Pilgrim

by James Jackson

  ‘Otto, we stand firm with you as you stood with us.’

  ‘Choose a separate fate, young brother. There is little sense in us all falling to their savage blades.’

  Egon stared ahead, his chin set firm. ‘We shall not be found wanting for courage. If we are condemned, it will be together as grown men and women and not as frightened children scampering for our skins.’

  ‘I thank you for such sacrifice, thank God I met you all.’

  They waited, six youngsters counting time, holding their breath. Zepp and Achim had slipped to the ground to be with their comrades, to share in common fortune. Achim began to sing a hymn, his voice soft and sweet and valedictory.

  The Perfect was unmoved. ‘I see you face rebellion, Otto of Alzey. It will make no difference to the outcome.’

  ‘You will taste my sword before you reach them.’

  ‘As you will learn the error of your action, the sting of its result.’

  With a motion of his hand, he gave the order. The line moved and the children huddled, their eyes big with anticipation of impending end. The words of Achim choked to a sob. He could hear the oncoming tread of feet, the rustle of clothing, the clatter and rasp of weapons. There was no doubt as to the conclusion. Isolda placed a steadying arm about his shoulders and whispered in his ear. God would bring them smiling to His kingdom.

  ‘Kurt, take my dagger and use it well.’ Otto passed possession of the blade.

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘All be strong in your hearts and in your faith.’ The young noble advanced a pace and raised his sword. ‘Bring cost to their triumph and do your duty by each other. Pray to Jesus and fight as demons.’

  ‘Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!’ Their chorus came in unison as the enemy closed.

  ‘Is this dispute not a little uneven?’

  Momentum paused. It had been a question delivered as a challenge, a challenge that issued as a roar. In its startled aftermath, attention swung to a solitary figure in the drab and shabby robe of a mendicant, a wandering and beggar friar. His years were great, his stature and presence imposing. And he stood alongside the children.

  ‘What kind of justice is this? What religion may venerate the killing of innocents?’

  The Cathar leader studied him. ‘There are no innocents here.’

  ‘Consider again.’

  ‘You appear as though from air, grandfather.’

  ‘It is to dust I shall consign you all should you dare advance further.’

  ‘With what would you assail us?’ The Perfect was entertained at the thought. ‘Your trusty stave? Your bare feet? Your bellicose manner?’

  ‘Mock while you may.’

  ‘See how we treat others of the cloth, and continue your wandering. These spawn are nothing to you.’

  ‘They are my lambs, and I will defend them.’

  ‘Be on your way or hang beside your fellow priest.’

  His instruction went ignored. The friar planted his feet more firmly, twisted the staff in his palms. He was not about to back away, had no interest in apology or climbdown. Matters would develop fast. He accepted the situation, intended to participate.

  ‘I am Brother Luke, a penitent of Assisi, a humble pilgrim on passage for the Holy Land. I cannot deny God, will not scorn children in their hour and vale of darkness.’

  ‘Old man, get you hence.’ The warning was final, had lost its amused inflection.

  Otto hissed at the friar. ‘Heed him, Brother Luke. Preserve yourself and please begone.’

  ‘And miss what is coming their way?’ The Franciscan ran a thumb along the edge of his staff. ‘I find myself already well preserved.’

  ‘They will show no mercy.’

  ‘Maybe so. But I will not cede ground to graceless Cathars. I will not allow harm to those engaged in holy mission.’

  Stand-off was drawing to completion. His hand raised, his disciples poised, the Perfect addressed his new-found opponent.

  ‘Time is done, beggar priest. You and your adopted brood are to be set free from your earthly and corrupted forms. Rejoice in it, and speak your final words.’

  ‘Firmitas et Fortitudo.’ Strength and Bravery.

  Onslaught was as swift as it was pre-emptive. It was the friar who went forward, his speed astonishing, his agility taking all by surprise. The Cathars reacted. Three rushed to intercept, their blades jabbing and slashing the air, their rage vented in clamouring howls. They had not thought it through, had failed to judge their moment. Whirling to greet them, the old priest struck hard, his staff punching into ribs and clavicles, cracking heads, whipping down on joints and limbs.

  He talked as he lightly laboured. ‘I eschew violence, am one for brotherly love and peace.’ A blow was dodged and countered with a side-sweep to the neck. ‘Yet you test my vows and patience, persuade me from the sweet and gentle path of my brother Francis of Assisi.’ Two further Cathars entered the fray, were dealt with in a single stroke. ‘Do you not learn? Have you not suffered enough through crusade that His Reverend Lord the Pope sends against you?’

  Plainly not, for another pair of Believers committed themselves, with ignominious result. They were felled like the rest, lifting and dropping in sudden impact, their weapons and lit brands scattered.

  ‘A melancholy sight, and one for which I pray to the Lord for His forgiveness.’

  Brother Luke rested his staff. Around him, the battlefield was strewn with the wounded and winded, with credentes clutching at their injuries or crawling for the sanctuary of their own. Theological debate was through. The Cathar leader waved his men back.

  ‘From our hearts we thank you, Brother Luke.’ Otto extended a hand, felt it held in the firm grasp of his unexpected champion. ‘Such feat of arms is more common of a soldier.’

  ‘A skill I gain from long days on the road. Even a meek friar must learn to brawl.’

  ‘We are fortunate for it.’

  ‘As I am honoured to be in company of the brave. Let us seize the moment and retire. These sons of Satan may yet regroup and again attack.’

  ‘You say you travel for the Holy Land.’

  ‘That is my calling and intent. But on hearing of the children and their march, my brother Francis of Assisi bid me help and guide them in their quest. I will be at your side so long as you need.’

  ‘Welcome, Brother Luke. My friends seek Jerusalem and the True Cross, and that is where I too head.’

  ‘Then we go.’

  They departed the hanging tree as the horizon lightened to grey, leading the horses, moving ever onward. Another incident lay behind them, a new travelling companion had been gained. Kurt cast a backward glance. The torches were extinguished; the Cathars stood passive and motionless as stone.

  There was all the difference between abject retreat and tactical withdrawal. The Perfect stared after the tall friar and his adopted flock. He had pulled back his men for a reason; he did not intend to offer further battle, to squander energy and resource on such meagre pickings. A higher cause was his priority. Across Europe his brethren suffered, were being persecuted, hunted, butchered and enslaved. Their towns were burning, their bishops were hanged high by the neck as act of warning or vengeance. All on the orders of Rome. His Holiness the Pope had particular dislike for Cathars, viewed them as threat and disease, as a boil to be lanced. They would have no home that was not levelled. So it was they died or were forced to recant. Some went into hiding, some took the offensive, some stood to meet their bitter fate and make their final stands. Others had escaped to regions where they could nurse their grievance and pursue their aims. The Perfect was far from finished. He would never renounce his sacred vows, under no circumstance would bow before the papal throne. That was not what his God of truth and decency required. What He demanded of His faithful was that they endure, that they walk the path of enlightenment and harry the forces of darkness to the ends of the earth. An opportunity had arisen; the wronged would turn.

  These children might believe they
had shaken off pursuit, that they and their friar had outmanoeuvred a random and desperate band of heretics. If only life and death were that simple. Certainly, he would not give immediate chase. But he would follow and eventually overhaul, he would yet surprise with the plans he had laid. Brother Luke, Otto of Alzey and their spirited little grouping were not alone in dedicating themselves to crusade and pilgrimage for Palestine.

  A pity these walls could not talk. Though on occasion they did: when he bricked up victims and left them to rot, when over days their shouts and pleas receded from muffled sound to echoing silence. Not today. The Lord of Arsur spat three times on to the inverted True Cross and muttered an incantation. Here in the crypt-chapel of his fortress he could nourish his soul and prepare, could add to his collection of sacred relics. A lock of hair from St Peter, a finger of St Paul, nails from the Crucifixion, the Crown of Thorns. Priceless artefacts stolen and plundered, gathered together as offerings to his demon deity, the one true Creator. Each to his own, everyone to his personal creed or heresy.

  It was to Baphomet the sorcerer-being, the goat-headed god, to whom he owed allegiance and would dedicate his action. For some, the Word of God was all, while others spoke a different tongue. The great gilded idol looked down upon him, a flaming rush torch set between its horns, a pentagram etched upon its forehead. He abased himself before it. This beast divinity had brought him far; it would carry him to triumph. It demanded loyalty, merited the most precious of gifts, required the sacrifice of the regent, the barons, even the baby queen Yolanda. So it would come to pass.

  He ran his fingers over the golden gem-soaked sleeve of the True Cross. It had not lost its lustre or allure, still glistened as it had that fateful morn when he rode from the camp of Saladin at the site of the battle on the Horns of Hattin. Judas. Betrayer of our cause . . . A curse be upon you. He could afford to smile at the memory of the bold Templar who had stood at the moment of his death and shouted after him. The condemned man had no idea of what was at stake, of what might one day be. Now he was dust, while the Lord of Arsur was poised at the doorway to supremacy. He caressed the piece. Such an object of veneration and love, such a powerful draw for the entire Christian world. It made its capture and defilement the more worthwhile. He knew its history well, its discovery in ad 326 by Helena, ailing mother of Emperor Constantine I, its confiscation in ad 614 by the Persian king Chrosroes II, its subsequent and circuitous return to Jerusalem when the Persians met defeat at the hands of Roman emperor Heraclius. Tens of thousands had perished for this relic, this item of shrouded flotsam. At the slightest mention of its name, armies would gather, states engage in war, men lose reason and drag themselves across land and sea to battle for its honour and possession. So it had proved before; thus would it be demonstrated again. He was counting on it. The True Cross would be put to the most imaginative of uses.

  Noise intruded on his thoughts, pulled him from his reverie. There were shouts, the clamour and clatter of men descending stairways to his subterranean lair. In these opening days, he could not expect uninterrupted calm.

  ‘My lord, I beg you come quick.’

  His officer was panting, exertion and worry revealed in his sweat and the grimace of his mouth. Something was wrong. The Lord of Arsur observed him coolly, would not dignify the interruption with excitability of his own. He demanded discipline of his men.

  ‘Make your report.’

  ‘We have found a traitor in our midst, my lord.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The Lord of Arsur narrowed his eyes. ‘If you have uncovered such a reptile, why the haste? Is he not bound hand and foot? Are you concerned he may yet escape?’

  ‘All is possible, my lord. He had papers on him, careful observations of our strength and disposition.’

  ‘Yet none know my intention.’

  ‘It is his we have not divined, my lord. Whether it is for pay or some higher cause, whether he was sent by enemies unknown or merely took flight when opportunity arose.’

  ‘I see we have mystery to resolve, a captive to unpeel. Take me to him.’

  They made their way with studied haste along labyrinthine passageways and up spiral stairs towards the hidden light. Gloom prevailed everywhere, patterned with shadows cast by sputtering tallow. The men paced on, their own footfalls repeating and pursuing them on the blackened flagstones. It was a place where desolation and darkness presided.

  Heat and dazzling sunlight grazed the eyes as they emerged on to a broad esplanade atop the castle rampart. All about below them was activity, the frenetic and purposeful motion of human termites engaged in a thousand tasks with a single aim. Within the walls of Arsur, an army was organizing. Mock combat was under way, soldiers hacking at straw-stuffed dummies and wooden posts or duelling under the watchful instruction of their masters. On the other side of the square, pikemen were being drilled in the art of formation defence, raising and lowering, blocking and advancing, with their sharp-tipped ranks of lugged spears and ravensbills. Elsewhere, horses walked and trotted, barrels rolled, crossbow-bolts thudded into target butts. And above them all, the constant throb of industry, the beat of smithy hammers on helms and horseshoes, the tap and rattle of craftsmen applying piercing-tools to the production of mail hauberks and chausses.

  The officer pointed. ‘There, my lord. They bring him to you.’

  A struggling man was being dragged between a pair of burly guards, accompanied by a posse of mercenaries brandishing clubs and wearing quilted jupon jackets. These were tough infantry who enjoyed beer and bloodshed. Their commander was loath to disappoint.

  In a snivelling mass of terror, the victim was hauled upward over the sweeping steps and deposited at the feet of an impassive Lord of Arsur.

  ‘Raise him.’ The soldiers obeyed, and their leader reached to cup and squeeze the features of the captive in his hand. ‘Did I not provide you sanctuary?’

  ‘You did, my lord. Please, my lord . . .’

  ‘Did I not feed and clothe you, provide your dying religion with new abode, allow you to steal by ship from Europe beneath the noses of your very persecutors?’

  The shuddering prisoner nodded violently in affirmation. He was aware it was hopeless. But breath and heartbeat could generate optimism, plight encourage a wishful grasping for alternative outcome. A finger stroked his cheek as the Lord of Arsur perused him from close distance.

  ‘How many Cathars I have plucked from the stake and the noose in France and other kingdoms. How many more come hither to join us in Arsur, free from the inquisitive eye, the listening ear, of the Pope.’

  ‘Your deeds will be blessed, my lord.’

  ‘As yours shall be condemned. Ever since His Holiness and the King of France unleashed crusade against you these three years past, I have given your kind refuge from the branding-iron and sword.’

  ‘This I know, my lord.’

  ‘In return I have demanded only your loyalty and labour, your desire to serve.’

  ‘I shall serve you again, my lord.’

  ‘You betray me.’

  His fingers tightened until the countenance of the prisoner was distorted and the eyes bulged. There was a curiosity to examine a life force shortly before its demise. Everything had come to this point, was reduced to an insignificant creature quaking before the fall. The Lord of Arsur smelt the sweat, the sour and primal breath of mortal dread. He felt good.

  ‘To whom did you intend to deliver our secrets?’

  ‘I was fearful, my lord, had no plan than to leave this site, to lay down arms and dwell in peace and quiet contemplation.’

  ‘Instead you die in pain.’

  ‘Mercy, my lord. I throw myself on your compassion.’

  ‘Alas, it is found wanting.’ He released his hold. ‘You recorded our dispositions, noted and reconnoitred our capability and strength. That is the act rather of a spy than a thoughtful hermit.’

  ‘I am innocent, my lord.’

  ‘You are man made flesh, and flesh may be devoured.’

  He nodde
d once and the victim left as he had arrived, his resisting legs kicking for purchase, his keening cries rising plaintive through the parting throng. Silence rippled outward across the open space. Men stopped their training; the steely clash of blades and hammers ceased. Anticipation hung, like the dust, heavy in the air.

  The second in a row of three pits was the destination. Like its neighbours, it was twelve feet wide and excavated to a depth from which neither beast nor human could climb to liberty. Quickly, the man was strapped into a rope harness and sent over the rim, his terror escalating as his descent began. His screams reverberated from the hollow. Then a different and deeper sound, the enraged roar of a brown bear tormented by hunger and baited with whips. Its revenge, if not sweet, at least came with plentiful marrowbone and the muscled succulence of raw meat. The din mingled in a fur-ball frenzy before subsiding to the muted crack and splinter of feeding-time.

  Fear was the key, the answer to cohesion. The Lord of Arsur looked on. There was no need for speech or explanation, no room for misconception. His troops well understood. Those he employed would toil and die without question; those who refused would simply die. He had hurled men from mangonels, had flayed them alive, had flogged and cut them so that insects could feed on their honey-covered wounds. Any cruelty the late and unlamented Reynald of Châtillon could devise he would exceed. Whether mercenary or Cathar, Assassin or leper knight, each played his part, would be an element in eventual success. The bear appeared to have had its fill of the traitorous Albigensian and was toying boisterously with the corpse.

  A messenger approached and bowed, passing an encrypted note to the Lord of Arsur. It had come by carrier pigeon from the fortress of al-Kahf, and as he deciphered and read it it confirmed what he predicted. The Assassins had struck their next target; the schedule was maintained. He was pleased.

  He glanced up at the officer beside him. ‘Our Cathar danced well with his bear. Commit his two closest companions to the third pit.’

  It was the one colonized by large and deadly fat-tailed scorpions.