‘What do you think the pilgrims will do?’
Peter shrugged at the man’s question. ‘So long as there are enough like us, the lines will hold. Besides, I think the average pilgrim won’t want to break from the line. Not many have seen battle before. This will be their first experience. And few have horses. The knights and men-at-arms in our forces will be trained to keep back, so there will be less chance of the ploy working.’
Fulk was reassured by his air of quiet confidence, but he eyed the approaching horsemen with anxiety verging on panic. They were coming at such a speed!
‘Here they come, then,’ Peter said. ‘Keep your heads down.’
Obediently, Fulk ducked, thinking Peter meant that the horsemen were close with their lances, but he did not. It was the arrows he was talking about.
They flew so fast, they seemed to strike in an instant without warning. Many came in among them, but only a few men were struck. The Belgrade men rode in furiously and, at the last moment, drew and sent arrows flying into their midst before reining in, whirling and riding away. Five waves of these attacks were endured, and Fulk was sure that the majority of their arrows were aimed behind them, at the baggage train where the women and elderly were. He frowned and stared back, and as he did so, he saw the flurry of arrows sleeting down. ‘They’re trying to steal the baggage.’
‘It’s the food and supplies they’ll want,’ Peter said knowledgeably. He peered back the way they had come. ‘We have to hope they won’t succeed.’
‘Hope?’ Fulk said. ‘We can’t let them take all our food!’
‘Don’t even think of returning, boy. These horsemen know their work. You go back, and you’ll end up with a lance through your gut.’
Fulk thought of the wagons. He knew that the women and children were all back there, too. Staring back now, he could see only people scattering as arrows fell among them, and screaming women, and men who dropped all their goods and were now fleeing towards the middle of the column. In the middle he could see one child, only young, standing in terror, petrified, shrieking as the deadly storm sheeted down around her. For an instant he had a vision of the young girl Esperte with Mathena. He had a clear picture in his mind of Jeanne and Guillemette as a rider cantered at them, his lance piercing Guillemette’s torso, the blood erupting from her breast. ‘No!’ he said, ‘I have to go back. The women need us!’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ Peter said. Odo caught hold of his arm and tried to remonstrate, but Fulk snatched himself free and, before Odo could stop him, began to hurry back. The arrows were diminishing in number, but even as he felt a quick relief, he saw the horses begin to charge the wagons.
Fulk ran. He could see that some of the carts and wagons had their oxen or mules dead in their traces. A few sumpter beasts and donkeys had gone mad, one rearing, maddened with pain from a shaft that was embedded deep in its back. Fulk was soon one of only some thirty men standing among the wagons, and as the horsemen approached, he gripped his sword with the determination of a man who knew his action was ridiculously foolhardy. He could see the cavalry charging as a wall of men and horseflesh, straight at him. It was a daunting sight, and he saw some of the other men begin to pull back, staring at the advancing enemy with terror. As well they might.
There was a shout, and Peter appeared. He cuffed one retreating old man over the pate, shouting, ‘Run and they’ll skewer you faster’n a hog! Stay and face them and you may just live!’
‘This was your idea, brother,’ Odo said from his side. ‘So what do we do now? Stand here and get a lance in the guts?’
‘You too, brother?’ Fulk said.
‘There cannot be many men so stupid as to follow where you would go,’ Odo said. He gripped his sword, and the patterned blade flashed in the sun. ‘Shit! What now?’
‘Let’s get behind a cart. At least then they can’t pin us to the timbers so easily,’ Fulk said. He felt a silken heaviness at his belly. It was, he felt sure, the onset of a belly-rot that would show the world how fleeting had been his courage. But then he thought to himself that no matter how fearful he was, he was here on pilgrimage. These men of Belgrade had no right to stop those in the service of God.
He heard Odo begin to murmur the Paternoster and the sound strengthened him. He joined in, the familiar words giving him strength so that he stood more straight, preparing for the moment when a lance should come too close, and he clenched his belly muscles as he bent his back slightly, lifting the sword, unsure where to hold it for maximum safety, staring down its length at the nearer of the riders, feeling the fear dissipate as his life came to focus on this one, terrifying moment . . .
And then, just as both Fulk and Odo thought they were to die together here in the plains outside Belgrade, they heard the blast of a horn and saw the charge of Sir Walter and his men bearing down on their enemies.
The first crash sent the Bulgarian riders reeling.
Sir Walter and his kinsman, Sir Walter of Poissy, were at the head of more than forty men-at-arms. The men rode together in a solid formation of steel, iron, blood and bone, and they punched a hole through the Belgrade cavalry. There was a vast crunching sound, a rattling of steel and splintering of wood as heavy lances punched through shields and mail and flesh. The horses of Sir Walter’s men slammed into the flanks of the enemy. Fulk saw one man, who had not recognised his danger, suddenly crushed. Sir Walter’s squire rode into the man at full tilt, and Fulk was sure he heard the man’s leg shatter, crushed by the squire’s mount. Many men were broken in a similar manner, the great warhorses charging into them, their breasts smashing into men and horses alike. Others were speared by the lances. Sir Walter himself had to let go of his own lance when it penetrated two riders side by side.
Bulgarian horses were thrown sideways in mid-gallop, their riders dying as weapons tore through them, and the mounts turned away from the terrifying charge, but turning brought them into the path of succeeding pilgrim knights, knocking them aside so that horses and riders alike fell into the carnage. The uniformity of the charge was destroyed in an instant as riders tumbled to the ground. Fulk saw a man take a lance-point under his chin, the wooden shaft ripping through his throat and all but removing his head. Another was caught beneath his armpit, and he was thrown over the cantle of his saddle to slam on the ground. He disappeared as the waves of men behind Sir Walter rode over him.
From his position, Fulk saw the enemy falter, men scattering. Sir Walter’s men swept on, and past, but not in time to halt the whole of the cavalry. Some who had been at the rear of the charge were now advancing, their mounts taking them around and behind Sir Walter’s men. Fulk saw a group of six swerve around the rear of the reinforcements, and pound on towards him. They were deliberately aiming at him alone, he was sure, and his belly lurched again at the thought. Their lances were pointing at his breast. To stand would be to die. Odo was beside him. Fulk turned and shoved him down, under the wagon behind them, and he dropped and rolled beneath it, even as the first lance crashed into the timbers above him. A spear was hurled at him and Odo, but the two rolled away.
As he struck the wheel at the far side of the wagon, Fulk found his eyes meeting those of Guillemette. She was under the fourth wagon along, her eyes wide with terror, and beside her were other huddled figures. Fulk was sure he could see the child, Esperte, and the other women. Behind them was a man, he thought, his arms over his head. It gave Fulk a spur of rage. In front of him, he saw the legs of one of the Bulgarian horses. Without thinking, he rolled out, swept his sword around in an ungainly curve, and heard the sharp crack of the beast’s hind tendon shearing. With a squeal, the beast crashed to the ground, the knight dropped his lance and fell with one leg trapped beneath his thrashing mount.
Fulk shot a look all around, then quickly thrust at the Bulgarian. His blade snagged on some cloth at the man’s throat and missed his mark. The man realised his danger and reached for his own weapon, but Fulk chopped down with his sword. The edge of the blade hit the man in the face. H
e cried out, and Fulk thrust, desperate only to kill, to stop the fellow’s pain. His blow struck just below the man’s ear, and Fulk felt a sickening friction transmitted from the blade to the grip as the edge slipped through the fellow’s throat.
He pulled his sword free and turned away, a sob threatening to choke him as the man shook in his death throes. Fulk could not watch, but he could hear every sound. He looked down at his hand. It was shaking. He could not even focus on the blade itself.
There was a bellow, and he turned to see another Bulgarian riding at him. The dropped lance was nearby. Without thinking, Fulk snatched it up and held it angled at the rider’s horse. As the knight rode at him, Fulk’s spear was thrust into the horse’s breast. Fulk was suddenly thrown backwards, knocked from his feet and slammed to the ground. The mount was dead before the rider could bring his own spear to bear on Fulk, and he was thrown as his beast collapsed. Fulk let go of the spear and rolled onto all fours, gasping. His right arm felt as though it had been wrenched from his body, but he took his sword in his left hand, determined not to give his life cheaply. The knight was on his feet, and thrust at Fulk, but he was winded and his first blow missed its mark, and then Odo was behind the man, and his blade took the knight’s life.
There were still four more, but now Sir Walter’s men were returning, and the remaining Bulgarians chose life and safety. They took off, and were soon raising a cloud of dust on the way to their city.
Fulk fell to his knees, coughing. ‘Odo, are you well?’
‘Yes, but if you ever, ever jump out to attack two horsemen like that again, I’ll leave you to it. You madman!’ Odo said, and gave a feeble chuckle.
Fulk rose with difficulty, for his knees seemed to be astonishingly weak, and made his way to the other wagon like an old man.
‘Mistress, you are safe now,’ he said. He could not hold out his hand to her. It still shook profoundly.
He saw the relief in Guillemette’s eyes. Hers was the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. ‘You might get one for free for that,’ she murmured as she crawled out. Then she suddenly enfolded him in a great hug, kissing him on the lips, before drawing away to help the others from beneath their refuge.
Lying behind Sybille as she made her way from the wagon, he saw Benet. The man gazed at Fulk with the loathing that only the true coward could feel, and then he rolled to the far side and climbed to his feet.
She had seen it. Sybille saw him.
Josse had stood alone as the horsemen appeared and thundered in among the remaining, screaming people. Why? He could have lain with them, safe from the lances of the riders. He turned as the riders approached, glancing at her briefly. She saw then the fierce devotion gleaming in his eyes. It was a love so intense, it took her breath away.
The moment was gone. He hefted his axe and cut at the first horseman, but misjudged his strike, and his blow went wide. The second rider spurred at him, and although Josse swung his blade with full strength, he only managed a glancing blow on the man’s mail. Even as he tried to aim again, the rider’s blade slashed down and hacked into Josse’s shoulder. His arm was almost severed, and his hand opened to let the axe fall from his fist. He stared down as though astonished, and Sybille met his eyes for the last time. She was unable to speak or move, but she thought he tried to say something. Whether he spoke or not, he had no time to repeat his words. The sword flashed again, and this time Josse’s eyes rolled up and he collapsed.
It was possible, she realised afterwards, that he saved their lives by falling dead there at the side of the wagon. His body shielded Sybille and the others from the eyes of other Bulgarians. They rode about, and one or two she saw dismount as though to search for spoil amid the stores, but then there were more horn blasts and bellowed commands, and the men remounted and departed.
Guillemette and Jeanne were already standing beside the wagon. While Sybille dusted herself down, she smiled weakly in gratitude at Fulk, but then her eyes went to Josse’s body. He lay near one of the wheels, and she felt a sob convulse her body at the sight. ‘He was defending us,’ she said.
Fulk looked down at the body. ‘He died bravely.’
Behind him, Odo had joined them. ‘Your husband?’
‘No, my servant. My loyal servant.’
Odo nodded. ‘Mistress, you can be sure that he will receive his reward in Heaven. To have given up his life for Christians while on a pilgrimage, that is a wonderful act.’
She stared down at Richalda’s face. The child was silent, and Sybille felt a pang of terror that after all this they might lose their daughter as well. Then Richalda opened her eyes and smiled thinly.
Her husband stood at the far side of the wagon, staring at the Belgrade horsemen riding away.
She could not look at him. In that moment she knew only complete contempt for him. Josse’s last glances to her told her that he had known what he was doing. He was deliberately fighting, willingly giving his life to protect Sybille and Richalda – while her husband cowered behind her. The memory came back to her of the day so many weeks ago, when Josse told her he would protect her. Her heart lurched with the memory, as if Josse had foreseen that he would die guarding her.
If only he were still alive!
Benet muttered, ‘Poor man! Poor Josse! He didn’t deserve to be cut to pieces out here in this horrible country! Why did we come here? We should have taken ship, rather than march all over these plains where the people are such barbarians they rob pilgrims while professing to be Christians!’
Sybille shrieked. ‘Benet! It was your choice to come here, not mine, not his! If you seek someone to accuse, blame yourself for his death, and in all likelihood, for Richalda’s too! Look at her! The poor child is feverish still, and you complain about being here, as though it is the responsibility of someone else? You made the choice, husband! No one else!’
‘Wife, be calm! I know you are upset to lose Josse, but—’
Sybille passed her daughter to Jeanne and stalked to Benet. ‘No, husband, I am upset because my own husband lay hiding while his servant tried to defend us. Josse saved our lives, but you did nothing!’ Sybille took a step forward and hissed into his face, ‘You should have helped him, not concealed yourself like a cur!’
His eyes narrowed, and she saw his hand move, but the slap, when it connected with her cheek, came as a surprise. Her head was turned violently by the force of the blow, and she stood without moving for a long time, while Fulk and his brother watched.
Benet said with forced calmness, ‘My dear, we’ve had a terrible shock, I know, but you must keep yourself composed for Richalda. We cannot have you growing hysterical. Think of your daughter.’
‘Don’t speak to me of keeping calm, husband! You crawled in there behind me to protect yourself. You would use your wife and daughter to protect yourself, and now you will beat your wife because you dare not protect us against the enemy.’
She flinched as he lifted his hand again, but Fulk had rounded the wagon, and he caught Benet by the wrist. ‘Master, you should not hit her again.’
‘Let me go! A husband should chastise his wife when she is making villeinous comments.’
Odo looked at Fulk, then over at Benet. ‘My brother is right. We have to get this army moving. We can’t keep the pilgrims waiting while you dispute what happened here. Better that you send your wife to go and help see to the injured, while you bury your servant. After all, he did protect you and your family.’
Sybille rejoined Mathena and Guillemette to help the injured.
She was grateful for Fulk’s intervention. Her cheek still felt warm to the touch, much as did Richalda’s brow and, when she put a hand to her face, it stung. He had never hit her before. Mathena put her arms about her, glaring at Benet as she did so. Guillemette and Jeanne stood a little way away, both watching Benet too, as though they were ready to spring to Sybille’s defence were Benet to try to hit her again. Sybille felt that she did not need their help. The blow had made her feel stronger.
She would never forgive Benet that smack. She could not, any more than she could forgive his cowardice in leaving Josse to fight alone.
And then she remembered: when she had feared Richalda might die, she had prayed that God might take someone rather than her daughter.
The guilt struck her so hard, she almost collapsed. She had killed poor Josse!
CHAPTER 14
Belgrade, Thursday 5th June, 1096
‘Help me, Sybille!’
Sybille ignored his calls for as long as she could, but finally his patience was fraying, and she set her jaw and went to assist him. Since their pony’s death, it was clear that they would have to make an effort to carry more themselves, but much of their property would have to remain here. Without Josse to help carry things as well, their burdens would have to grow.
‘Well, husband?’
‘Pass me that,’ he said shortly. She took up the pack he indicated. It was a flask of wine. ‘This? What will you do with it? I won’t carry it for you. If you want to carry this, you can carry it in your belly.’
‘Woman, will you stop your complaining!’
‘Why? Else you will beat me like a dog? You enjoyed slapping me yesterday, did you? Did you find it served to bring back a little of your manhood after seeing Josse die?’ she asked cruelly.
‘You would prefer that it had been me who died, would you?’
‘I would prefer that you had done something rather than lying on the ground and hoping that one man could avert all danger.’
‘I will do what I can in the battles to come, wife. For now, though, I have secured some space on a wagon, and if we are quick, we may be able to stow some of our belongings. But if you prefer to expend your bile on me, we can easily leave it all here to rot.’
Pilgrim's War Page 14
