Odo nodded, but his head felt as though he had drunk too much wine. There was a rushing, whistling noise in his ears, and he was dizzy. It seemed that the wall was spinning slowly beneath his feet. As he stared at the enemy, he felt he was viewing the scene through the smoke of a fire: it swirled and danced, and he could make little sense of it.
A man barged into him, swearing volubly, and a second stumbled, shoving Odo into the stonework of the castellations, and suddenly his senses returned to him. He heard a swish, and realised that it was the sound of an arrow passing close by. He ducked as another flew past, but it was wide and struck the stonework of a nearby tower.
At his side a youth turned and faced him, and in his eyes Odo saw the certainty of death and agony.
‘Do not worry, my son! We are here on God’s business, and He will guard you.’
The youth did not look comforted, but he nodded. Another arrow hurtled past them, only a matter of inches over their heads, and Odo did not flinch this time. If it was his time to die, God would take him, he knew. And he smiled.
‘They come! Prepare to repel ladders! We have God with us and they will die! Dieu le veut!’
Odo and the youth stood at the wall while arrows hurtled past as though the air sizzled in their wake, but they held no fear for Odo. He was reciting the Paternoster as he drew his sword, and then he smiled broadly as he watched the men below.
They had brought massive scaling ladders, and now men ran forward bearing them to the foot of the walls, setting the widespread feet of the ladder on the ground some distance from the walls, and then thrusting the ladders upright until they could slam against the wall of castle, just as Odo and the others had done only a few days ago. So soon as they had thudded into position, the first men were already climbing up.
Odo saw others were grabbing rocks, and he took one from a nearby pile and gazed over the wall, dropping it on a man halfway up the nearest ladder. The Saracen was looking up as he dropped it, and Odo saw it smash into his face, turning the brown features to a red, bloody mess in an instant. The man said nothing, and did not scream, but let go his grip and plummeted, sweeping a second man from the ladder. Odo felt only a glorious sense of achievement. An arrow struck the wall by his head with a loud tock as the steel bounced from the stone, but Odo barely noticed it. He bent and took another rock. This time he hurled it with full might at a man who was clambering up gripping a shield that he held over his head. The rock struck the shield and there was a great cracking sound, but then the man gave a wail, his shield dropping, and Odo realised his arm was broken. He took up another rock and flung that, and the man was struck on his shoulder, and Odo heard the bones crack under its onslaught. The man fell tumbling from his perch and Odo gave a whoop of joy. He offered up a prayer of thanks to God, and reached for another stone. An arrow hit his mailed shoulder but flew off without piercing the steel rings, and Odo hurled his rock at the next ladder. It missed the men, but the rock crashed through two rungs, tearing them apart and making climbing that section all but impossible. A fresh rock removed a climber’s hand from the ladder; he screamed, flailing his bloody limb, while the men on the walls jeered, but although more and more were hit and killed or knocked from their ladders, still more men came and mounted behind them. And all the while the arrows were spat up at the defenders. Many missed their mark, and bounced uselessly on the stone walls, but some succeeded in finding a target, and every so often a man would give a shriek, a moan or a cough. Beside Odo was a grizzled old veteran of a hundred fights, but an arrow lanced into his eye, and partway out through the back of his skull, and he slowly toppled to his knees and then slid sideways, almost tripping Odo as he tried to drop a rock on another assailant. He missed that one, but although his aim was sent wild, he did have the pleasure of seeing it strike a captain of the enemy full on the point of his helmet. The man was killed instantly.
And that appeared to be the end of it. There was the sound of horns being blown and rapid drumming could be heard, and suddenly the men were fleeing the walls, running back to their ranks, leaving a bloody pile of bodies, some feebly moving, at the feet of the scaling ladders.
Odo turned to the youth at his side. ‘You see? God will not leave us to die!’
Lothar heard him and glared. ‘Keep your mouth shut until we see the enemy has given up. Do not tempt God to try us further.’
Odo watched as the Saracens erected more pavilions and tents. When evening came, there were thousands of small campfires all about the castle. It was like looking into the sky in midsummer, seeing all those tiny little specks on the ground before the walls.
Lothar joined him and stared out. ‘You fought well today, boy. I was thinking you would be panicked, but you stood your ground like a warrior.’
‘The enemy fell like the corn before the scythes of the Lord,’ Odo said.
Lothar eyed him. ‘They fell like men hit on the head with rocks, but they fell. That is all we need worry about.’
‘We cannot fail,’ Odo said.
‘I hope you are right. There are many of them out there.’
‘It will make our victory all the more glorious,’ Odo said with confidence.
‘Or our defeat all the more certain.’
‘You should not speak in such a manner.’
‘Perhaps. But we are surrounded by a force many times the size of our own, and we have no hope of rescue. And while we sit here and wait, we are cursed with the sight of our well out there, in the hands of the enemy.’
‘God will provide for us.’
‘We will die before He can do anything to save us.’
Odo was irritated to listen to such defeatist comments. To him it was so certain that they would live, that to hear Lothar talk of failure was like hearing a heretic preach against God Himself. ‘You should pray more. God will help you to see your errors in a clearer light.’
‘You think so? I have eyes and a brain, Odo, and I know what I see before me,’ Lothar said, staring out over the uncountable fires.
Odo left him there and went down to the courtyard. There were enough men on the walls already. There was no need for him too. He watched the men huddled about the Christian fires. Outside the walls, he heard a sudden chattering and then drums beating as the Saracen soldiers danced and clapped. Here inside the walls the soldiers were anxious and fretful. They sat in small groups, every so often a man looking up at the walls as though fearing that the enemy was preparing an onslaught. Odo wanted to go among them and reassure them all. He had an absolute conviction that they would pull through this. It was one battle on the way to Jerusalem, that was all.
He went to the little chapel at the left of the gates and crossed himself with holy water from the stoup at the door, genuflecting and bowing his head to the altar. This had been built when the Greeks from the Eastern Empire constructed the castle and although the Saracens had used it for their own heretical devotions, it took little time to clear their artefacts. There were three priests and a bishop in there already, each prostrated on the floor before the altar, arms outstretched in imitation of Christ’s crucifixion. Odo went to join them, lying down and extending his own arms, praying and seeking forgiveness for any sins he might have committed. The sound of cheap candles hissing, the wind outside, all brought an atmosphere of calmness and peace. He felt himself soothed as he lay there.
And then . . . There was something wrong. The pain in his jaw had largely subsided. Now it was a constant ache, but it lay at the back of his mind, behind the sting of soreness where blisters had burst and rubbed raw, behind the bruises and scratches and cuts. There was something amiss. Perhaps it was his guilt speaking to him? He had committed a sin of some form, he was sure. There was a muttering in his head, although he was unsure what his offence could have been. He had striven hard to get here. The journey had been hazardous, and the fights had been very dangerous. He had struggled and fought all the way, with the elements, with the distance, with men . . . and then he realised.
It w
as the way that he had spoken to Fulk. His brother was not so religious as he. Fulk was a more secular fellow. He liked women too much. It was the difference in their apprenticeships. Odo had spent his baking bread and speaking with the wise men of the church, while Fulk had spent his in the company of a drunken smith. Was it any surprise that Fulk had more earthy tastes? He had no real understanding of the importance of their cause. He had not been given the same insights as Odo.
That was when Odo realised the implications of his thoughts. He had been chosen! God had selected him. He understood the seriousness of the cause. It was more than merely the winning of the land, he saw. It was a battle for what was good and what was evil. It was the beginning of the final war between angels and devils. The churches all had their own depiction of the end of all time, when the Devil would be overthrown and God would rule over all from Heaven.
And that was when he felt the flaring of pride and certainty in his breast, for now he knew that he was not meant to die here.
Odo smiled. Yes, God had selected him to be a leader of men, and He would not permit Odo to be harmed.
CHAPTER 29
Xerigordos, Friday 10th October, 1096
The attacks on the castle continued all that week.
Lothar had been correct. He had estimated that the water would last a matter of days, and it was after only four when the green, brackish water in the cistern had been drained, and men started to search for liquid. The stores of wine had already been plundered and consumed. Now the horses were bled, with men sucking the blood from their throats, and other men started to scrabble in the soil in a vain search, not that any had enough energy to dig a well by the fifth day. Men drank urine even, so desperate were they for a little moisture. But nothing they did would help save them. Their thirst grew and grew, and few would listen to the priests promising eternal life to all who fought and died in the castle.
Xerigordos, Monday 13th October
‘It will not be long now,’ Lothar said on the seventh day. He was squatting beside Odo, who lay on the timbers of the castle’s walkway near the gates.
Odo’s lips had cracked and his face was burned from overexposure to the sun. He could hear Lothar, but he was unsure of the meaning. He found that he could understand little that was spoken by men like Lothar. The heat had dissipated his strength so severely that making sense of a foreign accent grew harder and harder. For now he merely nodded.
‘You must be ready,’ Lothar urged him. ‘You have to rally your strength.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Odo said. ‘God will not allow me to die. I am His servant.’
He could see that Lothar was eyeing him oddly, but that was normal. It must be hard for those who were not selected by God to understand what a man like him was privileged to feel. He was thirsty, but God’s love welled in him and could extinguish even the most terrible deprivation. He knew that God would not allow him to die here. Odo was destined for greater things.
Lothar was gone. Odo did not feel lonely, not with God at his side. He peered up at the clear, blue sky and blinked at the sight of great birds whirling in the sky. He heard shouts and cries, but they made no sense to him. Then the birds were almost hidden by a cloud, and he blinked, thinking that it was a film forming over his dried eyeballs, but then he could see that it was not his imagination or sight playing tricks. There was a dark cloud, and it seemed to be rising from the gates.
‘Fire!’ he heard a man shout, and suddenly the castle was all activity. The Saracens must have lit a fire at the gates, and the dry timbers were at risk. There was no water with which to dowse the flames, and Odo peered about him, his eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare.
A hand gripped his shoulder. ‘Come! We must be away!’
He looked up into the face of Lothar, Sir Roger behind him. Both looked weary and blackened. Three surviving members of Sir Roger’s company were with them: Gilles, Eudes and a man called Guarin.
‘You must join us,’ Sir Roger said. ‘We have to go, now, and tell the other pilgrims of the risks here.’
‘How?’ Odo managed.
‘Come with us,’ Sir Roger said, and this time he smiled.
Civitot
There was much work to be done about the camp, and the pilgrims had begun to organise themselves into parties. Guillemette and her companions grouped together with some forty or more pilgrims and shared cooking and washing between them.
That morning Sybille joined Mathena and Guillemette working at the bread ovens. It was hard work, rolling out the dough on flat stones and slapping them into the hot clay pots to cook. With the sun high overhead, the women wiped their brows and sweltered. Sybille herself panted like a dog as the heat soaked into her body. She could feel it like a thick blanket lying across her shoulders as she rolled out another loaf.
Sybille threw down a fresh lump of dough and rolled it out. It felt good to be involved in productive efforts. It kept her mind from other matters. Matters like the two brothers.
Odo’s outburst had shocked her, but no less surprising had been Fulk’s response. To see him strike his brother and knock him down had been gratifying – and dreadful. After all, it seemed to show that she might be the cause of a separation between the two. She had no wish to be the cause of a rift between them.
She liked Fulk. He was a welcome companion. But there was a thread of fear that ran through her at the thought that he might become more than that. Already she had seen so much death on this journey. To give her heart to another man, and see him die too, was an appalling thought. She wanted the support and aid that a man could give her, but she was terrified of accepting it. To take a man’s help meant to make a responsibility to him, and she was unable to consider that just now.
The ideas kept circling around and around in her skull: she wanted help but could not accept it. She noticed a headache forming, but tried to ignore it.
She worked as though in a dream; initially, it was the repetitive nature of the effort that made her feel as though her head was swimming. While performing such duties at home, she would usually slip into a thoughtless, mindless trance-like state, but today was different. Thoughts of Fulk, added to the heat and the dryness of the air, made her feel dizzy, and then nausea began to assail her. It was hard to concentrate. So much had happened to her already, with the death of Josse, then of Benet, and the constant worry about the health of her daughter, that she considered she was growing hysterical, although she felt more as though she was in a daze.
‘What of the army, sister?’ the woman at her side asked. She had a face the colour of an ancient acorn, and white hair that wisped about her face from beneath her wimple like feather down, but her features were entirely amiable, unless someone mentioned the Saracens. Then she would spit and curse like a woman possessed.
‘The army?’
‘Yes. It must be ready to move soon. Will you continue on? I will be going to Jerusalem. I had a son who came here. He walked all the way to the Holy City, can you imagine it? But then we heard that a boy like him had died . . .’ Her eyes peered into the distance for a moment, and then she smiled again. ‘But he was probably wrong. My little lad is in Jerusalem now, I hope, and when I get there, I expect he’ll be a rich man. So long as those murdering, butchering Saracen sons of devils haven’t done for him!’
Sybille smiled vacantly. Her movements were automatic, but suddenly her hands were in the wrong place. They weren’t functioning as they should. She had a roaring in her ears, and she had to frown to try to roll out the present loaf, but when she raised her hands they were shaking like leaves in a storm. Guillemette was nearby, and she glanced over to see Sybille squatting on her heels, holding her hands up to her face as though disbelieving what she saw.
‘Sybille?’ Guillemette called, but Sybille could not hear her. The noise had turned into a deafening thunder, and she felt as though it was waves, as if the ocean was slamming into her. She was weak, and she toppled to lie with her cheek on the sandy soil, shuddering, then suddenly she bur
st into tears, although she could not have said why.
‘Are you feeling well?’ Guillemette asked. Sybille blinked as she peered up at her, but said nothing.
‘She’s got sun-mazed,’ Mathena said. She put her hand to Sybille’s brow and felt it. ‘She’s burning up!’
For the rest of the morning both of the women worked fetching cool water and spreading damp cloths over Sybille’s forehead, hoping to cool her down. They had found a blanket, and Sybille lay on that, an old sheet of canvas spread over her to keep her shaded. Sybille sipped the watered wine that Guillemette held up to her mouth every few moments. Guillemette knew as well as Mathena that when someone became affected by the sun, the best cure was plenty of water and liquids. Sybille looked dreadful at first. Her lips were chapped and dry, her eyes sunken, and she languished like a woman Guillemette remembered who had been struck by a racing horse in a street in Sens. Outwardly there had been no sign of injury, but her head had been dealt a dreadful blow, and she had faded away like a wilting flower.
Guillemette hated herself, but she could not help but think that were Sybille to die, then Fulk might look on her again. It was a terrible thought, but the idea that he might return to her was captivating. Even while she wrung out the cloth to spread over Sybille’s brow, she could imagine the scene in her mind’s eye: the shallow grave dug for Sybille’s body, the weeping form of Mathena and Jeanne beside her, and then she saw poor Fulk, and she had to leave Mathena to go to him and comfort him.
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