A Man of Value

by Anna Markland

  “Mamma,” she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I now have some understanding of why you did what you did. Why you couldn’t face life without my father. I can’t accept the prospect of life without Caedmon.”

  Absentmindedly, she traced her fingertips over the Viking warrior. “Help me, brave grandsire from ages past. I don’t have the courage to raise a child alone.”

  The Earl won’t allow you to face it alone. He will help you.

  Trembling uncontrollably, she put the dagger back down onto the bed and stood on unsteady legs. She went to the door, opened it and collapsed into Leofric’s arms.

  “Agneta,” he whispered, holding her tightly.

  They were all there. Lady Ascha looked like she had cried for a sennight. Agneta had never seen her mother-by-marriage look disheveled, even during the long journey they’d undertaken in their flight, yet now the woman was a wreck.

  Coventina stared at her wide-eyed and it was obvious she too had been crying. Agneta leaned on Leofric who eyed the dagger in her hands. She gave him a reassuring smile and handed him the weapon. “Call Tybaut, Leofric. He must ride quickly to the Earl with this message from Caedmon.”

  She gave the missive to Leofric and he and Lady Ascha read it together. Caedmon’s mother fell to her knees and wailed. Coventina knelt beside her to bring comfort.

  Agneta turned to Leofric. “I must add a postscript, to tell the Earl about our child.”

  Ascha looked up. She and Coventina and Leofric all spoke at the same time. “Child?”

  “I’m carrying Caedmon’s child,” she whispered.

  Ascha struggled to her feet and took Agneta’s hand. “Dear daughter, I beg your forgiveness for what has happened. I should have told Caedmon. I should never have lied.”

  “Lady Ascha, I’m not the one to whom you should say these things. Perhaps one day you can tell me, but now I’m too distraught. We must think only of getting Caedmon safely home. Go to your chamber and rest. Lady Pamela, help her.”

  Edythe and Pamela, who’d stood gaping at the proceedings, both scurried to assist Lady Ascha to her chamber.

  “I’ll ride with Tybaut,” Leofric stated. “Bastard of a Norman or son of a Saxon martyr, makes no difference. Caedmon is like a brother to me.”

  Agneta nodded and held out her hand for the dagger. When Leofric hesitated, she reassured him. “It’s all right.”

  He handed it to her. She went back into her chamber, penned the note to the Earl, resealed the parchment and gave it to Leofric. “Go, quickly.”

  She climbed into bed, clutching the dagger, her thumb caressing the Viking warrior over and over. She prayed her unborn child wouldn’t grow up without a father. It became her mantra, the dagger her talisman.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Caedmon was surprised to be one of the few English people among the motley horde of pilgrims gathering from many nations to join the crusade. Most of them were peasants with whom he had nothing in common. They were armed in large part with farm tools and crude weapons and had no fighting experience or skill.

  As the days went by, an ironic truth dawned on him. He travelled mainly with the group of Norman knights in the throng, men who had experience in warfare, men like Fulcher of Chartres and Walter Sans-Avoir. He was drawn to them and soon established an easy camaraderie with several.

  As he and Walter rode side by side one day, Caedmon asked, “Where are these multitudes coming from, and why are they eager to join this crusade?”

  His new comrade answered, “Peasants from many lands have suffered through drought, famine and plague. They are fleeing those ills and hope to find redemption, and perhaps riches, by participating in a crusade against the unholy Turks occupying the holy city of Jerusalem.”

  Caedmon nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a revolution, isn’t it? Serfs and peasants have usually lived out their lives in the village where they were born.”

  “Oui, then in April of last year, a shower of flaming lights in the heavens was taken to be a divine blessing for the crusade, and the darkening of the moon which occurred in the following February confirmed their belief.”

  “I’ve heard outbreaks of St. Anthony’s Fire across the land caused people to convulse in spasms. They were seen as a sign of witchcraft at work. People believe the world is coming to an end, and have rushed to join the crusade.”

  “What can you expect? They’re peasants,” Walter replied derisively.

  ~~~

  Caedmon resolved to keep an account of his adventures in a Coptic-bound codex, obtained in a market. He was also lucky to find and purchase a tooled leather pouch with several good quills, attached to which was an inkpot with a firm lid, full of encaustum.

  One good thing about the interminable miles is that I have time to think on my problems. As time goes by, some of my anger is draining away. Day to day survival has become the biggest priority.

  In the beginning, the atmosphere in the camps was one of optimism and fervour. Women have joined the march, either to follow husbands and sons, or as camp followers. Many of these are gypsy women who offer their favours to any man who will pay. Though I ache for a woman, it’s Agneta I want.

  The lively Romanies provide relief from the hardships and suffering of the march with their music and dancing. I marvel at their ability to bring life and merriment where there’s growing despair and doubt. They have learned to combat discrimination and persecution with laughter and abandon. No one in the camp trusts them, yet many come to their campfires.

  Agneta and I have never danced, not even at Yuletide.

  The masses are drawn by the monk, Peter the Hermit, from Amiens. Peter rides a donkey and dresses in simple clothing. He preached the crusade throughout Normandie and Flandres. He claims to have been appointed to preach by Christ himself and that he has a divine letter to prove it. Some of the peasants believe Peter, not Pope Urban, was the true originator of the crusade.

  ~~~

  Peter the Hermit led the multitudes following him to Köln. He planned to wait there for more crusaders to arrive.

  Caedmon attended a council of French knights held in Walter Sans-Avoir’s tent.

  “What is your opinion, Walter?” Caedmon asked the man who’d emerged as a leader among his countrymen. “Will you wait with Peter in Köln, or go on?”

  Walter replied without hesitation. “I’m encouraging the French knights to go on. I see no benefit in waiting for more rabble to arrive. They are not warriors.”

  Others nodded their agreement, but he was undecided. “Köln is a bustling city, a centre of trade. It might be beneficial to stay here a while.”

  Walter looked at him squarely and placed his hand on Caedmon’s shoulder. “It will be in your best interests to come with us, my friend. We’re knights like you. You don’t belong with the poorly armed masses.”

  Many, including a group of French knights led by Walter Sans-Avoir, want to move on and not wait in Köln for more crusaders. Though I see the wisdom of Peter’s plan, I believe Walter is right—it is in my best interests to go with the French knights. I pray I’ve made the right decision.

  Thus it was that Caedmon joined thousands of French crusaders who completed a wearying, dusty journey through Hungary, without major incident, and arrived at the river Sava, the border of Byzantine territory at Belgrade. The long trek gave him more time to ponder his situation.

  I’m very homesick, and can barely recall the reasons I left England. I ache for my beautiful Agneta. I’m a fool for abandoning the only woman I’ve ever loved. I know now I’ve loved her from the first moment I saw her in the infirmary.

  But she won’t want me now. I’ve hurt her terribly. I behaved like a child. How often in my life have I wished I had a father? Why wasn’t I willing to at least listen to the Earl? I think often about my newly discovered Norman father. He could have turned his back on me, and who would blame any of them for doing so? He wanted to embrace me and I insulted him. I’ve been consumed with hatred for Normans, a
nd yet here I am with Norman knights as my comrades and they are noble men to the last of them. My own problems seem paltry in the face of what some of these people have endured.

  ~~~

  His scribbling one day, as he rested in the shade of a plane tree after a long day in the saddle, was disturbed by the shouts of a fellow knight. “The Belgrade commander is taken by surprise, having no orders on what to do with us. He’s refused entry. We’ll need to pillage to find food.”

  Provisioning was a constant problem. They had all looked forward to being able to enter Belgrade, a sizable town, and hoped food would be provided. As the horde had grown, settlements had become increasingly reluctant to honour the holy obligation to feed and shelter pilgrims. Having to pillage some poor peasant’s land for sustenance was more than Caedmon could bear, but he went off with other knights and aided in the theft of meager pickings from local farmers. He was to be glad he’d made that decision

  Sixteen knights, who opted to rob the market in a village across from Belgrade, were caught and stripped of their armour and clothing, which was then hung from the castle walls. How can they survive without armour and clothing? What am I doing here?

  ~~~

  The crusaders were allowed to carry on to Niš, one of the most ancient towns in the Balkans, where they were provided with food. There they waited to hear from Constantinople, the embarkation point for the Holy Land.

  I long to hear my own language spoken again, but I’ve become adept at communicating with the Normans in their language. In Scotland I wasn’t forced to learn to speak it, as English Saxons were after the Conquest. I suppose if I’m half Norman, I should learn to speak the language. I’m regaining some of my sense of humour. Praise God!

  My quills are done. I’ll need to learn how to make them if I can’t find any in a market. I traded some of my food for ink. It is hotter than Hades—high summer. They say July is the hottest month here.

  In Niš, Caedmon’s group joined Peter the Hermit’s larger group once more and were soon acquainted with what had happened to them in the interim.

  When the larger army with Peter the Hermit arrived in Zemun, they became suspicious when they saw sixteen suits of armour hanging from the walls. It’s said tensions resulted in a dispute over the price of a pair of shoes in the market, which led to a riot, which then turned into an all-out assault on the town by the crusaders. Four thousand Hungarians were killed. Four thousand—over a pair of shoes. I can scarce believe it.

  The Hermit’s crusaders then fled across the river Sava to Belgrade, but only after skirmishing with Belgrade troops. The residents of Belgrade fled, and the crusaders pillaged and burned the town. This noble endeavour has deteriorated into a murderous rampage. At first I was proud to bear the red cross of Christ on my right shoulder, but now—

  I must not utter such words out loud, however. In these foreign lands they burn ‘heretics’ on a whim.

  ~~~

  The commander of Niš was worried about the size of the rabble following Peter the Hermit. He summoned the monk. “We congratulate you on the success of your bold endeavour, Brother Peter, but we do not have the wherewithal to shelter all your crusaders. There could be trouble.”

  “We all want to avoid that,” the monk replied. “Perhaps if you provided us food?”

  The commander nodded, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “It will be done, but I prefer you not stay in Niš. I will provide an escort to Constantinople, if you agree to leave right away.”

  Peter thought for a few minutes, stroking his beard, then nodded. “I will prepare my army to move as soon as possible.”

  Two days later, the well-provisioned throng was ready to set out. They hadn’t gone far when they came to a large mill. A group of German knights dismounted and strode into the building. They emerged minutes later bearing several heavy sacks on their shoulders. They were pursued by an indignant miller, protesting the removal of his property. “You cannot take my grain,” the miller said in his language, gesticulating wildly.

  “Your commander has agreed we can have food,” came the reply in German.

  The miller appealed to the escort from Niš, his arms wide in supplication. “They cannot steal my grain. They have food aplenty already. See!”

  “You cannot take the grain,” the captain of the Niš escort confirmed, barring the way for the Germans, who promptly dropped the sacks and drew their swords.

  “We were guaranteed food,” they cried, shoving the indignant miller into the swift stream.

  The Norman contingent had been following close on the heels of the Germans and had at first watched this scene with a degree of ridicule. “Here we go again,” Caedmon said. “The German knights are never happy unless they’re fighting or arguing.”

  “You’re right, mon ami,” replied Amadour de Vignoles, who’d become Caedmon’s frequent travelling companion.

  The miller struggled to stay afloat. Things were escalating.

  “Mon Dieu,” Amadour cried. “They’ll drown him over a few sacks of grain to which they’re not entitled. We were given enough supplies when we left Niš.”

  “Good, here comes Brother Peter,” Caedmon said with relief. “He’ll sort them out.”

  “It will be too late for the miller. That German coward is holding him underwater with his boot.”

  With two or three others, Caedmon and Amadour dismounted quickly and ran to the aid of the miller, shoving the belligerent German into the water. As Caedmon proffered his hand to the miller, he too was pushed into the swirling water and drawn to the millwheel. Though he couldn’t understand the miller’s language, he understood his desperation. Caedmon held him up, but he flailed his arms and panicked, pulling them both under. Caedmon recalled his fear when Agneta had struggled to pull him out of the river at Chester. He hadn’t drowned then, and he didn’t intend to drown now.

  “Stop struggling,” he spluttered. “Amadour—help me fish him out.”

  They managed to get the frantic Balkan out of the water. As the three men struggled up the slippery bank, the miller suddenly shouted, pointing to the mill.

  “Sacrebleu! They’ve set fire to the mill,” Amadour exclaimed.

  Caedmon swore under his breath. “Quick! Get him away from here, it’s going up like a torch. That wall will collapse soon, and we don’t want to be under it when it does.”

  “Attention, Caedmon, we must be careful. The soldiers from Niš have attacked the main group of crusaders. The cowardly Germans must have run back there.”

  They stood, panting heavily, watching in disbelief as the skirmish carried on down the road. Caedmon raked his hands through his wet hair, combing it back from his face. The poorly armed peasants were no match for the soldiers, panic soon set in and bodies piled up.

  “Come with me. Get your horses and come with me,” cried the miller, gesturing to make them understand. He led them away from the burning mill, up and over a steep embankment into a copse, indicating they should stay hidden there. He turned to leave them. Caedmon grasped his sleeve. “Where are you going? Stay here with us. It’s too dangerous.”

  The miller looked into Caedmon’s eyes, smiled briefly, shrugged his shoulders, shook Caedmon’s hand, then Amadour’s, and left.

  They sat for an hour until the sounds of conflict abated.

  “Sounds to me like they’ve sent out the whole garrison. This is unbelievable,” Caedmon hissed. “I’m totally disillusioned with the whole idea of the Crusade. I’ve probably killed more men in my own defense while on this religious pilgrimage than I did at the great Battle of Alnwick. Too many lives lost through misunderstandings, stupidity and hatred, and we’re nowhere near Jerusalem yet.”

  Amadour nodded sadly. “I agree, but we have no choice now.”

  Ten thousand souls lost, because of an argument over grain. Amadour and I were lucky to survive. The miller we rescued is probably dead.

  We regrouped and soon reached Sofia where we met our Byzantine escort, which brought us
safely the rest of the way to Constantinople.

  I pray Agneta is safe and well. She’s my talisman, an image I carry in my head. I’m convinced she has protected me, my guardian angel. It’s the only thing that keeps me going. My goal in life is to stay alive long enough to return to her and beg her, beg her to forgive me, for Bolton and for my sheer stupidity. She told me in Chester how foolhardy I was. She would scold me now if I told her I came close to drowning in Niš.

  I long to hear her laughter again.

  My other goal is to master the making of these cursed quills.

  It seemed to me the Byzantine emperor, Alexius Comnenus, was astounded at the size and composition of this huge unexpected army that descended upon Constantinople. He’d petitioned the Pope for a crusading army, but I don’t think this motley horde was what he had in mind. I suspect he didn’t know what to do with us, so he quickly ferried all thirty thousand of us across the Bosporus.

  Once in Asia Minor, we pillaged towns and villages on the way to Nicomedia. There, yet another argument broke out between the Germans and Italians on one side and the French on the other and I again saw the folly of divisiveness. The Germans and Italians have split off and elected a new leader, an Italian named Rainald. The French chose Geoffrey Burel, of all people, to take command. Many of us are not sure it’s a wise choice. But I must go with them.

  ~~~

  The French group reached the edge of Nicaea, a Turkish stronghold, where they pillaged the surrounds. It was a suicidal idea, but they had to have food. He’d taken to the Norman habit of shaving the back of his head to help cope with the heat and the lack of facilities for bathing.

  Lice are an ever-present scourge. As the ‘army’ has grown, conditions in the camps have deteriorated. The movement of the horde and horses stirs up enough dust to choke a man, and I wear rags across my face to protect myself from the suffocating air. Thirst is a constant problem. My skin is baked onto my bones.

  “Rumours are flying now about a group of six thousand Germans who captured Xerigordon from the Turks,” Amadour told him. They were sharing the raw root vegetables they’d dug up.