Pilgrim's War

by Michael Jecks

  There were men and horses all about. From the ground, it seemed as if he was in a forest of hoofed legs. Men rode past, battering at each other with their great swords ringing. A knight rode at him to stab him with a sword, but recognised he was no Saracen at the last moment and instead swung his blade to smite another man. Alwyn gripped his sword in both hands, praying for a miracle.

  ‘Don’t let me die here,’ he prayed, and quickly kissed the cross of his sword.

  There was a shout and a thunder, and he looked up to see a Saracen aiming an arrow at him; he commended his soul to God, for in that instant he knew he was looking at death itself, but then a man rode up behind the archer and brought a sword down on the man’s head with such violence that Alwyn saw it slice halfway down the Saracen’s forehead. The arrow flew wild, and as the knight wrestled to free his sword, Alwyn realised it was Sir Roger.

  His sword free once more, Sir Roger saluted Alwyn and rode on.

  Alwyn pursed his lips and returned to the fray.

  Some ranks behind Fulk, Gilles felt his blood surge to be in battle again. Sir Roger had been pensive as they rode towards this place, but as soon as they caught sight of the enemy and the call to battle was heard, all hesitation and irresolution were washed away. It was good to see that all the hard-learned lessons of Sir Roger’s youth had mingled with his experience on the journey. They had given him confidence in himself and in the men about him.

  Riding at his side, Gilles looked about him. There were so few of them now, with only Eudes and Guarin remaining from the original guard and Lothar, the tall Rhinelander, loping along with them. It gave Gilles a fleeting sadness that they were all gone.

  He felt no fear of his own death. He would be happy to rejoin the others in Heaven, if that was his fate today. For now, all he felt was the elation that came with the end of anticipation. As he spurred his mount to the canter along with his knight, he felt a thrilling in his breast and a broad smile washed across his face. He glanced at Lothar, who maintained a stolid glower in the face of the enemy, but when he looked across at Gilles, the Rhinelander too began to grin, and the two bellowed their excitement as the horses began to lengthen their stride, shaking their heads, the roar of the wind deafening them and making them blink.

  The lines before them were pelting ahead now, and Gilles saw them slam into the ranks of the Saracens: initially the heavy knights, while their squires and men-at-arms formed separate lines behind them, so that the attack was a rippling like the sea rushing the shore, first one, then a second, then a third, and the Saracens were washed away like the sands. Yet always there were more of them. Their forces were vast, an unimaginable number, Gilles thought, and he was preparing to gallop when suddenly a flight of arrows came, black as a murder of crows. Gilles felt one strike and bounce from his shoulder, but to his left a horse dived to the ground with an arrow in his head, flinging his rider to the ground as a large force of Saracens appeared on the right. There was a terrifying moment of panic, but then Gilles saw Lothar rise in his stirrups and remove a Saracen head with one sweep of his sword, and Gilles roared, charging the nearest riders with his spear. He struck one man, and saw him crumple like a roll of parchment struck with a club, before aiming at another. There was a jerk at his arm as the tip caught the man in the breast and he too fell away, and Gilles realised that his lance had sheared off. All that remained was a four-foot stump with a vicious point of splintered wood.

  A Saracen rode at him with his sword upraised, and Gilles thrust the remains of his weapon into the man’s face, sending him tumbling backwards. Gilles threw the stump of his lance at another man and drew his sword, looking for Sir Roger, Guarin, Eudes or Lothar, but it was already impossible to see them in the press. There was only a mass of men, thrusting and stabbing at each other, seen through the hot dust that rose in choking swirls to blind them.

  In the confusion Gilles was dizzy, wondering in which direction the main force was and where he was pointing now, but the onrush of Saracens was too powerful for him to get his bearings. He found his horse being forced back, while he blundered about with his sword, flailing to protect his beast and himself as weapons slammed at him, bruising him beneath his mail and padded gambeson, feeling the jarring of heavy blows on his helmet. He felt his arm tiring, the dusty breath tearing at his throat, but then there came a scream like a banshee and suddenly three men were felled from his side, and Lothar was there, his sword whirling in his hand. The Saracens held back from that, but one man darted forward with an arrow nocked to the string, and would have let it fly but for Eudes. The man-at-arms was too far away to stab the archer, but he swiftly pulled out his long-bladed dagger and flung it. It missed the man’s face, but sliced into the palm of his hand, making him shriek, but also cutting the bowstring that cracked like a breaking rock, one half slicing neatly up the archer’s cheek and into his eye.

  As he was trying to pull the blade from his hand, Eudes reached him, took the knife and stabbed the man in the throat. As he did so, Gilles and Lothar reached his side. Guarin was nowhere to be seen. Gilles wondered whether he had fallen.

  ‘They have surrounded the others,’ Eudes said, pointing with his bloody dagger. ‘The whole of Sir Walter’s force is in there.’

  Gilles could see the banners of the knights rising over the pennants and flags of the Saracens who blocked their path. More arrows were directed towards them, and he swatted at them irritably, like a bull flicking his tail at flies. ‘We cannot break through this many.’

  ‘If we stay, we must be killed,’ Lothar said. ‘Where is Sir Roger?’

  ‘By God’s blood!’ Gilles said. There was no sign of him immediately. And then he caught a glimpse of a warrior battling like a berserker, his sword held two-handed as he dealt blows on all sides from his destrier. There was one man at his side, and Gilles recognised Guarin. ‘There!’

  Sir Roger was failing. He could feel his strength ebbing as he blocked, slashed and stabbed. The sword in his hands was slick, the grip growing slippery as blood dripped down the blade and ran onto his fist and the hilts, but he could not surrender. His father would hear of his death, he thought, and his soul would be forever saved. That was a glorious prospect. Guarin was with him, laying about with his sword while the Saracens kept on battling, but then Sir Roger saw Guarin turn to him. There was an arrow at his belly, and as Sir Roger urgently tried to go to him, another arrow struck the man’s throat and he slid from his horse.

  ‘No!’ Sir Roger bellowed. He could only stare as Guarin landed heavily on the ground, his hands at the arrow in his throat at though trying to pull it loose, and then his hands fell away.

  He was dead. There was nothing Sir Roger could do for him. He felt an arrow pluck at the tunic at his waist, spinning away as it hit the mail beneath, and turned to ride down the archer before he could pluck a fresh missile. The archers here needed space, he realised. If they were pressed hard, a determined cavalry attack could crush them, but first a man had to catch them, or hold them against a river or rockface. If they had an escape, they would melt away before the knight’s charge. This one spurred his beast and turned to run before Sir Roger could catch up with him. He turned in his saddle and drew a fresh arrow, but then the man began a loud keening wail, slumped over his horse’s rump. And behind him, his sword still covered in the archer’s blood, was Gilles.

  ‘Sir Roger, we have to get you away from here.’

  ‘No!’ Sir Roger snarled. ‘I’ll not retreat in the face of these heretics!’

  ‘If you don’t, you’ll die!’

  ‘I will not!’ Sir Roger said, staring about him. And then he saw Sir Walter. There was a momentary gap in the press, and he saw the knight clearly, battling with three Moorish horsemen. Sir Roger saw Sir Walter’s helmet turn towards him, and felt shame to see the leader of the pilgrim army so beset. He spurred his mount, bellowing his war cry, but even as his beast began to surge forward, he saw an arrow strike Sir Walter in the face, and then he was hidden from view. The men m
oved, the battle flowed onwards, but the window into Sir Walter’s plight was gone.

  ‘No! Sir Walter!’

  ‘Sir Roger, please! We must go!’

  ‘What of the rest of the men?’

  ‘Perhaps they have retreated to reform the charge, sir?’

  Sir Roger nodded vaguely. His heart still thundered with the thrill and fascination of the battle, and now his eyes were all over the field, seeking his friends. ‘There are some over there. It looks like a pilgrim banner,’ he said.

  For Fulk, at least, from the moment he saw Peter die, the day became one of confusion: gaping mouths, fierce excitement and visceral horror.

  Fulk wanted to go and stop Peter’s horse, but already events were overtaking him. More Saracens were riding about the encircled knights and men, and although the foot soldiers were trying to reach the knights to defend them, the Saracen horses were too swift, darting in close to loose an arrow or two, then retreating as speedily before a man could try to attack them in his turn. They kept up their incessant waves of archers riding in, wheeling about, riding away, and each time more men would fall from the Christian side.

  ‘This is madness!’ Fulk screamed, and stared about him, unsure what to do, where to aim his mount, how to attack the enemy. That was when the Saracens burst through the Christian flank and hacked its way into their midst. He saw a black-bearded heathen screaming in his unintelligible tongue, his curved sword cutting all about, before a lucky arrow struck him down. A Christian rode past Fulk, his mouth wide, his eyes terrified, his throat gaping from a sword-cut, blood spraying and covering Fulk. He wiped his face hurriedly, in time to see a man in front of him turn; as he opened his mouth to bellow, his face became bloated, as if inflated like a pig’s bladder. An arrow had slammed into his skull. A man stood up in his stirrups, staring all about him, then peering at the ground, where his arm and sword lay. He looked more peevish than upset.

  Fulk felt someone tug at his arm. It was his brother.

  ‘We have to escape,’ Odo said. ‘If we stay here, we shall be cut to pieces!’

  Fulk nodded, staring at the chaos all about. He understood his brother, but while his mind was considering his words, his body insisted on remaining still and watching, as though he was impervious to danger. He gazed at the carnage, seeing men hacked, beaten, punctured by arrows, knocked by slings, trampled by warhorses, and the shock sank deep into his bones. He felt heavy, unthinking, dull and leaden in the face of this remorseless horror.

  ‘Brother!’ Odo shouted, and slapped his face. ‘Fulk! Wake up! Come with me!’

  Odo could see that his brother was befuddled. It struck him as strange, for here, in the middle of the battle, Odo felt in his element. His mind was clear. The sight of the enemy simplified everything, reduced every decision to the basic one: what must he do to survive so that he could carry on with God’s plan? This was simplicity itself: he must kill or die. He must fight his way clear, before making his way back to the shore and safety. If he were to die, he knew that God would take him to Heaven, so he had nothing to lose, but he yet had a duty to live, in order that he could fight on.

  He was a soldier of Christ: a warrior of God.

  Fulk looked lost. It brought a pang to Odo’s heart. He saw how Fulk blinked, gazing about him at the carnage, as confused and lost as a child.

  ‘Brother!’ Odo cried again, and slapped him again with his leather-gauntleted palm. ‘Fulk, in God’s name, bestir yourself!’

  Fulk’s eyes turned to him, his eyes full of tears. Odo would have to speak with him seriously later. Fulk was weak. He was Odo’s brother, but this indecision was unforgivable. Fulk must harden himself or be lost.

  He pulled the reins of Fulk’s horse and spurred his own mount. Fulk watched, appalled, as the pilgrims were cut down, but a pair of horsemen, whether Christian or Saracen Odo could not tell, passed between the brothers and the injured and dying, and as though a rope had been snapped, Fulk returned to the present, shivering. Odo felt a flare of contempt, but he swallowed it. He tossed Fulk’s reins back to him, and flashed a coldly encouraging smile.

  He had his lance still in his hand, and as they rode towards the Saracens behind the army, he stabbed at an archer. The point took him in the breast with the full force of Odo and his mount behind it. Odo felt it skip over a metal plate, and then catch. With a sickening lurch, it punctured the man’s mail and was in his body. There was a greasy little movement as it entered the man’s ribcage, moving on until it caught on his backbone. The man said nothing, or else Odo’s ears were so used to screams that one more was unnoticeable, but then the man was thrust from his horse, and Odo’s lance was free again. In an instant, he saw another man grab the horse and mount, and he thought it must be a Saracen and was about to swing his lance at him, when he suddenly realised that it was Alwyn. The Saxon nodded curtly to him, and turned his own mount’s head to join the two.

  Odo heard a roar that seemed to make the ground shiver, and Lothar rode past him, his sword held high, riding full pelt for a pair of Saracen archers. One had an arrow ready, and loosed it, but the other stared in horror at the sight of the Rhinelander and seemed transfixed. Lothar’s blade caught his arm as he tried to nock a fresh arrow, and then he reversed it to smash the cross into the other archer’s face.

  An arrow passed close by Odo’s head, and he crouched lower, spurring his beast to greater efforts. There was an archer before them, but he was fumbling for a shaft as Odo reached him, and the grey blade of his sword almost beheaded the man. Then they were past, and lying low over their horses’ necks as they reached the woods and fled through them, listening as the noise of death and slaughter faded behind them.

  As they reached the far side of the wood and set their horses’ heads for the camp at Civitot, Fulk finally could not hear the battle any more. He felt safe for a moment, and the party stopped for a few moments. Gilles and Eudes stared back the way they had come, as though looking for pursuit, while Lothar grimly inspected the notches in his sword’s blade. Sir Roger looked almost blown. He sat in the saddle hunched over, looking much older than his years.

  Fulk drew a deep breath. ‘We made it!’

  ‘Made it?’ Alwyn said. ‘You realise what the Saracens will do when they’re finished with our people? They’ll come straight here.’

  ‘Here?’

  Odo could not believe how his brother had been so unmanned by the battle. ‘Of course, Fulk! They’ll come to kill the rest of the Christians! What else would you expect from heretics? They’ll want to find the camp and destroy it.’

  Fulk’s face suddenly hardened. That was when Odo knew his brother was worth rescuing. Fulk was committed to the pilgrimage, just as was Odo himself. He smiled and clubbed Fulk’s shoulder with his fist. ‘We shall survive this, Fulk!’ he said.

  ‘Sybille! We must save her and the other camp followers,’ Fulk said.

  Suddenly the bile was harsh and bitterly stinging in Odo’s throat. ‘But we have to escape this place and rejoin the other pilgrims at Constantinople,’ he said.

  ‘I saved Sybille once before; I will not leave her to suffer death here!’ Fulk shouted.

  Odo felt a lurch in his breast. Fulk would throw his life away for the whores and misfits at the camp. He was no brother. Fulk had not the divine inspiration that burned in Odo’s heart.

  Fulk was not worthy of the pilgrimage.

  CHAPTER 33

  Civitot, Wednesday 15th October, 1096

  The seven men, with three others they found on the way back, were the first to clatter into the town beside the shore, and the old men and women glanced up in surprise as they rode past, making for the main encampment, yelling to all who would listen to them, ‘The Saracens are coming!’

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ a woman called. ‘They’ll meet our men soon enough. The army will stop them!’

  ‘Woman, they have cut our men to pieces. We are all that remains!’ Odo snapped. He saw her grimace of sardonic disbelief turn to shock as she took
in the sight of Sir Roger and the others, and realised what he was saying. Shouting and yelling warnings, he continued after the others.

  ‘Quick! The Saracens are coming!’ Fulk called to a group of women chatting at a cookpot, but they merely stood and gaped at him and the others as though their warnings made no sense. Fulk tried to wave them on, to persuade them to start to move, but it was no use. They could not comprehend their danger. How could they, he wondered. If he had been in their position, it would be hard to believe that so vast an army could be eradicated utterly in so short a space of time. These women must think that Sir Roger and the others were all guilty of drinking burned wine. It was inconceivable that God could have allowed His host to be slaughtered.

  In the end, the companions rode to the little harbour. There was a small boat there, and Fulk gazed at it with hope. ‘Sir Roger, there is a ship. We can send messengers to Constantinople and ask for help. I will stay here, but I have one request: a widow, Madame Sybille, please take her and her child with you.’

  ‘I will remain,’ Sir Roger said. ‘I fled that battle; if I do not stand and fight here, I will be dishonoured forever. Sir Walter asked me to make sure that news of the battle was taken to Peter the Hermit, and that I will do, but I will stay to protect the pilgrims here, or die trying. Gilles, you go and tell the Emperor and any others who will listen.’

  Gilles shook his head. ‘Not me. Send another.’

  ‘Lothar? No? Eudes, what of you?’

  To his surprise, Sir Roger found that all his company were unwilling to leave the town without him. In the end, he turned to Fulk and Odo. ‘You will have to go. I leave it to you. Tell any who will listen how this enemy fights. Tell them that the enemy’s tactics are to rush in with bow and arrow, and then retreat, loosing missiles even as they ride away. You must tell them so that future armies know what they will meet.’

  He wheeled his horse, staring about him, and instantly his eyes went to the old tower. ‘We have to go there, I think. It’s the only defensible place here. Gilles, come with me. You others, go and tell all the women, children, old folk, to help barricade it. Odo, Fulk, Godspeed.’