His tone was cool, Fulk thought, but at least his brother was talking to him. He could not forget that Odo had cursed him on the last occasion that they met.
‘Would you have a cup of wine?’
‘Yes, although . . .’ Odo was hesitant.
Fulk held out his hands. ‘Come, we are brothers.’
‘You know, you broke my tooth?’
‘I am sorry, Odo, but you insulted my friend.’
‘I see.’ Odo was silent a moment, but then said, ‘Are you still seeing her?’
Fulk felt his words like a physical blow. ‘I see her occasionally. There’s nothing more to it than that, brother. She’s still in mourning. But men have tried to rape her. Would you have me leave her to that? She has nothing in this world to feed herself or her child.’
‘You should be concentrating on the pilgrimage, Fulk, not on her.’
Fulk made to move away, but Odo grabbed his arm. ‘I am sorry, Fulk. It is just . . . You should have seen the town of Nicaea when we took it! There were silks and riches of all kinds there!’
‘That’s not the point of the pilgrimage,’ Fulk protested.
‘The point is, to take back the land for Christ. To do that we must remove God’s enemies. Whether that means killing them or driving them away, it must mean that there will be things left behind. If we can take it and sell it to help provision ourselves or find weapons, that is all to the glory of God.’
‘Odo, I didn’t mean to accuse you!’
‘Good, brother, because I have already risked my life, and I can tell you this: God approves! I know it. He looked after me when it seemed inevitable that I should die, and even on the long ride back here, He was with me the whole way. I prayed to Him, and He answered me. He is with me.’
‘That is good.’
‘I feel honoured – touched by His grace.’
Fulk grinned. ‘You don’t claim much!’
‘Are you laughing?’
‘Odo, you have only been away a scant fortnight, and now you think you’re God’s chosen war leader?’ Fulk said with a grin.
Odo was coldly angry in an instant. ‘I don’t need to question that fact. I went to war for Him, while you were here, chastely preserving that widow’s honour!’
‘I do not want to fight with you,’ Fulk said, hands up in a show of submission. ‘Please, Odo! You are my brother, my companion, my friend.’
Odo took a deep breath. ‘No, brother. You are right. Let us take a cup of wine. We’ll drink to our ambitions, and to our arrival in Jerusalem.’
‘Yes,’ Fulk said. ‘Whenever that may be.’
‘Early next year, I believe, brother. Early next year.’
Civitot, Wednesday 15th October
While Fulk was glad to have his brother back, he felt it would be politic to keep away from Sybille for a while. He had no wish to cause another argument. The thought that if Odo had died while riding down to Xerigordos, their last words would have been those of enemies was enough to leave a cold unease in Fulk’s belly. Still, their enmity was healing. He would not willingly pull at the scab.
In Odo’s absence Sir Walter had come to make more use of Fulk, and Fulk had grown to respect him. Sir Walter was a tough, uncompromising old fighter who took time to assess men, but once he felt he knew their measure, he valued them. Fulk was new to the world of battles, but he had a shrewd head, and Sir Walter appreciated his wisdom when negotiating with Greek merchants or bringing a general discussion around to his point of view.
The next morning was bright and clear. It was hard to believe that any danger existed, with the sun gleaming on the waves sluggishly slapping against each other out to sea.
Fulk would remember that morning for the rest of his life. He was listening to Sir Walter discussing food transport with Greek merchants, all clad in rich silken robes that Fulk privately suspected they would not have been able to afford before they started supplying the pilgrim army, when a sudden commotion came to their ears. There had been no news of the enemy since Odo’s arrival, and while many of the men in the camp were preparing to pack and march to meet the Saracens Odo had warned of, there was little urgency about them. But suddenly there was shouting and fearful voices, and Sir Walter held up a hand, his head cocked. The man before him continued extolling the virtues of his grain over that of other merchants, a fact hotly disputed by the others, so Sir Walter nodded to Fulk, who stepped before the merchant as Sir Walter walked from the pavilion, bellowing for an explanation of the noise. Fulk made it clear that the negotiation was adjourned, and hurried out to see what was happening.
A rider was cantering towards them, his horse flecked with foam and sweat. He swung from the saddle and hurried to join them, panting his news breathlessly. A party of Saracens had found some pilgrims only a few leagues from the camp. This man had been in a copse at the time, and witnessed the appearance of the Saracens, the capture of the Christians, the separation of the youngest from the main group and the beheading of the others. He was the sole survivor. While he spoke, the army’s commanders arrived to hear his words. He had to repeat his tale three times as more and more men came to listen.
Godfrey Burel leaned forward to the breathless, grieving messenger. ‘How many in the party?’
‘Only some hundred horsemen. Not more, I think.’
‘And they rode back where?’
‘East and south. I saw them go, and as soon as I could, I came back here. I couldn’t do anything to protect them, sir! I was alone. If I’d tried—’
‘You did nothing wrong,’ Sir Walter said. ‘It was better that you brought news of this attack to us.’ He turned to the other commanders and Fulk could see his face was twisted with concern. ‘We must send to the city and ask for reinforcements. Someone must tell Peter the Hermit, too. He must come back at once.’
‘He didn’t come back yesterday, when he was told about the men killed at the castle.’ Looking up, Fulk saw it was Godfrey Burel. ‘Why wait? If we do, they’ll likely wipe us out! We’ve no defences to speak of, and the idea that we, the army, should sit on our arses is mad. It’s not what I came here for! We all travelled here to fight for God. He will protect us if we take the initiative. I say we march at once and attack!’
Fulk saw Alwyn shake his head. The Saxon had walked to join the gathering when the messenger appeared, and now he spoke with ill-contained frustration. ‘If you march to them, you will be slaughtered. Kilij-Arslan has a large army, and if he is approaching you may be sure that he will have collected together all his vassals to destroy us. Better by far to evacuate this place and wait for—’
‘That is the word of a Byzantine!’ Godfrey said contemptuously.
‘I am a Saxon, not Greek! I have seen their host at first hand. I know these men; I have fought them. They have an awesome army.’
‘I don’t know why you are here! All you want to do is avoid battle. Not me! I’m a foot soldier. I don’t need a knight’s belt and spurs to give me courage. I have enough of that already. All I need is a spear and a sword and shield, and I can go and kill all the Saracens you want! I say we go to them!’
‘Oh, really? And what would be your strategy?’ Sir Walter said sarcastically.
‘What strategy do we need? God wants us to throw these heathens off His Holy Land, so all we need to do is find them and He will help us with the rest. We find them, and we fight them until they’re all dead.’
There was a cry of ‘God wills it!’ and others took up the call, with ‘Dieu le veut!’
‘God prefers to help those who think through their actions first!’ Sir Walter snapped.
‘What, are you scared of a fight? These are heathens, not Christians!’
‘It matters not! One Christian may fight ten thousand, but even with the courage of an Achilles or a Hector, he would still be overwhelmed,’ Alwyn cried.
‘If you have courage, you will march now!’ Godfrey said. He turned and held his arms wide, speaking to the men of the army who had joined the ring abo
ut the bickering commanders and were now listening with interest. ‘Look at these distinguished knights, my friends! Look at them! All cautious and wary in the face of the enemy’s advance. All would have you think that they were the boldest, bravest, most honourable men, and yet they want to remain here. Well, let them! I have a spear and a sword, and I’m happy to walk out now and fight any number of these Saracen scum! Who will march with me?’
There were many bellows of support, and more than a few catcalls and jeers at the knights, and Alwyn felt a rising anger and panic to hear them. His mind was bent to Jibril and Sara. If these fools wanted to throw themselves needlessly against the army now massed against them, he would not see his servants slain needlessly.
Nearby, Sir Walter bristled to hear the foot soldier’s declamation and stepped forward, raising both his hands over his head. ‘Listen to me! Listen! If you march out to war like this, without preparation, without knowing the size of the enemy, without knowing his line of march, without knowing anything about him, you will be slain!’
‘That is heresy!’ Godfrey countered. ‘If God wills it, we cannot fail!’
‘God will not bend Heaven and earth to help those who do nothing for themselves!’ Sir Walter shouted as the crowd broke into loud insults. There was a sneer from one of Godfrey’s men, and Sir Walter shoved him in the breast, his hand going to his sword. Instantly Godfrey and three of his companions had their hands on their own weapons, and it was only when Alwyn stepped between them, pleading for an audience, that the two parties broke apart.
‘My lords, noble knights, pilgrims all! Let us not do the work of our enemies for them! Do we want to commit murder here? Focus on the real enemy! They are out there, perhaps marching to meet us even now. Sheath your swords and keep them ready for the Saracens!’
‘And what will you do if we march?’ Godfrey demanded.
Alwyn looked at him with disdain and held up his savaged hand, showing where his finger had been shorn away. ‘I will march! I will march at your side, but only if Sir Walter tells me that the time is right. I would not willingly march into a trap. Would you?’
‘I march for God. If He wills it, I put my faith in Him.’
CHAPTER 31
Civitot, Wednesday 15th October, 1096
‘Fulk, walk with me,’ Sir Walter said. He led the way back to the pavilion, where the merchants still stood hopefully, and the guards hustled them from the tent. ‘Fulk, I need to you take a message to Peter, telling him all that has passed today.’
‘No, Sir Walter. I am your servant, but I will not run from this battle like a coward. If I go, it will be late tomorrow or the day after before I could return and I would be too late to take part.’
‘Someone must warn the Emperor.’
‘Not I. I will remain at the battle until we win or I die.’
‘Your commitment does you honour. Very well, I will find another.’ He sighed and stared through the open tentflap. ‘The foot soldiers insist on marching at once. So be it. They may be right. Even if I were to delay and wait to seek for the Saracens, in all likelihood they would find us first, and in that case, we may well be destroyed. If we march out, at least we may bring them to fight on ground of our choosing.’
He was about to continue when there came a call at the pavilion’s entrance. Sir Walter barked, ‘Enter!’ and Sir Roger walked in, ducking beneath the doorway.
‘Sir Walter, I would be glad if you would accept my sword at your side.’
‘I would be honoured. Will you take my commands?’
‘Yes. I would be content to ride at your side, but if you prefer, I will swear allegiance to you now.’
‘Kneel, then,’ Sir Walter said.
Sir Roger was surprised, but he bent his knee and turned his face to the ground, holding up his hands. Sir Walter placed his own about them and took Sir Roger’s oath, before helping him to his feet.
‘Sir Roger, I wished to have you swear your oath, rather than agree to ride at my side, because I may have to give you an order that goes against your instincts.’
‘I can swear to you that I would never need to be ordered to fight!’
‘That,’ Sir Walter said with a little smile, ‘was not my fear. It is possible that the battle will go so badly for us, that I will have to command you to retreat from the battle.’
‘Sir Walter, I could not.’
‘Sir Roger, you will, if I deem it necessary. I may desire you to leave the field and bring news of the disaster to the Emperor and to Peter the Hermit. This would not be a matter of cowardice, but an act of courage that may help to ensure that the next pilgrims will be better advised. I will ensure that my clerk gives you a letter confirming this agreement. If we are too sorely pressed, we will need someone to bear tidings to the Emperor.’
‘Surely you could do so yourself?’
‘Me? No, I will not be able to do so, for if I were to be seen leaving, the battle would become a rout in moments and all our men would be slaughtered. But at least if you return and tell of the tactics and methods of these Saracens, some good may come of our deaths.’
Fulk felt a cold chill to hear his words. ‘Do you think that we could lose?’
Sir Walter had forgotten Fulk was still there. He took a deep breath. ‘Fulk, if I were marching this army against a force led by the King of France, or the Holy Roman Emperor, I would know that my plan must fail. A bickering force of pilgrims, pitted against the martial power of the King or the Emperor, must surely collapse. These Saracens are not so powerful as a Christian ruler, of course, but we do not know their strength, only that your brother told us there were countless thousands. He could be wrong, and this force that beheaded the Christians might be only a scouting party; but I fear that it is the precursor to the main army, and if that is correct and the host of the Saracens is near us, we can only put our faith in God and fight with all our strength.’
‘What if we fail?’
‘That is easy. If we fail, we die.’
Sybille was mostly recovered now. For that first day she had been weak and feverish, and although she had improved with rest and water, she was still very weary. Guillemette was convinced that she was so enfeebled because she had spent so much time looking after her daughter during the weary miles to reach Constantinople. Now that Richalda was fit and well again, after resting here in the camp, at last Sybille had been struck down herself. It certainly seemed more an attack of complete exhaustion, rather than a sun-fever.
‘You should let me get him,’ Guillemette had said during that first afternoon. ‘Let me fetch Fulk. He should know you are like this.’
‘Why? If I am dying, what good would it do him? Better that he doesn’t see me like this,’ Sybille said.
‘He cares for you. He would wish to comfort you.’
‘He is not my kin. It would be unseemly for him to be here. I am a widow, not a concubine. I am in mourning still. Having a single man come to see me now would not be right.’
Guillemette was sure that Sybille was not trying to be hurtful, but that word, concubine, stung, nonetheless. She had to take a deep breath before she spoke again. ‘If you die and you do not allow him to see you, how would he feel? You do not think of him at all?’
‘I do, yes,’ Sybille said. ‘But if I call him to come to me when I am unwell, what would that achieve? You think I don’t care about him, that I am heartless? I do care, and that is my agony. I cannot trust myself with him. I yearn for him, but I am still a widow, and I may not show my feelings for him.’
‘You are on pilgrimage, and—’
‘And what? You think that makes any difference?’ Sybille hissed. She grasped Guillemette’s forearm, making Guillemette wince. ‘Listen to me! I set off with a husband all those months ago, and now I have nothing! Do you think I want to lose another man? If I give my heart to Fulk – what remains of my heart – there will be nothing left if it is broken again!’
‘He wouldn’t—’
‘I don’t care about fideli
ty! What if he dies? Who knows which men will die, which will live? Perhaps, if we do reach Jerusalem, then I can think again, but now? Now, I do not dare fall in love. It would kill me!’
Guillemette recalled that conversation now. The camp was astir, with pilgrims gathering belongings, women packing food for their men, some of them preparing themselves for another march, and she looked across at Sybille. She was sitting with Richalda, playing. A nervous smile was on her face, as if she feared breaking down at any moment.
Richalda looked up as Mathena walked past, a basket full of loaves resting on one hip. ‘Are we going soon?’
Guillemette smiled at her, and looked at her mother.
‘No, my sweetheart. I don’t think we want to see another battle, do we?’ Sybille said. ‘We would only get in the way of the men, wouldn’t we?’
‘Others are going, aren’t they?’
Guillemette looked at Sybille. She sat with a rigid tension in her muscles that spoke of her terror at the thought of another march towards slaughter. Sybille looked as though seeing another battle would send her raving. Guillemette sighed inwardly, but leaving Sybille and her child behind alone was unthinkable.
‘Some are, Richalda, but I don’t think it’s very sensible. Do you? I think we would do better to remain here and prepare to welcome the men back, once they have won their battle.’
Alwyn stood and watched as the knights and their men-at-arms went to their shelters to begin to prepare. He saw Sir Roger hurrying from Sir Walter’s pavilion a little later, and felt the acid in his belly at the sight. Alwyn still wanted to kill the man, but he must not, lest news of his act came to the Vestes’ ear.
But in a battle, sometimes it was possible to kill a man and others not realise.
With that thought he hurried to his own tent. Even as he went, the camp was erupting into urgent activity. Men were rushing about – two barging into Alwyn and making him mutter under his breath. They were gathering their weapons and stores for two days or more. No one knew how long this might take. Women hurried to the springs and wells, filling leather flasks and costrels, hurriedly packing their few goods, while children screamed and bickered at the sudden, unaccustomed busyness. Wailing came from one side of the camp as men took leave of their womenfolk, while in other groups the women shouldered weapons along with their husbands, prepared to stand or die beside them.
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