Alwyn paused, standing still as the men and women hurtled about him, watching them with perplexity. They were not fearful! There was an air almost of a feast day about the people, as though they need only turn up at a battle for God to deliver the enemy to them. But Alwyn remembered the battle at Hastings and the other at Dyrrhachium. He could see all the bodies littering the ground at both, and he knew that although God could certainly destroy any enemy He wished, a man would be well advised to shift for himself if he wanted to live to see the victory.
Soon, he feared, most of these men would be dead. That thought settled like lead in his mind as he continued on his way.
At the flap of his shelter Sara was waiting for him, Jibril behind her, both staring out at the activity with fear.
‘Sara, pack your things. You must return to the city. Take Jibril with you. I am called to battle.’
‘I will not go.’
‘You have to. I need you to look after Jibril,’ he snarled.
Jibril sank back inside the shadows, but Sara stood her ground, blocking his way inside. ‘I will not go,’ she said.
Alwyn glared at her, then began to throw all his belongings into a small sack. ‘You have to go, woman. I go to fight in a battle, and I may well die there. If I die, you will be safer back in the city than out here. The army may wipe out these foolish pilgrims, and then they will come here and rape and kill all the women. You understand me?’ He looked up, then dropped his sack and took her by the upper arms. ‘You have to leave here, or I will not be able to fight. I cannot go to battle knowing that you are at risk here.’
‘If you know I am here, you will fight harder,’ she said defiantly, her chin raised. ‘I stay here.’
‘What of Jibril?’
‘I am ready.’
Alwyn turned to see that his servant had bound a long knife about his waist, and now he stood determinedly, waiting. ‘I will see to your horse and polish your sword. I am a good servant. You need me with you.’
Staring from one to the other, Alwyn felt his eyes smarting. ‘You fools!’ he said, and then smiled, turning away to wipe at his cheeks so they could not see the tracks of his tears.
Odo ran to the shore after hearing the news of the army’s imminent departure. Jeanne was there in her usual place near a great black rock at the water’s edge, and he hurried to meet her.
‘My lady, we have wonderful news!’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘We have found the enemy army at last! We shall ride to them and, with God’s aid, we must defeat them!’
Jeanne’s face paled. ‘But you told of the vast size of their army.’
Odo had no doubts. ‘God must succeed, no matter how powerful the enemy. This will be the last great battle, during which the forces of the heathens must be utterly destroyed, and then . . . Jerusalem!’
‘You are sure of this?’ Jeanne said.
‘Woman, you don’t understand. When the forces of God stand against the heathen, God’s people must inevitably win,’ Odo said condescendingly.
‘I hope so. I am scared, Odo. I fear losing you, and being all alone. What would happen to me then?’
‘You need not worry yourself, maid. I won’t give you up so easily,’ Odo said. ‘I will be back, and when I am, I will protect you.’
And then, I will marry you, he promised himself, looking down tenderly. He wanted to kiss her, but he dare not. Not until they were married. Otherwise his desire and passion could overwhelm him. Better by far to remain chaste for now.
Fulk rode with Sir Walter, while Odo rode further ahead with the scouts. Sir Walter’s company included Sir Roger and his men, and a scowling, unhappy Alwyn, who glowered at the surrounding hills like a man being taken to the gallows, Jibril trotting at his side.
There was an air of suppressed excitement in the host as they rode out from the camp in six columns, each of them marching under a proud, glittering banner. Men had spent their spare moments stitching their pilgrim crosses more securely on their breasts, while squires and servants spent their time polishing and sharpening all the various weapons that the knights needed. The noise had been deafening. For Fulk it was a relief to be marching at last.
The army marched with the slow determination of men who wore thickly padded gambesons or heavy coats of mail. The knights were the most heavily weighed down, with their mail coverings and heavy steel helmets, but the ordinary foot soldiers were forced to bear all their own equipment. Only a few had the aid of a donkey. Most of the pack animals had been eaten on the way to Constantinople or here at Civitot.
Fulk rode on through the dust with his head hunched, eyes slitted against the grit. Every particle that entered his eye seemed to scour the surface of his eyeball like the point of a dagger.
‘Smile, boy! You may never see a sight like this again,’ Peter of Auxerre chuckled at his side. He seemed impervious to the clouds of dust rising all about them.
‘Smile?’ Fulk’s eyes were watering unceasingly. ‘At what? The sight of a division of men walking? I would smile if there were a pretty woman to smile back at me. But this? All I can feel is my eyes being worn away with every blink.’
‘You need to take life more simply,’ Peter said. ‘Look at him. He has a sense of humour.’
He pointed to a priest who rode back down the column with a beaming smile on his face, assuring all who would listen to him that this was a glorious day to die, that God Himself would welcome with open arms any one of the pilgrims who died on the battlefield, because their presence here meant that they would die without sin. ‘Killing heretics is no crime! It is the path to eternal life! Slay as many as you can, and know that every wound on your body will be blessed in the sight of Christ! God Himself will reward you, all of you!’
Fulk watched the cheerful priest with bemusement. ‘He is very confident of God’s thoughts.’
‘I would be prepared to wager that the good priest has been supping at the communion wine,’ Peter said. ‘With the Masses said for all these men, there can’t have been much left over, but he may have thought to drink it all to save it from the Saracens, in case they did break through us.’
‘Will they, do you think?’ Fulk asked. He had to repeat his question.
‘Mayhap. If it looks like they will, we’ll just have to put our faith in our nags and hope they can take us to safety.’
Fulk nodded. It was not the most reassuring reflection.
It was as they came over the side of a small hill that they saw the Saracen army planted on the road before them.
‘Look at them!’ a man blurted.
Peter puffed out his cheeks. ‘Today we earn our bread, boys,’ he said.
Alwyn puffed out his cheeks to see the mass of men in their path. In his mind’s eye he saw again the Normans at Dyrrhachium, their flags fluttering softly in the gentle breeze, their armour grey-brown with rust, but these Moors were not formed of the same clay. These men were proud warriors, and they stood out against the ground like sable-clad giants. Their limbs gleamed when the sun struck them, shining brightly in his eyes as if reflected by ten thousand mirrors. Helms shone like pure silver, and their flags were not the dull, sun-bleached linens of the Normans, but silken banners which gleamed and flamed.
‘Good gracious God,’ one of the men murmured, while others were muttering the Paternoster.
‘Jibril, I need you to return to Sara. Go to her and tell her that if I do not return by dawn tomorrow, she must take you to the sea and return to Constantinople. You must go to the palace and speak to the Vestes and tell him the size of this army. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes. But I stay here with you. Your servant . . . your squire.’
‘No. I need you to run to Sara. Right now, Jibril. Do not delay.’
Alwyn watched as the lad trotted away, darting between the horses and mules of the army, until at last he saw the slender figure breast a little hill and disappear behind it.
‘Right, then,’ he said, and tugged at his sword belt, pu
lling his gloves a little tighter, checking the long knife in its sheath and thrusting it home again. ‘At least you’re safe, Jibril. God help all of us.’
At the outset, all Fulk knew was utter dread. The enemy was so numerous, so vast, that he felt deep in his bones a cold certainty that it was impossible for him to survive this clash of arms. All across the valley before him was a wooded area, but beyond that there stood an army so massive that he could not hope to count the men. It would be like trying to count the ants in a disturbed nest. The sun glinted from lance-tips, helmets and gleaming mail, while silken banners and flags rippled over their heads, but he still had the impression of black beetles, perhaps because of the menace that the horde represented. It was a scene of colour and pageantry, but that did not detract from the ominous threat emanating from the ranks of men and horses.
His belly seemed to turn to liquid slops, and he had to clench his buttocks in an effort to save himself the ultimate embarrassment. He could not help but look for Odo, wondering if his brother felt a similar emasculation, but Odo was staring ahead fixedly like a huntsman watching for the quarry before releasing his hounds. For an instant Fulk resented Odo’s calmness, but then his attention was distracted.
There was a movement as the Christian divisions advanced. At either flank, squadrons of Saracen cavalry moved out away from the main army, while individual riders from each company rode back to the centre of the Saracens, to where a great banner danced in the wind.
Sir Walter observed these and pointed them out to his commanders. ‘Look! They report our appearance. They have good systems of control and communication, then, which means that banner is the place where their leader rests. He is the man we must remove.’
Alwyn muttered, ‘They are well versed in all forms of warfare.’
‘Aye, they are a professional army.’ Sir Walter was silent a moment as he sat on his massive destrier, his men clustered all about him. Then he looked up and around at the men nearby. ‘Gentlemen, good knights and common men, this is the moment we have sought. We came here to seek the Saracens and destroy them so that we could continue on our way to Jerusalem. We have found the Saracen army, and it is a great army. We could hardly have expected to find so magnificent an opponent, but it matters not, for we have God on our side. No man may stand against us while we have Him with us.’
Near his left side, Fulk could not help but think that when Godfrey Burel had said the same, Sir Walter had not been so convinced, but he knew his knight was attempting to build the spirits of his men.
Now Sir Walter continued more loudly: ‘All of us shall ride today into history, for who will forget the charge that won Jerusalem for God? You will all of you win great glory today, and you shall be a source of jealousy for all those who did not join us. They will feel themselves dishonoured, those who stayed at home and so missed this opportunity for renown. So ride hard, be bold, show your Christian courage!’ With that, he called out to the foot soldiers, bellowing a similar message of boldness and courage. Finally he beckoned his priest forward, and the men all bent their heads as prayers were spoken.
As the priest made the sign of the cross and finished, Sir Walter lifted his head. He cast a look to left and right. ‘We shall ride onwards at the trot, my friends.’
Fulk felt his horse begin to jog forwards before his legs or hands could give the command. His beast knew what was expected of it, and he was riding straight towards the Saracens at the far right wing.
The horses at both flanks were already breaking into a canter, and Fulk heard Peter grunt in approval.
‘What?’ Fulk demanded, crouching low and trying to maintain his seat. He was unused to riding at any time, and sitting atop this rocking, jerking creature was almost as alarming as facing a Saracen on one. Trotting was hard enough; the thought of galloping was as terrifying as jumping off a cliff.
‘They know what they are doing. Send out the horsemen with bows first, to soften up the front. Poor devils don’t realise what they’re facing, though, if they think that their little arrows will hurt the knights!’
Fulk saw what he meant. As the horses rode on, the front ranks of knights began to charge, their lances lowering as their destriers took up the gallop, but just as it looked as though the Saracen horsemen must be speared like so many boars in the woods, Fulk saw the Saracens disperse, fading away into clots of ones and twos, some running along the front of the knights, some running along their flanks, while others turned tail and ran, and over the thunder of the Christian hoofs, Fulk heard bloodcurdling screams and shouts, as though all the demons from Hell had been set loose on the field of battle.
He heard the bright, clear tones of a horn blown, and saw that ahead the pennons and flags were lowered, and realised that Sir Walter and his knights were beginning their charge. Peter did not follow immediately, and Fulk looked over at him, but Peter pointed with his chin at the knights. ‘Let them ride on ahead. We’re to hit the enemy as a second wave, then give the knights spare spears and remounts.’
A squire whom Fulk vaguely recognised bellowed a command, lifted his fist holding a lance, and pointed it after the knights. Fulk could hear nothing but the blood surging in his veins and the pounding of his heart. The air was full of dust and grit, and he coughed and spat. He had never felt so alone as he did now, in this mass of men and horses with roiling clouds of fine sand obscuring the sight of the Saracens. To his alarm the beast beneath him began to increase his speed, and settled into a brisk canter along with all the others about him. Then the squire urged his mount into a gallop, but even as he did, three knights came hurtling back towards them. All three were wearing tunics that had been slashed and torn, the shield of one was dented and had a huge notch hacked out of the top, and a second had an arrow protruding from his flank.
Two took up fresh lances and joined the men. The knight with the arrow in his side remained, his head low – he reminded Fulk of a panting hound sitting after a long chase – while the army flowed about him like river water about a small rock.
Fulk felt his beast pick up speed, and now he was forced to crouch lower, feeling the saddle rise and club his buttocks with every pace. He heard the low growling roar of the Christian fighters as they gave their battle cries, and the lances were lowered as a line of Saracen horse appeared in front of them, and then the Saracens seemed to separate and disappear, and he realised that they were allowing the Christians to pound onwards without finding any of them. At the same time he saw a man in front of him struck by three arrows, and he reeled in his saddle, then fell. A second man shrieked and hunched over as an arrow struck his neck. His spear point dropped, hit the ground, and he was catapulted from his saddle by the spear’s butt under his armpit. A third man was hit and fell instantly, while two more men were flung from their horses by arrows.
At last Fulk realised that Saracen bowmen were riding parallel with his company, loosing arrows with abandon as they rode. He pointed to them, shouting at Peter, but others had seen them, and broke away from the main group to chase after the Saracens, who immediately took flight. Before Fulk could give a jeer of pride to see the Saracens ride away, he saw them turn, inexplicably, and loose more arrows over their horses’ rumps. They were as accurate with their bows in retreat as they were at the charge, and another Christian was tumbled from his mount. The man behind him had his horse hit, and it collapsed, head falling, snapping its neck with a horrible crackle even as the rider was thrown. He landed on his head and didn’t rise again.
Fulk watched with horror, and realised that there were more Saracens behind him. They had ridden behind the Christians, and had all but encircled Fulk’s companions as well as Sir Walter’s. Their retreat was sliced in two by a knife of Saracen steel. ‘Peter! Peter! They’re behind us!’ Fulk screamed, but he didn’t know if Peter heard him or not. Peter was lifting his sword to cut at an unhorsed Saracen on the ground, and as he did so Fulk saw his opponent raise his bow and loose an arrow into Peter’s face. His head was thrown back, and as Ful
k stared in appalled fascination, Peter fell back against his cantle and rode away, already dead.
CHAPTER 32
Three miles from Civitot, Wednesday 15th October, 1096
Alwyn drew his sword and stabbed at the nearest Saracen, but missed. He was too out of training for this, he thought. Hacking at another man, his sword bounced from the man’s armour, and almost rebounded into his own thigh. He decided to use the point and try to break through his enemy’s armour, but it was not easy. Saracen armour was noted for its strength, and he could not break through the man’s mail. The man kept up a steady series of blows aimed now at Alwyn’s head and now at his belly or thighs, and in the flurry of strikes Alwyn found it hard to block and parry each. A lucky stab sheared into the man’s cheek and he cried out once, then fell, to be trampled.
Alwyn had a moment to breathe. He had seen Sir Roger earlier; the young knight was beset by enemies on all sides, and Alwyn found himself praying that he might not fall, so that he could himself strike the final blow. He could ride up behind the knight and assail him from behind while he was engaged by Moorish knights. Then, as he fell, Alwyn would tell him why he had attacked him, remind him of the name of his father among the English, and leave him to die in the dirt like the . . .
Alwyn was struck a great coup from behind, and he fell forward. His opponent aimed a cut at his neck, and Alwyn jerked aside as the sword fell, shearing through his horse’s neck and lodging there. As the man tried to wrest his blade free, the horse reared, and Alwyn shoved his sword at the man’s exposed armpit. It slid into the Moor’s chest with ease, and the man toppled from his horse even as Alwyn’s steed crumpled with blood spraying from his nostrils. Alwyn had time only to kick his feet clear of the stirrups and throw himself aside as his beast fell dead.
Pilgrim's War Page 34
