Pilgrim's War

by Michael Jecks

  It was as if the stream of men was instantly dammed. The pressure of new men appearing over the top of the wall ceased, and suddenly it was a matter of only those who were before him who were battling on. Alwyn saw men climbing the wall and descending the ladders, running away. He gave a roar of victory and slammed his sword against his opponent’s, and barged into him, bodily shoving him over the edge of the walkway, so that he fell with a scream to the ground below. Another bearded face was in front of him, the man who had killed Jibril, and he span his sword into the fellow’s face, beat at him, kicked, screaming all the while, until the man fell, tumbling. There was one last man, a youngster of only maybe fifteen or sixteen years, who stood on the wall with terror painted on his face. He dare not try to climb down the ladder, but he was petrified with fear to be confronted by Alwyn.

  Alwyn screamed, his sword raised, rushing at the boy. But then, as he hacked down, he saw, as if in a dream, Jibril’s face staring at him from this boy’s. It was enough to snap the maddened frenzy in his mind. He drove the sword to the stone wall at the boy’s side, striking great sparks when the blade struck.

  He was exhausted. Jibril’s death had broken his heart. He could not kill another here, now. ‘Go!’ he said, and motioned with his fingers. The boy stared at him with terror, not daring to turn his back. Sir Roger came up, full of bile and fury, his weapon ready for the killing stroke, but Alwyn put out his hand to stop him. ‘There’s been enough killing,’ he said. ‘Let this one go.’

  The boy looked at him, and bent his head as though in gratitude before disappearing from sight.

  ‘What has happened?’ Sir Roger said.

  In answer, Alwyn pointed.

  On the sea, their sails puffed like pillows of goose-down, came the Imperial fleet, and on each deck was the bright, clear sparkle of armour.

  BOOK EIGHT

  Liberation and Betrayal

  CHAPTER 36

  Civitot, Friday 17th October, 1096

  At the prow of the fourth ship in the Byzantine fleet, Odo stood proudly clinging to a rope, basking in the glory of his new position.

  The crossing had taken little time. He had hurried to see Peter the Hermit as soon as the boat docked, running to the city gates and demanding access. Peter realised the enormity of the disaster as soon as Odo broke the news, and took Odo straight to the Emperor where, amid the finery of the Greek court, servants and nobles alike had stared at Odo’s blood-stained face and tunic with appalled horror, the ladies holding perfumed cloths to their noses, the men keeping well away so their expensive silks would not be stained or smeared. But the Emperor was different; he had understood.

  He was a figure of great presence. Not as tall as many of the knights Odo had known in France, he seemed taller because of his broad shoulders and rich clothing. On his head was his crown of gold, with a huge emerald at the front, and a sapphire and ruby flanking it, while his tunic was of golden cloth that shimmered. At his breast were more rubies and sapphires, and a man was sure to feel overwhelmed by such a display of abundant riches. His hair was so dark it was almost black, as was his thick beard, although that was shot through with silver. But more than the vast wealth, Odo found himself taken by the Emperor’s eyes. They were like pits of such depth that a man could drown in them. When he fixed them on Odo, it felt as though he could stare straight into his soul and see the doubts and guilt beneath.

  Peter began by summarising the campaign, and then motioned to Odo to speak.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Odo began, bowing low, ‘I was with the company that rode to Nicaea and thence to Xerigordos.’ He quickly told of the attack, the Saracen siege, the escape and urgent flight back to Civitot, the march to meet the Saracens, disaster, and return to the shore. ‘I have no doubt that my brother and all our friends will be dead or enslaved, your Majesty. But if there is any hope of their rescue, I would beg that you send men to effect it.’

  The Emperor appeared to consider for a while, and then motioned to a scribe and issued his orders. He was distressed to hear of this disaster, he said. The peoples of Christendom had rushed to his aid when he had asked them, and now it was time that he did what he could to support the people who had thrown their lot in with him. He commanded a general, Constantine Euphorbenus Cataclon, to take an army to seek out the surviving Christians and bring them back safely.

  Odo left the audience chamber elated. He had never been in such company, and to have spoken with the Emperor himself, and to have been heard by him, was thrilling, all the more so because he was acting for the benefit of God. This must surely provoke the lazy Greeks into joining with the pilgrims to win Jerusalem.

  He returned with Peter to the lodging where the Hermit had been stationed, and there he found Sybille waiting.

  She had not spoken more than a couple of words in all the journey back from Civitot, and she sat now, her hair bedraggled from the sea air and dust, her tunic marked with stains from the boat. Odo recalled her misery with compassion, considering that now she had lost her daughter, no doubt, as well as her husband. It had been so difficult to persuade her to leave the harbour. He had been forced to tell her Richalda was dead, and she had sat on the deck sobbing as though her heart would never mend. She was struck with despair to know she had lost everything: just as he had. She and he were united by bereavement.

  There was a simple resolution, he saw, and he begged a moment more of Peter the Hermit’s time. He spoke at length, and at the end of it he and Peter went to Sybille.

  ‘Sybille, I feel I must offer you what support and aid I may,’ Odo said. ‘You have lost your husband and daughter, and we have both lost Fulk, I fear. You are here in a strange land without any means of providing for yourself, and I feel sure that my brother and your husband would have wanted to see you cared for. I will marry you, and I hope that I can comfort you in the days to come.’

  ‘Will you have this man as your husband, woman?’ Peter asked.

  Sybille shook her head. ‘No, no, I cannot! I am in mourning, and—’

  ‘Mistress,’ Peter said gently, ‘you have no option. This is a good man. He will protect you and bring you safely to Jerusalem, where you can pray for your dead husband and for this man’s brother. If you do not, what will become of you? You are here in a strange city, and you could remain, but with no trade or income, I ask again, what will happen to you? If you come with the new pilgrim armies to continue the pilgrimage to which you are sworn, no man will protect you. There will be hardships for all, but at least as a married woman you will have the comfort of this man and his protection.’

  He continued much in the same vein. She looked from him to Odo, but in truth, she heard little of what was said. Prostitution, she heard, or cooking or sewing, but more than likely, she would be left in the wake of the army, unable to keep up, unable to feed herself, unable to find water. She would fall behind, and her bones would whiten in the sun. It was not to be borne, Peter said.

  She did not, afterwards, recall the actual oath. But her hand was taken and she mumbled some words, and then she was taken away to a separate chamber to consummate the marriage. She remembered the expression of pain and exultation on Odo’s face as he arched his back. For her there was no pleasure, no joy. Her body could be taken by him, but all she knew was an overwhelming emptiness. She had lost her husband and her daughter. All her friends were no doubt dead. Perhaps Odo could give her life some meaning, but she doubted it. She was only a husk of the woman she had once been.

  But Odo was aware of none of that. He was convinced that her awe of being married to him was all that stilled her tongue. She was proud to have him as her husband, as she should be. Odo would lead men in the assaults against the heretics, and he would become as beloved as any prophet, even Peter the Hermit himself. She was fortunate to be bound to him. He was marked out for greatness. Only today Peter had nominated him to be his own captain with the pilgrim forces which would soon be gathering. A man of Odo’s courage and determination, Peter said, should be rewarded
.

  They could see the Saracens marching away as they approached the coastline, and Odo felt the stirrings of trepidation. His eyes were drawn to the place where he had left Jeanne. There was a ripple of cloth, he thought; perhaps her body still lay there. No, surely not. The tides would have pulled her out to sea. Would Fulk’s body be near? He didn’t want to see it if it was. Fulk had his weaknesses, but he was Odo’s brother, and Odo hoped his end had been swift. He could not regret his actions: God willed it; yet, while Odo forgave Fulk for deceiving him about Jeanne, Fulk would still have been a threat to the entire pilgrimage. His sins would cause the failure of God’s ambition. That could not be permitted. However, Odo was torn. He wanted to think his brother was safe.

  He sprang into the waves with the first of the men, walking up the sand while the army of Constantinople gathered and formed ranks preparatory to marching up the beaches.

  The sight that met his eyes was enough to make him stop and gape. Smoke rose from hundreds of fires that had been left by the departing army, but more than that was the reek. Some was caused by sewage from the tens of thousands of pilgrims who had been camped here for so long, but over that was the stench of death. Many hundreds of pilgrims who were old, weak or who had fought against the Saracens lay dotted about the camp, their bodies bloated and blackening in the sun. The smell of rotting flesh pervaded the whole place.

  As the tramp, tramp, tramp of booted feet marching in step came to him, he heard a sudden noise. It was a rumbling, like many rocks tumbling over and over. It came from the old tower, and he heard a captain in the army shout an order. Instantly skirmishers went to scout and see if they could find the source, darting forward with shields and spears up in case of ambush. Some ran to take cover behind rocks, where they waited with javelins up at the ready, while more moved forward. A group of archers trotted up and took position nearby.

  Odo moved to join them, and was there when the last rocks were pushed away from the doorway, and the first of the hollow-eyed men, women and children clambered over the devastation.

  Gidie could not hear what Lothar was saying at first. The Rhinelander seemed to be talking about some sort of defeat, while at his side Alwyn wearily rubbed his eyes. There was a hellish whistling noise from somewhere, and Gidie’s skull felt as though it had been broken open and his brains exposed to the air, but when Fulk appeared and with a broad smile on his face helped Gidie to his feet, the old tranter slowly rose, wincing and hissing as he did so.

  The tower’s interior was a mess. Bodies of pilgrims had been taken to the farther corner and neatly laid out, while the injured stayed here, nearer the gateway. Saracen bodies were dumped unceremoniously in the middle of the ground, where they had fallen when pushed from the walkways above, and stabbed by the women down here to make sure they were dead. Around them were piles of faeces where the pilgrims had defecated.

  As he gazed about him, he saw Alwyn cross over to Sara, and both stood staring down at Jibril. Sara put her arms about him, but Alwyn seemed scarcely to notice. The old man’s eyes were glistening.

  The children seemed to be screaming and shrieking, but less from terror, more from joy. Only a few, like little Richalda, did not join in the general jollification. She sat huddled in the corner of the wall beside a supporting beam.

  Gidie walked to her slowly on legs that threatened to pitch him into the dirt at any moment. He held out his hand to her, and she looked up at him as if without recognition. It was some moments before she took his hand and stood with him. She tentatively put her arms about his waist and rested her face against his belly. It made his heart melt.

  Fulk walked through the gates into the sunshine and held his face to the sky. It felt like a rebirth, after being held in that hellish tower for so long. He allowed the cool breeze to wash over him, and it left him refreshed, as though it was wiping away the dirt and foulness of the last days. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself staring at a gleaming barrier of Byzantine warriors arrayed in steel and leather, shining in the bright light.

  And then he saw his brother.

  Odo stood near the door to the tower, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the battlefield.

  ‘Odo!’ Fulk shouted.

  ‘Brother!’ Odo said, and his face paled, and then he smiled. ‘Fulk, I’d thought you were dead! It never occurred to me that—’

  ‘That I could live if you sailed away and left me here?’

  ‘That wasn’t it! I saw the enemy coming and I had to go and find help. And look at this! I brought an army, and the mere sight of them drove away the Saracens!’

  Guillemette came out, and with her were Lothar, Mathena and Esperte, blinking. Odo saw the blood on Guillemette’s tunic. ‘What, has she been—’

  ‘She has been nursing the injured through the battle,’ Fulk said. He was too weary to maintain his anger. ‘She and the other women have been courageous, helping the men when they were wounded. But Sybille wasn’t here. You had her.’

  ‘She was in danger. I thought she might be killed. I thought you were dead, my brother.’

  ‘You sailed away and deserted me.’

  ‘I had to get news to the city, as you know. We were instructed to do so. When I saw the enemy riding to attack, I knew I had to go immediately. You know I had no choice. And yes, I saved Sybille. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,’ Odo said. ‘And I’ve sworn to protect her,’ he added more quietly.

  ‘Good,’ Fulk said, but there was a harshness to his tone. He would never forget the sight of the boat sailing from the coast, deserting him and the others. For now, he was too weary to think of the time it had taken for the Saracens to arrive after he saw the vessel sail away.

  ‘I must be gone,’ Odo said, hearing a shout. ‘I will return soon and see you.’

  He was off like a hawk called to the lure, and Fulk watched him go. He was unsure that he would ever be able to trust his brother again.

  ‘He survived, then,’ Gidie said as he appeared at his side.

  ‘Yes. He was fortunate.’

  Gidie nodded. He saw again Jeanne lying in the surf, the smear of blood all about her, and he saw Odo, his sword raised ready to strike. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘very fortunate.’

  On board ship

  Odo was fêted on the ship as he and the first of the pilgrims made their way back to Constantinople. The wounded and the women nursing them were being loaded on the next ship as Odo’s slipped her moorings and set sail.

  Sir Roger applauded his swiftness in taking the message to Peter. ‘Without you, we would surely have died. We must reward you.’

  ‘I have my reward already,’ Odo said. He was quiet momentarily, but his pleasure meant he could not keep the news from this man. Sir Roger had been with him in Xerigordos. He was his friend. ‘You see, I have married. I saved one of the ladies from the town when I left to find help. She was at the beach, and . . . well, I didn’t want to leave her behind to be killed, naturally, so I brought her with me.’

  ‘Who is this fortunate lady?’

  ‘A lady from Sens called Sybille. She was travelling with her husband and daughter. Her man died, sadly, at the Hungarian border, and while I know a man should not seek to marry a widow so soon after her bereavement, Peter the Hermit agreed that it was better for her to have a protector while she continued on the pilgrimage.’

  ‘Sybille?’ Lothar said. ‘Was that not the woman your brother was hoping to marry?’

  ‘Yes, and if I had only known that Fulk would live . . .’ Odo said. He looked over to the horizon as he recalled the rage, deep in his soul, when he realised Fulk had been laughing at him, at his infatuation with Jeanne. It had been a terrible acid eating at his heart. If only God had taken Fulk, instead of letting him survive the tower at Civitot. It would have been better all around.

  He wondered how Fulk would receive news of his marriage. It mattered little. It was God’s will. But Odo hoped that Fulk would feel a little of the desperate anguish Odo had known when he had under
stood what Jeanne was, when he saw how his brother had laughed at him for falling in love with a whore.

  Yes, it would have been better if Fulk had died at Civitot.

  He brought his gaze back to Sir Roger. ‘Naturally, if I had known that Fulk would survive . . .’ What? Would he not have married her? No, for she was his prize. Sybille was God’s gift to him, a reward for his integrity and piety. But God’s kindness did not stem the flow of tears. ‘However, I thought he was dead, and thus I had a responsibility to save her from death or worse on the journey.’ He looked down into the hull of the ship, where Richalda and some other children sat anxiously. ‘At least I can bring her good news of her daughter.’

  Sir Roger looked at him, his head shaking. ‘My friend, what have you done?’

  ‘I deemed it best.’

  ‘Many a man will justify an act by saying that,’ Gilles said. He met Odo’s fixed glare impassively.

  ‘It was not his fault, surely,’ Sir Roger said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Gilles said. ‘But it would be best to be away from here before your brother learns you have married his woman. I expect him to be angry when he learns of it.’

  Odo spoke coldly. ‘He must learn to accept it.’

  Lothar listened to them talking, but his attention was fixed on the receding coastline.

  He could think of nothing except his promise to kill Mathena and Esperte. Mathena’s desperation to see herself despatched swiftly and with honour, and the same determination of the Jewesses, put Odo’s action into perspective, Lothar thought. He could all too easily condone a marriage to save a woman from peril. He threw a look towards Mathena. It was mad for a woman to come all this way on her own. There were so many. Although these women might have the desire to see the Holy City for themselves, they were not as hardy nor so strong in a battle as men. He was not certain of the motives of such women – especially those who had brought children.