A Man of Value

by Anna Markland

  Caedmon smirked. “I don’t believe anything about the Germans any more, not after Niš.”

  Amadour spat out some fibrous bit of food he couldn’t chew. “The counter-rumour has it the Turks recaptured the city from the Germans, who were forced to drink the blood of donkeys and their own urine, when their water supply was cut. Some of the captured crusaders converted to Islam and were sent to Khorasan, while others who refused to abandon their faith were killed.”

  The rumours about Xerigordon are enough to make the hairs on the back of my head stand up—except I have no hair. I remember the first time I saw Agneta’s beautiful hair. It was very short! It’s a bittersweet memory. I ache for her, in my heart and my loins.

  I’ve had a recurring dream. I ride up to a castle. Agneta is there, but she’s been transformed into a tree—a beautiful lush green tree. She smiles at me as I approach, and then I hear a sound. It’s birdsong. I frown, not knowing where the sound comes from. Agneta slowly raises her arms and they become branches. I look up at the branches, and see two birds nesting.

  I wish I could fathom what the dream signifies. I asked a Romany, but all he was interested in was my coin. He mumbled something about the castle foretelling great wealth. That surely can’t be true. Maybe I didn’t understand his language properly.

  ~~~

  “They say now the brave Germans have taken Nicaea,” Amadour told Caedmon a few days later.

  Caedmon could see his friend was pale and had lost a lot of weight. He wondered about his own appearance. It was a long time since they’d eaten a good meal. “That rumour must have been started by Turkish spies.”

  Amadour shifted wearily into the shade of the palm tree they sheltered beneath. “Maybe, but it has people excited to get there as soon as possible.”

  Caedmon absent-mindedly scratched a drawing of a tree in his codex. “Aye, so they can share in the looting, no doubt.”

  “You’re probably right,” Amadour sighed. “The trouble is, Burel has popular support among the masses and he’s arguing it would be cowardly to wait. He wants to move against the Turks right away.”

  “He’s a hothead. The rumour can’t be true.”

  Next to the tree Caedmon drew two birds.

  We advised caution, but Burel’s will has prevailed. I have a feeling of foreboding about the whole enterprise. I’ve no faith in Burel and even less in the veracity of the rumour about the fall of Nicaea. Nevertheless, I can’t remain in the camp with the women and children.

  Pray for me, Agneta.

  ~~~

  On the morning of the twenty-first day of October, the crusading army of twenty thousand marched out toward Nicaea. Caedmon, Amadour, and several other Norman knights positioned themselves near the rear of the column. As they marched, they caught sight of a derelict fortification on a hill overlooking the water, about half a mile to the west.

  “If we’re attacked, make for the ruin over there. We might have a chance if we reach it,” Caedmon suggested. The others nodded in grim agreement.

  Three miles from the camp, the column entered a narrow, wooded valley near the village of Dracon. Caedmon felt uneasy, and could tell the other Normans were nervous.

  “Burel doesn’t have enough power of command or common sense to have the army march quietly. We’re making too much noise as we approaching the valley—”

  His words were interrupted by a hail of arrows.

  “Oli Crosse! As we suspected,” he cried. “The Turks have lain in wait for us here.”

  “The vanguard has already started to panic and retreat. They’re in full rout,” Amadour shouted. “We’ll be trampled if we don’t head for the ruin.”

  “They’re cutting down those fleeing back to camp,” Caedmon yelled. “Hopefully they won’t pay attention to the few making for the ruin.” He wheeled his horse and shouted to the main body. “The ruins.” He pointed the way with his sword. “It’s the only chance.”

  A few Turks broke away and pursued them up the hill to the ruined fort. Caedmon wheeled Abbot to face them. He lopped off the head of one Saracen, and the arm of another. Blood spurted over him. Screams of anguish filled the air.

  Alnwick.

  Satisfied that at least part of the main Crusader army had broken away in the direction of the ruin, he turned his horse and rode at full speed through the gate, only hoping some of the others might make it to the sanctuary. The Normans struggled to close the massive gates when the last of the fleeing crusaders had ridden in.

  “These gates are rotten, they won’t keep anyone out,” Amadour shouted desperately.

  His friend was right. “Pass the word,” he shouted. “Pile up as many shields as we can.”

  The wall of shields rose rapidly as panicked knights rushed to throw anything they could find at the gap.

  “Bring rocks too,” another knight shouted.

  After terrifying minutes, the group of Turks who had pursued them drew back under the barrage of slingshots, lance blows and arrows from the desperate Crusaders.

  “They’ll be back,” Caedmon ground out, wiping the blood from his face.

  “How many do you reckon we are?” Amadour panted.

  Caedmon looked around at the crowd of exhausted men packed inside the compound. “About three thousand, I would guess. At least the walls are intact and will provide us some protection. I’ll climb up and survey what’s happening.”

  It took them a few minutes to find a way up. Many of the ladders were broken or rotting.

  “Mon Dieu!” Amadour gasped as he looked out. “Look at the fires in the main camp. They’re slaughtering everyone.”

  Neither man mentioned the ghastly screams they could hear from three miles away.

  “Merde!” Amadour exclaimed, turning away from the horror to look down into the fort. “Burel has made it to the sanctuary.”

  Caedmon grimaced. “Look at him, issuing orders already. It turns my stomach. I’ll not obey him.”

  From their vantage point, they watched the arrogant Norman strut around for a while

  “Looks like you’re not the only one,” Amadour smirked. “No-one is paying any attention to him.”

  “It’s only a matter of time,” Caedmon said with grim finality, looking back over the scene of the ongoing massacre. “When the Turks are finished slaughtering our main army, they’ll turn their attention to us. They’ll starve us out.”

  Amadour nodded in tacit agreement. Their reprieve was a temporary one. Caedmon sensed every man there was reminded of the Germans who had drunk their own urine.

  My throat is already parched, my lips dry and cracked. Will I ever again taste the sweetness of Agneta? I despair of it. At least there are no donkeys here. We have horses. I hope I won’t have to eat Abbot.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  After receiving Agneta’s message, Ram de Montbryce immediately set about organizing a contingent of two hundred of his best men-at-arms and making arrangements to sail to Normandie with them, in pursuit of Caedmon.

  They gathered in the Map Room at Ellesmere to lay their plans. Robert would go with them as far as the Montbryce family castle at Saint Germain. Baudoin told his father he wanted to accompany him in his quest to rescue Caedmon.

  Ram looked up from a chart. “It won’t be easy, Baudoin. If Caedmon had been thinking normally, he wouldn’t have embarked on this foolhardy venture.”

  “Papa, I’ve done many foolish things in my life too. We can’t allow his folly to kill him. For Agneta’s sake, as well as the babe’s.”

  Ram slapped him on the back, wondering what foolish things his shy son might have done. “Thank you, Baudoin. I would like you with me on this journey. I blame myself for not going to Caedmon immediately. He has a head start on us. It won’t sit well with me if anything happens to him. Before we depart, we must see to it that the documents are drawn up regarding the land we’re deeding to Caedmon. I leave that in your capable hands.”

  “I’ll have the scrivener prepare the documents and bring
them for your signature.”

  ~~~

  The night before the departure, Ram and Mabelle shared a night of tender lovemaking. He kissed his beloved wife’s lips, then her neck and throat, then slowly worked his way down to her breasts. He circled each nipple with his tongue and whimpering moans escaped her lips. He suckled and she ran one hand through his hair, holding her breast to his mouth with the other. His knowing fingers found where she loved to feel his touch, and a low throaty moan escaped her lips. She opened her legs and dug her heels into the bed, crying out with squeals of ecstasy he never tired of hearing. He entered her and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deep inside.

  “Straighten your legs, Mabelle,” he whispered.

  Gripping him inside her, she did as he asked, until he lay with his weight on her, his phallus against her sensitive bud. He raised up and gently pressed her breasts together, then lowered his body back onto hers.

  “You’ve always borne my weight. I want to cover you completely as I possess you,” he whispered hoarsely.

  He was inflamed with the feel of her body beneath him and it took but a few strokes for him to find his release and he filled her.

  “I want to stay joined to you as long as I can, my love. It might be many months before we see each other again. This journey is a perilous one, and we might never meet again in this lifetime. You know I love you, have always loved you.”

  “As I love you, Ram,” she whispered, tears flowing freely down her cheeks as she pressed her face to his chest.

  The next morning he bade his beautiful wife farewell, gazing at her for long moments, trying to engrave this last image of her face on his mind. She told him she would ask Agneta to come to Ellesmere. “I’ll ask Lady Ascha too, if that’s all right with you?”

  He sighed heavily, wondering how he’d been lucky enough to have been gifted with such a wife. “You’re an amazing woman, Mabelle.”

  He kissed her lovingly. Baudoin silently embraced his mother for long minutes. They embarked on their desperate journey.

  ~~~

  Their trek to the south coast was uneventful, but they had a stormy crossing to Normandie and were in danger of being shipwrecked. Two horses suffered broken legs in the panic and had to be destroyed, but they’d brought extra in the event of such an occurrence. Once regrouped and underway they had no difficulty coming across large numbers of people headed for the Holy Land. News of the People’s Crusade, of Peter the Hermit, of Walter Sans-Avoir was on everyone’s lips.

  “It’s hard to separate fact from rumour,” Ram said to Baudoin. “I’ve heard word of thousands of crusaders, a mighty army.”

  “There’s persistent talk of Belgrade, of the armour of crusaders hanging from castle walls,” Baudoin added. “You’re right. It’s hard to believe some of the stories.”

  Ram’s private army made good progress. They’d taken on provisions at Saint Germain. Whenever they passed through the lands of a baron or magnate, Ram made a point of presenting himself, and his son, as goodwill emissaries of the King of the English. He would deal later with any objections from Rufus, if they came.

  “I don’t want to be perceived as a threat. This way we can make good connections and allies which might stand us in good stead on the return journey.”

  More often than not, they were treated with the hospitality nobility obliged. If they needed food when none was available, they traded for it. Ram gave orders there was to be no pillaging. They followed what they deemed to be the most reliable rumours. But as the sennights went by, Ram became frustrated they could never be sure they were on the right road.

  “I don’t want to have to go all the way to Jerusalem to rescue Caedmon,” he complained. “Who knows if he’ll want to be rescued? Perhaps he’s dead anyway.”

  “Don’t despair, Papa,” Baudoin urged. “I have a good feeling we’ll find him.”

  Everywhere they saw evidence of the passing of huge hordes of people. Ram sensed his men were shocked and disgusted at many of the sights they encountered.

  “This crusade is a disaster, Baudoin,” he lamented frequently. “Crops have been devastated, village after village pillaged, women raped, human waste and detritus soil the landscape.”

  “Surely this isn’t what the Pope had in mind when he called for the crusade,” Baudoin often remarked.

  After six fruitless sennights they passed the rusting armour still hanging from the walls of Zemun. Baudoin gaped at the sight. “Well, that story was true at least. Let’s hope Caedmon wasn’t one to lose his armour that day, if he came this way. Survival is hard enough with armour.”

  When they arrived at Niš, Ram again presented himself to the Commander as a wandering emissary from the King of the English, not a crusader. He confided to the commander that he was merely a distraught father, seeking news of his son who had been naive enough to join the crusade.

  The Commander agreed, through an interpreter, as he entertained his important guest with a sumptuous meal. “I too have children. Sometimes we must save them from their own folly. And this crusade is pure folly. There was a great slaughter here, caused by a senseless argument over grain. We were forced to kill thousands in an effort to restore order. But I don’t know if your son was among the dead. Though—I did hear tell of a knight from Scotland who saved the life of a miller.”

  Hope surged in Ram’s heart. “Scotland?”

  “Yes, he and a Norman knight rescued the miller from drowning.”

  “A Norman knight? The Scottish knight was with a Norman?” Ram wanted to make sure there was no misunderstanding because of the language differences.

  Having been reassured that such was the tale, Ram told him, “We’ll press on. My hope is renewed.”

  The commander raised his eyebrows, obviously not understanding what had given the Earl new hope. “As you wish. The horde moved on to Constantinople. I’ll provide you with an escort.”

  Ram bowed in acknowledgment of the generous offer. “We’re in your debt.”

  They arrived in the great city and, after several fruitless attempts, Ram managed to secure an audience with the Byzantine Emperor. Once in the Emperor’s presence, he used the same tack he had in Niš, pleading the case of a distraught father.

  His face grim, Alexius replied, “My dear Earl, I wanted the Crusade. We must rout the Saracens from the Holy Land. But we must do it with a properly equipped army, not a rabble of poorly armed peasants. I warned their leaders not to proceed against the Turks. I told them this peasant army would be slaughtered if they insisted on moving into Asia Minor.

  But they didn’t wish to heed my warnings. I arranged for them to be ferried across the Bosporus. I can only offer you the same advice and service if you choose to go. But it’s dangerous. Though you have a well-equipped contingent of your men, you don’t wish to meet up with the Turkish army. They are a deadly force.”

  Ram had become increasingly worried about this talk of a poorly armed host of peasants. “I sometimes wonder, Baudoin, what Caedmon has become involved in?”

  “There were knights too. Don’t you think Caedmon would have allied with them, rather than the peasants?”

  Once across the strait, they heard of a split in the army, of the loss of authority of Peter the Hermit and the creation of a French faction.

  “I’m not sure why, but I feel Caedmon would have joined the French. His Norman blood would draw him to that group. I’m more convinced than ever of it after hearing the tale of the two knights who saved the miller.”

  Baudoin nodded his agreement. “I also believe it was Caedmon who saved the miller.”

  As fragile hopes were blossoming, they stumbled across a handful of traumatized women and old men who had escaped the massacre in what had been the Crusaders’ main camp. It was the worst news—news they’d hoped never to hear. The whole crusading army had been slaughtered on its way to Nicaea.

  “It’s too dangerous to continue,” Ram said quietly, standing dejectedly by his horse, looking at th
e ragged skeletons who were all that was left of the People’s Crusade. “We must accept there’s no choice but to turn back. We’ll take these people back with us.”

  He issued the order to one of his men to assist the unfortunates. Turning to Baudoin, who was still on his horse, staring in disbelief at the condition of the survivors, Ram swallowed hard. “Caedmon must be dead. The odds against his having survived this horror are too great. We’ll ask the Emperor if we might rest a few days in Constantinople, before setting out on the long journey back to England. Hope is dead.”

  Baudoin dismounted wearily and went to embrace his father. They stood together for long minutes in silence, sharing their grief.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The abandoned fort had no roof and the besieging Turks rained a series of arrow attacks on the Christians, killing many. Then the Turks sat back to starve the defenders out. The Normans huddled together to discuss their options.

  Caedmon had emerged as a leader. “Many men and horses have already died, not only from the attacks, but of thirst. Our only chance is to get word across the strait to the Emperor, and hope he’ll rescue us. I’ll try to slip out tonight and find a boat.”

  “I’ll come with you.” It was Amadour de Vignoles who’d spoken.

  “It may be suicide, Amadour.”

  “It will be my honour, then, to die with you, brave Englishman. If I stay here, I’m a dead man anyway.”

  Their Norman friends agreed. “God go with you both. We’ve no other chance. We’ll search for a place in the walls where you can slip out, without alerting the Turks. There’s always a bolt hole somewhere in a castle. At least in every Norman castle.” They laughed, but there was no humour in it.

  My father would be proud I can now converse with my Norman friends. Hopefully my attempt to reach help will succeed and I will see them again.

  This may be my last entry. If I don’t return and some kindly soul finds this journal, know that my name is CAEDMON BRICE WOOLGAR, son of Lord Rambaud Montbryce, Earl of Ellesmere in England, and Lady Ascha Woolgar in Ruyton, England. I am the husband of Lady Agneta Woolgar of Ruyton.