Pilgrim

by James Jackson

  Otto pulled himself up beside the Englishman and raised his eyes slowly above the frosted earth ridge. Whispered argument kept his mind from the cold. But he trusted the soldier, had seen the light of expectation in his eye and promise of skirmish and affray persuade him onward. His skills might be needed.

  The enemy had established camp at the forested mouth of a valley. They were in no hurry, were on terrain controlled and patrolled by their own. Occasionally the Templars and Hospitallers might ride out in force to make a point, to raise the tempo and tension of exisiting conflict. Yet Moslem spies near the great forts would forewarn of their approach. It was part of the game, an element in the escalation that presaged full-scale war.

  ‘They raise shelter, Sergeant Hugh.’

  ‘Then they have more sense than ourselves.’ The bowman adjusted his position and squinted across the divide. ‘Like any Arab, they shun the routine of patrol, will not place guards to much effect.’

  ‘It is to our benefit. The foe will scarce suppose we trail them.’

  ‘I scarce believe it for myself.’

  Sergeant Hugh grimaced and cupped his hands about his eyes. Before him, the raiding-party was at rest, its horses tethered, its riders gathered and crouched beneath canvas cover to eat and discuss. There were casualties to mourn and the surprise attack by Templars to debate. They could lie-up here, might again sortie out intent on vengeance and improved pickings. Rhinelander and Englishman studied them from their vantage.

  ‘I could creep near and release their mounts, Sergeant Hugh.’

  ‘You could further receive a Saracen dagger in your back.’ The soldier reached and jammed the Turcoman helmet lower on the youth’s head. ‘Think, German boy. First, horses are their occupation, possessions they defend and hold most dear. Second, your diversion will fail. Third, even should our disguise hold and we walk boldly into camp, chance is slight we may set free your companions.’

  ‘Create a plan of your own.’

  ‘Let me in silence and I shall try.’

  Quiet it was, broken only by the occasional whinny of a horse, the floating conversation of Mohammedans easing down from chase and battle. The noble boy and archer were perched above it. They had left their steeds at secure distance, had made the approach by foot. There would be no rapid escape.

  ‘Something moves, Sergeant Hugh.’

  ‘My bowel and your imagination, if I am not in error.’ The Englishman blew on his hands.

  ‘Beyond the camp, approaching from the east.’

  ‘Mere result of wind on trees.’

  ‘I have yet to see trees journey in caravan. They are horses, camels, men on foot.’

  He was right. Merchants and traders had arrived, long-distance travellers making slow and steady progress for the wharves of Lattakia. In their packs and saddlebags were carried the produce of Araby and Persia, precious merchandise of fine silks and pungent incense, rare spices and dyed skins. They had room for more, were happy to collect.

  It was starting to snow. Within the camp, Kurt and Isolda huddled shivering beneath a blanket and clung tight to each other for warmth.

  Chapter 13

  Even the jester had been dismissed. The noble men and women of the royal court at Acre were in no mood for festivity, were not inclined to talk and laugh as they once did. Low and murmured conversation was of crisis, of the latest rumour and most recent outrage. The Pope was raising an army; the Pope had left them to their fate. The Saracens were preparing for mass attack from Mount Tabor; the Saracens were dug in east of the Jordan. Lies based upon gossip and founded in despair. There was a yearning for better times, and reminiscence of the past. Advent in the Latin kingdom, and countdown was towards not the birth-anniversary of the Christ Child but the end of epoch in Outremer.

  John of Brienne nodded graciously to the wife of a knight, noted the anxiety-tic and the gleam of pity in her eye. They were all concerned, all ready to abandon him without knowing really where to go. Yet some remained true. To his right, Lady Matilda chatted lightly and attempted to lift the despondent mood. A difficult task.

  The regent cut a piece of mutton and threw it to his nearest hunting-dog. Showing no interest, the beast turned its nose away.

  ‘Now too my hounds lose their appetite. It is a poor sign.’

  Matilda smiled at him. ‘Be of cheer, sir. They will find it again when sporting passion is regained.’

  ‘That will not be for a while, for at present my knights engage in chase of deadlier kind.’

  ‘I hear daily the hammer-ring of the smithies, the clatter of our cavalry as it ventures on patrol.’

  ‘It is the sound of preparation and of war, Matilda. Look about this table, at the empty spaces where men of rank desert us, persons who once placed their hands between my own and pledged to me their solemn fealty.’

  ‘I see them, my lord.’

  ‘When trouble rears, hearts grow faint and the strongest may scamper for their lives.’

  ‘Many stay.’

  ‘Too few of them whom I trust. Templars, Hospitallers, Teutons: military Orders whose swords imprison me as much as they guard against the Saracen.’

  ‘We have none else to rely upon.’

  ‘The pity for it.’ He reached with his knife and stabbed a hunk of bread. ‘On matters irksome, how fares your knavish Sergeant Hugh?’

  Matilda lowered her eyes, ashamed. ‘I crave your pardon, sir. It was wrong of me to assign him to casual mission of my choosing.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. He is least nuisance when sent on errand far from here. I vouch he will fail.’

  ‘I can merely pray he will not. There are child pilgrims who may be aided by his bowmanship.’

  ‘Let us hope. My own child, our infant queen, would benefit from a miracle.’ The grizzled leader chewed contemplatively on the bread. ‘Like your father, I believed we could live in peace with the heathen, at least until we mustered and were ready for crusade.’

  ‘Is that not fleeting truce instead of peace?’

  ‘However it is termed, it seems ended. I would rather Saphadin, Sultan of Damascus, called off his Mamluks and Turcomans, recoiled from the furnace-pit of impending confrontation.’

  ‘Where there is chance, it may be realized.’

  His silence might have shown he concurred, could have signified disagreement. The face was grown too worn to read. But there remained unspoken empathy, the affection between a girl and guardian, a daughter and her proxy father. Matilda listened to the desultory exchanges of the lords and ladies. They were poor at masking their fear.

  A Templar was momentarily silhouetted in an archway, his presence backlit by the fire-glow of the kitchen ovens beyond. It was a sight not lost on the regent.

  He growled beneath his breath. ‘Observe how these dark apparitions prowl, Matilda. They haunt my every step.’

  ‘I confess I am made uneasy by them, sir.’

  ‘Do not lose such instinct. Their knights are devils cloaked in white surplices, never to be relied upon. Why, it is said Cœur de Lion on his deathbed claimed in jest he bequeathed to their Order his vice of pride and arrogance. It seems they have sufficient.’

  ‘Banish your vexed thoughts, sweet sir. Dwell on the lighter things, on friendship and laughter.’

  ‘There is precious little laughter. But friendship I recognize and will drink to.’ He gulped from his chalice. ‘It is on the shoulders of a friend that perhaps the entire fate of our realm now rests.’

  ‘The Lord of Arsur you shall tell me.’

  ‘You frown, Matilda.’

  ‘Disregard it, sir. I am seventeen years of age, a maiden unschooled to give advice.’

  John of Brienne laughed gently, his eyes brightening with fondness. ‘Yet since your earliest years you have never baulked at proffering counsel. This time, however, I take my own. In our perilous state we turn to the baron who serves us well, the ally who risks his life to negotiate with the Mohammedan foe.’

  ‘I bow to your wisdom, sir.’ />
  ‘We must hope the Lord of Arsur succeeds in all his labour.’

  Another part of that labour was now in train. In the nursery chamber of the palace, the plump and hearty wet-nurse stood as her replacement entered the room. She was eager to get away, keen to cede the night watch to her characterless junior who was ever prepared to assume the more tedious of her duties. There were better ways to while away the evening hours. Already she found herself growing slightly breathless at the thought. Her lover in the royal guard would pummel her hard tonight, would make her sweat and squeal with the ecstatic agony of his ways. His rough touch and muscled torso were worth every sighing second of the wait.

  She bustled happily through the passageways and alleys towards her assignation. Some might once have laughed at her, tittered meanly at her graceless ways and shapeless form. But she had a man who loved her. That was what counted. He gave her things, mounted her like a caged demon, whispered secret and sweet affection in her ear. A clandestine coupling. He had made her swear on her life and soul to tell no one, had cajoled and bribed her to maintain their liaison in the darkest of shadows. Because she wanted him, yearned herself to be wanted, she complied. Her undershift was becoming damp with perspiration and the wetness of expectancy.

  Without pausing, she climbed the stair. He was waiting for her, stripped to the waist, a casual and lopsided smile beckoning her close. She took a step forward. Even vulgarity had its ritual, its little mating-dance routines. She jigged with pleasure, puckering her lips in a fat version of winsomeness. His expression changed. Had she noticed, she might have backed away; had she detected the thin-bladed knife clenched in his fist, she would have propelled herself to instant retreat. She was too slow and unwary. Escape had been forfeited, her fate long since decided. As the dagger emerged from behind his back and plunged for her belly, she was still reminding herself of her wondrous luck, still preparing for the blissful act of penetration.

  In the royal quarters of baby Yolanda, the recent appointee slowly rocked the cradle. Back and forth it went, rhythmic and hypnotic. The infant slept on. She had grown used to the presence of the thin and unsmiling woman, accustomed to her smell, her breasts, her milk. That was to advantage, for adult and young queen would spend much time together. The nurse leaned over and watched the gently breathing form. What privilege it was to serve this function; how vulnerable the tiny girl seemed. So helpless and alone. She was born to become ruler of Outremer, but would have her life sacrificed to something far greater. The nurse reached in and carefully lifted the bundle.

  Later, when the frantic alarm was raised and a search ordered, no sign could be found of the baby queen or either of her two nurses. They had simply vanished. There was talk of the Devil and of dark magic, speculation that grew of involvement by the Saracens. But conjecture would not restore Yolanda to her inconsolable father. Frenzied with despair, John of Brienne rode for miles into the countryside, took men with lanterns into the deepest recesses of his city, calling for his daughter. He was not to be rewarded.

  Transaction had been made, the deal struck with silver pieces and Koranic verse, and the traders moved on with their new acquisitions. The pair of children would fetch good price at market, for the boy was strong and the girl shy and graceful in spite of her rags. Young and fresh things they were. They would clean up well, had already washed ashore into the clutches of the raiding-party. The soldiers had been happy to offload them. Back at their fortress base, their garrison commander would claim their hard-won cargo, would sell it on and profit for himself. His men had pre-empted such occasion, and both they and the travelling merchants were the richer for it.

  ‘We head again for the coast, Isolda.’ The twelve-year-old looked back over his shoulder at the receding mountains. ‘It will be warmer, closer to where we left Otto and Brother Luke and the English bowman.’

  ‘Our friends are dead, Kurt.’

  ‘Though we are not.’

  She raised her tied hands. ‘But we are still captive and bound fast, still surrounded by men with menace and with spears in their grasp.’

  ‘Each step we keep our hope will be closer to rescue.’ He indicated the camel train walking at their side. ‘Who else in our village would ever glimpse these creatures?’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Perhaps horses of some kind, or the camels of which Brother Luke spoke, beasts as mean and poor-tempered as the men who drive them.’

  ‘It is a strange world, Kurt.’

  ‘One I intend to see for as long as I am able.’

  Her features brightened to a smile. ‘You were ever hopeful, always my young brother who raised the spirits and banished the gloomiest of clouds.’

  ‘Without my sister I am nothing.’

  ‘Do you recall when as a small boy you climbed the highest tree and refused to come down?’

  ‘I was beaten for it.’

  ‘For many things, Kurt. Every jape and misdeed, you were its champion and I your defender. You and Egon lost for a day and night in those caves. You persuading Albert to lower you by rope deep inside that well.’

  ‘Exploration has often brought me to trouble.’ He shook his head in rueful memory. ‘Did Hans and I not find a cart abandoned and ride it down a hill?’

  ‘Direct into a trotting line of proud knights and squires.’

  They allowed themselves the comfort of the moment, the distraction of the past, before awareness crept back. Albert the bird-scarer was left behind, Egon the blacksmith’s son had deserted them, Hans the goatherd was butchered with knives on a remote track in northern Italy. Kurt felt the grief burn once more in his throat. Everyone whose life he touched was gone.

  His sister spoke softly to him. ‘You did good and true things too, Kurt. Few of the young did not depend on you to protect them from Gunther.’

  ‘It is a name I have not thought of for a while.’

  ‘A name with no cause again to be mentioned. And I alone know it was you who warned Edda the village scold that our bishop planned to burn her as a witch.’

  ‘She paid me twenty hen-eggs for her escape.’

  ‘What is the value to be placed on our skins, Kurt?’

  Brother and sister tramped on. Their pace, set by the plodding walk of the animals, was gentler than it had been with the soldiers. At least they were not tethered to a horse, were roped only to each other. The merchants left them alone, intervening on occasion merely to prod and direct with the tip of a long whip. Assessment and examination were already made. The mouths of the youngsters had been forced open, their teeth checked, their limbs squeezed by expert hands. Mute and obedient, the children had accepted this. There was more reason to be livestock than roadside carrion.

  A sharp cry from Isolda, and she sagged in sudden pain as her ankle buckled beneath her. In an instant, the two children were surrounded, jabbering Arabs pointing their whips and goading them forward. Isolda tried to stand. But the injury from Europe had returned and her sprained leg would not hold her weight.

  She sat, her eyes wide with trepidation. ‘I cannot. Please, Kurt, tell them. It is impossible.’

  He began to remonstrate, attempted to push back the angry and crowding group of men. A finger jabbed his chest, a whip cracked threatening and close to his ear. He struggled harder. They did not understand his protestations, were too loud with their own shouts to care about his. Furious, he swung a punch clumsily and double-fisted at the nearest face.

  It was a grievous error. For all his bravery, he was outnumbered and a boy. They would teach him a lesson, would break him until he grasped the meaning of his folly and the power-balance of slavedom. Until he bled.

  The attack dissolved before the first blow. High above, a banshee shriek caused them to stop, drew their eyes upward to follow the arcing noise-curve of an arrow in flight. Kurt recognized the howl. It was a she-devil, the sky-signature of Sergeant Hugh, and it meant the soldier was alive and salvation close at hand. Isolda too was staring.

  Somewhere ahead, a vo
ice called in Arabic. ‘Greetings, my friends. Better an arrow screams so than a trader when punctured by its steel head.’

  Those traders now shuffled exposed and uncomfortable into looser formation. Facing them was a drawn longbow and a muscular archer, and beside him a young warrior in leather cuirie and holding a flaming torch. There was little to do but play for time and devise a stratagem.

  Sergeant Hugh stopped them. ‘My arm grows tired and I seek excuse to unleash this shot. No sudden movement, no hostile design, or you die.’

  ‘We outnumber you, infidel.’ It was a senior merchant who spoke.

  ‘Then step forward any who would enter paradise.’

  ‘What is it you wish for?’

  ‘The boy and girl. Release them to our charge or suffer consequence of my wrath.’

  ‘They cost us dear.’

  ‘Will cost you more should you disregard me.’ The bowman gestured to Otto, who moved forward and threw a canvas bag at their feet. ‘Within are treasures, baubles and precious trinkets that may compensate and enrich. In return I ask for the children and a single horse.’

  ‘You seem persuasive, infidel.’

  The stance and gaze of the bowman remained fixed. ‘Try me.’

  One did. With a yelping scream and cry to Allah, a camel-hand rushed from the periphery brandishing a long and lowered spear. Almost careless, Sergeant Hugh responded. He swivelled to pass the arrowhead through the firebrand of the young noble, rocking back to loose the shaft. It sped fast, spewing flame, impacting deep in the chest of the assailant in incendiary eruption of hog-fat and pitch. In seconds, the Arab had transmuted from human to firework, his robes catching, his body falling, the funeral pyre engulfing and consuming. Point made, and fully taken.

  A further arrow was already fitted to the bow. ‘Consider our talking complete.’

  Delight and relief were too great to contain. Kurt and Isolda hugged their rescuers, laughing, tripping over their words in haste to ask and tell. They wanted to know everything, wished to speak of their own experience. There was the raid and skirmish to discuss, the survival of them all to celebrate, the details of capture and release to debate. Otto cuffed Kurt in backhanded welcome; Isolda kissed Sergeant Hugh.