Pilgrim's War Read online

  It was a relief. Lothar felt the tension ebb, and in its place he knew only a heavy weariness. He glanced at the townsmen and urgently signalled that they should go and leave the body of their friend, shaking his head as they stood warily. Something sparked an alarm, and he turned to see Heinnie’s fist. It struck his face, and Lothar staggered backwards, tripping over the body of Heinnie’s man and sprawling headlong, his head cracking painfully on the stone of the road. Sparks and flares flashed in front of his eyes, and his jaw felt as though it had been kicked by a donkey. While he was down, one of Heinnie’s men booted him in the ribs and he felt a fresh agony like a blossoming flower spread all over his breast. His nose had been broken, the blood running into his throat and choking him, and he tried to roll, attempting to climb to his feet, but Heinnie was there. He planted a boot on Lothar’s chest and pressed down gently, resting his sword at his throat.

  ‘Rest back, Lottie. You don’t have to get involved. Look what good it does you, heh? Stay there and let us do what Count Emicho has ordered.’

  Lothar could not move. Blood was filling his throat, and he could feel it clotting in his moustache. He could do nothing as he heard the shrieks and wild screams from inside the tavern, the squeal of the boy, and the tormented, wracking bawling of the Jewess as she was raped, before her final murder.

  Lying back, spitting out the blood that thickened in his throat, Lothar stared at the man above him.

  ‘I will kill you.’

  ‘Oh, get over it, Lottie,’ Heinnie said, and as Lothar made as though to rise again, he slammed his fist down into Lothar’s face. Lothar fell back, his head striking the cobbles, and felt himself slide down into a thick, oily darkness speckled with bright flashes of scarlet, like blood sprayed over a wall at night.

  CHAPTER 10

  Rüdesheim, Friday 30th May, 1096

  Lothar had come to during the night as a fine misting of drizzle spat down on his face. It was cool, and each gentle drop touching his nose felt like a tender kiss from the heavens. He grunted as the bruises made themselves known, and winced as he rolled over onto an elbow and levered himself upright with an effort.

  The heat from the burning tavern was scorching and he was forced to avert his face. There was nothing left of the happy home he had seen yesterday, only a shell of stone where the roof’s spars were exposed like the ribs of an enormous beast. He remained there in the roadway, staring, thinking of the scared Jewess and her brother, the tavern-woman who’d sought to protect them. It was not only her, for he had seen the men of the town attack Heinnie’s men as though they were determined to defend the tavern and the Jews inside. These people, who knew the Jews best, were so convinced of their innocence that they were prepared to risk – yes, and lose – their lives.

  He was badly battered. His head hurt, and his flank where he had been kicked. Walking to a doorway, he huddled out of the spitting rain, pulling his cloak about him. His sword was no longer in its scabbard, and his knife too was gone. He would have to find new ones. Even as he had the thought, sleep overtook him again.

  When he woke, it was full dawn. The body of Heinnie’s man had been taken away, and only an oily smear on the cobbles showed where he had bled and died after the townspeople’s attack. Lothar stood, his hand on the nearest wall, hissing with pain. His eyes turned back to the ruined building briefly, and then he took three stumbling paces before halting, panting, his hand on the lower right of his breast. He could feel a sharp pain there when he breathed in. His lungs seemed incapable of inhaling fully, and he was forced to try to breathe more slowly. He lifted his chin and stared ahead. Ahead of him, he knew, was the Archbishop’s residence, where Count Emicho and the men were housed. Heinnie was there.

  With determination, he lifted his boot and set it down. A first step, and then a second, and soon he found he could walk almost as fast as usual, although with a series of pauses to catch his breath. He hawked and spat a gobbet of blood and his breathing grew easier. His chest hurt, and he suspected a cracked or broken rib, but it was bearable. When he swung his arms, loosening the muscles, there was a sharp pain in his left shoulder, but that was minor compared with how he had felt on waking.

  Lothar continued on his way to the Archbishop’s compound. The gates were still shut, and Lothar had to beat on the timbers to alert the porter to his presence. Usually, this early the gates would not have been opened, but today was not a usual day. The porter peered out, saw Lothar’s blood-encrusted face, and quickly let him in. A man dressed like one of the Count’s men was not going to be questioned today.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Waylaid by thieves. They even took my sword and knife. Where is the armoury?’

  He was pointed to the chamber and he crossed the court, opening the door and peering along the racks and shelves of weapons, finally selecting a short sword with a straight-edged blade and wide fuller that extended for two thirds of the length. There was a small dagger that he fitted to his belt, and then he made his way over the court to the hall. There he sat at a bench and remained, staring up at the lightening sky.

  It was the second hour after dawn that Heinnie appeared at the top of the steps leading to the sleeping hall. Lothar watched him stand at the top and stretch, yawning widely, but made no move to rise. He could feel the pain in his flank still, but he was sure that it would not disable him too severely.

  Heinnie’s eyes suddenly caught sight of him, and he grinned. ‘You look like shit!’

  ‘I want to speak with you,’ Lothar said.

  ‘Wait until after I’ve broken my fast.’

  ‘It would be a waste of food. This is a matter that will not wait. I challenge you, Heinnie.’

  ‘Challenge me? Why?’

  ‘Because you slaughtered three innocents last night and then beat me for no reason. You will pay, here, in full sight of the men here and in the sight of God. I swear you are a coward and thief, and I will have your blood.’

  ‘Lothar, they were just a Jew and her brat.’

  That, Lothar thought, was the problem. Heinnie did not see humans when he looked at others. Only creatures. The three he had killed last night were as irrelevant to him as sheep or feral cats. And Lothar himself had been the same, until he saw the women killing the child and themselves. They welcomed death at their own hands, rather than give pleasure to men like Heinnie. Lothar felt cleansed by the knowledge.

  ‘Come here and defend yourself,’ he said. He rose, drawing his new sword and flinging the scabbard aside. ‘Their deaths must be avenged.’

  Heinnie took a sword from a guard nearest him, and danced down the stairs surprisingly lightly on his feet, giggling as he came. He took up a stance with the sword over his head, both hands gripping the short hilt, legs bent in the familiar fighting pose, but Lothar walked to him with his own blade whirling about his wrist, watching Heinnie.

  ‘You don’t have to fight me, Lottie,’ Heinnie said. ‘This is all a misunderstanding, I think. We had our orders, that’s all. If you want, we can forget this and go celebrate with a horn of ale or wine.’

  Lothar ignored his words. He was watching Heinnie’s arms and face. Heinnie was always obvious when he was about to attack. He would narrow his eyes momentarily, just before he brought his blade down. Lothar knew. And he knew that Heinnie would know his own little signs, too, and just now Lothar didn’t care. He stood before Heinnie, the sword at his belly’s height, his left hand gripping the pommel level with his belt, ready.

  He saw Heinnie’s eyes dart to the side and he had his sword rising in an instant. Heinnie’s blade came down and slammed into Lothar’s, but Lothar had moved his hands and now his left gripped his blade near the point, like a man fighting with a halfstaff. Lothar thrust hard with his right hand, trying to strike Heinnie in the face with the cross-guard, but missed. Heinnie’s blade was pushed up and away, and when it slid along Lothar’s weapon, Lothar took his hand away, returning it to the pommel, but as he did so Heinnie tried a quick slash across Lot
har’s belly. Lothar bent his body away and swept his blade right, knocking Heinnie’s past, and as it went Lothar stabbed forwards. His blade met Heinnie’s at the cross, close to his hand grip where Heinnie had little leverage or control. Heinnie’s eyes showed sudden panic. Their edges were meeting, but Lothar had the weight of his body behind his, and Heinnie was already off balance. He could do nothing as Lothar pushed.

  ‘I yield!’ Heinnie shouted.

  ‘I can’t hear you,’ Lothar spat.

  ‘Lottie! Don’t!’

  But he was too late. Lothar pursed his lips and shoved, twisting his blade. He jerked it, and the edge caught Heinnie’s brow, and Heinnie kicked up with his knee, desperate to break Lothar’s grip. His knee missed Lothar’s cods, but caught him high on his thigh and he stumbled, but as he did he punched hard with his left hand, catching Heinnie on the chin. He fell, and Lothar slashed down once, catching Heinnie across the face.

  Lothar picked up his sword and held it high over his head. A number of men had gathered about them, and they were watching in silence. He looked about him at them. None of them were worried. He might kill Heinnie, he might allow him his life; it was nothing to them. Some were eating, masticating bread or dried meat, watching with almost bovine disinterest.

  It was tempting to bring his blade down and finish Heinnie once and for all, but there was a part of him that still remembered Heinnie as a comrade and friend. The sword thrilled in his hand, demanding Heinnie’s blood, and it was with an effort that Lothar slowly let the sword drop.

  ‘I am no friend of yours,’ he said. He picked up his scabbard and sheathed his sword. Without looking behind him, he made his way through the gates, past the gaping porter and out through the town. There was a small bridge over the river and he took it, crossing to the town of Bingen, and thence south.

  He felt empty. He had lost his friend, his lord, his life.

  South of Bingen

  The newly knighted Sir Roger de Toni could not lose the feeling of excitement as he rode down the road, filled with the new sounds and smells and sights in this land of broad plains, heading towards the steep mountains to the south.

  It was all exciting to him. Already they had been travelling for weeks – over a thousand miles, he reckoned. The initial preparation had taken two weeks, and then weather held them up at the coast, and they were still many miles from their destination in Rome – which lay another week behind the mountains, so he had heard from guides and other travellers. Not that their help was very useful in many cases. Everything here was new and confusing. The money was different, and they must convert coin at different stages; he was glad he had brought gold and pewter, which was easy to exchange along the way. Not only that, even the measures varied from one district to another. Crossing the land of the Flemings, he discovered that when the people talked of a mile, they meant an English league: three miles. Here in the Holy Roman Empire, the people spoke of one mile as an Englishman would speak of four, whereas he had heard that the people towards Rome calculated a mile as only some two-thirds of an English one.

  It was an awesome journey that they were undertaking, and he was only now beginning to dimly appreciate just how far this pilgrimage was, and how long it would take them to reach the great Roman city of Constantinople, let alone the Holy City. But for now, considerations of that nature were overwhelmed by the inundation of sensations that were overwhelming him, from the sights of the immense flats beside this enormous river, to the smells of curious spices and tastes of different foods.

  His men were for the most part quiet during the journey. They were a mixed group, led by the sergeant picked by Sir Roger’s father: Gilles. Although Roger had attempted to tease Gilles into conversation, the man had remained resolutely taciturn and uncommunicative.

  ‘Have you ever seen a river so broad, Gilles?’ Roger tried now. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the great sweep of the Rhine.

  ‘Yes.’

  Gilles was a shortish man with a barrel for a chest and hair that was shorn so close to his head that from any distance he looked bald. He had a shrewd gaze when he looked at a man, but it was not the look of friendship. Rather, it was the measuring glance a joiner would give when judging the size of a coffin. When Radulph had first taken the manor for his own, Gilles had been with him. That was some twenty years ago, and he had been Sir Radulph’s mercenary every since, a reliable, stalwart man who would fight for his knight through all adversity. He liked Sir Radulph. He was not yet certain of Roger, but he would serve his interests as best he might.

  Roger turned in his saddle and peered back at the men. They rode as men will, three with heads down, dozing in the warm air, two staring about them at every bush and tree in search of danger, one riding with his foreleg crooked over his horse’s withers, his face bent as he muttered a prayer over his rosary. One at the rear was chewing on a chicken’s leg. ‘They haven’t been here before, either, have they?’

  Gilles eyed them briefly. ‘The furthest travelled is Eudes, I think. He came from near Rheims. The rest are Breton like Guarin, or Norman.’

  ‘What of you, Gilles? Did you travel before you joined my father?’

  ‘I never had a need to.’

  ‘You didn’t feel the need to go on pilgrimage?’

  ‘Not then, no.’

  There was a finality to his voice that discouraged further questioning, but Roger pressed him. ‘There is now, then?’

  ‘Every man may do things he comes to regret,’ Gilles said. Feeling pressed, he continued, ‘I don’t. I’m here to protect you, master, and I’ll serve you as I may for Sir Radulph, but I am not here to tell you of my life. It’s my concern, not yours.’

  ‘But you will win redemption when you find yourself in the Holy City,’ Roger said. He set his face to the mountains once more. ‘They say it gleams, that it is a city of gold.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘Others who wish to go there.’

  ‘If the city was built of gold, it would have been razed to the ground by now,’ Gilles said, and spat into the road’s dirt. ‘You view this iter as an adventure. Well, it may be: perhaps we’ll enjoy a pleasant ride to the Holy City and no danger; however, more men die by underestimating their enemies than by respecting them. I will respect an enemy I have not met.’

  ‘These men are heathens,’ Roger laughed.

  ‘They are men with swords, axes, bows and arrows. And they will know how to use them.’

  ‘You think we should fear them?’ Roger grinned. He was Norman and, to Gilles’s embittered eye, as incapable of appreciating danger as a puppy.

  ‘When I meet them, I will expect them to be as dangerous as the Saxons I fought with your father. We knew we had God on our side that day, but it didn’t make us treat Harold’s shield wall with any less respect. You would do well to remember that.’

  ‘Your spirit is as sour as six-month ale! It is the city of God,’ Roger remonstrated.

  ‘But it exists in the world of men.’

  Sir Roger saw the man far off in the distance.

  ‘What is that?’ Gilles said.

  ‘A man, walking. What of it?’

  ‘Not him. There, riding down from the slope.’

  Following his pointing finger, Sir Roger saw a band of six men on sturdy ponies. They had been riding at a moderate pace over to the left, but now they saw the lone walker and set their beasts towards him at a trot.

  Sir Roger de Toni had come for excitement and adventure. ‘They are brigands! Follow me!’ he cried, and raked his spurs down his mount’s flanks. His horse shook his head, half-bucked, and then gave a great lurch forward, his muscles moving with an uneven, ragged discordancy, he was so unused to speed after so many weeks of walking.

  Gilles was surprised by his action. As Sir Roger’s mount settled into his long, striding canter, Gilles remained on his beast with his mouth wide. Then he recovered, bellowing to the rest of the men to keep close while he set off after Sir Roger at full speed. In an inst
ant, he had overhauled Roger, his hand dropping to his sword hilt and sweeping his weapon out. Sir Roger bent lower to come level, pulling his own weapon free. He held it aloft, his mouth pulling into a grin as he gave a loud, wild shriek of pure exultation.

  The lone man turned and, on seeing the riders, pulled his own sword from the scabbard and threw the casing aside, gripping his sword with both hands, ready to receive his attackers.

  ‘Look at him,’ Sir Roger said to himself. ‘He fears no one.’

  The brigands were almost on him now, and they circled him, some closer than others. One approached too near and yelped when the man’s sword slashed and cut into his thigh. The others drew away, but they would soon charge. With so many, he must be knocked from his feet, and then he would be at their mercy.

  Sir Roger swung his sword, loosening his wrist, and rode in fast, striking one man on the back of his head with the flat of his sword. There was a dull thud, and he felt the hilt jerk in his hand, and the man went tumbling to the ground like a stunned rabbit. The other men shouted and turned to face Sir Roger, but then Gilles and the rest of the men were there, and the five men still ahorse retreated in the face of the superior numbers.

  ‘Who are you?’ Sir Roger demanded.

  The others looked confused, but one answered in passable French, ‘We are with Count Emicho of Flonheim. This man is a traitor, and attacked a comrade.’

  ‘So you would kill him on the road like an outlaw?’

  ‘We have the right. He all but killed one of our own.’

  ‘You! What is your name?’ Sir Roger demanded.

  ‘I am called Lothar. He speaks the truth. I challenged a man this morning, and I bested him. But it was a fair fight. He had killed when I told him not to. I punished him.’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘Children,’ Lothar said. He would not say more than that. Words clogged his breast.

  ‘He must come back with us,’ the man said.

  ‘You can fight us for him.’ Sir Roger grinned and moved his horse forward a little, between Lothar and his assailants. These men were warriors, it was clear, but he did not like to be ordered by common churls. He was a knight, and he would defend his right in the face of these scruffy peasants.