For an instant, befuddled from the shock of the arrow, he wondered why there was a ladder there; it was an incongruous sight, and he gazed at it with bemusement before his brain awoke to the danger, and he screamed for help, flinging his stone at the first of the men to climb the rungs. It hit the man on the cheek, and he snarled as he came up the last rungs.
Alwyn fumbled to pull his sword from its scabbard. The cross was caught in his tunic, and in his panic he could not think to release it. Luckily Lothar was already at his side, slamming the pommel of his own weapon into the man’s face, sending him flying. While arrows smacked into the stonework, Lothar grabbed a heavy rock and dropped it down the middle of the rungs. It struck one and bounced, plummeting down to strike a man’s leg and shattering two of the ladder’s rungs. Another man began to negotiate the ladder, slowing when he reached the broken rungs, ducking as Alwyn and Lothar threw more rocks at him. Then Roul came running. He had a broken spear in his hand, and he pressed the shaft against the topmost rung. As the men below climbed the ladder, he pushed. Alwyn put his own weight behind him, and the two gradually saw the ladder swing away from the wall. It swayed, with men at the feet desperately pushing it back, but then Lothar had a lucky shot with a rock that broke the forearms and hands of three men at the right of the ladder, and in another moment the ladder was past any balance and crashed back, knocking down several men. One was hit by a splinter of rung that opened his breast from collar to belly, and he fell back, staring at the blood.
There was a shout of despair at the next wall, and Alwyn saw that a ladder had successfully disgorged Saracens, who were even now spilling out over the walkway. Alwyn bellowed, and saw Fulk turn to him.
Fulk was at the far side, but he saw the danger. He had three archers near him, and turned them. The three sent shafts at the ladder. One man at the top of the ladder was hit full in the face, and he fell back instantly, clearing those behind him. Then Fulk was running full tilt at the men on the walkway. The first had a spear, but Fulk struck it with his sword held in both hands, one hand on the blade, shoving it left and up, and running his sword down the shaft until the blade met the man’s fingers, taking them off, so furious was his charge. Fulk swung the cross up and into the man’s face, knocking him down into the tower’s interior, where old men and women set about him with their knives, while Fulk continued on.
A pilgrim was in front of him, trying to hold off two Saracens, and Fulk joined him. He felt a curved blade clash with his own, and he was shocked by the man’s strength, but then Alwyn was at his side, and his furious attack made the man flinch and draw back. Fulk stabbed, catching the man at the side of his neck. A mist of blood erupted, and the man put his hand to the wound, knowing that he was mortally wounded. He fell to his knees, and Fulk kicked him down, stabbing at his throat to end his pain. The other man had been hit by an arrow and killed, and now Fulk was at the ladder where more men were climbing. A spear lay on the walkway and Alwyn took it up, stabbing a man at the top of the ladder, then pushing it away from the wall while Lothar flung heavy rocks at the men at the ladder’s base.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Men on the walkways went from Saracen to Saracen, picking them up and throwing them over the wall.
Fulk slumped against the wall, eyeing the retreating enemy as they dragged or helped limping comrades back from the assault. All about the base of the tower he saw broken spars and rungs of the ladders, while men groaned and whimpered amid the mess.
Lothar and Roul grunted with the effort as they picked up a quietly moaning Saracen and rested him on the battlement. They pitched him over, and Fulk listened for the thud as he landed.
‘How many assaults like that can we withstand?’ Fulk said.
Lothar shrugged and peered over the wall, ducking as an arrow slithered past, narrowly missing his brow. ‘As many as they throw at us. The Pope said, “God wills it”. Let’s hope he’s right.’
Alwyn went about the bodies, stabbing each in the throat to ensure they were truly dead. With the help of a white-faced Jibril, he hauled them up to the battlements and cast them down outside the walls. It had been a hard morning, and the stench of blood and faeces from opened bodies lay heavily up here. In Alwyn’s mind the memories of past battles haunted him. At one he had lost his father and uncle, at the other his friends.
Jibril stood at his side, attentive as a mastiff, and Alwyn ruffled his hair. As he did, he felt tears threaten at the thought that this battle could see the end of his servant.
‘Master?’ Alwyn turned to find a young woman holding out a skin of water. He took it gratefully and drank, passing it to Jibril when he had had enough.
‘Thank you, mistress,’ he said as Jibril tipped his neck back. It was a large skin and unwieldy, and he spilled much over his face, making Alwyn laugh. ‘What is your name?’
‘I am Guillemette,’ she said. Her eyes were up on the walls, watching Fulk.
‘You know him?’ Alwyn said after giving her his name.
‘He walked with me part of the way from Sens.’
‘He’s a good man.’
‘Yes,’ Guillemette said, and then she reddened. She smiled at Alwyn fleetingly. ‘You were not with our army.’
‘I came here many years ago. I’ve been living here in Constantinople,’ he said. He liked the way that she made no comment on his ruined hand or his scarred face. ‘I was a warrior for the Emperor, but now I just trade in the city.’
‘You have a kind face.’
He laughed. ‘You are a swift judge! Perhaps I’m good at concealing my true colours!’
‘No, I think you’re kind.’ She smiled again, but just then there came a horn’s blast, and Alwyn took the skin from his boy and gave it back to her. ‘We must go. Another attack is forming.’
‘Be careful!’ she said impulsively.
He turned and smiled at her briefly, and then he was off up the stairs once more.
Lothar, Fulk and the remaining men were hard-pressed for the rest of the day. The assaults on the walls continued, and the garrison was forced to rally at different points of the wall through the heat and dust. The arrows flew continually, steel-tipped with barbs that dug into flesh like a tick and would not give up their purchase easily. There were some men who were trained and experienced in digging out the vicious weapons, but as the day wore on, more and more men were forced to stumble down the stairs to where priests and the women were praying and trying to help the injured. Before midday the whole of the ground area was a dense mass of injured men and women. Only when the sun began to sink did the Saracens draw back, to sit and sing and dance at their great fires.
As dark flooded the land, Fulk left the walls and went down to see the people. Lothar sat where he was, watching Fulk walk from one person to another. Sir Roger was still standing. His face was smeared with blood, and he was constantly clenching his left hand and bending his elbow from where a maul had almost crushed it, but he remained alert.
Down in the tower’s courtyard, Lothar saw that, although most of the pilgrims were generally anxious, they kept their spirits up with prayers and singing. It was the children who concerned him most. Many sat, their eyes wide with fear. All had experienced death already on this pilgrimage, but now, seeing the dread on the faces of their mothers and friends, the full horror of their position was made clear to them. None of the adults expected them to survive this. Richalda sat clinging to the support of the shelter, a rough bough of some straight wood, and Lothar saw Fulk go to her and squat at her side, talking gently. Gradually the child released her grip and put her arms about his neck instead. He settled her on the ground beneath the shelter to rest.
Not all were so transfixed with fear. Some boys, who had been forced to sit and keep hidden during the worst of the attacks during the day, were up now, and playing catch with stones. It reminded him of when he had been young and such simple games had entertained him too, and he smiled. Close by them was the body of an old man who had been unlucky and
struck by an arrow, but they did not seem concerned. Their attention was, for now, fixed on their game.
Nearby was Gidie and other men with more vicious wounds. Guillemette and other women were with them, washing their injuries and giving them water to make them as comfortable as possible. As he watched, Guillemette stood, tucking hair beneath her coif. She saw his glance and smiled wearily before bending to another patient.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. It was Mathena. She smiled.
‘You fought well,’ she said.
All at once the fighting of the day came back to him, the screaming men trying to stab or slash at him, the arrows, the bodies, and his voice was thick with exhaustion. ‘It was a hard battle.’
She had a little thickened pottage in a wooden bowl and passed it to him. ‘You must be hungry. You need your strength,’ she said.
He took a little, but then looked beyond her to Richalda. The girl sat with her knees to her chin, her eyes half-closed with weariness and despair. Lothar passed the bowl to Mathena. ‘I will eat again before long,’ he said. ‘You give this to her.’
Mathena nodded.
‘You have been safe enough?’ Lothar asked.
‘The arrows came down here, but we were safe from the worst of them. The children have suffered. They all know that they could die, and . . .’
Lothar put a hand on hers. ‘Do not think of it.’
‘I can’t help but think of it,’ she snapped, pulling her hand away. Then she relented and took his hand in hers again. ‘I know that one of these Saracens would take my little girl Esperte for their concubine, or sell her at the slave markets.’
‘You have heard of such things?’
‘There are many here who know all about these people. They mutilate their prisoners, force the men to accept their faith and cut off their manhood, and if the men refuse, they are beheaded. We women, if we are attractive in any way, will be raped and sold as whores. We know our fate.’
‘With the protection of God, hopefully that will not happen,’ Lothar said.
‘You will protect us?’
‘As I hope to reach Heaven, I will.’
She gave a small sigh and took his hand, touching it to her brow. ‘I thank you for that,’ she said. ‘But I must beg one boon.’
‘You need only name it.’
‘At the worst of times, if it comes to it, I beg that you do not let me or Esperte fall into their hands. Save us from that, I pray.’
Lothar had a sudden chilling vision of the two Jewesses and their dead child. He shook his head. ‘Mistress, I do not think—’
‘You have the strength, Master Lothar. Please, if they come and will take us, please kill us both. Don’t let us be taken into captivity by them.’
At last Lothar understood the two Jewesses at Rudesheim. They had been terrified of being taken and raped, and would seek death before that dishonour: Mathena’s fear was the same as the despair of the Jewesses. Suddenly he felt a welling sympathy for this woman, but also for the two Jewesses. And he wondered now at their courage. He covered her hand with his own and smiled down at her.
‘I will not,’ he promised.
Civitot, Friday 17th October
The next day the assaults came quickly. Ladders were used, and a great beam that the Saracens had slung beneath a roof of wet hides, which they used to beat at the stones of the pilgrims’ makeshift gate.
Every thud of that beam reverberated in Lothar’s head like a hammer. It would not have been so bad if it had been regular, but it was not. There would be two or three in set intervals, but then a man would fall injured and the beat would slow, and gradually pick up once more as more men filled the gaps. It set Lothar’s teeth on edge. He wanted to have an end to this incarceration, and an opportunity to leap among his enemies and fight them honourably. But for now it was a case of struggling with ladders and men, hurling any missiles that came to hand and occasionally meeting a man in hand-to-hand combat, battling with swords, or struggling with a man in a wrestler’s grip, smelling his breath and sweat, hearing his breath rasping in his throat, avoiding the head-butt, trying to knee him in the ballocks, biting, scratching, holding the other man’s weapon away with main strength while trying to stab him with his own.
Twice he had to be saved by other men. Once Sir Roger had to thrust his sword into Lothar’s opponent’s throat, another time it was Alwyn who clubbed his enemy about the head with his sword’s pommel, but on both occasions Lothar was aware of his growing weakness. He had been fighting for too long and his body craved sleep. His reserves were too low for him to continue. He must succumb to the next Saracen who reached the wall. But even as he had the thought, he saw again in his mind’s eye the Jewesses – and Mathena and Esperte. He would not fail Mathena: he had sworn an oath, but he could not kill her yet. The idea of cutting her slender throat was unbearable. Yet if he could not kill her, he must himself remain alive.
It was that determination that kept him fighting. As a new man climbed to the top of the wall, Lothar lumbered to his feet and pushed and hacked and stabbed until that man too was sent tumbling backwards to the ground.
Then there was a flurry of running men, and ladders and grapnels were flung against all the walls. The pilgrims bellowed for help, and ran to each of them, Alwyn ringing sparks from the walls with a hatchet as he tried to cut a rope, others hurling the remaining few rocks into the faces of the attacking parties while bowmen tried to ensure that every dart met a target, but soon there were all too few even of them, and still the Saracens came on.
Lothar took his sword in both hands as the first Saracens reached the castellations. He swore loudly in his own language that these sons of whores wouldn’t pass him today, and stepped onto the wall itself, keeping his legs close to the battlements so that an attacker would find it hard to strike them, and from there he belaboured all the men coming up his ladder. Alwyn was at the other side of the ladder, and he dealt death like a Viking. Lothar caught his eye at one moment and he could have taken his oath that Alwyn was smiling like a berserker.
There was a surge, and the men running up the ladders started to make headway. Lothar was separated from Alwyn and he felt his courage begin to fade as he realised that the pilgrims in the tower could not hold back the Saracens for much longer. He cut and battered with his sword, but for every man he wounded, two more climbed to the battlements and came over the wall, teeth bared in ferocious determination, their blades keen and deadly. Lothar had to give way, gradually retreating until he was with Sir Roger.
‘We are lost,’ Lothar muttered.
‘Then we will sell our lives dearly!’ Sir Roger snarled.
Lothar barely heard him. His attention was focused down into the middle of the tower, towards Mathena. She was there, embracing two terrified children. Her eyes met his and he felt their glance like darts piercing his heart.
He must go to her; he had promised. On hearing another scream he shuddered as though an arrow had struck him, and lurched towards the stairs.
Alwyn clubbed a bearded, screaming face, snatching his arm back to slash the sword across a second, but there was little they could do to stem the tide. There were so many of them, the tower’s small guard must soon be overwhelmed.
A curved sword passed so close to his belly, he could feel the steel catch his shirt. No matter what he attempted, he and the rest were pushed back. There was barely room to swing their weapons, the press was so great, and ever more and more men were pouring over the walls. They could not slow the onslaught.
He saw Lothar break free of the rest of the group and take the steps down towards the women and children. It made Alwyn stare, wondering what the man was doing, where he was going, and as he did so a blow struck him on the side of his head. He collapsed to his knees, then all fours, feeling as though a fustian sack had been tugged over his head. The light was dimmed, and all noise became deadened, as though the battle was happening a long way away.
The clash of arms was all about
him, the clatter of sword against armour or hammer against helmet, the thud of weapons striking skulls. A face stared up at him. It was a young man with blue eyes, but he was unmoving in a pool of blood. Alwyn looked up at the men struggling about him, and saw a Saracen beaten back, a lucky thrust piercing a weakness in his mail, and then more of the enemy were pushing him aside to attack. Alwyn felt the warm, greasy wash of blood on his face.
There was a high, keening cry, and he looked up to see Jibril trying to break through the men to Alwyn’s side. A Saracen gave a casual flick with his wrist, and Jibril’s breast and belly were opened. A second, and the boy’s throat and shoulder gushed. The boy’s face showed surprise rather than pain, and he collapsed, toppling over the edge to fall down into the centre of the tower.
‘NO!’ Alwyn roared, and clambered to his feet. He had his sword in his hand and tried to stab at the man who had killed Jibril, but there were too many others there, too many swords, axes, war hammers, and he was pushed back and back, always retreating. This must be the end, he thought. The Christians could not survive such a massive onslaught.
It was then, when he was at his last extreme of effort, that a clear, bright sound could be heard even over the battle: a horn blaring outside the tower.
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