Pilgrim's War

by Michael Jecks

  Jeanne nodded. ‘But what will become of me?’

  ‘I will look after you,’ Guillemette said. ‘I swear it.’

  They were still there when Gidie passed by. The tranter paused, and then pulled the reluctant Amé over to them. ‘Ladies, you look exhausted,’ he said. ‘Please, ride my donkey. At least one at a time can be rested. Amé is not the most comfortable beast, but she is better than wearing out your feet for no purpose.’

  Gidie was not a young man, but the smile Guillemette gave him made him feel twenty again. He knew he would remember her smile all the rest of his days.

  East of Sens

  Fulk and Odo were at last on the road, Fulk striding along with his small bag, a rolled-up blanket over his shoulder and a long staff in his hand. He whistled as he walked, ignoring Odo’s grumbles that the sharp noise was enough to make a man beg for a knife to end his sorrows. Odo had a few belongings thrown into a small sack, which he had bound to his own stick and dangled over his shoulder.

  They were not alone. Departing Sens that day, and following down the river, there were many men, as well as several women and children, for not all had deserted their families. There were tears and wails enough as the cavalcade set off, with women standing in the roads and waving, others clinging to their menfolk and giving piteous cries. Fulk saw one neighbour taking leave of his wife while she gripped the doorframe, desperately exhorting him to stay. Her mother was with her, hands on her shoulders, and her three children clutched her skirts as they watched him stride away. Excited and eager to take part in the venture, he looked like a youth on his first hunt; his wife looked as though she knew she would never see him again. Even if he were to return, there was no knowing how long it would be before he could put his feet up before his fire again, and in the meantime she would have to work every hour to ensure that their children were fed.

  She was not the only woman in distress. Up and down the streets there was the sound of sobbing or wailing. To travel so far would often mean death in a faraway land, and the womenfolk knew it.

  Now Fulk gazed at the others on the road. ‘There’re not many warriors,’ he commented.

  Odo gave an emphatic shrug. ‘What of it? Most of the people here are strong in their belief, and with that and God’s grace, we will crush any foe that dares stand before us.’

  ‘The Saracens are said to be mighty warriors,’ Fulk said.

  ‘So now you grow fearful of battle?’ Odo laughed. ‘Brother, you are inconsistent at the best of times! Be bold, be courageous, and believe in yourself and these others all about you. This is a great pilgrimage! Look around! With so many, how can we fail?’

  ‘Brother, I look and see too few fighting men. I don’t deny that the Hermit’s a good orator, but there’s not one knight or man-at-arms here. How many bear swords?’

  ‘The Lord will provide all that we need.’

  Fulk nodded. ‘Yes, Odo, I believe He will. But He’d not object to our saving Him some effort. At the next city we’ll buy ourselves swords at the very least.’

  ‘What, and carry them all the way to the Holy Land?’

  ‘Yes. Because if we reach Constantinople without a weapon, and have to buy them just as all the other pilgrims arrive looking for their own blades, we’ll find that either we’ll have to buy the most expensive cutlery in Christendom or do without. And besides, I would prefer to have a weapon for defence during our walk!’

  ‘I suppose that does make some sense,’ Odo admitted reluctantly.

  ‘Look! There’s a good armourer, I’ve heard, who lives in Estissac. It’s not more than a day’s walk from Sens.’

  ‘Why didn’t you think of this before?’ Odo grumbled. ‘We could have got some good steel from Sens before we left, and made sure that we got the best we could, rather than coming all this way and visiting a smith from the wilds who probably has little better idea of making a blade than I do!’

  ‘I am the apprentice to a smith, remember? All the smiths talk of this man. I did think about our need for some metalwork before we left, Odo, and I decided very soon that the best thing to do was to visit this smith. He knows the best working and the best quenches to make the most robust blades. Trust me. Other pilgrims will waste their money on the garbage made by the smiths in Sens—’

  ‘Your words, brother!’

  Fulk gave him a glare before continuing, ‘As I was saying, while others will wait till they reach Constantinople, and there they will lose all their money to unscrupulous foreigners who seek only to enrich themselves at the expense of others. Meanwhile, you and I will have the best metal that money can buy, and at a fraction of the cost.’

  Odo scowled at his brother. ‘You had best be right, brother of mine, because if you’re not, I’ll test the strength of the blade by smacking your arse with the flat all the way to Jerusalem.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Estissac, Tuesday 8th April, 1096

  It was afternoon when Odo entered the village with his nose covered by his kerchief against the dust. Along the roadway, the people had spread out, many walking on the soft verges, but here in the village, where men, carts and horses were forced into a narrow funnel, the dry weather meant that the dust rose and filled a man’s mouth and nostrils in no time, and his head was aching from heat and thirst.

  ‘Brother, you had best sit and . . .’

  Odo snatched his arm away from Fulk’s restraining hand. Fulk looked fine, as usual. Not for the first time, Odo felt irritation. His younger brother never suffered like him.

  ‘Do you not know where this master smith lives?’ he demanded sourly.

  Fulk asked a woman at her door. It was typical, Odo thought, that Fulk’s first thought would be to go to a woman. He was too frivolous, too interested in the pleasures of the flesh. He would have to learn to curb his natural desires.

  ‘It’s over there,’ Fulk said, and led Odo down a side street towards the river. There was a grey building made of old timbers beside the water, and as they drew nearer the noise of hammering came to them. ‘See?’

  Odo peered around the open door. There was a large space inside. The chamber went on along the river’s bank. In the middle stood a stone-walled square forge, with coals glowing red and orange in the middle. A pair of youths, shirtless in the heat, were working two great bellows, pulling for all their worth, while before them was a man with no hair but a thin pepper-and-salt beard, clad in a thick, scarred leather apron. He gripped a bar of steel in a pair of pincers, and as the steel glowed and spat tiny sparks he pulled it from the forge and took it to his anvil, where he began to beat it with a large hammer.

  ‘Enter and state your business, unless you’re just here to watch, in which case, piss on you and close the door after you,’ the man said conversationally, not looking in their direction.

  Odo bridled, but Fulk smiled and strode inside. ‘I am apprentice to Master Jean, the smith of Sens, and I am—’

  ‘No apprentice if you’re here, unless Master Jean kicked you out for being an idle, churlish fool,’ the smith said, his hammer ringing rhythmically. He paused and stared at the metal, nodded to himself, and set it back into the flames. ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘We are to join the great march to Jerusalem.’

  ‘Oh, so you want weapons,’ the man said, turning his attention back to the steel and turning it in the coals while his two apprentices worked. Sparks began to shoot up from the metal. He limped slightly on his left leg, Fulk saw. ‘Wouldn’t your master sell you anything half-decent?’

  ‘Every man who knows the quality of steel knows you are the master,’ Fulk said ingratiatingly.

  ‘That’s true enough,’ the smith said. He took the steel back to his anvil and began his hammering once more.

  ‘Well?’ Odo asked. ‘Do you have something that would suffice to slay the heathens?’

  The smith said nothing for a short while. He beat at the glowing metal until it had dulled to a drab blue-grey colour, and then thrust it back into the coals. He spoke
while his eyes were fixed on the metal. ‘It takes a couple of inches of steel to end a man’s life. I could show you how to do that with a breadknife, if you want. But if you want a good blade that will end the life of a Turk with ease, I may have the tools for you.’

  Odo was about to speak, but Fulk put a hand on his breast to silence him. He could sense that the smith would not respond to harsh words – more than that, he was sure there was something in the man’s mind. He caught a quick glance from the smith, a shrewd, sly, sidelong look that seemed to measure the pair of them.

  ‘Come back at dusk, and I’ll consider.’

  Dosches, east of Troyes

  Guillemette and Jeanne paused in their march when they saw a small wine shop at the side of the road.

  ‘How much further do we have to go?’ Jeanne asked.

  She was fretful after so many miles, and Guillemette herself was becoming waspish as pebbles dug through the thin soles of her shoes and into her feet. They had entered Troyes full of hope, but their welcome had been as frosty as a mountain’s ice. By gradual stages they’d gone from one brothel to another, but none had any interest in a battered young woman or Guillemette. One brothel-keeper looked them up and down and considered he might take the daughter, but not her mother. Guillemette was so shocked and angry, she had turned and stormed from the place.

  ‘Just because Troyes has nowhere for us doesn’t mean others won’t,’ Guillemette said. She quelled the fluttering of fear in her belly. Perhaps she was too old for this life now? ‘We will go as far as we must.’

  Jeanne sat beside the road and pulled off a shoe. She upended it, tipping out grit. ‘I just want to have a stool to sit on. I’m so tired!’

  ‘You think I feel any better?’ Guillemette snapped. ‘I’ve walked just as far!’

  There was a steady stream of people passing by. They had lost the first group as their speed diminished, and Jeanne eyed those marching past now. Some peered back with casual interest, but most were exhausted and trudged on, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Many looked as though they had marched a thousand miles already, while others looked as fresh as men out for a stroll on a Sunday in summer.

  A woman in her middle years was walking with a child of ten years or so, and she hesitated, then made her way to them. ‘Do you need anything? Are you hurt?’ she asked, looking at Jeanne’s bruised face.

  ‘We’re well enough,’ Guillemette said. Jeanne petulantly ignored the woman.

  ‘If you’re sure,’ the woman said. ‘Are you joining the pilgrimage?’

  ‘What, walking all the way to Jerusalem? No! We are on our way to the next town.’

  ‘I’m not. I heard the preacher speaking, and he made me feel more hope than I’ve felt in all my life.’

  ‘Hope for what?’ Jeanne said.

  There was a sneer in her voice, but the woman seemed not to notice. ‘Why, of everlasting life. What else matters? I used to have a black soul, maid. I was a whore, and I sold my soul for a few pennies and a cup of wine every night, but when I heard the preacher, he changed something inside me. He told me that I could join the journey and wipe my soul clean of all the sinfulness I had gathered. Look at me! The only good thing I ever did was look after this child, my little Esperte here. She was the daughter of a friend of mine in the brothel who died, and I swore I would look after her if I could. But even with her soul in my safekeeping, I was prone to drink too much wine and try to tempt men into bed with me. I know you will find it hard to believe, but I used to be very successful as a courtesan.’

  Jeanne pulled off her other shoe, uninterested, but Guillemette urged her to continue. The woman, whose name was Mathena, had a conventional story. Widowed while young, she had drifted into selling her body as a means of supporting herself. As she aged, she had to find another way of surviving, and so she had persuaded the child to pilfer what she could, taking fruit or vegetables from market stall-holders.

  ‘And then I saw the preacher, this man they call the Hermit. And suddenly I saw what I was doing, what I had done. He showed me that I was heading for Hell, and that I was dragging poor Esperte with me. And the preacher said to me, that I could save myself and Esperte, if I would follow him and go to Jerusalem.’

  ‘Why, to fight?’ Guillemette asked.

  Jeanne gave a sardonic chuckle. ‘Or give support to the men who’re fighting?’

  Mathena was offended. ’Not that kind of support, no. I’ll help the injured, nurse the wounded, and give the men all the support I can, but I won’t go whoring again. I am on pilgrimage, and God will see me in Heaven for helping His army. I believe that, truly. Peter the Hermit told me.’

  Peter the Hermit, Guillemette thought: the scruffy preacher they had seen at Sens. He had said something about rebirth and being renewed, as had the priest they had met on the road. ‘Do you really think it’s true?’

  ‘The Pope said so. Who would argue with him?’

  Jeanne shrugged. She pulled on both shoes and stared at them while she wiggled her toes. The child, Esperte, stood at her side and stared at her shoes moving and giggled.

  ‘Are you going all the way to Jerusalem, then?’ Jeanne said to her.

  ‘I’ll go with maman.’

  Jeanne’s gaze moved to the people walking past. ‘Look at them all. Do they all think they’ll erase their sins?’ she said wonderingly.

  ‘Of course they do. It’s been promised. God wills us to go to Jerusalem and win it back for Him. Everyone who helps will win eternal life,’ Mathena said.

  Her simple conviction was touching. Guillemette looked down at Jeanne, but found her attention fixing on Esperte instead. She was young, fresh and faultless, and Guillemette found herself wanting to rediscover that sort of innocence. What if it was true, and she could become reborn, as guiltless as a babe? Perhaps she could begin her life over in Christ’s own city? It was a wonderful idea.

  Guillemette lifted her gaze to the steady stream of people. In their faces was weariness, but yet there was hope and determination. They would reach the Holy City, because all believed in the Hermit. He had given them something to aspire to. He had given them a cause.

  ‘I will join you, Mathena,’ she said.

  Gidie plodded on grumpily. The preacher who had tempted him to join the pilgrimage had appeared several times, and on each occasion looked at Gidie with that questioning smile that said, ‘Come, unburden yourself.’

  There was no need. Gidie was content. If there was something good at the end of this march, he would be satisfied. He certainly felt no desire to break his silence with this fool of a preacher.

  Finally, today, he had enjoyed some peace. The preacher did not appear all day. Then, as the light began to fade, and the people were breaking their march for the evening, Gidie saw the preacher kneeling at the side of the road. The man saw him and beckoned. ‘Help me, brother.’

  ‘What is it?’ Gidie said, but then his eyes fell to the ground at the preacher’s knees. ‘Oh.’

  There was an old man. He was shivering like a man with the ague, but from the grey-green pallor of his features, it was clear that he would not be around much longer.

  ‘Please, sit with us. It will not be long,’ the preacher said. ‘I wish there was someone near who could give him the viaticum properly.’

  Gidie felt the weight of responsibility fall on his shoulders again, an unimaginable weight. ‘I can,’ he said.

  They were there for long enough. The old man had eyes the pale grey of a sky at evening when the clouds are not too heavy: pale and washed out. He could speak only in a whisper as he clung to Gidie’s hand, desperate as a sailor clasping a spar in a storm. Gidie gave him what comfort he could, repeating the Paternoster and listening to the old man’s confession. And then he remained kneeling at the old man’s side. For some reason the old fellow began to weep, and Gidie found himself repeating the words he had said so often to himself in the past days: ‘You have tried to get to Jerusalem. You will be honoured. You have a place in Heaven already. You
r soul will ascend and you will be greeted by the angels.’ There was a sudden intake of breath that seemed to last forever, and a slower sigh of release, and Gidie removed his hand, folding the old man’s hands over his breast. He remained there a moment, his hands on top of the dead man’s, his eyes closed.

  ‘You were a priest,’ the preacher said.

  Gidie wanted to rise and turn away, but he couldn’t.

  The preacher spoke quietly, ‘My friend, we many of us have committed grave offences. Yet your words comforted that man because they were true. Did you not feel the balm of God’s forgiveness as you spoke them?’

  ‘I cannot,’ Gidie said.

  ‘Tell me your tale if you think it would help. You are here, so you are forgiven, but perhaps telling another will help make you feel so?’

  Gidie shook his head, but the words came anyway.

  ‘I was happy as a priest,’ he said. ‘The village was prosperous, and the men worked hard, but I became enamoured of a woman: Amice.’

  The name was inadequate. It gave no indication of her fineness, her beauty, the subtle perfection of her smile, the auburn tints in her hair where the sun caught it, nor the heart-stopping brilliance of her smile.

  He could remember the first time he saw her. She was seventeen summers then, slim and fine as an ivory wand. He saw her deferential obeisance as she entered the church, and he was impressed with her piety. She moved like an angel: lightly, elegantly, with economy. Not that it mattered to him. He was a priest.

  ‘Her father was the manor’s bailie, a man of authority in his middle forties who commanded the respect of all who knew him. I grew to know Amice well. She was keen to learn, and she visited often to speak with me. Hah! She called me her “personal chaplain”, as though I held an office of high rank. But I did not object to her teasing, nor her occasional bursts of rage at her father, unseemly though they were. Yet I found her companionship increasingly uncomfortable as the weeks wore on. And then my feelings towards her changed.