment of the Moslem forces of the Sultan of Damascus.

  It was early evening as the dust cloud travelled southward. Within it was a cavalry tulb of one hundred men, and at its head, accompanied by emirs and standard-bearers, was Saphadin. His back straight, his beard white and eyes piercing, he cut an imposing figure. As brother of Saladin, he had been the diplomat and trusted confidant, had negotiated with the Franks, duelled and battled with Cœur de Lion, King Richard of England, in an endless game of chance. Those days were gone. Or so it had seemed. For, in spite of peace treaty, the perfidious Christians of Outremer were again challenging his writ, manoeuvring for military advantage. Conciliation was far from the thoughts of Saphadin al-Adil, as he rode.

  ‘Peace and blessings be upon you, my father.’

  He dismounted and embraced al-Mu’azzam, his soldier son. The boy was youngest and most warlike of his progeny, commander of military formations in the region, leader of countless raids on the Christian lands. Occasionally the enemy required to be taught a lesson. Al-Mu’azzam was the man the Sultan entrusted to conduct it. They made their way to the collection of command tents behind the wood stockade.

  ‘I expected your visit, my father.’

  ‘When the infidels spit in our faces, betray the very truce we signed with them not a month past, my sole recourse is to turn to my son on this ancient mountainside.’

  ‘I am for ever ready to do as you bid, my father.’

  ‘At least there is one I may rely on. The rest sn
ap and snarl as frightened dogs, are more concerned with themselves than with the honour and standing of our rule.’

  ‘Does Damascus still smoulder?’

  ‘The fires are out, but my anger rages.’ Saphadin slapped the jewelled pommel of his sword. ‘I ceded Jaffa and Ramleh to the infidels in the cause of peace, withdrew from Sidon and Beirut, abided by each agreement, nurtured trade with their coastal ports. Was it not I who placated them with return of their estates?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Have I not eased the passage of their pilgrims to Christian shrines in Nazareth and Jerusalem?’

  ‘Indeed you have.’

  ‘This is how they repay me. With scheming attack on my camel train from Egypt, with sly assault on my iron mines, with secret raid on souks in the heart of Damascus.’

  ‘It is declaration of war.’

  ‘Yet why now? I know of no reason why they should precipitate conflict. None would gain.’

  ‘Though someone reckons benefit from such action.’

  The Sultan frowned and continued to stride. ‘True, we are in fragile and uneasy coexistence. True, each side will probe the other. And true, the infidel ruler John of Brienne last year allowed unleashing of force against our brothers in the Damietta mountains of Egypt. But this?’

  ‘They condemn themselves by previous treachery.’

  ‘There is no pattern or sense to it. I learn from spies that John of Brienne writes to his pope in Rome, demands crusade against us when our treaty lapses five years hence. Those five years are scarce begun.’

  ‘He is sixty-four, his young queen dies recent in childbirth. Might a man not grow impatient as he ages, a king seek to reassert his power?’

  ‘By a throw of the dice?’

  ‘Perhaps he loses his mind, is maddened through grief. Perchance as fading regent he yearns for lasting triumph.’

  ‘The course he chooses leads only to oblivion.’

  They reached the central tent and passed inside. Al-Mu’azzam poured rosewater into glasses, and the two men sat. A sombre occasion.

  Saphadin sipped brooding from his cup. ‘This infidel outrage conjures memories of another, of the vile baron Reynald of Châtillon.’

  ‘My uncle, your brother Salah ad-Din, removed his head after Hattin with a single stroke. We shall do the like to all who confront us.’

  ‘Sadly, we are blind to their identity. The regent himself? His barons? The military Orders of the Templars and Hospitallers?’

  ‘Any could be culprit, my father. They require influence to buy secrecy and allegiance, resource to hire mercenaries and Assassins, stratagem to strip us of our arms and iron for our foundries. Each citizen of Outremer is guilty in association.’

  ‘You suggest campaign?’

  ‘Nothing else remains when honour is at stake. It is you who claims they spit in our faces.’

  ‘And thus do we leave behind moderation, abandon negotiation in favour of battle. It may serve us poorly, drown us in blood.’

  Al-Mu’azzam leaned forward and gripped the arm of his father. ‘We must strike, al-Adil. The infidels are brazen, but they are weak. Their regent grows toothless, their lords are divided, their infant queen is but a few months old. No better time exists.’

  ‘What of our own weakness and division?’

  Saphadin rose and paced the confines of the tent. He was a man of energy trapped by circumstance, burdened with a thousand conflicting thoughts. Decisions had to be made, fury tempered and conditioned by reason and reflection. He could afford no rash move that would imperil the legacy of his late brother. Nor could he appear feeble, be mocked by his enemies, laughed at by his nephews and sons, by his own iqta vassals. There were always bolder and more impetuous pretenders waiting to usurp him. Action was required; asabiyah, family pride, was at stake. But he had no desire for wider conflict, no great standing army with which to fight it. Land needed to be tilled, grain harvested, industry and commerce maintained. Disruption to these could prove unpopular.

  As though there had not already been disruption. The Sultan paused and stared glumly into inner space. Someone must know, yet none would tell. Even his contacts among the Christian hierarchs, his old connections with the Lord of Arsur, had borne no fruit. Silence was everywhere; hazard was all about. No better time exists. He looked at his son. The warrior hothead might be right, the moment for chatter past. Of one thing he could be certain. It would take months for the fools of Outremer to raise sufficient force, to garner support from the princes of Europe, to arrange reinforcement from Italy and France. And there was no guarantee the Franks would come. They were too indolent, too settled in their estates and ways, too occupied with easier and closer tasks against the Moslems in Spain, the Cathars in southern France, the resistance to their rule in Anatolia and Greece. Their pope had called for crusade before, and been rebuffed. Here was opening to exploit. Salah ad-Din had left unfinished business, an incomplete conquest of the Latin kingdom and restoration of Islamic rule. It was an affront to Allah the Merciful and Compassionate.

  The Sultan stirred. ‘Your views affect me. It is clear the infidels communicate with their swords, plain we have holy duty to respond in kind.’

  ‘I am ready to act as your steel, al-Adil, to execute whatever is your resolve.’

  ‘A pledge which heartens me. I trust that others within our nobility will be as loyal.’

  ‘All shall rally to the cause.’

  ‘Then it is set in motion. I will send officers to the central Syrian tribes, draw troops from Jerusalem, call in the muqta to provide the cavalry reserves we desire.’

  ‘Have you role for me, my father?’

  Saphadin spoke softly, as though in trance. ‘Take two hundred and fifty of your horse across Galilee and descend on Acre. Kill everyone you meet, burn anything you encounter. They shall be in no doubt of our will.’

  It was lost on neither man that the tented camp and its palisade overlooked the bleak and forbidding valley of har megiddon, Armageddon. Site of historic and spectacular slaughter throughout millennia, predicted scriptural location for the final battle between good and evil. Transfiguration and destruction. If one were to launch surprise attack upon the Christians, there could be few more appropriate springboards than the wooded slopes of Mount Tabor.

  ‘More grandeur, Hans. More dignity and mannered airs.’

  ‘You speak of dignity from where you sit?’

  Otto laughed at the rebuke. Naked and reclining in a filled water-trough, he conducted his lesson in the arts of nobility and riding with the languid ease of a master. Class had commenced, and the goatherd was the most willing and comic of pupils. The children loved it. They whooped as Hans paraded by on the black charger Maximilian, yelled with glee as he acknowledged them with a dismissive nod or stately wave of his hand. The latter move almost unseated him. He was no horseman. But his mount was placid enough, tolerated the jester who had replaced his lord, who appropriated his beret and aped his ways. For the sake of sport, everyone joined in.

  The noble boy submersed himself, let the cool water cover his face, the sounds of play ebb to dull vibration. It was restful in this broad valley beyond Chambéry. He was lucky to have found such fine companions, to have made such friends. Kurt and Isolda were already his little brother and sister. How journeying could change outlook. For too long he had lived carefree, revelled in the delights and wildness of youth, tested the patience and regulation of his beloved tutor Felix. That existence was ended. He had bid the old scholar farewell, kissed the local damsels goodbye, set out to find his father, to become man and future knight. Things would come to pass, he was sure of it.

  He surfaced, his head streaming, to see Hans wobbling his way on a repeat circuit. There was no limit to the enjoyment his performance brought. The confidence of the goatherd grew. He punched the air in triumph. Even to clown as an uglier and simpler version of Otto was akin to being a demigod.

  ‘Am I truly so absurd, Hans?’

  ‘How may I answer
, my pretty maid?’ The goatherd doffed his cap to the noble boy. ‘You will find I underplay your graces.’

  ‘As you will find, with further instruction, I over-play my sword.’

  ‘I shall abandon that lesson to others.’

  Kurt threw a soaked and balled rag at him, prompting a barrage of laughter and missiles while Hans struggled to keep purchase on his steed. Throughout the entertainment, Isolda glanced longingly at Otto, Egon stared achingly at her. The young noble rolled out of the trough and started to dry himself.

  ‘Kurt.’ He whispered an aside to the twelve-year-old. ‘If you wish to dislodge a man, more subtle resort is needed.’

  ‘You have something in mind?’

  As answer, Otto gave a low whistle that rose in pitch and volume. Its effect was immediate. Maximilian reared, kicking forward and back, bucking frenziedly until, with a cry, Hans pitched to the ground. Winded, he lay on his back, recovering with a look that passed from surprise through pain to dazed amusement. Slowly, he sat up, dusted down the beret, and replanted it on his head. Only then did he clamber shakily to his feet.

  ‘Proof before all that manners and civility scarce exist among nobles, Master Otto.’

  ‘I grant you, a cruel trick to be in league with a horse.’

  ‘But a fine one.’ The goatherd inspected himself for injury. ‘What say you to a second bout?’

  Otto had donned his hose leggings and now approached with his folded cloak. ‘To be true noble, you require low cunning and dress to fit your new-found lustre. It will add colour and drama to any future plunge.’

  ‘I will yet outwit you, you shall see.’

  He fastened the cape about his shoulders and, with Otto holding the bridle, remounted to vociferous applause. Act two had begun. He was delighted with himself, had only ever ridden a village pony. To be on Maximilian, to have befriended a boy who lived in a burg and who wore fine clothes, was the stuff of dreams. He winked at Kurt, and the twelve-year-old shouted with mirth. The horse whinnied and stamped, Otto released his hold, and the demonstration resumed.

  They had not counted on four horsemen. The strangers had appeared as though from nowhere, emerging from dead ground behind the hamlet and travelling along the track down which the children had walked. Hans had trotted ahead and turned, was cantering back on their bearing. He was the first to notice them. The chance to greet and preen before his fellows was too great. He was not about to pass up the moment, ignore present and future occasion to boast. It was a mistake.