Pilgrim

by James Jackson

  A further head had joined them at the end of the line. It was the most startling of all, for it was alive, red-haired, attached to a body. Gunther stood with the curving twenty-two-inch blade of a faussar in his hand.

  The knife gleamed as wicked as the smile. ‘Do I surprise you, Kurt?’

  Enough to make him run. He covered the ground fast, dodging past piled hides and scrambling over heaps of broken and emptied murex molluscs and buccinum whelks. The shell fragments cut his feet and hands. He did not feel the pain, could not pause for gentle reflection. If he were cornered, Gunther would strike. Should he plead, the son of the woodsman would slit his throat. Creating distance was his principal aim.

  ‘You fail to outrun me, Kurt.’ The voice kept pace.

  Alarmed, searching frantic for weapon or escape, the younger boy dashed haphazard amid the vivid palette of the dyes. Red, yellow, blue, pink, he traversed them all, each second bringing Gunther close, every false turn reminding that he was trapped. Wheezing in breathless fright, he stopped. No way out. Across the noxious pit of purple, his rival waggled the blade.

  ‘See this colouring, Kurt? It is the pigment of empire and of the robes of kings.’

  ‘Put up your sword.’

  Gunther failed to comply. ‘You would not suppose so regal a thing would grow from so foul a stench or vile a process.’

  ‘Stay from me, Gunther.’

  ‘Why? Have you sharp weapon?’ Amusement joined the freckles on the face.

  ‘I do you no wrong.’

  ‘Yet I still shall kill you.’ The boy began to circle the periphery, reversing his course as Kurt stayed ahead. ‘Come to me, brother.’

  ‘The Lord of Arsur is no more, Gunther.’

  ‘Your fate is set firm.’ The son of the woodsman danced carefully about the rim.

  Desperate, Kurt backed away. ‘When we fought in Cologne, you told me it was the strongest who rule, the weak who submit.’

  ‘Then submit.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘I warned I would kill you, Kurt.’

  ‘Your strength is gone, your allies and master with it.’

  Gunther pressed in. ‘You know of what I am capable.’

  ‘It is the end, Gunther.’

  ‘No, Kurt. It begins.’ He slashed with his blade at the chest of the youngster. ‘It was I who in the Alps slew the mountain-dweller. He screamed as you will scream.’

  ‘You gain nothing.’

  ‘I will take something with me.’ Another lunge, a further circuit.

  Kurt balanced, kept moving, noted the bloody prints left by his feet. ‘We may talk, Gunther.’

  ‘I prefer to put this faussar in your belly.’

  Circular argument and repeated chase, and distance was shortening. Kurt tasted the dryness in his throat, felt the tightening of his chest. His time ended where he stood. He was staring at death or its earthly agent, holding back the inevitable for a few seconds more. The eyes of Gunther glimmered vengeful.

  Then a screech he knew, the rushing flight of feathered ash as a she-devil split the space between them. Their ways parted. Gunther shied and fell, plunging headlong in the pit. And Kurt watched. His adversary sank and re-emerged, choking and vomiting, a macabre creation thrashing glutinous and drowning in the viscous soup. There was little to be done. The mouth gaped and closed, made strange noises and coloured foam.

  Kurt reacted. He hurried to find a dyeing-pole, to extend not the hand of friendship but the branch of common compassion. He could never be like Gunther, would never turn his back.

  The hand of Sergeant Hugh rested on his shoulder. ‘He reaps his whirlwind, Kurt.’

  ‘We must help him.’

  ‘Leave him to God.’ The soldier hugged his charge close. ‘To be a man is to let others choose their destiny.’

  Kurt hesitated, shivering on the brink, torn and conflicted by a hundred emotions and a single compelling sight. The pressure increased on his shoulder. Sergeant Hugh would not release his grip, would make decision for him. Eventually the youngster surrendered, breaking the curse, drawing away. He had been right to tell Gunther it was the end.

  Sombrely, the two ambled from the place of execution. In one hand the soldier carried his longbow, with the other he ushered a thirteen-year-old boy silent in his thoughts. Behind them, a hand coloured imperial purple clutched feebly at air and sank beneath the surface.

  End

  Preparations for departure were under way. Sergeant Hugh and his miscreant companions had secured Arsur, had made light work of killing its guards and lifting its contents. The odd yard of expensive silk fluttered discarded in the breeze; the occasional corpse bobbed inoffensive in the harbour. Only with the arrival of Otto had order been restored. He was to make inventory, impose martial law, report to the regent king John of Brienne now returned to the royal court in Acre. Saphadin still had an army. To once more reside safe within the coastal bastions of Outremer it was wise for the Franks to be vigilant.

  The ship was loaded and the crew ready. It had been a profitable venture for its master to carry the English bowman from Acre, and would prove lucrative again to transport passengers back to Europe. Tired and elated, the children had hurried to embark. Bundles were stowed, berths taken, and the teeming young clung to rigging and leaned from the deck to fix their eyes on a land they had never called home.

  For Kurt and Isolda, parting was less sweet. On the wharfside, they stood with Otto and Matilda, attempting to be brave, trying to stifle their tears. The young noble placed his beret on the head of his friend.

  ‘It is token of when first we met, Kurt. Remember me well.’

  ‘I could not forget.’

  ‘We have had fine adventure. Peace is regained, the infant queen Yolanda restored. Few would have guessed at such exploit.’

  ‘So many are dead.’

  ‘Yet we are alive. There is chance for us to do good, to carry hope and faith in our hearts wherever we may end.’

  Isolda spoke up. ‘Why must you stay, Otto?’

  ‘To atone for my father; to fulfil the duty that is asked of me.’ He took the hand of Matilda beside him. ‘And for the love I bear.’

  ‘Shall we ever see you again?’ The voice of Isolda came broken with sorrow.

  ‘Are brother and sister ever apart? I will chance on you each day in my heart and mind and soul.’

  ‘It is not the same.’

  ‘Nothing is constant save my affection.’ He drew the children to him, held them tight so they would not see him weep.

  Kurt buried his face against the shoulder of the youth. They had been brothers-in-arms, companions in danger, friends since meeting on the path where Gunther had held a knife and Otto a sword. The young noble from Alzey had saved him so often. There were too few words and too little time to state everything he thought and felt. Perhaps he did not have to.

  Otto murmured to him. ‘I told you once we each of us have a path. Be steadfast in yours, young brother.’

  ‘Firmitas et Fortitudo.’

  ‘As a wise old man once spoke.’ The young noble smiled and straightened, gestured to the ship. ‘Now is the turn of Sergeant Hugh to travel with you. Let us hope he conjures lesser storm in Europe than the havoc he here creates.’

  They laughed, their sadness interrupted. It was proper they should take leave with a song and not salt tears.

  Matilda touched the face of Isolda and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Would that you will be my sister.’

  ‘I would treasure it.’

  ‘And I will remember and cherish your love and all your kindness to my betrothed.’

  Whistles blew from the vessel and the moment was near. The four young held each other again and made their final pledges.

  ‘There is another who would bid farewell.’

  Otto pointed and the children turned, to the brown Franciscan robe, the bald pate, the aged face and upright bearing of Brother Luke. He held wide his arms, and Kurt and Isolda flew to him, their joy and grief un
ruly, their understanding total that this was reunion and last goodbye.

  Dreams merged. Goat-faced gods and howling arrows, the red crosses of Templar knights and screams of burning Cathars: all entered his mind and fused with the creak of the ship and fluid slap of the waves. Each rattle of the rigging was the cart shaking its way to Jerusalem; every whisper of breeze was the groan of a child in the dungeons of Arsur. There was too the stained face of Gunther, rising from the dye, appearing from the sea. The past could haunt.

  Kurt slept only fitfully on board. He would pace the deck or stare at the green trail of phosphorescence that led to the receding horizon and a land where he had left part of his heart and most of his childhood. He longed to return home, ached to see his mother and make his father proud, to be again the boy who climbed trees and stole the eggs of birds. But perhaps too much had changed. Over eight months and a lifetime divided him from a previous self standing restless in Cologne. The preacher-boy Nikolas was vanished; little Lisa, Hans and Achim were dead. Experience could kill young hope, would even kill the young themselves. He could almost smell the smoke of the woodfires, hear the bubbling call of the skylark, taste the first autumn blackberries. Life would be simpler within the confines of the hamlet. It would never be the same.

  Mutterings and a low gleam of light stirred him from his dozing. He might have guessed it was not over, should have known that wherever Sergeant Hugh resided there was catalyst for trouble. The bowman had kept to himself these days past, had provoked comment and glance with his sly alertness and secretive manner. Not once did he leave the crowded enclave of his possessions or let his concentration slide. The crew talked and sharpened knives. Distrust was growing to mutiny.

  Edging towards the stern, the youngster kept beyond the thrown light of lanterns, crouched at the periphery of what was turning to mob unrest. Before him was a tale easily read. At bay, perched on a plank, pointing his sword, was Sergeant Hugh, and around him an encroaching throng of armed objectors. The bowman was unstinting in his curses and colourful opinion. He appeared to be emptying bags of money overboard.

  ‘Who bids me for this, you whores of Satan?’ Another sack dropped from view. ‘You wish to scrabble for gold or merely for your entrails?’

  None volunteered for evisceration. The bowman prowled his makeshift stage, marginally drunk, always dangerous. His audience was rapt. With calculation and daring they could rush him, take him, damage him beyond recovery. But he posed no easy mark. He strutted and preened, presented his sword, paused casually to topple a chest of treasure over and into the brine.

  A crewman advanced, was blocked by an extravagant sweep of the blade. Sergeant Hugh leered at him. ‘For such audaciousness we lose a further bauble.’ He selected a gem-set ornament and tossed it over his shoulder.

  ‘We may parley, brother.’

  ‘I would rather play.’ A silver-gilt cross hurtled to the water.

  Greed and urgency infected the voices. ‘Stop, brother. You lose everything.’

  ‘I gain my soul.’

  ‘You cannot do this.’

  ‘Regard.’ They did so in horror as he heaved a larger item to the parapet. ‘You think it has a price? Are you willing to pay it?’

  ‘Stay your hand.’

  He nudged the object into untidy dive. ‘I thought not.’

  ‘We shall kill the children.’ The threat came from the captain.

  ‘Shall you?’ The bowman was unconcerned. He leaned and tapped a brace of clay amphorae lashed together at his feet. ‘First perceive the vessels of wild-fire kept in my charge. Next observe the flint and pyrite lodged at their side. A single strike of my sword creates a spark that will produce inferno.’

  ‘This is mad folly.’

  ‘It is precaution. Eruption will come before I cut the tiller-rope. One death I deem unnecessary and there will be a hundred.’

  In the background, Egon was quietly disarming a man of his crossbow. Other children moved to mark their targets, shadowing adults they did not trust. They had grown to be cautious. Sergeant Hugh was ready for finale.

  He lifted an artefact to his side, threw off its sack-cloth cover to reveal a glinting and holy relic encased in priceless gems and sleeve of gold.

  ‘The True Cross, my friends.’

  And Kurt knew it to be true. He had gazed upon it as he viewed it now, had stared in wonder in the hidden chapel of the Lord of Arsur. There could be no doubt. Around him, some men crossed themselves or fell to their knees; others were too dumbstruck to respond. It was the effect the bowman wanted.

  Suddenly sober, he rested a hand on the priceless lumber. ‘It could bring me power and fame, wealth beyond compare. I care little for it.’

  ‘There is nothing more precious.’ The cry carried desperation.

  ‘Nothing save friendship and duty, kindness and mercy, those things I have ignored for many a year.’

  ‘Deliver it up.’

  ‘To you?’ Sergeant Hugh shook his head. ‘Will it make you better man? Will it open your eyes and heart as it has failed to do with kings and popes? Will it earn you rightful place in heaven?’

  ‘We shall send you there before us.’

  ‘See, already it rots your spirit and curdles your mind. I have seen thousands die for it, witnessed the bloodlust in the eyes of Cœur de Lion as he sought it.’

  Tension pulled nerves and vocal-chords taut. ‘Step down, bastard knave.’

  ‘I first have task to perform.’

  The relic was already attached to a ballast stone, the stone pushed by a boot-clad foot. Almost as afterthought, the soldier sent the True Cross spinning.

  Despair and fury followed on astonished disbelief. Men shouted in the agony of realization, ran to look, strained to catch glimpse of the lustrous cargo swallowed in the night and swell. They were to be disappointed. Above them, Sergeant Hugh swayed to the motion of the ship, enjoying the distraction, waiting for the consequence. Fait accompli.

  ‘Accept what is done.’ He smiled benignly at the commotion. ‘Look within yourselves and not to any relic.’

  ‘You malign and traitorous dog.’

  ‘One who holds sword and offers Norse burial.’ The tip of his blade twitched above the clay pots.

  Rebellion subsided to sullen resignation as the master called off his crew. No mariner wished for fire on ship. They would have to swallow their pride, choke on their fear and disappointment. And pray. God would not forgive them their timidity and failure.

  Remaining in the shaded light, the children assembled silent and accusatory. Sergeant Hugh clambered down and sat on a ledge to face them.

  ‘Such mournful faces for those that are freed.’

  ‘Freed?’ Kurt blinked in consternation. ‘You condemn us, Sergeant Hugh.’

  ‘I release you from the burden that breaks the back of every Christian.’

  ‘You discard the True Cross.’

  ‘So I do. Yet I still stand, vent wind, may dance a jig or two.’

  ‘Your deed is sacrilegious.’

  ‘My words profane. But there is wisdom in them.’ He placed his sword across his knee. ‘Would you favour it if the True Cross fell in possession of thieves and rogues, once more dwelt with a Lord of Arsur?’

  ‘You could take it to Rome.’

  ‘Where dwell the greatest sinners.’

  Isolda emerged from her tremulous silence. ‘We will be judged, Sergeant Hugh. For a thousand miles or more we journeyed to pray before the Cross.’

  ‘You need it no more, daughter. Without it you are grown strong, helper to the sick and dispossessed, mother and sister to all. And you, Kurt. You are my Lionheart, a boy who carries himself and others through every blight and hardship. You have learned so much. Become who you are.’

  ‘What do you learn, Sergeant Hugh?’

  The soldier paused. ‘That young are worth saving.’

  He winked at brother and sister and flipped each a golden coin. Gaining insight had not caused loss of shrewdness.

 
; In the twilight stillness of the lamps, the ship eased back to its usual rhythms and the children slept or talked in exhausted clusters. Sergeant Hugh watched over them. Seated apart on a barrel of salted fish, Kurt stretched out and hummed a tune, observed as the silhouettes of Egon and Isolda met shyly and entwined in caring embrace.

  A small hand took his, a voice he had not heard since Genoa spoke quiet in his ear. ‘We go home, Kurt.’

  Yes, they went home. He reached and tousled the hair of Zepp, happy for his return, glad to be alive. Things would be all right.

  Far off in Palestine, a Franciscan brother wandered on alone into the desert fastness. His pilgrimage was done.

  Historical Note

  Nikolas the boy preacher was not seen again. The chronicles relate how angry and grieving Rhineland parents, in search of retribution, exacted their revenge by capturing and hanging his father.

  In August 1225 the girl queen Yolanda was officially crowned in the cathedral of Tyre as Queen Isabella II of Jerusalem, Empress of Outremer. Later that year, in a strategic union, she was married to the brutal and dissolute King Frederick of Hohenstaufen. Consigned to his harem in Palermo, she was to die on 1 May 1228, six days after giving birth to a baby son. She was only sixteen years of age. Dismissing her father John of Brienne as regent, Frederick assumed her crown and kingdom. His chamberlain was a Templar; his tutor and mentor had once been Cardinal Cencio Savelli.

  Pope Innocent III died in July 1216. His successor as pontiff was Cardinal Savelli, who adopted the title Pope Honorius III. It was he who unleashed the ill-fated Fifth Crusade in 1217.

  Ousted as regent of Outremer, John of Brienne was even mooted as potential king of England. In 1228 he was to become regent emperor of the Latin Empire of Constantinople, and he retained this title until his death in 1237 aged eighty-nine.

  Francis of Assisi set sail for Palestine in the autumn of 1212, but was shipwrecked soon after leaving the Slovenian coast. In August 1219 he again ventured east, and in Fariskur met Sultan al-Kamil of Egypt, son of Saphadin, to sue for peace between Islam and Christendom. His mission was to fail.