Pilgrim's War

by Michael Jecks

  Fulk nodded slowly. The thought that Odo could have molested the woman Fulk loved was like acid in his heart, eating slowly into his soul. ‘I came here on pilgrimage thinking it would be an adventure, some excitement from my boring life, but I’ve known nothing but death and misery. Now my own brother wants to take me back to Constantinople to be executed. Well, if God wants me to die, so be it. I will not see more men injured or killed to protect me.’

  Lothar scowled. ‘You will give up?’

  ‘Give up?’ Fulk snarled. ‘I have no woman, no brother – nothing! If God seeks to take my life as well, I submit to Him. But if He gives me leave, I swear, I will dedicate my life to winning Jerusalem and to holding it for Him. I will commit my life to His glory.’

  Gidie hawked and spat, then shrugged and cast an eye up at the sky. ‘Aye, well, it’s all a bastard, but there’s no point riding to your death. You might as well wait here with us if you won’t have your mind changed. There is one thing you may want, though.’

  ‘What?’

  Gidie reached down. Bound to his saddle, beneath his left thigh, was a long package wrapped in muslin. ‘Sybille thought you should not go abroad without protection. She sends you this.’

  Fulk took the package and smiled at the weight. He untied the thongs binding it and unwrapped his sword. Drawing it, he held it up and admired again the steel with its silvery patterns. ‘Thank you, my friend.’ Just gripping the weapon seemed to send a calmness into his breast, and suddenly he had a feeling of hope. He reversed it, gripping the blade in both hands, and repeated his oath. ‘If I am allowed to live, I will dedicate my life to winning Jerusalem and holding it for God, protecting His pilgrims to the end of my life. This I swear on the cross.’

  He kissed the cross of his sword, and as he did so, he felt as though God Himself had looked down and approved.

  Sara sat with Alwyn. She had little idea where he was intending to take her, but she was happy to be with him, wherever he led. Staying at the house would have been unbearable with him gone, now that Jibril was dead. The young slave had been a fixture of her life for so long that she still often thought she heard him pattering along on his bare feet, and would turn to call to him, only to realise that there was no one there.

  Alwyn was the one permanent rock to which she could hook her life. He had taken her as a slave many years ago, and she had become his concubine gladly. She had been terrified of his injuries when he first bought her, but over time she had grown fond of him. He was a kind master, for all his accustomed gruffness.

  ‘Where shall we go?’ she asked him now.

  He was sitting with his back to a rock, and he glanced up at her question. ‘Go? Onwards, I suppose. There’s nothing for us to go back to. The Vestes may take you from me; and me, I don’t know what he’ll do with me.’ His old eyes stared into the distance for a while. ‘I’m sorry, Sara. You should have left me years ago when you had the chance, when I offered you your freedom.’

  Her heart sank at those words. ‘I did not want to leave you. I was happy to stay with you.’

  ‘You don’t know what lies in store for us.’

  ‘No more do you,’ she said. She sat cross-legged at his side. ‘You are going to journey now. I will be with you. I can cope with a journey.’

  ‘You foolish child,’ he said. His hand sought hers, and she realised with a shock that it was his injured one. She gripped it tightly, and when she looked at him she saw that tears were running down his cheeks as he gruffly said, ‘But thank you.’

  It was late in the afternoon that Fulk thought he could see a vague swirling of smoke in the distance towards the coast. It was several miles away, and it appeared over the low, rounded hump of a hill as a mist, but as he sat and watched, he was sure that it grew. It was a force, and a strong one at that.

  Should he give himself up to the men pursuing him and submit? If he were to fight, it would affect all these other men. They did not deserve to be dragged into his fight. They should not be forced to die for him.

  But surrender was impossible. The more he considered the idea, the more he rejected it. Besides, he had made an oath to God. He would not willingly be forsworn.

  He rose and stretched. His fate would soon be decided. He patted the sword at his side. It felt natural there, a part of him. He had borne it over mountains, plains, and over the sea, and now it was welded to him like a new limb. Since his rescue from the cell he had felt diminished without it, and now it was returned he felt like a man who had lost a hound which had returned. It felt like a faithful friend.

  Setting his hand on the grip, he pulled gently. There was a slight friction at first as the swatch of lambswool at the top gave up its grip, and then it slid out smoothly. He studied the pattern on the blade, admiring the weight and balance, the precision of the workmanship, and suddenly an unaccountable sadness washed through him.

  The appearance of the men coming to capture him meant he might never grip this hilt again, that he would neither see Sybille nor Jerusalem, that he would never again share a pot of wine or ale with friends. All would be taken from him if he surrendered himself and this weapon. He would die.

  He shook his head. It was too late to worry about such things. Pushing his sword into the scabbard, he glanced back towards the pursuit. The force was approaching at speed now, the cloud of dust in the air growing, and Fulk could see the twinkle of metal glinting in the sun. He sighed and turned to make his way down to rejoin the others.

  But before he could pass more than a few steps, Alwyn came hurrying up the slope. ‘Fulk! Over there! Look!’

  CHAPTER 41

  Plains before Nicaea, Saturday 25th October, 1096

  Fulk gazed at him with befuddlement. ‘What? I can see them coming.’

  ‘No! Not Odo and his men! Look there!’

  Alwyn flung out his hand towards the north and east. Following his pointing finger, Fulk saw a second cloud of dust. It was almost as close as Odo’s party, and Fulk stared at it with surprise. There were no other men supposed to be out here. His party with Alwyn was the first of the scouting groups, and Odo had followed close on their heels to catch Fulk. Nobody else should be out here.

  That was when he realised what it meant. There was a Saracen force coming towards them, perhaps engaged on the same task: scouting the land to learn what their enemy was up to.

  ‘Christ’s pain! Come on!’ Alwyn said urgently, and together the two slipped and skidded down the hillside to where the rest of the men and Sara were waiting. They were soon in their saddles, and Fulk pointed towards Odo and his men. ‘Quick! We must warn them and prepare!’

  Sir Roger de Toni rode slumped in his saddle. The crossing had not been easy, and the force had ridden only as far as the battlefield on the first day before being forced to camp. They had tried to move far enough from the scene of carnage to be free of the odour, but the wind had changed in the night, and he had woken to the stench assailing his nostrils as though it was a living thing trying to choke the air from his lungs. After that, he had been unable to sleep again, and he wore a dejected air. When he came seeking adventure and knightly opportunities, he had not thought much of the deaths of others. Killing and war were his life, after all; and yet the smell and sight of putrefying corpses was more shocking than he had expected before coming here.

  They were riding quickly, cantering along a valley floor between green hills that had small flocks of sheep, the remnants left after the depredations of the pilgrims who had died here. A couple of turcopoles suddenly spurred their mounts and rode, shrieking, into the midst of the sheep with their light lances. Both speared lambs, flicking their wrists to fling the creatures high into the air, off their lance-points, to lie bleating piteously behind them. The two continued, chasing more.

  Odo saw them kill their first prey, and bellowed at them to come back, but they ignored him and continued their slaughter. Sir Roger watched with a lacklustre eye.

  ‘At least this night there will be fresh meat,’ Heinni
e said.

  Sir Roger nodded. He was not sure of this ‘Heinnie’. The man seemed competent, but he was as nervy as a virgin in a brothel. He kept peering around, over his shoulder, as though looking for something.

  ‘Perhaps we shall find them soon,’ Heinnie said.

  ‘Unless they have been killed already by the enemy,’ Sir Roger grunted. He was unsure that he wanted to catch Fulk. He rather liked the man. From all he had seen, Fulk was both likeable and dependable, precisely the sort of pilgrim that Sir Roger would have wanted to have join his party.

  Odo had slowed their advance to a rapid trot while he waited for the two wayward turcopoles, and Sir Roger drew his leg over the saddle’s crupper to ease his muscles and joints.

  Father Albrecht at Heinnie’s side murmured, ‘I am sure that will not have happened.’ He narrowed his eyes as he gazed ahead. ‘The Good Lord has sent us here to do His bidding and Odo is a most devoted servant of the Lord, so—’

  ‘What’s that?’ Heinnie exclaimed suddenly, standing high in his stirrups.

  Sir Roger stared. ‘Dust? A dust cloud?’

  ‘A strong party of riders, from the look of it, and they must be travelling fast.’

  Odo pulled a face. ‘It’s my brother! He must be riding back to challenge us!’

  ‘How would he know we are here?’ Sir Roger wondered.

  ‘You don’t know my brother,’ Odo snarled, and then bellowed at the two turcopoles once more. They were collecting the bodies of the sheep they had killed, binding them by the throat and slinging them over their horses’ withers. Their commander, eyeing the signs of riders, shouted a command. Hearing his shout, the two looked up quickly. One dropped a pair of lambs, and was about to return to them when his companion snapped at him. He nodded and left them, hurrying to his horse, remounting swiftly, and soon the two had rejoined the main party as the squadron of turcopoles took their position in a column to the left of the pilgrims. Sir Roger glanced at Eudes and Gilles, testing the sword in his scabbard and wrapping his reins more tightly about his left gauntlet. Eudes looked at his ease, while Gilles glared at the hills all about as if daring them to harbour danger.

  Heinnie sat still, once more appearing to listen to a voice only he could hear, and Sir Roger gave a fleeting frown. ‘Is there something the matter?’

  ‘Me? No, Sir Roger. No.’

  Sir Roger moved his shoulders irritably. It was plain to him that Heinnie was not happy, but then, who was? He was hot and uncomfortable with the thick, quilted padding of his gambeson beneath his mail, and he could feel the sweat trickling down his spine, but better that he should be discomforted than die of a stab wound. He gripped his lance more tightly as Odo led the way to the front of the valley at a cautious trot, all eyes ahead on the pass in front of them between two low hills.

  Suddenly the first men appeared, and Sir Roger heard Gilles give a very unchristian oath at the sight: it was a glittering company of Saracens, all clad in black, with glistening steel helms and mail, riding at a brisk trot. Those at the front wheeled about, moving to the flanks, and the remainder of the contingent was suddenly exposed, a strong force of some hundred or more. Flags and banners flew in the mild breeze, and the riders halted, while a group of men trotted to the front.

  ‘Good God in Heaven!’ Father Albrecht murmured.

  Heinnie heard him, but watched impassively. He had a lance in his hand, and though he was unpractised with such a weapon, he was confident he could hit his mark, so long as the spirit of the girl didn’t distract him. The Saracens were preparing themselves for battle with rousing shouts, and then a roar went up as a fellow rode up and down the front rank, urging the men to great efforts of courage. Although they had no knowledge of the language, his meaning was plain.

  ‘You go, do the same,’ Heinnie said urgently to Albrecht.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘These men need to know God is on our side. They need a prayer! Go give them one!’

  Albrecht took another look at the enemy, and Heinnie thought he might decide against it, but then he trotted forward, and turned to face the Christians. ‘Pater Noster,’ he began, and the whole company, turcopoles and Franks, began to mutter along with him, as they had at a thousand Masses before. When they reached the ‘Amen’, Albrecht rode back to Heinnie, giving him a shaky smile.

  ‘And now,’ he said, ‘may God bless us all!’

  Suddenly there was a shout from the Saracens, and the front men bent as they spurred their beasts, and soon all the host was moving towards the Christians, the flanks riding faster, overtaking the body of the force, and in an instant the first arrows were slicing down into the Christian soldiers.

  Sir Roger lowered his head, gave a bellow and spurred his horse. A party of three was before him, and he sent his beast straight at them, Gilles and Eudes at either side of him. It gave him a warm feeling to know that these two were with him. The turcopoles had wheeled and deployed in line abreast, and now joined his charge, a solid phalanx behind Sir Roger. When Sir Roger glanced behind him, he saw that their rapid deployment had taken Odo by surprise, and he was left stranded with Heinnie and Albrecht behind the turcopoles, whipping and spurring their horses to keep up.

  With a crash Sir Roger was in the midst of the Saracens. Two flanking ranks of bowmen hurtled around and past them, and the flights of arrows were fierce, slamming into the men, sometimes pinging off mail or helmets, but many finding their mark, and men disappeared from view in an instant, falling from their saddles.

  He had his target, and pelted onwards at the gallop even as his enemy rode towards him. Sir Roger huddled tight in his saddle, tight like a fist, his lance high until the last moment, when he let it fall and saw it take the man high in his breast, piercing him through and through, the lance snapping with a crack that Sir Roger felt in his elbow and shoulder, but then he had his sword out, and he was battering at another man with it, his horse biting at the other man’s as the blood lust and rage filled rider and beast together.

  Arrows, arrows from everywhere; from before them, from behind, arrows slamming into mounts and men, striking shields and sticking; a storm of arrows that made a man want to shrug his head down into his shoulders and cower away, but Sir Roger fought on. He was aware of a man attacking him on his left, but then Eudes was there, and beat the man away, only to give a sudden yelp that was so like a dog’s, Sir Roger thought his horse must have crushed a hound, but then Eudes slumped in his saddle and Sir Roger saw an arrow protruded from the back of his neck, buried deep in his spine. Eudes fell forward and over his horse’s neck and Sir Roger saw him no more.

  ‘Pull back! Withdraw! They are too strong!’ Gilles roared.

  Sir Roger bared his teeth. ‘You think I am a coward? I will not run from a fight!’

  ‘Then you will die! There are too many! They are far too strong for us!’

  Sir Roger heard a man say, ‘God will not let us fail!’ and turned to see Albrecht and Odo. It was Odo who had shouted, and now he lifted his sword high and screamed, ‘Dieu le veut! Dieu le veut!’

  It was as he cried the second time that Sir Roger saw the arrow. It slammed into Odo’s left shoulder, and Odo was spun about. He almost dropped from his beast, and clutched at his injured shoulder with his hand still grasping his sword. Glancing at the arrow, he paled and turned a waxen green colour, and Sir Roger bit his lip, but he could not leave him to die. This man was God’s chosen leader. ‘Retreat! Pull back!’

  Their way was blocked. The archers at the two flanks had encircled the force, and now rode up and down behind the turcopoles, loosing arrows into their midst and cutting off their retreat.

  ‘Too late!’ Gilles snarled, and thrust at another Saracen. ‘Every man must do the best he may.’

  Fulk and the others came to the head of the valley as the battle surged, and he gazed down at his horse.

  The beast, like all the others, was hot and weary after their journey, and now Fulk must demand that it run again. He glanced at Alwyn, but the older man
had eyes only for his woman, who was riding at the rear of the company. Alwyn called to her. ‘Sara, ride up that hill and stay out of sight. If you can, ride back to the coast and wait for a ship.’

  ‘No. I am coming with you.’

  ‘You cannot ride into battle, woman!’

  ‘If I stay behind and you lose, I will be taken as a slave and concubine. I would rather die with you.’

  Alwyn snapped a look at Fulk and gave a half-grimace of apology. ‘Sara, if you join us, I will be worrying about you all the time and I will be killed. Keep away from the battle, I beg you, in God’s name!’

  She glared, but turned her mount and set it to the nearer hill.

  Alwyn pulled his mail shirt’s throat so that the back of his neck was better protected, gripped his sword in his good hand, and wrapped the reins about his left wrist. ‘Ballocks!’

  Seeing his grimace of determination, Fulk drew his own sword and raised it high over his head. ‘Courage! My friends, we ride to save Christians! We ride to protect pilgrims! Ride with me now, and Godspeed us all!’

  Sir Roger had several arrows stuck in his shield, and it was growing unwieldy. He quickly drew his sword down the face of it, cutting off all the arrows to two-inch-long splinters. A man rode at him from the left, and he rammed the hedgehog shield into his face, then stabbed down with his sword where the man’s mail met his collar, and felt the blade sink in deeply. He pulled it from the sucking flesh and whirled his beast, searching for an escape, but there was none. Only a seething, heaving mass of men and horses.

  And then he heard something faintly over the clamour of battle: a series of screams and bellowed war cries. Suddenly the press about him was lessened, and he lifted his own sword and shouted, ‘We are rescued! To me! To me! We shall win this day!’

  He saw Gilles turn to face him, but then they were all battling again, pressing forward, pushing at the men in front of them, while Sir Roger could see Fulk and the others battering at the men between them. An arrow flew past Sir Roger’s ear and slammed into the face of the man in front of him, who gave a shrill scream and fell, and then there were only two men between Sir Roger and Fulk, and they were knocked down.