Odo was fearful of the coming struggle. He had been nervous riding into the town’s market with Sir Roger’s men, but this was different. He had no horse to sit on, only the expectation of climbing a ladder while men tried to burn him, stab him or fill him full of arrows. It was not a prospect to gladden the heart, and his stomach had that heavy sensation, as if a lump of clay was forming, but he reassured himself that God would be at his side. He was safe in God’s hands, he reflected.
He looked at the walls and saw some of the garrison. A man suddenly jumped up onto the castellations, lifted his mail and pissed towards the Christians in a bold display of contempt.
At the sight, Odo froze. This was not mere bravado. To him it looked like a deliberate insult to God Himself. His fear abated. For a man to show such disdain for God was shameful. The man must be punished. And then Odo realised that God had given him a sign. It was that the garrison deserved to be put to the sword. Destroyed. They were heretics.
Odo strode to Sir Roger and stood before him. ‘Let me be first on the ladders. I will go with the storming party.’
Sir Roger looked him up and down approvingly. ‘That’s good, Odo. We’ll go in and take the place quickly.’
‘Be quick and Godspeed,’ Sir Rainald said.
Sir Roger was to lead the attack, and he took his command, which was swollen by volunteers to over sixty men, towards the lower slopes of the rocks. There they waited, Odo fingering the edge of his sword and wondering whether he should sharpen it now. He saw one of Sir Roger’s men, Lothar, muttering over his crucifix and kissing it, making the sign of the cross, while others stood staring into the distance. Only Gilles and Sir Roger himself seemed at ease with themselves. Gilles stood staring up at the walls as though gauging the best place to erect the ladder, while Sir Roger gazed back at the main force, watching as the archers strung their bows and stood testing the pull, feeling the tension in the wood and glancing every so often at the walls.
Before long the archers were ready. As their officer began to give commands, and the arrows began to fly, Sir Roger shouted encouragement to his men and set off up the hill like a greyhound after its prey.
Odo was at the middle of the ladder. It was rough and splintery, and with each step he felt a new fragment of wood stabbing his palms. It would be a relief to set the ladder down. There was a shout from above, and a rock fell with a heavy crunch. Stone splinters burst from it, slashing at Odo’s legs. A second rock, and a man fell screaming with a broken foot, but then the rocks stopped falling as the arrows began to take their toll. Now, as soon as a man appeared over the parapet, he was the target of twenty arrows. Two men fell screaming with three or more shafts in their faces or bodies, and the rest were content to roll rocks over the walls without aiming. One snapped the leg of a pilgrim, but that was the only injury.
They were at the wall. The men at the front set the feet at the wall’s base, and the men carrying it at the rear began to walk forwards, pushing the treads upwards as they came. Gradually the ladder rose higher and higher, and more men ran to push the side rails towards the walls. Then, with a sigh from the men, the ladder tipped past the vertical and crashed against the wall. Odo stared at it with a sense of achievement, but even as he felt the relief of a task fulfilled, men were leaping onto the rungs and climbing quickly, Sir Roger and Gilles just behind them. The first to reach the top was stabbed in the throat by a lance, and he lost his grip, falling and taking the second man with him, and Odo watched them fall with a horrible fascination. Odo was already on the ladder, and he hurried up it as fast as he could, springing over the wall at the top.
Sir Roger was working his way along the walkway, stabbing and lunging with his sword, and as Odo watched, the man fighting him took Sir Roger’s point in his thigh, and was soon grown lethargic. He slipped and fell from the wall. Sir Roger pressed on, attacking the next man, and Gilles rushed to his side in support. Odo landed on the planks and slashed at a man who appeared before him. His sword rang on his opponent’s, and Odo felt the blow shivering in his broken tooth. The man shrieked and raised his weapon again, but a Norman soldier pushed past Odo and slipped his blade into the man’s flank, under his armpit. Behind him, Odo saw the door in the tower on his left had opened. Suddenly it was thrown wide, and a number of sentries came hurtling out, screaming and waving their weapons.
It was time to show these heretics God’s divine wrath!
Odo was not alone. Eudes and three others were with him already, and he ran with them at the castle’s garrison, their weapons cutting and causing terrible carnage. The blood flowed freely, and Odo felt his boots slide and skitter even as his heart sang in joy. Once he almost fell into the castle’s court, but a hand grabbed him and saved him, and then he was stabbing at another dark face before he was rammed against the wall. He felt his face hit the stonework, and the scrape as the skin was rasped away. He saw bright pinpoints of light glittering before his eyes. He fell to his knees, shaking his head, and when he could look up again, the battle was over.
The castle was theirs.
Civitot
Even before the clash between Odo and Fulk, Sybille had been growing more aware of Fulk in recent days. She rather liked his serious expression, his dark eyes with their long lashes, and the evident signs of respect which he gave her.
At first, she had been suspicious. The men who had tried to rape her, and the lascivious glances of others, had made her fully aware of the less than honourable intentions of many of the men in the army. She was aware of Guillemette’s and Jeanne’s trade, and she tended to assume that any man coming to their encampment must be interested in availing themselves of the prostitutes – many must assume that she was of the same profession. While she had no desire to be associated with them, especially with her Richalda at her side, they had proved themselves supportive and kind.
More, she knew that she might have no choice. In the months to come it was eminently possible that she would be forced to resort to the same means of supporting herself and her daughter. It was a prospect that filled her with dread, but she could not in all conscience deny the possibility that this might become the sole means of maintaining themselves. If that were the case, it would be better to have their friendship and support still more.
‘He is a good man,’ Guillemette said to her, seeing how her eyes strayed every so often towards Fulk.
‘You think so?’
‘You can trust my judgement when it comes to men. I know those who are good, bad and indifferent. Fulk of Sens is a kindly, amiable fellow.’
Sybille chuckled without humour. ‘You mean he pays well for services?’
Guillemette’s face hardened. ‘Yes. He paid me in food when I was hungry.’
‘And that makes him a good man?’
‘No. But he is kind with me, and he would make a good husband. If I had not been as I am, he might have wedded me. He would have made me happy. He would make any woman proud, I think.’
‘It is too soon for me. You should snap him up.’
‘You should. It is you he has eyes for, not me.’
‘What would people think of me, if I were to throw myself at another man so soon after Benet’s death?’
‘Sybille, they will be glad for you. Those who have known you will know that you are a lady of honour and sensibility. But how can any woman survive long here in the midst of an army, without a man to protect her? All here will understand and appreciate your reasons for allying yourself to him. Necessity is a harsh master.’
Sybille nodded slowly. She thought again about Fulk’s long eyelashes, his lazy way of smiling, his easy laughter and . . .
‘No,’ she said. ‘Now is not the time for me. It would be . . . wrong. It is too soon after dear Benet’s death.’
Alwyn had spent a half-day thinking about the message he must send, and then sealed it and gave it to a shipmaster to take to John. It would arrive. No mere sailor would dare to hold back a message for the Vestes. Now he had received his reply.
He had indicated Sir Walter’s concerns, but the response had been scarcely more than a line: You must keep the pilgrims together and wait until they receive reinforcements. He cogitated over it for a long time before coming to the conclusion that there was nothing to be gained from staring at it any longer. He rose and walked from his little tent and stared out. The pavilion of Sir Walter moved in the wind, and his flags and banners waved. There was a gathering in the pavilion, and Alwyn rubbed at his rough cheeks where the stubble was softening as it grew longer. He grunted to himself and set off up the incline towards Sir Walter and the others.
As he approached there was the sound of raised voices.
‘I say we should ride out. Those Bavarians will take everything if we leave them to it!’
‘We are not here for plunder alone!’ Sir Walter grated.
‘But if they win all, we shall be forced to buy food from them, and that will be intolerable!’
‘You worry about the price of food, Godfrey?’ Sir Walter said.
The man he spoke to was shorter, very thickset, and had a bushy brown beard shot through with grey. ‘I and my companions worry about the heathens, and nothing else,’ he said.
‘Friends, friends!’
Alwyn stopped. It was Peter the Hermit, who held up his hands and strode in among the bickering men. His guards shoved people from his path and formed a close cordon around him, their hands gripping clubs, or resting with dangerous calm near their sword hilts.
‘My friends, there is no need for dispute! Be calm, I beg of you! You are concerned, my friends, I know, but there is no need to be alarmed, and no need for bitterness. All of us here, we are here to do God’s bidding, and if we adhere to His will, and His purpose, all will be well for us. For we will have His approval, and there is nothing more guaranteed to bless us, each and every one, than that. So please, let us pray now, and ask for His advice. God will guide our path!’
All the men there bent their heads, Alwyn too, while Peter prayed loudly for God’s intervention and aid.
When he was done, he looked around brightly. ‘My friends, what is the cause of this dispute?’
‘Some wish to ride out and advance,’ Sir Walter said. ‘And I know that you feel the same, my friend. But I feel sure that the best course of action for now is to wait for supplies. An army without food entering lands we do not know, will be in peril. We have to know we have supplies.’
‘I say we should move on!’ said Godfrey. ‘God will provide!’
‘We know God will provide for us. But we have many more people arriving almost every day, and they need to be fed,’ Sir Walter grated.
‘My friends, please, let us be calm,’ Peter said. ‘I have already heard from the Emperor that supplies are on their way even as we speak here.’
‘Good! Let us receive them, and then march,’ said Sir Walter, glaring at Godfrey.
‘And then,’ Peter said, smiling brightly at the men all around, ‘then we may continue on our historic journey. We shall be in Jerusalem before Christmas, God permitting!’
Alwyn remained at the back of the crowd, but he saw Sir Walter’s eyes light upon him. Later, when the men were breaking away and walking to their own groups, Sir Walter strode down to meet him. ‘Well? You heard the Hermit’s view. What would you advise?’
‘The same as before. If we do not receive more experienced fighting men, to press on would be foolhardy.’
‘Then you say we should stay here. Is that the word of your heart, or the instruction of your Emperor?’ Sir Walter asked shrewdly.
Alwyn looked out over the camp. Men stood chatting, or fiddled with weapons and equipment, while women trudged about with buckets or yokes with baskets of food. Children hurtled about as children would. There was an air of calm satisfaction such as a man might sense on a market day. It was as if the people had reached this place, and here they were content to wait until they could wander the last leagues to the Holy City.
‘This is not an army; it is a gathering of pilgrims, and few have handled anything bigger or more dangerous than a knife. You have to meld them together so that they become a collection of fighting men. I can train some, but only a few. You need many more. These,’ he added bleakly, ‘will not last above a few minutes against Saracens in battle.’
‘I see.’ Sir Walter nodded. ‘Could you fight better with an incentive?’
‘What do you mean?’
Sir Walter’s face eased into a grin. ‘I dislike the idea of a man being with me because of a hostage held elsewhere. And why would I want to provide you with a servant when you have one of your own?’ He pointed behind Alwyn, who turned and saw Sara and Jibril. Sara raised her hand tentatively, like a woman waving farewell, but then she smiled, and Alwyn felt his heart swell.
‘I had to bribe a gatekeeper, but I considered it a worthwhile expense. Go to them! Go on, go!’ Sir Walter said. ‘Rest a while, and then we shall discuss how to train this mob of feckless peasants. Go!’
Xerigordos, Monday 6th October
They were there for two days before any effort was made to consolidate their position. It drove Odo to distraction.
It was clear that Nicaea was a plum that they should pick as soon as possible, and after the ease of their raid into the market, and subsequent capture of this castle of Xerigordos, the pilgrims had their confidence boosted. They were excited and eager to join battle with another group, and since they had won the stores of grain, wine and even meat at this castle, they had enough food for a considerable time.
The pilgrims met in the court of the castle, and initially Odo sat on the ground among them with a sense of fulfilment. This was the life he had been born for, he thought.
He was thirsty, and walked outside to the well. It stood a few yards from the entrance to the castle, while there was a spring below in the valley. Even in the heat of summer, the spring and the well seemed to be full of water. It would make this place a good fortress, Odo thought. He stood at the gates and stared about him. He could see why those who built this little castle had chosen the location. It stood on a little hill, and the views all around were excellent, with the softly undulating land rippling away in all directions like a green sea, with only an occasional tree to mar the smooth perfection. Yet although there was so much greenery, the ground was parched. Every step raised a small cloud of dust. It was not so verdant as his own home at Sens.
He returned to the meeting.
When they had entered the castle, he had been glad to see that the whole fortress was taken swiftly, and he had been among those who enjoined the pilgrims not to kill all who lived inside. Rather, those who were Christians were to be allowed to live and join the pilgrim army. Some were angry and reluctant, but they were more than overweighed by the numbers who agreed. Only the heretics were slain, taken out through the castle gates, there to have their throats cut. Odo had joined in, finding the task to his liking. Releasing the souls of those who were enemies of Christ was God’s work. It was good to feel his blade cut into the soft tissues and sweep it across swiftly.
Thinking it may be quicker, he had tried to decapitate two. The first attempt was almost enough to put him off trying it again: the man had screamed at the first strike, and it took him three more attempts to remove his head. The second was easier, perhaps because the fellow was younger, Odo thought. The sword had swept across with barely a dragging sensation as it clove through the man’s spine, and his head span slightly, so that it ended up facing him on the dirt, eyes blinking, while his body sagged to the right and toppled over. It was a great confirmation of the quality of the steel, he thought. It made him feel a swelling pride to be executing God’s enemies. He hoped that Fulk would also soon be able to test his blade too.
Fulk should be here. He should discover the pleasure of destroying God’s enemies, of seeing the shame in their eyes as they felt their lives end. Surely at that moment they were aware of God’s greatness and the foolishness of their own heretical perversions.
; Odo was called back to the present by the voice of a tall, dark-haired knight with one eye, who stood and held up his hands for silence as Odo took his seat once more.
‘Who is he?’ Odo asked Lothar.
The Bavarian shrugged, but Gilles leaned forward. ‘I think he is called Sir Rainald. I believe he’s from Tuscany, Lombardy – somewhere like that.’
‘We are here to decide on our future arrangements,’ Sir Rainald said. He stood in the middle of the pilgrims and spoke loudly. He had a strong accent that showed he came from the Holy Roman Empire, as did so many of the other men-at-arms, but fortunately all spoke moderate French. ‘We have captured this castle. Do we move on and see where else we may conquer, or do we return to Civitot to tell the others how easily this fortress fell? We should perhaps tell them how easy is the path of glory!’
There was a lot of debate. Like Odo, many of the Lombard knights were all for pressing on. As one said, ‘If we continue, we can cause more devastation for our enemies, and the armies which follow will consolidate our initial successes. We don’t have to go back.’
Sir Rainald disagreed. ‘If we continue, we do not know when we will find food. If we have any difficulties, it may mean that the Saracens could come behind us, cut off our supplies, and use Nicaea as a base from which to raid against us. I think it would be prudent to prevent that.’
Odo shook his head vigorously at that. He was keen to march on further into the Holy Land itself. Delay was not to be tolerated. They must all surely see the need to carry on with their journey?
Pilgrim's War Page 28
