Pilgrim's War

by Michael Jecks

  ‘What is it?’ Guillemette asked. Their march had long since dispelled any animosity between them.

  Sybille began to speak, but quickly her throat clogged and the words wouldn’t come. Instead her eyes filled with tears, and she broke down into sobs as she tried to explain.

  ‘It is decided! The Emperor has approved the death warrant. They will execute Fulk!’

  Guillemette gasped. ‘Who will?’

  ‘Odo told me. He was gloating as he told me! Peter the Hermit sent Fulk for judgement to the Emperor, and he is keen to execute any malefactor, just to show that here his law holds sway.’

  ‘Will Odo speak for his brother?’ Guillemette said.

  ‘Him? Odo made no sign he would dispute the Hermit’s right to see Fulk killed.’

  ‘Odo is a devil,’ Gidie said. ‘I will kill him.’

  ‘No, Gidie!’ Sybille said. ‘You mustn’t! This is a pilgrimage! You must not act against Odo.’

  ‘I have to! He slew Jeanne and would have killed me too!’

  ‘No! You must not do anything that could threaten your soul. Odo has committed offences as we know. He will pay for them, but not at the expense of your soul.’

  ‘I must have my revenge. God will understand.’

  ‘So I will lose you as well as Fulk?’ she demanded tearfully.

  Gidie winced. ‘Odo has to be killed, if he is not to bring the whole pilgrimage to disaster! How could God want him to lead us, when Odo cannot even be trusted to protect his own brother?’

  Guillemette nodded slowly. She stirred the pottage idly, while her mind worked. Then she abruptly climbed to her feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Mathena said.

  ‘I won’t sit here while a good man gets killed.’

  In truth, Guillemette had little idea what she could do. At first she was walking to speak with the Hermit to beg for Fulk’s life, but as she walked, she found her legs growing more reluctant. The Hermit was an austere man, and although he could be persuaded by the pleas of others, it was unlikely that a reformed prostitute would win favour in the eyes of a man who still considered Odo to be the soul of honesty and piety.

  Who else, then? She had thought she might go to Odo, but discarded that idea quickly. He had made his views about her all too plain on the journey here. Besides, Odo’s action in marrying Sybille spoke of little respect for Fulk. No, she must think of someone else. But she had no idea who else could help. Sir Walter would have supported Fulk, she was sure, but he had been killed by the Saracens.

  Then she remembered the tall, scarred man at the tower: Alwyn. He had kind eyes, she thought, and he had lived here in the city for long enough, he must surely know someone who could help her.

  But how could she find him?

  She was at the edge of the pilgrim’s encampment when she saw a slight figure ahead of her. Surely that was the girl who had been with Alwyn in the tower while they endured the siege? She was sure of it! Guillemette quickly set off after Sara, hurrying in the gathering gloom.

  Sara was making her way along the edge of the pilgrim camp, and suddenly ducked down under a shelter of thick material that had been securely pegged down in military fashion. Just in front of it a small fire blazed. As Guillemette approached, she saw Alwyn sitting beside it, staring deep into the flames. He looked up as she approached.

  ‘Mistress,’ he said, ‘last time I saw you, you offered me water. Would you accept some water from me in return?’

  ‘Gladly!’ she said, and sat across the fire from him. When Sara brought a mazer of fine polished wood, she sipped gratefully. ‘Master, I crave your help.’

  ‘Anything,’ he said, and leaned forward when she began to speak.

  BOOK NINE

  Flight

  CHAPTER 39

  Constantinople, Thursday 23rd October, 1096

  On his first morning in the cell, the Saturday, Fulk had been still awake, stiff and unrefreshed, when the gaoler appeared, standing in the doorway peering at him. Soon Fulk had a plate of dried, flat bread that wanted to break his teeth, and a small pot of water that tasted brackish and foul.

  On the Sunday, Fulk had woken to find a jug of weak wine and a platter with some fresh flat bread and cheese at his side. He sat staring at it for a long time, half-asleep, thinking it was a dream. The sight of a cockroach on the plate spurred him to eat, rather than deterring him. With the first taste he realised he was voraciously hungry, and he consumed the food eagerly. It was enough to send him into a doze for much of the day. That evening he had a meal of broiled chicken meat, cold rice and some thickened food that was rather like mashed swede with spices added.

  He spent three days in this manner, then on the fourth he was woken by a stone striking his head. Blearily he opened his eyes and yawned, and saw Lothar and Alwyn at the doorway. The early morning sun gave them a golden glow, almost like haloes about their heads.

  Alwyn jerked his head. ‘You need to leave here. Now!’

  In answer Fulk held up his hands. ‘If you would unchain me, I’ll be happy to.’

  Lothar pulled out a knife and strode to him. The blade sliced through the cords that bound his wrists like a razor, and Fulk stiffly climbed to his feet with a grimace as his hands developed pins and needles. He felt befouled, and his feet were uncomfortable, his legs weak, as he followed after his friends.

  ‘What did you do to the gaoler?’ he whispered.

  ‘We bribed him, but only a little,’ Alwyn said matter-of-factly. ‘He didn’t see much point in keeping you here. Besides, he’s a Greek. He saw no reason to hold you here on the say of the Hermit. He was happy to take our money.’

  Lothar peered out through the doorway, then moved on, beckoning them to follow. When Fulk joined him, he saw that they were near the gates to the harbour. Lothar held up a hand, and when Fulk peered around his shoulder, he saw a number of pilgrims standing at the harbourside. A young woman with a simple shift bound at the waist with a leather belt padded past them on light, bare feet, and Fulk recognised Sara. She walked to Alwyn as though she had not a care in the world, and bent her head as she spoke. ‘There are many guards but they are to protect the ships from pilgrims, not to search for one man.’

  Alwyn nodded and soon the four were striding along towards a ship.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Fulk said.

  ‘You cannot remain here. We are to sail to spy the land for the armies that will follow,’ Lothar said. ‘We shall return to Civitot and thence ride to Nicaea and beyond, if we can.’

  Fulk stopped. He gazed down. His feet were unshod, and he had no weapon, not even a knife. ‘Look at me! What use can I be to you? My friends, leave me. You go on; my pilgrimage is over.’

  Lothar had halted, and he gave Alwyn a quick look. ‘Fulk, you must come with us.’

  ‘There is nothing for me in the Holy Land. I should return to my home, not go seeking more adventures.’

  ‘Fulk, if you remain here you will be killed,’ Alwyn said. ‘You have been reported as a troublemaker to the city authorities, and you will be executed.’

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’

  Alwyn exchanged a glance with Lothar, then back at Fulk, his head lowered. ‘Does it matter? It could have been the Hermit, your brother, or even someone else whom you have upset. What does it matter? The city is determined to maintain order, and with so many armed pilgrims, and more armies on their way, the Vestes and the Emperor both fear riots and lawlessness. It is in their minds to produce a few bodies to demonstrate that the law here holds sway over all: city folk and pilgrims alike. You will be a strong example. You must come with us.’

  Stunned, Fulk allowed Lothar to take his arm and lead him onwards. At the harbour they were stopped by seven heavily armoured guards, who demanded to know what they were doing there.

  Alwyn drew himself up to full height, then allowed his head to drop, his chin jutting truculently. His eyes narrowed, and his thick, greying hair moved with the breeze as threatening as the Medusa’s snakes. ‘D
o you know me?’

  ‘Yes,’ the leader admitted.

  ‘Who do I work for?’

  ‘The Vestes.’

  ‘And you know I could have you flayed for delaying the Vestes’ commands?’

  ‘Yes . . . sir.’

  ‘We go to that ship, to sail to Civitot and scout the lands for any survivors and see whether we can find what the army of Kilij-Arslan does – whether it has returned east or lies in wait. Would you have the Vestes deprived of that information?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then get your rabble out of my way!’

  The soldiers retreated, and Alwyn glared at them a moment longer before striding along the harbour wall.

  At the farther end of the harbour there was a small vessel with a sun-burned crew, and Fulk followed Alwyn to a ladder. Sara sprang to it and went down it as agile as a squirrel. Alwyn went next, and then hands were helping Fulk. On the deck, he stood in a state of confusion. To have been liberated from that cell was more than he could have hoped for, but now the bright sunlight was giving him a headache, and he was filled with a weariness that came more from misery than his ill-treatment.

  ‘Fulk, try to rest,’ he heard, and Alwyn clapped him on the back. The older man peered into his eyes. ‘I am sorry how things turned out,’ he said.

  ‘There is no reason to dwell on the past,’ Fulk said. He stared about him. ‘Odo is not the same man who left Sens with me. This new Odo is someone I do not know; he has lost all feeling for me and his friends.’

  As he spoke the ship came to life. Orders were bellowed, and shipmen went running up the ratlines to the sails, while others loosened the ropes holding the hull fast to the harbour. More commands, and the ropes were pulled in and neatly coiled, and long oars were used to shove the vessel from the stones of the wall. More sweeps appeared along the ship’s sides, rising and waiting while a drum began to beat. In time to the beat the oars dropped into the waters, pulled and rose again, and the ship began lethargically to move away from the city.

  Fulk sat with his back to the mast and ignored the rest of the party as they crossed the straits. It was only when the ship reached the far shore at Civitot and the other men had disembarked that he rose to his feet.

  He moved stiffly along the gangplank and made his way up the harbour. From there he walked slowly up the sands until he could see the tower where he and the others had fought to hold the Muslims at bay. All about him there was a bustle of barked orders and competent busyness. Along with Lothar and Alwyn there was a party of some thirty men who had come to help scout the lands, and some were settling on the beach repacking food and other items while others helped disembark horses and pack animals. More ships were coming with additional soldiers.

  Fulk did not speak when Lothar joined him, but remained stock still, staring at the land before him. In his mind’s eye he could see the men being hacked down by Saracen warriors, the spear-points penetrating the people running away, the hideous curved swords moving so apparently easily, taking off the heads of their victims. He could hear the screams, the solid whack of arrows striking flesh, feel again the horror and despair.

  ‘Fulk, my friend,’ Lothar said. ‘Do not mourn.’

  ‘How can I not? She has been stolen from me. Even if Odo dies, I cannot marry her now. Legally I would be trying to wed my sister. Odo has taken her from me, and there is nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘No, so concentrate on the things you can do.’

  ‘Like what? I am a broken man!’

  Lothar’s voice held a sharper tone. ‘There are others in the pilgrim army who have lost everything: men and women and their children lie here. You can smell them! Their bones are being picked clean. They lost all in the struggle to get here and fight for their faith. You were bold enough to come here for that same purpose. So God is testing you now: perhaps for a greater purpose. Who can tell?’

  ‘What more does God want of me?’ Fulk spat.

  Lothar grabbed his arm and pulled him round. The big Rhinelander glared deeply into his eyes. ‘Look! You see nothing. Look at this place! It was a Christian land, and now it is stolen. What would you have the people do here? Submit to the invaders, or fight to win back their freedoms?’

  ‘What do you want of me?’

  ‘Help us! Pray! Renew your vows to God to serve Him on this holy pilgrimage; remember that there are others here who need your help. You have suffered, and your woman too. So do what you may to serve those who have yet to come. Help guard them.’

  Constantinople

  It was late afternoon when Odo heard of Fulk’s disappearance. The sun had faded outside, and through the tent’s walls he could see the light from a score of campfires.

  He was coldly furious that the gaoler at the harbour could have allowed Fulk to escape, but while speaking to the man he concealed his anger beneath a cold, haughty demeanour that he felt was more suitable when dealing with fools.

  Peter the Hermit had been more astonished than irate when he heard that his prisoner had been released. He closed his mouth, white with vexation, and politely asked that he be taken to the Vestes. Before leaving the camp, he told Odo that he would find out where Fulk had gone, and would ensure his arrest. ‘We cannot allow heretics and malcontents to go unpunished,’ he said as he left.

  To Odo’s mind the Greeks of Constantinople were incompetents. They demanded an army to come and liberate them from the vile depredations of the Sultan and his hordes, but when the Christians arrived to give them aid, the Greeks deserted them, driving them over the straits to lie mouldering on the shoreline. When the Christians attempted something wonderful, the Emperor did nothing to help until their armies had been wiped out, and only when a mere few remained did he send ships to rescue them.

  And now Fulk had been released.

  He should have been punished. Peter was right. And yet in the midst of his righteous anger, Odo rejoiced at the knowledge that Fulk was free. He felt almost physically torn, caught between indignation that Fulk had escaped, and joy that his brother was saved from the rope. It left him feeling strangely empty, his belly twisted.

  Back at the tent he sat on his stool. Plates of fruit and some cheese were set before him by Sybille on the chest they used as a table, but he had no hunger. He stared at the chest. Inside was . . . but no. He wouldn’t think of that now. Looking at his wife, Odo saw that she had little appetite either.

  She knelt on blankets beside the boards that constituted their table, picking at the fruits on the wooden trencher, Richalda at her side.

  ‘Wife, are you not hungry?’

  ‘My appetite is not strong today,’ Sybille said.

  ‘Fulk has escaped from the cell where he was held.’

  ‘He has escaped?’ Sybille said.

  She looked up at him with a face as pale as new linen, and Odo shivered suddenly as though he was looking at a wraith. There was a germ of hope in her eyes. A hope that was unbecoming in Odo’s wife.

  ‘He is said to have made his way from the city.’

  ‘Where will he go?’

  ‘Back to our home, I expect. He will return and tell tall tales of the people he met, the women he loved,’ Odo said carelessly. ‘He was ever a keen collector of women.’

  Sybille looked away but said nothing.

  Odo could not help himself. He gave a sour grin, adding, ‘He enjoyed many of the women in the pilgrimage. I think he only chose to come when he heard how many women were joining. He was always keen on Guillemette and the other women.’

  ‘He is a good, kind man.’

  ‘When he saw how it would give him an advantage, perhaps.’

  ‘That is a spiteful thing to say about your own brother,’ she said.

  ‘Woman, look at me!’ Odo said. He disliked the way that she would avert her head when she objected to what he said. She was as recalcitrant as a mule on occasion. ‘Fulk is my brother, and I know him well. Too well, perhaps. I know you were fond of him, but do not make the mistake of thinking y
ou were special. You were one of—’

  She stood. ‘I have a headache. I will go for a walk.’

  ‘You will remain here while I am talking!’ Odo shouted. ‘I am your husband.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘You are.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing, husband.’ She stared at him for a few moments, her eyes red-rimmed, he noticed.

  ‘Come back here!’ he shouted, but she had already left the tent. He stared down at Richalda, who remained squatting on her haunches, meeting his gaze with fear. Odo tried to smile at her, but his lips felt as if they would rip with the effort. Instead he rose and stalked after Sybille.

  Civitot

  Lothar’s words were to come to Fulk again that evening.

  They had lighted a fire in the rubble and mess of broken arrows, and Fulk and his friends sat about it. Outside the walls two other fires served the rest of the company, and one group had begun to sing and dance, swaying to the music.

  There were dark patches in the dirt, but Fulk and the others avoided looking at them. They indicated where someone had bled to death.

  Alwyn had passed about strips of salted beef that had been dried in the sun, and they were chewing the tough meat. When they threw logs onto the fire, sparks were thrown up into the air. Fulk didn’t watch them, he kept his gaze fixed to the glowing heart of the flames, and all the while he mulled over what Lothar had said.

  He still believed that he should go back home, but something in Lothar’s words made him feel guilty, as though he was deserting others who needed him. When he had set off with Odo from Sens, he had sworn the same oath as the other pilgrims, to come and release Jerusalem. So many of them had died, the bodies were impossible to count: scores in Hungary and along the route to Constantinople, and now thousands of the survivors had been slaughtered only a few miles from here at the latest battle.