Albrecht came to stand at Elias’s side, his sword likewise drawn. “It was you pigs who insisted we change course, you and your useless horde of ne’er-do-wells and vagabonds.”
The man made a threatening gesture. “Are you trying to tell me we would be doing any better in Konya or further along?” He subsided rapidly, though he continued to spit both saliva and epithets as he turned and slumped away.
Seeing Elias’s taut expression, Albrecht reassured him. “We’ll take Gangra. Then we will have all the food and water we need for our horses, ourselves, and even garbage like him.”
Elias was deep into pondering what he was coming to see as the gross unfairness of dragging that dear old friend on this journey—that was, the dear old friend called Gauner. He marveled at the horse’s willingness to blunder on, dry, hungry, unable to stop and rest or even to stand in some shade. Yes, he was trained for combat, but all he was getting was some fool’s idea of glory. Elias made the sign of the cross. “From your lips to God’s ear.”
SOME CHEER made its way through the ranks as the walls of Gangra came into view. That hopeful spirit melted away as they neared. There was something solid about this fortress, almost as if it was solid stone across. The battlements were crowded with jeering men shaking their fists at the pilgrims, some turning and exposing their arses in defiance.
The pilgrim leaders commanded the procession to camp for the night some distance from the walls. Scouts sent on ahead found a small clump of trees indicating the presence of water. It turned out to be a well with a terrible taste, but it was all they had. They took what they could and boiled some of it in pots over green wood that smoked and spat. Most slept in spite of the heat and stinging flies, while others stood watch, swaying with weariness and downcast hearts.
In the spacious command tent, where Elias attended on Conrad, wine flowed readily enough. Servants darted here and there with small plates of food kept for the commanders’ table. A scout stood, holding his helm in both arms, and slowly imparted his intelligence.
“The town is fully garrisoned. More than that, it is shut tight. It has thicker walls even than usual, and it seems to have been supplied with everything they could need. Food, water, fodder, weapons, you name it.”
Burgundy interrogated, “Where does this information come from, man?”
“Peasants. Clerics. Deserters. Some of it from our own scouts,” he hurried to add, seeing that Stephen was about to cast doubt on what could be trusted from Muslims. “We had parties watching the fortress over the past few days. They saw the arms and men stream in. The carts of provender as well.”
Hugh of Montebello chimed in. “Any estimate of the size of the garrison?”
The scout glanced at Raymond. “We cannot be sure. Fifteen hundred, two thousand, perhaps?” The commander nodded his agreement.
All heads turned to Raymond. He slowly rose and, tucking his thumbs in his sword belt, gave them a frank one-eyed stare. “It’s too well fortified. Too strong. We are a larger force, but they have food, plenty of it to last. We are on our last rations.”
Elias caught Archdeacon Ludovico’s move to rise out of the corner of his eye. “Look, without some sort of miracle…,” Ludovico began ominously.
Raymond’s gaze shot to the scout, who was clearing his throat meaningfully. “What is it?”
Scuffing his feet on the carpet laid on the dirt under the tent, the man reluctantly responded, “There is more, my lord. One of the deserters says that reinforcements are on their way.”
“And shall we believe the words of a heathen dog?” the archbishop’s man accused.
Raymond waved the archdeacon to silence. “What did he say, exactly?” He turned, shouting to a servant, “Get this man a stool and some wine.”
They waited while the scout took the wine, sat on the stool before them, and drank deeply. “Thank you, my lord.” He drank again, then went on, “It seems that up until recently, the sultan, Kilij Arslan, managed to outrage all the other warlords with his presumption of command. He used the threat of Christian pilgrim knights to try to browbeat them into bowing to him. They scoffed, then removed themselves and their support. But something is different now. One of the leaders, Malik Ghazi, has gathered his forces and joined the sultan.” He glanced around at the faces searching his. “Many, many thousand men.”
All were silent, save for a muted “Shit!” that issued from the lips of Raymond.
Chapter Twelve
No Turning Back
THE WORD came down. They were to bypass Gangra. Conrad had all he could do to silence the protesting voices.
“But what about supplies?” came one angry demand.
Conrad held up his hands for silence. “Would you rather starve while you sit here in siege, or at least have a chance of finding supplies on the road north?”
A knight accused, “Have you and the other leaders left your balls back in Constantinople? We can take that city!”
The constable’s face reddened. “We are going on. That is all there is to it.”
The pilgrims’ disappointment over the leaders’ decision turned to anger. It could go either way, toward rebellion against those leaders, or retribution against the environs of the city. The leaders, with the help of their heavily armed elite knights, skillfully turned the focus of that fury on the farms and dwellings outside the walls.
The scene was one of utter devastation. The knights were carefully instructed to make for whatever supplies were above ground or in storage. The Lombards and many of the men-at-arms of all nations were left to smash and grab, rape and kill. The fact that there was little to smash and few to rape and kill made their ravishment the more brutal. No structures, no trees or shrubs were left, and not a soul survived their rapacity.
The Turks on the battlements shouted in outrage, but no one emerged to fight them. It seemed they had as little regard for their people as the Christian pilgrims did. All the while, the small army of priests stood in the shadow of the fortress, out of range of arrows, and intoned their incessant prayers.
Once the tiny amount of supplies was gathered and packed onto sumpter horses, the pilgrim procession streamed desultorily north, followed by shrill, shouted insults and derisive laughter from the battlements of the fortress of Gangra. The pilgrims themselves were largely silent, save for muttered recriminations and irritable complaints from every contingent.
“Where are we going now?” someone whined.
A deeper voice replied, “Kastamonu. It’s in the mountains to the north, just this side of the Black Sea.”
The van was no longer in sight of the fortress of Gangra when Raymond’s trailing force was just barely in sight of it. Downhearted at having to bypass what might have been a treasure trove of supplies, not to mention booty and women, the knights and men-at-arms trudged after their leader, leaving the fortress behind. When a great shout came from the direction of the gates, the last of the soldiers looked over their shoulders to see them open, and dozens of mounted men streaming forth.
While the ordinary soldiers panicked, the Pecheneg among Raymond’s forces turned to face the attackers in disciplined ranks. They quickly formed the line into a tight column, with men with shields facing outward. Men behind them held up their shields at a slight angle from the vertical of the outer row, creating the start of a turtle formation, named for the protective shell of that beast.
Meanwhile, the knights under Raymond, who screamed orders to his own commanders, forced their men to gather in the middle, holding shields aloft. It seemed this seasoned hero of the capture of Antioch and the Pecheneg leader Tzitas knew what to expect. From the vantage of their horses’ backs, the knights watched this play out. The Turks who streamed from the fortress split as they neared the column, breaking into two offensive lines of mounted archers who rode along and fired arrow after arrow at the crusader forces. The sound of the arrows thudding into shields was a staccato accompaniment to the eerie ululations of the Turks. The drumming was punctuated with an occa
sional clang as an arrow struck a helm. Few hit flesh.
A messenger tore north along the column to warn the other commanders, keeping just ahead of the pursuing Turks. While the rear drew to a near halt with the slowly moving and aptly named turtle, the forces ahead also slowed and turned their heads to see what was happening. Conrad’s company, riding before the rear forces and just behind the mass of Lombard rabble, followed their commander’s quick directions and formed the forward extension of the shield wall that enclosed the noncombatants as well. At the center lumbered the carts and sumpter animals, adding the bellows of oxen and nasal call of mules to the pandemonium.
Elias found himself painstakingly threading the center of the narrowing procession that connected the rear forces with the last of the peasants. Albrecht, at his command, rode forward with the Ranulf to protect the men, women, and children who shrieked and wept at the assault they could hear but not see all around them. Elias glimpsed the other three mercenaries take position together, Sebastiano on the outermost wall with his shield held defensively in front of him, Leif with his Norseman’s helm just behind, and Thomas with them, crossbow raised to take shots from time to time over their shoulders at the swiftly passing Turks.
It was all the armed men could do to keep the mass of Lombard peasants from trampling each other. Elias and Albrecht used their horses’ bodies and weapons to keep them in a line, slowing them to a crawl. They could not hear their own captains’ orders for the screaming of the people, old and young, as the unseen terror seemed to last for hours.
Burgundy and the Lombard knights and soldiers heard what passed and scrambled to form their own defensive formation. The entire half-mile-long procession compacted into a snake that slithered almost to a stop.
Then the assault ended as suddenly as it had begun. The mounted Turks, without a single casualty, turned and rode back in the direction of the fortress. The men in the shield wall watched warily as the last of the attackers disappeared to the south.
“Keep in position!” commanders bellowed as some of the rear guard began to relax. “They may come back!”
They did not. The fading sounds of ululation and hoofbeats left the column to the lamentations of the camp followers. Clerics’ chanted prayers were no less frantic. None was injured by anything but the crush around them. As the threat of the Turks’ return appeared to be over, commanders among the men-at-arms assessed the damage.
Albrecht dismounted from Carlchen and led him among the Lombard pilgrims, doing what he could to reassure and comfort. One mother clutched a trembling child to her breast. Albrecht leaned in to offer them his waterskin. The child, a dirty-faced little girl, lifted her head from her mother’s shoulder just enough to peek out, saw the squire, and shrieked as if a demon had her in its clutches. “She is terrified,” the woman explained as the child shoved her tear-streaked face hard into her mother’s body.
“With good reason,” Albrecht replied in the camp pidgin that had already developed among the several languages represented by the thousands of pilgrims. He hesitated, and then, removing his heavy leather gauntlet, reached a tentative hand to stroke her hair. “What is her name?”
“Maria,” his mother said.
Albrecht leaned to the little girl’s ear and crooned, “Little Maria, the bad men are gone. You are safe. I am here to protect you.”
A convulsive shudder shook the little body. She would not look up.
He acted on inspiration. “Have you ever seen a duck standing on his head?” he said into her ear. Though the child did not respond, he gestured to the woman to follow him. At Carlchen’s side, he reached for his shield where it hung at the saddle. “Here it is, quack, quack, quack! Oh no,” he piped in a falsetto. “I can’t fly upside down!”
The little face emerged like the first sliver of a new moon. One dark eye peered at Albrecht’s shield with its upside-down duck painted on the leather facing.
“Maria, help!” the squire continued in his piping voice. “Help me figure out how to get upright again!” The camp pidgin was inadequate for what he had to say, but the child’s dark, moving iris showed she was interested. She drew one thin arm away from where she clutched her mother’s head covering. Extending her hand slowly, she described a circle with a tiny finger.
Albrecht made the shield dip slightly back and forth. In the high-pitched voice, he said, “Oh no! I don’t understand. What should I do? Quack, quack!”
In a tiny voice, she said, “Turn around.”
“Like this?” Albrecht turned the shield so the picture of the duck faced away from the three of them.
Shaking her head, the child said more loudly, “No, like this!” She traced a definite circle in the air.
Albrecht left the shield facing the wrong way but turned it a half turn. “Like this? Quack, quack.”
He was rewarded with a giggle. “No, this way!” The child’s head no longer was buried in her mother’s shoulder, and her dark eyes, though still red with weeping, almost sparkled.
“Like this? Quack, quack!” When Albrecht turned the shield around this time, the duck, though not the shield, was right way up.
“Yes!” the girl crowed in her childish voice.
“Thank you, Maria, quack, quack!”
“Thank you, my lord,” the woman said, smiling wanly. “You are most kind.”
Albrecht tousled the girl’s dusty dark hair and smiled. “The attack is over. Now we will find our way to Kastamonu, and there we can rest.”
He found Elias looking about for him from his perch atop Gauner. “Thank God,” Elias rejoiced. “There don’t seem to be any serious injuries, but until I saw you, I was terrified.”
THE COLUMN was at a standstill even after the Turks rode away. Their companions saw to those who had taken injury. The commanders grouped among the constable’s forces halfway down the line to discuss what had happened and the likelihood the attacks would recommence. Elias moved as close as he dared to listen.
“Surely they will not follow us as we get farther from the fortress?” Blois averred.
Raymond responded, his voice betraying his ever-increasing frustration with his commanders. “Probably not, but I cannot imagine we will be left alone even after this.”
Conrad broke in, and judging from what Elias could see of his expression, Raymond seemed grateful for the man’s good sense. “My Lord of Toulouse is right. There may be others about. We must stay on guard for more attacks. We must be able to get into the turtle formation swiftly.”
Burgundy protested. “It is a long way to Kastamonu, is it not? Where are these attacks going to come from? I say we make our way straight through to Kastamonu. The faster, the better.”
Hugh of Montebello echoed his comments, adding, “Walking along in a turtle will slow us down. I don’t think we have provisions enough if it takes twice as long to get to a new source.”
Raymond lifted both his clenched fists in front of his chest. “We don’t stay in turtle the whole time, you great ass!” He turned away from the group of commanders, his face red and his one sound eye fiery.
Hugh looked at the general’s back, affronted. “My lord, is it necessary to…?”
Conrad explained. “We can walk at our usual pace, my lords. Just stay near our turtle positions so there is no delay in getting into defensive lines.”
“I still say it is unnecessary,” whined Stephen of Blois.
Raymond spun back to face him. “You would, you little weasel. But those of us who stood and fought at Antioch instead of buggering off know better.”
Stephen’s hand flew to his sword’s hilt. “Why, you arrogant son of a bitch!”
Raymond put a hand to his own sword in its scabbard. “Go ahead, if you are man enough to fight me.”
Before he could pull his sword more than an inch, Burgundy stepped between the two men. “Stay. We do not need to fight each other. We are here to fight the heathens.”
Conrad sighed as Raymond rolled his eyes. “Let us err on the side of caut
ion.”
Stephen of Burgundy nodded. “That is wise. How shall we proceed?”
Raymond subsided. He looked at the constable. “We can camp here for a short time, but we need to move on before we settle for the night. Conrad will work out what we need to do. Can you be ready to go on in two hours?” he asked, looking up, squinting at the position of the sun. “It is going to get hotter in no time.”
IT WAS indeed hotter even than it had been in the morning when, just after midday, the procession moved north. Elias helped Conrad convey instructions to the German and Austrian parties’ captains on the order of march. It was no more complicated than walking loosely in the position each man would hold in the turtle, should one be invoked.
“I would like to ride up with the Lombard pilgrims, if it please my lord,” Albrecht told Elias.
“Very well,” he replied.
As they continued north, free of any further attacks, Elias sweltered in his armor. He wondered, not for the first time, why the commanders had chosen to ride into the longer, hotter days of July. They must know something, he assumed. The passes must be blocked in the winter. This made him think of the Alpine passes and how he had fretted at the cold. Oh, to be cold again.
“Could we not travel at night?” he asked Ranulf when he brought his own mount alongside Elias’s.
“Harder to be vigilant,” he answered succinctly.
“Do you think we are free of any further attacks?”
The mercenary captain gave him a sardonic look. “No, I do not,” he said emphatically.
Elias looked after him, dismayed, as he spurred ahead.
One thing about riding in the searing heat, he soon discovered, was that his need to relieve himself privately, much more difficult in this press of human and animal bodies, was less of a problem. He sweated off what he might otherwise have had to find a discreet place to relieve himself of privately.
Beloved Pilgrim Page 22
