In fact, a number of knights were crowding round, now that they could identify the Breton as a priest, for there was then no distinctive clerical dress, other than Mass-vestments. Roger was calmed by the other’s courage; if an unarmed priest, who could not shrive himself and might die unabsolved, faced certain death so bravely, he should do as much in a state of grace, and with the chance to be killed on the field with his sword out. He hoisted himself on to his horse’s back, and rode slowly to the remains of the battleline; once he got there he would charge into the enemy, and all this waiting would be over.
He reached the Duke’s side, and the thin line, chiefly of dismounted men, who still made a front against the Turkish arrows.
“Good boy,” said the Duke. “Wait until there are a few more of us, and then we’ll try and drive these infidels back again. They must be short of arrows, and they’re just as tired as we are.”
His face was drawn and hopeless, but he kept his voice cheerful. Roger lined up beside the Duke and his half-dozen mounted followers, and a few more knights came slowly back from the camp, as their minds climbed from panic-stricken love of life to the self-possession of despair. Then there was a stir on the extreme right flank, quickly running down the line. He looked to the right, which the Count of Taranto had kept in slightly better order than the Normans of Normandy; knights were couching their lances and catching hold of their horses, though the Turks pressed as closely as ever. This must be a preparation for a general charge, though there was no more reason for it now than there had been all the last three hours; perhaps they were all tired of this hopeless fight, and seeking death together. The Duke saw it too, and waved his lance in the air.
“Close up to the left, you footmen in front; when you see me give the signal, horsemen, charge! Deus Vult!” and he pointed his lance to the front, shortened his reins, and set off.
As Roger spurred Jack into the lumbering unbalanced gallop of a tired horse, he suddenly saw, behind the Turks on the crest of the hill, the unmistakable shields and pennons of Western knights, and heard the war cry of the pilgrims, “Deus Vult!” above the trampling of the horses and the cries of the wounded. The second division, the Lotharingians and Provençals and French, had come to the rescue in the nick of time. Everyone saw them at once, and the dismounted cheered and danced as the Duke’s following thundered past, squeezing their horses without thought for the future. The Turks were aware of them also, and drew their curved swords since flight was impossible; but their light ponies and woollen-clad bodies were no match for the heavy charge of the pilgrims. Roger ran his lance into a pony’s shoulder, and it was nearly wrenched from his hand; he drew it out and flourished it round his head; then he was through the Turks, and riding beside a Brabançon follower of the Duke of Lower Lotharingia; he had a sudden longing to kiss him on both cheeks, but only grinned weakly. He settled down to ride more quietly in the pursuit.
The Turkish left wing had been caught back and front, and annihilated; the right wing fled north-west, away from their homeland and towards the Greeks, but the centre tried to retreat in good order. Every horse on the field was blown, for the Lotharingians had done a six-mile gallop and the others had had three hours fighting, so the flight and pursuit moved slowly on, in spite of the desperate excitement of the riders. Roger and the Brabançon cantered side by side, their horses sobbing and floundering. They passed a knight who was dismounting from a completely lame horse, and Roger recognized his cousin Robert; a sudden inspiration came to him, and he pulled up.
“I’m glad to see you alive, cousin,” he-said. “Now that you are out of the hunt, will you do me a favour? Disarm me, and look after my mail shirt till I get back. There is no more fight left in these men, and I shall be safe enough with a shield.“
Soon he was mounting again, many pounds lighter, and his sweat-soaked shirt felt deliciously cool against his body. Robert grinned, and shouted after him that the Turks carried their gold in a belt round the waist. He had lost ground, but Jack went much better now, and soon he was overhauling the leaders.
It was a nightmare chase, the horses staggering at a trot up and down the rolling hills, while frantic men flogged and spurred them. Many of the Turks carried riding-whips, and this was their undoing, for they beat their horses to a standstill in the first mile; those pilgrims whose horses foundered led them back to the camp, but every Turk who came to a halt was a dead man. Roger marked one, a big man in baggy white clothing, whose little horse was lame in front. As he overtook him the other spurred and beat his pony, and finally pulled a dagger from his waist-cloth and pricked the beast in the flank; Roger’s lance was not six feet from its bushy tail; slowly he gained and the point was over the pony’s quarters; then, so nearly equal was their speed, it dug the Turk in the buttocks and could go no further. With a squeal the fugitive leant forward and buried his teeth in his pony’s neck; slowly the lance travelled to his bowels, and he fell to the ground; he had been too panic-stricken to shoot, though he carried bow and quiver.
Roger dismounted, finished him off, and took the pouch from his waistband; without opening it he trotted on. The pursuit continued for three hours, till the pilgrims’ horses, with quivering tails and outstretched necks, could go no further. Then Roger began to lead his horse home to camp, the reins over his arm. He was desperately thirsty and tired, and all his clothes were drenched with sweat; the shield-grip had galled his left wrist, and at some time he had banged his right leg against another rider; Jack was so stiff that he could hardly walk, but he appeared to be sound, and there was not a wound on either of them. Fatigue and hunger had affected his brain, which with the ingenuity of exhaustion made every bush and rock look like a church or a Turk to his red-rimmed eyes. The same circle of thoughts raced through his mind. He had killed at least six Turks, and two of them facing him in fair fight; he had gone far in pursuit, and even unarmed to go farther; but he had deserted the Duke at the crisis of the battle, and before that he had failed his fellow-knight Hugh in his utmost need. He remembered how he had galloped past, and how Hugh had looked at him from his knees, with the arrow in his ankle and his sword half-drawn. He had murdered him as surely as if he had stabbed him in the back. Moreover, he had received conditional absolution, and must confess his sins as soon as possible; would he have to confess that coward’s deed, or was a failure in courage not a sin? And what of his honour? Of the three feudal breaches of honour, he had at least never thought of treachery; but he had fled from his lord fighting in the field, and he had made up his mind that he would not give up his horse if it was called for. On the other hand, he had killed six Turks.… He had plenty of time to repeat this circular train of thought many times before he reached the camp.
Nor was this the end of his trials. There was no sign of Peter, and he had to water Jack, rub him down, and picket him, before he could look for supper; but the camp had been so thoroughly fought over that nearly all the food and wine were spoiled. He could get nothing from the Duke’s kitchen but a bit of bread, some half-roasted horseflesh, and a jack of water faintly tinged with wine. He slept on the ground, wrapped in a dead man’s cloak, among the unburied corpses.
Next day there was a certain amount of reorganization. Roger searched for Peter the Fleming, and had him cried through the host; but he could get no news of him or the pack pony; both must have been killed by the Turks. He was left with his horse and arms, and fifteen pieces of gold that he had found on dead Turks in the pursuit.
The whole army now set out for Iconium, the capital of the infidels, following the line of the Turks’ retreat. The pilgrims had lost four thousand men, chiefly foot, and very many horses, but few of the killed were knights; if they could capture more horses they would be as strong as before.
IV. Anatolia 1097.
The Turks had reduced this land to the condition that suited their economy; a grassy plain, unpeopled, where stone threshing-floors and bramble-covered dykes were the sole relics of past prosperity. Nowhere was there a smoking chimney, o
r a cultivated field. The enemy had fired the sun-dried grass, and the pilgrims marched through a cloud of black dust with no grazing for the horses. On the fourth day after the battle Jack the warhorse died of hunger.
Roger was quite alone, without a servant or even a change of clothes; at the beginning of the march the Duke had distributed hackneys and captured Turkish ponies among his unhorsed followers, but they had all been given out, and Roger dared not ask for one. In his first battle he had deserted a comrade, and then fled shamefully from his lord’s banner, and he felt a deep sense of guilt; he plodded among the despised unwarlike foot, and hoped no one would notice him. He could not march in mail, and put his armour and shield on an oxcart; he still carried sword and lance, to show he was a knight, but if he could not get a horse he would not long remain one. Every man’s social position depended on the place he could take in the line of battle, and a dismounted knight was worth less than a crossbowman. He walked beside the oxcart, and his surroundings deepened his misery, he was hungry, he was thirsty, he was tired, dirty and ashamed. All day he must loiter at the pace of the plodding oxen, arriving late in camp, when the streams were already fouled, and the best food had been given out. The sun shone from an unclouded sky, over everything was a thin film of ashes, and the stench of the host rose in an almost tangible cloud. Round him crowded the poorer pilgrims, who had walked all the way from the Rhine or the Loire; they shuffled along with downcast eyes, muttering in their incomprehensible dialects, but they bore the accustomed toil better than he. He set his teeth, and determined to show that a knight could go as far as a peasant, even on foot.
The host followed the Imperial road to Iconium; this had been in good repair thirty years ago, but the Turks had destroyed every bridge and culvert, and the rare streams delayed each vehicle. On the third day the cart which bore his armour was checked at a ravine where a narrow passage had been dug by the pioneers. In the bed of the stream a covered chariot was stuck among the boulders; the four oxen that drew it stood each at a different angle, their heads kept together by the yokes, and a crossbowman heaved ineffectually at a great stone that lay against a wheel.
Such incidents were common on the march, and as a rule Roger would not have interfered, lest he compromise his dignity as a knight. But the crowd was impatient, and if something was not done quickly the peasants would overturn the obstacle. He saw the heads of two women peering out from the canvas tilt. That decided him; only ladies still had wheels to carry them. He scrambled down the bank and put his shoulder to the stone.
In Sussex he had often helped to extricate harvest-waggons from the muddy Wealden bottoms; as soon as the stone was out of the way he went forward and pushed the oxen into line, then darted back and helped the crossbowman to manhandle a wheel. The chariot moved, and presently lurched up the farther bank. Rather nervously, he walked round to the rear opening of the tilt, to see what kind of passengers it carried.
Sitting on a box just inside the tailboard was a large weather-beaten middle-aged lady, her face scarlet and peeling from the sun; she wore a grey gown and hood of coarse material, made even less attractive by dark stains of sweat. Her companion was only a dim shadow in the interior of the chariot. Roger was disappointed. He had hoped for thanks from a pretty girl, and perhaps the offer of a seat in the chariot. Nevertheless, he bowed, smiling, and waited for her thanks.
He had forgotten that he was wearing the very dirty shirt and wadded riding chausses that were all the clothes he possessed; his hair was much too long, and his fluffy adolescent’s beard had not been trimmed since he had lost his servant; even with his lance and his great sword he looked like the lowest kind of foot-sergeant. The lady beckoned to him, while she fumbled in a purse.
“I am a knight, Domna,” he exclaimed, in an agony of shyness. “My name is Roger fitzOsbert de Bodeham, and my father holds land in England. I lost my servants and baggage in the last battle, and then my horse died.”
The other lady came to the tailboard.
“My poor Alice!” she called in the langue d’Oc of Provence, which was near enough to French to be understood by a Norman. “Of course our deliverer is a knight. Can’t you see the sword he carries? Climb in, Messer Roger, and let me thank you properly. The oxen will not notice your weight.”
This was what Roger had hoped for. The second lady was beautiful. She was in the prime of life perhaps nearer twenty than fifteen, but then her maturity should make her easier to talk to; her eyes were a very dark brown, and her hair black; that was not the colouring that was in fashion, when poets sang of ladies fairer than snow. But in that climate it was an advantage, for the sun had given her skin a golden bloom. Her limbs were long, and her high-breasted body slight. Her gown, laced tight at each side to show off her figure, was of fine green cloth, unwrinkled and well-brushed; the long sleeves came halfway over her hands, and the full skirt hid all except the toes of her red leather slippers. Her hair hung in two plaits, and instead of a hood she wore the black silk kerchief of the Greek women. To Roger, surrounded by stinking peasants, she looked like an angel in an altar-painting.
His feet seemed unusually big as he hoisted them over the back of the chariot. He had very seldom spoken to ladies of his own class; a younger son could not expect to marry the daughter of a landholder. At the abbeys and castles where he paid formal visits for Christmas and Whitsun he had met ladies, but the Normans of England did not understand courteous love, and their men had not allowed them to talk with strangers. In his journey through Provence and Italy he had come to understand that foreigners allowed their wives more freedom, and he hoped he could make conversation without angering the husband who would be riding in the advance.
But the ladies were without a protector; for the beauty answered his greetings:
“I cannot be gay and courteous, for I am newly widowed. I am Anne de la Roche, wife of Messer Giles de Clary in Provence, and my husband was killed in the battle. This is my waiting-lady, Domna Alice de la Roche; she has been a widow for years, and is showing me how to behave as one.”
In the widespread homogeneous society of western landholders strangers identified themselves thoroughly; quite possibly they would find some common tie of marriage or descent. It was therefore natural, as soon as Roger had given an account of his ancestry, that Domna Anne should tell the story of her life. Her husband had held from the Count of Toulouse, but the fief was small; he had mortgaged all he possessed, and brought his family to Romania, intending to settle in the East. It seemed that his marriage had been part of his preparation; for she said they had married in the spring of 1096, and her dowry had been spent on equipment. She was a daughter of the Lord Odo de la Roche, who held a castle somewhere on the Aquitanian border.
Now they both knew where they stood in a class-conscious world. Roger saw that she was of slightly higher birth, but her marriage had brought her to his level, as often happened to the younger daughters of barons. She had thanked him prettily for his assistance, and he knew whereabouts he should go to have the obligation repaid; there was no need for the interview to continue. But, to his surprise, he was enjoying himself; he wanted to go on listening. It seemed only polite to ask Domna Anne how her husband had met his death.
He expected a eulogy of the prowess of Messer Giles de Clary, and a stirring account of the slaughter he had dealt among the infidels before he was vanquished by overwhelming numbers. But Domna Anne replied baldly:
“I didn’t see it happen, for we were in the Provençal column, six miles from the battle. Someone told me his horse stumbled as he galloped to help you Normans; he fell, and broke his neck, before he had even couched his lance. It’s the sort of silly thing that does happen sometimes, and poor Giles was not a good horseman. He had spent his life in siege-warfare, and he was very clever with scaling-ladders; but when his horse pecked he always shot over its head.”
Roger was abashed by this frank obituary; but it gave him a comfortable feeling of intimacy. Naturally, he could think of nothing to talk
about in reply except himself.
“It’s surprising that it doesn’t happen more often. I had a nasty fall when I was a child, and sometimes I get a feeling that another is coming in the next few yards, and it is all I can do to keep my horse galloping. Still, Messer Giles died fighting the infidel, as truly as though he had slain them by thousands. He gained all the spiritual benefits of the Pilgrimage.”
“That is a comfort, of course, and it will look well on a memorial at home. But he had no chance to win land. I am wondering what to do next. There are Franks in Nicaea, and I might find an Italian ship at Constantinople. But no one is turning back, and we dare not go alone. For the present we must remain with the army.”
“Surely it is the duty of the Count of Toulouse to protect you,” answered Roger.
“Oh, he gives me food, and my crossbowmen march with his foot. But I would rather not draw his attention until I have to. He would maintain a de Clary against any perils; but by birth I am a de la Roche, and he might use me as a hostage against my father. Our family are not obedient vassals.”
Roger murmured in sympathy; tenants should not defy their lords without reason, but occasionally they must stand up for their rights.
“The best thing is to march with the host until we come to a seaport,” put in Alice, the waiting-lady. She sat beside her mistress, and took little part in the conversation; but of course it would be fatal to the reputation of a young widow if she were alone with a man, so her presence was necessary.
“Yes, that is what we must do,” said Anne sadly. “I wonder when we shall find the sea? This is a much larger country than I had expected. Do you know its boundaries, Messer Roger?”
“No, Domna. But there are mountains to the south-east; you can see them at dawn, before the host stirs up this cloud of ashes. The coast lies to the south, and perhaps we shall turn towards it presently.”
Knight with Armour Page 8
