Pilgrim's War

by Michael Jecks

  News of these disasters must have reached home, surely, yet still more men were on their way. More pilgrims determined to do their best for God, and perhaps die in the attempt. Their willing sacrifice made Fulk’s urge to leave the pilgrimage and return home seem petty and shameful. Yes, Odo’s theft of his woman was abominable, but Fulk had not come all this way to find a wife. Perhaps he should look on this as a pilgrimage for his own redemption.

  Alwyn was sitting with Sara. He stood now, and beckoned Fulk to join him. He took Fulk away from the camp and the ribald humour of the troops.

  ‘This is a good land,’ Alwyn said. He waved a hand vaguely. ‘Christ was born over there, and it was blessed by his feet. It is worth fighting for.’

  ‘Perhaps so.’

  ‘Have you prayed for God’s help?’

  ‘No. I have no words. I need a priest to help me.’

  ‘Then we will find you a priest. You have to be comfortable with yourself.’

  ‘You think I’m not now?’

  Alwyn looked at him from the corner of his eye. ‘I arrived here many years ago, before this,’ he said, lifting his horribly disfigured hand. ‘At the time I came because I had no home. The Normans under Sir Roger’s father killed my kin. So I and my friends came here to join a new army. We hoped that we would succeed in protecting the Empire of Byzantium from the Saracens. Yet all my friends were slain and this was done to me.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But you don’t know how it hurt me. I was injured, looked down on for surviving the battle in which my comrades had perished, and when people saw me in the street, children would stare at me with revulsion. At first, some people helped me, but after weeks had passed, I was no longer an injured hero to be admired, but a pitiful beggar to be kicked from the path. I was a reminder of failure, you see. No one wanted to be reminded that our army had been kicked in the teeth by a force of Norman donkeys.’

  ‘And your point?’

  ‘Only this: I understand you and the torment of your soul. You have lost everything here, but you have a home in Sens. You can scuttle off back. I couldn’t. When I came here, I knew I could never go home. I have none. Perhaps that made life easier for me to accept after our failure at Dyrrhachium. I had nowhere to retreat to.’

  ‘Like a coward, you mean?’ Fulk said coldly.

  ‘You can take it how you wish. If that is how it feels to you, perhaps so.’

  ‘I am no coward!’

  ‘No,’ Alwyn said. ‘I don’t think you are. But you would desert us and the pilgrims to come.’

  ‘What use am I?’

  Alwyn lifted up his hand again. ‘Do you think I never wondered that myself?’

  ‘You fought for the Empire,’ Fulk said, peering into Alwyn’s eyes. ‘That means you have a home here.’

  ‘I did. I was born a free Saxon in Wessex. I lost my home there even though I thought God was on King Harold’s side. But He protected William of Normandy instead, and my people were slaughtered. So I came here and made Constantinople my home. Now I have lost that too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The Vestes threatened me. He told me I must behave well towards the Normans like Sir Roger there, or he would sell my Sara into a brothel and see Jibril enslaved.’

  ‘That is why you brought her with you here?’

  ‘Yes. It showed me that no matter how hard I worked for the benefit of my new home, I was never fully accepted. With Jibril dead, I have cut the shackles again. I am free, once more. And I choose the direction of my life from here. I shall go to Jerusalem. Perhaps to die, but at least I will have tried to serve God. If I gave Him any reason to despise me before, I will wash away my sins before my death. I will die in Jerusalem or in the attempt to reach it.’

  ‘And I should too?’ Fulk said. He did not keep the sneer from his voice.

  ‘You can run home on your own or help your comrades. You may die, but at least you will die doing God’s work. The choice is yours.’

  Alwyn left him soon after that. And it was as he walked back to their campfire that Lothar’s words came back to Fulk: ‘Serve those who have yet to come. Help guard them.’

  Perhaps, he thought, there was a meaning to his life still.

  Constantinople

  Odo could not find her. Sybille had moved westward, and he walked about the rough encampment until it was fully dark, long past the blaring of trumpets that heralded the barring of the city’s gates. Eventually he made his way to the shoreline, where the fishermen held their nets and the rank odour of fish guts left to rot in the sun hung like a heavy miasma over the land. He followed the coast back towards the city, slowly making his way through the shelters and tents of the pilgrims until he found himself back at his own.

  ‘Woman! Where did you go?’ he demanded, seeing Sybille at the door to his shelter.

  ‘I wanted fresh air,’ she said.

  ‘I called you back.’

  ‘I know. I didn’t want to come.’

  ‘You are my wife.’

  ‘You do not own my heart!’

  He lashed out. It was not hard, it was merely an instinctive slap of his open palm, but in the enclosed space it sounded as loud as a hammer on a shield. Both stood stock still in the aftermath, she looking away, he staring at her, while Richalda gave a high squeal that seemed to go on forever.

  They remained there for many heartbeats. She did not put a hand to her cheek, but stood staring at the shelter’s wall. Then, she turned to face him as her cheek began to redden. ‘My husband only struck me once,’ she hissed. ‘Only once, because he loved me and did not want to offend me. You do not love me.’

  ‘I married you to protect you,’ he said. ‘There was never mention of love between us.’

  She walked past him to her daughter, shushing her and sending her outside. She spoke with her back to him. ‘That is true enough. And there will be none.’

  Turning to face him, he saw a tear trickle from her right eye as she spoke. He watched it course from her lower lid, moving slowly to the flat expanse of her cheek, where it traced a snail’s path to the crease where her mouth used to widen into a smile. He longed to touch it, to lick it away. She had never looked more desirable.

  ‘Let me—’ he began.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ she spat.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You do not want me! What, did you only wish to hurt Fulk? You succeeded, I am sure. But you killed my heart at the same time. You do not love me and I despise you! You are weak, a coward, and—’

  This time his hand was not open. He bunched his fist and hit her in the belly, hard, so that she fell backwards, and then he was on her, and throwing her skirts up, prising her legs apart, entering her while she slapped ineffectually at him, until he gripped her wrists and held them down over her head. She thrashed and bucked, but he would not let her go until he was spent, and then he pulled away from her, standing and adjusting his hosen and tunic.

  ‘Tomorrow, woman,’ he said coldly, ‘I will lead a party to find my brother, and I will make sure that the orders of the law are carried out. He will die for his heresy. You will never see him again. Grow accustomed to that.’

  He went to the flap of the door, then faced her briefly. ‘You are my wife now. You will obey me.’

  As soon as he had gone, Sybille moved to her knees and rested there for some time, her hands on her belly. His punch had seemed almost to pass through her, crushing her stomach and womb. The rape afterwards had left her bruised, sore and humiliated – worse: defiled. He had broken her with his vicious act of possession.

  She climbed to her feet. It was hard to walk to the tent’s flap, but she managed it by clutching at the tent pole on her way. She clung to it like a staff while her heart hammered, fearing that she would be sick, and then had a thought. She sank to the ground and opened a chest. Inside she saw the wrapped package. She took it from the chest and held it to her breast before rising and stiffly walking from the tent and out to the pilgrim camp.

 
; Two men called to her as she went, but her tragic expression stopped them. With her hands on the parcel as if holding it in place, she walked through the other pilgrims. They could have been as insubstantial as wisps of smoke to her. No one was of any consequence. She was unaware even of her own daughter, who trailed along behind her like a loyal hound.

  ‘Guillemette,’ she called, as she approached the little shelter where the women were huddled. Roul was lying nearby, and he climbed to his feet at the sound of her tone.

  ‘Mistress, I . . .’ Guillemette saw her expression, her stiff bearing, and the way that her hands remained on her belly. ‘God’s pains! Come here, Sybille!’

  Sybille gave one choking sob, and fell into Guillemette’s welcoming embrace as the tears came.

  Gidie was startled awake when Guillemette shook his shoulder roughly. He looked up blearily at her. ‘What? It’s not dawn yet, is it?’

  She stared down at him. ‘You have work to do, if you want to thwart Odo’s plans and save Fulk’s life.’

  CHAPTER 40

  Civitot, Friday 24th October, 1096

  The sight was enough to make all of them take pause.

  They rose early, before the dawn, and set off to begin their journey. Lothar was leading the way with Alwyn when they had travelled the league or more from Civitot and found themselves on the field of death. They could smell it long before they came to it: a stench of putrefaction that clung to their nostrils and stuck cloyingly in their throats.

  Fulk gazed about him as he rode. The scene was familiar, yet only vaguely, like a place imagined in a dream. The last time he had been here, the dust of battle had been in his eyes and throat, and the whole area had looked different. But now he longed for that blanket of obscurity. It would have hidden the horror.

  Fulk came to a place on a hill from where he could see the battlefield. It was, he thought, the vantage point where Odo had gone to view the ranks of the enemy. Now the place had become a scene of horror.

  At the top, there was a mound of bodies. Not a mere wall or heap, but rather a monstrous hill of the dead, clad in shreds and tatters of material, the remnants of hosen or tunics. Many were showing pale and white where the corpses had been picked clean to the bone. Even now, foul birds hopped and flapped, so gorged with carrion that they could scarce fly. Wild dogs, rats and other creatures scuttled.

  Nearby stood a pyramid, neatly stacked, of heads. A hideous warning, were one needed, that the Saracens would fight to the bitter end to defend this land. These were the heads of those whom the Saracens thought were unfit for slavery. He heard a sudden intake of breath, then a loud scream of horror as Sara caught sight of the grisly scene. Fulk glanced back towards her, surprised at her reaction. Lothar was with her, blocking her view, murmuring to her and helping her onwards.

  Fulk was irritated, and then upset to the point of grief. He should himself have felt revulsion. The sight would only a few months ago have caused his belly to heave and brought on a fit of weeping. But now? It struck him as a sad sight, a horrible sight, but where his heart had once beat to the rhythm of his emotions and his empathy for others, now it worked to a different tune. He could look at the figures, and see only numbers. There were too many to mourn, too many for whom to feel compassion. One person lying dead at the roadside was a source of sorry sympathy, but the sight of this multitude was . . . overwhelming. It left his soul untouched.

  It was many miles before the odour of death left them, and even then Fulk felt keenly the need to bathe, as though the foul stink had sunk into his flesh.

  Constantinople

  Odo did not give his wife a glance when he left the tent that morning as dawn was breaking.

  He had no need of her, nor the squalling child who moped about the tent and looked so miserable, cowering when he glanced in her direction. She had been the same since he chastised her mother. Sybille had no understanding of the pressure he was feeling. In the last week, since he had first been forced to slap her, he had been busy with Peter the Hermit, negotiating supplies from the Empire, planning the onward march of the new pilgrim armies about to arrive. It was difficult, but he had ignored her sulking. It was her fault he struck her; he had to. As her husband he had a duty to discipline her. And now, since he had made love to her last evening, he hoped she might come to her senses. True, she had not been a willing partner, but she was his wife; surely she would come to appreciate his command and authority over her, given time.

  As he had pulled on his clothing, she had watched him with eyes as dead as a fish’s, and he was disgusted. She made him feel befouled, as though he had done something wrong. It was unreasonable! If he had not rescued her, she might even now be lying among the dead at Civitot. She should be grateful to him; he had saved her life. What could Fulk have done? Pulled her inside that tower with him, to sit and wait for the arrows to sleet down on her head? Yet she still preferred Fulk to him. Perhaps she would come around before long. When she realised that his brother had always been a feckless womaniser, she would learn to appreciate Odo. If only . . . but no, he refused to think of Jeanne. The horror of the nearness of his escape from her was enough to make him shudder. To have married a whore and bigamist!

  Now he had need for speed. He must find and capture his brother. The thought was thrilling, but terrifying. How would he react when he saw Fulk’s face? Would he be able to act resolutely? He pushed his doubts to the back of his mind. God would see to it that he had sufficient resolve.

  After speaking with Peter the Hermit last afternoon, he had asked to take Roger and Gilles, as well as a force of twenty pilgrims who had been blooded over the miles, and a squadron of cavalry from the Byzantine army who were said to know the territory. At the harbour, Odo looked at these Byzantines suspiciously. They were turcopoles, the mixed-blood sons of Greeks and Turks, or Seljuks who had been baptised. He had heard that they were as reliable as the kataphractoi, the heavily armoured shock troops of the Byzantine army, and with their lighter armour the turcopoles should be more helpful as a supporting force, but he still distrusted them. They were foreign to him with their dark faces and odd language.

  ‘You will need to hurry and find your brother,’ Peter said. He had come to the harbour to bid Odo farewell. ‘There are armies from all over France on their way now. I need you at my side, not hunting down this renegade.’

  ‘I will be back as soon as I may,’ Odo said.

  ‘Do so. I am lost without poor Sir Walter de Boissy-Sans-Avoir; I relied on him. And now, without him, I rely on you, Odo. When the armies come here, there will be much to do, negotiating to cross the waters and make our way to the Holy Land. We shall have to fight almost every step of the way, and I need you at my side. Return soon.’

  ‘I shall,’ Odo said, taking the Hermit’s hand and kissing his ring.

  He strode from the Hermit to the gangplank, and walked headlong into Heinnie and Father Albrecht. ‘My pardon, sirs.’

  ‘You are in a hurry, friend,’ Heinnie said.

  ‘I go to hunt a man over the water.’ Odo recognised the pilgrim and priest who had witnessed Fulk’s assault on him.

  ‘You go to the lands of Rum? Let me join with you, master. I am keen to cross the water!’ Heinnie said. The sound of steps behind him was stilled, and he could almost imagine the wraith leaning forward and listening to his conversation. Oh, to be away from her! He was desperate to be over the water and on his way to Jerusalem on his personal pilgrimage!

  Odo glanced at him, taking in the strength in his arms and upper body, the purpose in his eyes, and nodded. ‘Come with me.’

  Plains before Nicaea, Saturday 25th October

  Fulk and the men had been riding through the first half of the afternoon in a land of lush, low hills when they heard the sound of cantering, and Fulk whirled his mount about, staring back the way they had come. His heart leapt, thinking it could be a party of Saracens, and he felt the bile rising at the thought of another action.

  Behind them, and approaching rapidly,
creating a dust storm of its own, was a swift-paced horse. Fulk peered into the yellowish mist, trying to discern what lay at the heart of it.

  Lothar and Alwyn trotted to come level with Fulk, while Sara remained behind a screen of other riders.

  ‘One rider?’ Alwyn said.

  ‘Yes. Not being pursued,’ Lothar said.

  ‘It looks familiar,’ Fulk said, his eyes closely narrowed. ‘Who . . .? It’s Gidie!’

  The three allowed their horses to amble forward to meet the man as he drew to a halt, panting. His mount was lathered and foam-flecked, and his head dropped as soon as Gidie stopped, looking as though he was close to collapse.

  ‘What is the urgency?’ Alwyn said. ‘You have nearly killed your brute.’

  ‘I was sent by Guillemette to find you if I could,’ Gidie said. He looked about him at Lothar and Alwyn as though he doubted them, but then concentrated on Fulk. ‘Sybille went to her to say that your brother has come here to hunt you with a strong force. He will capture you and take you back in chains, or kill you here.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Lothar rumbled. ‘Is it not enough that Fulk has been driven from Constantinople?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I know this, Fulk, Sybille was injured before she came to warn Guillemette.’

  Fulk’s face hardened. ‘How so?’

  ‘He punched her,’ Gidie said. He saw the anger in Fulk’s eyes. ‘I think he hit her in the belly, and he . . .’

  His reluctance to speak told Fulk all he needed to hear. He clenched his jaw and made fists of both hands. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I came by an early ship and rode at speed. I slept as night fell and was up with the dawn. He would have taken ship soon after, but it depends on how long his party rested overnight. He will be some leagues behind me, I think.’

  ‘Good. I will ride back to meet him.’

  ‘He has a force with him, Fulk. If you go back, they will capture you,’ Gidie said. ‘You know what that will mean. They’ll execute you on the spot.’