Pilgrim's War

by Michael Jecks

  He eyed her fondly. She was a comfort to him. She caught his eye and gave a quick frown, as though he was ogling her bosoms, and he reddened instantly and looked away. Ridiculous! he told himself. You’ve seen her naked, and she you, many times since leaving Sens. But there it was. They were here on a holy march, not for the enjoyment of the natural pleasures, but for a more stern task.

  ‘May I sit here awhile?’ he asked.

  ‘You would like some of my food this time, then?’ she said with a chuckle.

  ‘Yes, if you have enough to share; but really, all I want just now is your company.’

  She laughed then, and Fulk thought it was a wonderful sound. But then he thought of Sybille, and he felt his heart weep.

  All the while Gidie sat quietly nearby. But he had not forgotten Odo’s acts, and nor could he forgive them. He yearned for revenge.

  Heinnie stayed up late that evening. He spent it talking quietly with Lothar. He could tell that Lothar was uncomfortable with him; perhaps because Lothar felt that Heinnie could not truly have forgiven him for that terrible scar; perhaps because Lothar did believe Heinnie about the Jewess following him.

  It didn’t matter to Heinnie. All he knew was, he must fight his way to Jerusalem, and there make his peace with God. He had to make it there. Without God’s forgiveness, he knew that the Jewess would drag him down to Hell and make sure he suffered for every blow, every thrusting of every rape, every moment of agony and terror she had endured before her death.

  When Lothar rolled himself in his blanket, Heinnie felt her again, like a witch peering over his shoulder, and he covered his face in his hands and began to sob.

  At the same time, Sybille was sitting in her tent, rocking her daughter as Odo snored.

  Men had brought him here on his litter, and carried him inside on it, helping him to Sybille’s bed. He looked at her as he was brought in. Sir Roger was with him, and the knight told her how brave her husband had been. He had been at the forefront of the fighting, he said, and it was a cruel chance that saw him so injured.

  She thanked him, but as he was leaving the shelter he paused, glanced back at Odo, and told her quietly that he hoped Odo and Fulk were reconciled. Odo had accepted that his brother was entitled to remain in the pilgrimage, and Fulk was to march with Sir Hugh de Vermandois for the rest of the journey.

  Sybille nodded, expressed her thanks, and turned just in time to see Odo’s smirk of satisfaction. It was a sight to chill her heart. Odo was not reconciled, no matter what he might say to others.

  She had thought – no, hoped – that she would never see him again, that he would die on the shores of Rum, that a Saracen arrow would find his heart. It had been so close. Only a few inches away and he would be dead now. It was tempting now to pray for his death, that his wound might prove fatal, but a look at him told the lie to that. He was healing well.

  And she was bound to him for life. Till death parted them.

  She prayed it would come soon.

  CHAPTER 43

  Constantinople, Friday 14th November, 1096

  Odo was satisfied with his recovery. The first week after his injury at the battle, he had thought he might die, but the second week he could feel himself improving daily. Although his wife was unresponsive and cold towards him, Peter had expert physicians visit him, and now he was feeling strong again.

  On that Friday he rose early and made his way to the chapel where he celebrated Mass with Peter the Hermit and many of the senior knights in the pilgrim army. Every day more and more men were arriving, and at first Odo was impressed to see how the camp about Constantinople was growing, but more recently Odo had become aware that the new arrivals were not as respectful as they should be.

  There was nothing that was obvious at first glance. It was a fact that Peter seemed less welcome in the Emperor’s presence than before, but there were men such as the French King’s brother and other noblemen. At first Odo had thought it was merely that: the need of the Emperor to spend time with the men who were most important in the growing army, but then Odo heard sniggers and quiet comments when he or Peter passed by newcomers, as though they were the source of amusement.

  Today, walking back to his tent, he heard a man laugh, and although he turned swiftly, he could not see who was responsible.

  Angrily, he made his way to the tent and lifted the flap. His wife was inside.

  She was wearing a tunic of some light material that set off her pale skin perfectly. She sat still, her hands in her lap as he entered, staring at him fixedly.

  ‘Wife, you look most appealing,’ he said with a mild smile. His mind was still dwelling on the chuckles he had heard outside. It was almost as if he was a figure of fun. Not that anyone who had heard of his exploits could believe such a thing. He was the figurehead of the entire pilgrimage – Peter had told him so.

  She said nothing to his pleasantry, and he looked at her as he sat down on his palliasse. He patted the bed beside him, but she gave no indication that she had heard him or seen his gesture.

  ‘Wife, you must grow to accommodate yourself to the situation. We are man and wife, and there is nothing we may do to change that. What, will you not speak? This sulking is unbecoming a wife. Come, fetch me wine and let us sit together as a man and wife should.’

  ‘I will not be a wife to you,’ she said. Her face was set into lines of determination.

  ‘You are my wife, woman.’

  ‘I will remain here when the pilgrimage continues.’

  He frowned. ‘Wife, you should be by my side. It will be better for you to be a part of the pilgrimage, and . . .’

  ‘I will join a convent. Richalda can come with me. You will release me, and I will devote my life to prayer.’

  ‘No, I cannot,’ Odo said. ‘I need you at my side.’

  ‘I will never be your wife! Let me go.’

  Odo rose and felt the rage filling his breast. ‘Woman, you are my wife. I do not give you permission to leave me. That is an end to it!’

  She remained where she was. ‘I will not be a wife to you. You have stolen me from the man I wanted to marry, but you will not have the pleasure of my body or soul. I despise you!’

  He felt something snap in his mind. ‘You bitch, you will respect me and do as I say, or in Christ’s name, I swear I shall destroy you!’

  ‘Kill me, then,’ she said. ‘Like you murdered Jeanne when she rejected you, or like you tried to kill Gidie, or your own brother!’

  He did not even recall the blows later. A mist of blood seemed to appear before him, and he was aware of clenching his fists, trying to stop her talking, battering . . . and then, when it dissipated, Sybille lay on the floor before him, moaning, curled into a ball, rocking gently. Odo was dumbfounded; he shook his head, took a step backwards. He dropped to his knees and put his hand out to her. She whimpered and withdrew. There was blood, blood on her face, at her mouth, and she clutched at her belly.

  It was horrible. For all the passion of his words, he wanted her to love him. There was no point in a marriage that was only a battlefield. ‘How can you not love me? Why do you not want me? I don’t understand you, woman!’

  Then it was that the answer wormed its way into his mind.

  It was Fulk, of course. He must have been wheedling his way back into her affections. Fulk could not bear to think that Odo could have won his woman. Any woman must love Odo, naturally. As the man at the right hand of Peter the Hermit, any woman would desire him. The fact that Sybille hated him must be because Fulk was pouring bile into her ears. Odo should have fought harder for Fulk’s punishment after his attempt to injure him. When they had returned, Fulk had ingratiated himself with Hugh de Vermandois and his men while Odo lay recovering. By the time he was able to walk again, Fulk was fully rehabilitated. There was no opportunity to bring Fulk to justice.

  Odo had not pursued his brother, and now his kindness was to be repaid like this!

  He moved to Sybille, but she crawled away from him. ‘Don’t touch
me! I hate you!’

  Odo stood again. He shuddered to hear the hatred in her voice. She rolled over, a sob escaping from her throat. Then he turned and stalked from the tent.

  He would find his brother, and he would kill him.

  Gidie was with Guillemette when Odo appeared.

  Guillemette saw him first, and she tried to distract Gidie, but before she could try to send him away, Odo was with them.

  ‘Where is he? Where is my brother?’

  Guillemette stood her ground. ‘He is not here. Perhaps you should go back to your pavilion and sleep it off.’

  ‘You think I am drunk? I am drunk on the deceptions and betrayals of my own brother! He is working to take my wife from me now, and I swear he will fail!’

  Guillemette scowled. ‘He has had nothing to do with your wife. Sybille has not seen him since he returned from Civitot with you, when he helped save your life.’

  ‘You are lying, woman! What would I expect from a whore!’

  Guillemette recoiled as he clenched his fist and held it before her threateningly.

  Gidie was already there, and he grabbed Odo’s forearm. ‘You want to murder her like you slew Jeanne? You are a weakly coward, Odo! If you want to fight, fight me – but this time, fight like a man, don’t try to stab me in the back again!’

  ‘You don’t know what you are talking about!’

  ‘Really? I saw you with Jeanne, remember? And then you struck me down and fled Civitot. You left me and your brother there to die, didn’t you?’

  Odo pulled his hand away and grabbed at his sword, sweeping it out in a flash of silver and grey steel. Gidie had only the dagger at his belt, and he pulled it out, but already Odo was stabbing at his belly. Gidie leaped back, trying to avoid the blade, but as he went, his heel caught a stone, and he fell back. Winded, he looked up at Odo as the blade swung up.

  Then Guillemette hurled a ladle-full of pottage into his face and Odo screamed and wiped at his eyes.

  Fulk saw them as he returned to Guillemette’s camp. He saw her fling the boiling liquid at Odo’s face, and saw Odo turn to try to stab her. Fulk ran forward as Gidie rolled and caught Odo’s heel, pulling him down. Odo fell, swearing and cursing, and dropped his sword. He had it again in a flash, but now Fulk was there, and he held out his hands placatingly. ‘Odo, brother, stop! What is this about?’

  ‘You have poisoned her against me, haven’t you? You couldn’t bear the fact that I won Sybille, so now you are seeing her and trying to turn her from me! I won’t allow it!’

  ‘I’ve not seen her, Odo. I have neither spoken to her nor seen her since we came back here.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’ Odo was on his feet again now, and he suddenly lunged at Fulk.

  Fulk had to retreat. ‘Odo, man, stop this!’

  ‘You should have died for trying to kill me before. I won’t let you escape this time!’

  Gidie was clambering to his feet, and Odo saw him. He gave a snarl, and hacked down with his sword. Fulk barged into him, his palm striking Odo’s injured shoulder. He screamed, and his blow was sent wide. Odo faced Fulk, and now Fulk could see the hatred in his eyes. It was horrific, like seeing a demon staring at him from his brother’s face. ‘Odo!’ he cried, but then he had to draw his own sword as Odo slashed at him.

  Fulk managed to avoid that, but Odo’s weapon stabbed quickly at his lower belly; Fulk knocked his blade away, and then blocked a fresh hack at his head, and he used his weight and momentum to push Odo’s sword to his right. Odo spat in his face, and Fulk blinked away the spittle, but then Odo kneed him in the groin, and Fulk bent double. Too late he felt his sword free as Odo pulled his own away, and then he was shoved away by Gidie. Gidie had his own sword now, and he attacked like a berserker, his blade whirling and dancing in the sunlight.

  But the training with Peter of Auxerre on the long march had given Odo experience and fast reactions. Fulk saw him block one attack, and saw how Odo placed his feet. From that he knew his brother was about to launch himself at Gidie, and that his Damascus blade would whirl and cut from the flank. It was how Peter had trained them. There was nothing Gidie could do to defend against that assault.

  It was a preemptive act; nothing more. Fulk sprang forward to stop the blade from sweeping into Gidie’s torso. His sword was up at the right height to stop the blade, but then the pain from his cods made him lurch with agony, and as he did he felt the point of his sword seem to slither, like an eel sliding over ice, and a moment later he felt the clatter as the hilt of Odo’s sword struck his own. Gidie was safe, and Fulk tried to grab Odo by the shoulder, to disable him before anyone was hurt, but even as he stared, he saw that the length of his sword was buried in Odo’s torso. His stumble meant that Odo had taken the full force of Fulk’s thrust in his breast.

  Fulk fell to his knees and screamed, ‘No!’ as Odo fell back, two paces. His hand went to Fulk’s sword-hilt as though in wonder, and then he gave a cough. He collapsed like a castle of sand, Fulk’s blade still trembling in his chest.

  EPILOGUE

  Askanian Lake, Nicaea, dawn, Thursday 18th June, 1097

  The sun glistened from the wave tops, from the limewashed buildings, and from the steel all about him. Helmets, mail, lance and spear-points were points of bright reflection, like a galaxy of stars twinkling before him, and the effect was blinding. Fulk had to narrow his eyes.

  Under his feet the deck rolled, and he was forced to clutch at the man beside him, a tall, dark-skinned turcopole with the patronising manner of a Greek nobleman in the Byzantine court. The man looked down his nose at Fulk, but Fulk did not react. He had more than proved himself in recent months. There was not a Greek in the Byzantine army who had seen as much fighting as Fulk in the past year. All he knew was, he was glad to be leaving Constantinople at last.

  The ship was wallowing now as it approached the shoreline. Horses below and in the other ships were neighing, some wildly, and there was a brief scream as a man was crushed by a falling destrier.

  Fulk looked over the men with him. He was a part of this new force, an army ready and prepared to conquer the Holy Land and release the city of Jerusalem from the hideous rule of the heretic Saracens. The people would be grateful to be told that they could soon expect to be released from their near-servitude.

  It was a huge host of men. Some said that there were more than fifty thousand, others that this was an underestimate and the numbers were nearer eighty thousand. Fulk had no idea, but the men of the army seemed as numerous as the grains of sand held in a fist. It was hard to believe a man’s eyes when he saw them gathered together. There were the vassals of Duke Godfrey de Bouillon, of Bohemond of Taranto, of Raymond of Toulouse, Tancred of Hauteville, and Baldwin of Boulogne. An almost incomprehensible number of men-at-arms, with their ranks boosted by pilgrims like Fulk.

  They were outside Nicaea now, besieging the ancient city that had been so important to the Christian faith. Kilij-Arslan had declared this city as his capital in his pride and foolishness, and now the heretic was learning that the Christians would not suffer their lands to be stolen. While the army fought at the landward side of the city, Fulk and this naval force had portaged their ships over to the lake, and were now sailing to the western walls. There they would soon help destroy all opposition.

  Peter the Hermit was at the poop, ridiculously excited to be travelling with this army, like a child with a new toy, Fulk thought sourly. Sybille was back at the shore with Guillemette and the rest of the camp followers. He had avoided her since Odo’s death. He never wanted to see her again. It was too painful to see her, to think of his brother’s death. Poor Odo! Fulk missed him every day. His only memory was of that look of hatred as he fought Fulk at the encampment outside Constantinople. It was a look Fulk would never forget.

  He had to forget Odo, to set aside the man who had grown to so detest him that he had tried to kill him. Instead Fulk concentrated on the other people. The men and women whom he had met on the way. Over to his left was Gidie
. The old tranter was smiling grimly now, staring forward towards the city they were about to assault.

  Farther on Alwyn and Sara clung to the ropes holding the great sail. She had sworn never to leave his side again, much to Alwyn’s displeasure. Even now, she was with him. As he watched them, he saw Alwyn put his arm about Sara, holding her as the ship rocked. Alwyn looked ten years younger than he had when the Vestes had held his boy and woman against his good behaviour. Fulk stared at him, thinking that if a man were to see Alwyn and himself side by side, they would think Fulk was the older of the two.

  It was a peculiar thought. Only a few months ago Fulk had been a careless, wayward young man. He had no thoughts in his head other than where his next cup of wine would come from, or which maid at a tavern would be most likely to welcome his advances.

  It had all changed when the Hermit had come into his life. That day had heralded his first sight of Sybille, and it had betokened the beginning of his search for adventure. How ironic that he should have found so much adventure! He would, if he could, have returned to those days of peace and comradeship with Odo.

  Odo; his friend, his ally, his brother. The man who had discovered a new, masculine form of religion for himself, who had become so intolerant and distrusting that he had cut himself off from Fulk, nurturing a hatred that was incomprehensible to him. It left Fulk feeling guilty, perversely, as though it was Fulk’s lesser conviction that had led to Odo’s extreme conversion to the concept of holy war, which had invariably led to Odo’s death. And now Fulk had the guilt of his death added to the weight of the burden he had to carry.

  ‘Will we soon disembark?’

  It was Heinnie. He was close by, clinging to a stanchion, while Lothar stood before him, a smile on his face as he stared at the approaching coast like a hound snuffing the air.

  Lothar pointed. ‘Yes, soon we will be there. The ship will be glad to throw us off and return to the sea! This vessel is like a bird in the sky, in her element. If the ship had a soul, it would rejoice to be here on the water.’