Pilgrim's War Read online

  He turned away, and was about to stalk off when the sound of a multitude of horns being blown drifted over on the cool morning air.

  ‘What was that?’ Sybille asked. She felt a cold, leaden certainty in her stomach at the sound.

  ‘I think you know what it is,’ Benet said. He hesitated, and then began to march towards the sound.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  He paused, then, without turning to meet her gaze, he said over his shoulder, ‘I am going to try to retrieve my honour and your love, wife,’ he said, and walked on towards the sounds of battle.

  Fulk woke from a pleasant dream in which Guillemette and Sybille had been sponging his injuries after a brave battle, to find that the whole camp was already packing and preparing to march again. This time the women and wagons were brought up closer, so that they were better protected from attack.

  ‘The men from Belgrade are there,’ Peter said, pointing ahead as Fulk wrapped his belongings into a neat bundle and rolled them up in his cloak. ‘They will want to stop us raiding further, I suppose. Perhaps they just want to kill us for daring to come here. Well, they can try, but I for one will not agree to return. I’ve come this far, I will go on, unless they cut my arms and legs from my body!’

  There was a large force of men from Belgrade blocking their path as the pilgrims gathered together into a column to march. Fulk walked to join Odo and Peter. They were in the forefront of the pilgrim force, and Fulk looked about him with interest. He was concerned that there might be more Belgrade fighters concealed in the countryside about. Odo had the same idea and, pushing past Fulk, strode on a few paces ahead.

  ‘Odo, be careful!’ Fulk cried, but he might have held his breath for the impact it made on his brother. Odo kept on walking. Fulk muttered to himself, and then trotted after him. Odo was standing on a small hillock a short distance from the river, and there he studied the land all about for a while. Fulk pointed. ‘There they are.’

  ‘I can see them!’ Odo said. He felt enormously calm, as though God Himself held him safe in His arms, and Odo felt a great welling of love and joy in his breast at the thought of the battle to come. For battle, he was sure, there must be.

  A long column of men and horses had ridden from the city and now covered a small area of rising ground in the path of the pilgrim army. While Odo and Fulk stood staring, Sir Walter appeared before them on his horse. At his side were two knights who glanced at the brothers while they surveyed the land. One of the knights ordered them to return to the main pilgrim army, and the two scurried back down to where Peter stood waiting. When they reached their ranks, a priest was already there celebrating Mass and joyfully informing all the pilgrims that those who died in God’s battles would dine that evening with His saints.

  Odo listened raptly, but Fulk could not help but think he would prefer a good meal of stew and bread with Guillemette and Sybille.

  Before long, Sir Walter appeared before them all, a lance in his hand. He had seven other knights with him now, and they sat on their mounts staring at the army. Fulk saw Sir Walter point, and two of the knights wheeled and rode away. Fulk had no idea who they were, but Peter said that one was Sir Walter’s kinsman, his uncle Walter de Poissy. The two knights took their men-at-arms to the right flank, and Fulk was just wondering why when the brazen call of horns came from before them.

  He muttered a swift prayer, wondering what was to become of him. It was evident that they were about to engage in a fresh battle, and he did not like the thought. He had not enjoyed being attacked yesterday, and was not ready to be thrown into another fight so soon. Fleetingly he wondered about the women, but then his thoughts were fixed on his own life and the risks he faced again.

  ‘Pilgrims!’ It was Sir Walter. He shouted now at all the men as they marched, riding his great destrier from side to side, head up so that all the men could hear him clearly enough. ‘Pilgrims, we are here on a sacred journey. Our Pope told you all that this was a holy mission. We are travelling in peace so that we can rescue Jerusalem from the barbarians who enslaved the Christians in that city. We are not here for self-aggrandisement or reward, only to fight a blow for God. Yet some would prevent us from our mission. Some here say that we are too destructive, that we steal and kill. The governor of this city says we are to be denied the use of his markets, that we must flee this land and depart back to our homes and give up our holy cause. I say, no! No! I will not halt until I have reached Jerusalem, and have liberated that city to the glory of God. But to reach the city we must continue on our road through here. And the governor’s army stands in our path. They are determined to contest our way. What should we do, my Christian friends? Submit? Turn our mounts to the west and return to our homes? What should we say when we reach our homes? That we tried, but a man thwarted us; thwarted God! For that is the issue here! It is not that we want to cross this land. We are here because we are on our way to rescue God’s city. Those who would prevent us are God’s enemies. These men of Belgrade, these are enemies of God, for all that they call themselves Christian!’

  He paused and his horse stood still. Then Sir Walter spoke again. ‘I will not tolerate a man standing in the path of God’s own people trying to do His will. I will fight this day, and I will fight with the knowledge that God stands at my side. These men cannot stop us, for God is with us. I will fight for God. What do you say? Are you with me? Are you with God? Are you?’

  The response came back clearly from the thousands. ‘Yes!’

  Sir Walter drew his sword and roared his battle cry: ‘Dieu le veut!’

  ‘Dieu le veut!’ Fulk shouted. ‘God wills it!’

  And he found that all the men about him were moving forward. He marched with them and soon the battle began.

  Fulk felt empty of emotion. There was a strange thickness in his throat, and his hands were sweaty and slippery, but there was an absence of the bowel-emptying terror he had known the day before, although it was a good thing that his sword’s grip had leather and wire to hold it in place, for it must have turned in his hand else. There came a bellow, then a series of blasts on horns from the front rank, and shouted orders, and suddenly all the men about him were trotting, and he was obliged to increase his own speed to keep up. Whatever happened, he was determined to remain not far from Odo. He didn’t want to lose sight of his brother, for to him that would seem like desertion, as though were he to lose visual contact, Odo could instantly be cut down. But soon he found he had little time to worry about Odo.

  He was some thirty men from the front line. Where he was, he could see nothing of the enemy, only the hair or bald pates of the men before him. He could see metal caps on some of the men in the ranks in front, and he could see the shoulders of men at either side, but that was all. The feet of the first men were raising a thick, clogging dust once more, and his vision was clouded as his eyes became filled with grit and uncomfortable. The sun was out fully now, and the heat was horrible in the padded jackets that most pilgrims wore. It was a great deal cheaper than mail for a poor man, but it was appallingly hot in the sun. Fulk wished he had taken a throatful of water before they set off, but it was too late now.

  ‘Dieu le veut!’ he heard Odo roar, repeating the words like the chanted prayers in church. Fulk muttered them in his turn.

  They were picking up speed now, the ground flashing past. Fulk saw a man tumble, not struck by an arrow, but tripping on a rock. None of them could see the ground now, for it was hidden by the men in front. Another man fell, and he screamed as he was trampled. There was no space to move to the side to avoid him, no space to place a boot carefully at his side, no space to stop and let him rise. To fall was to be crushed, and Fulk stared down, trying to make sure he missed rocks and holes to avoid a similar fate. He tried to allow a little more distance between himself and the man in front, but the press behind was too great. His scalp was tingling, tight, like leather stretched across a drum, and his back muscles were taut as a ship’s hawsers. He wondered at that, but then all
thought of muscles and fear was driven from his mind.

  They met the men of Belgrade in a clash of weapons that was deafening, and suddenly the soldiers before him stopped. As the two forces collided, the onward march was halted. Fulk saw men roar incoherent curses and challenges, some flinging rocks they had picked up earlier, some few throwing spears. At the same time the enemy were hurling their own weapons. Beside Fulk a man was hit full in the face by a stone from a sling; he collapsed so suddenly it was as though a demon had gripped his ankles and yanked him down.

  It felt as though time was held in check. Fulk could see men shouting, screaming, laying about them with swords and spears, some falling with sudden wounds that gaped, bodies sprawled underfoot, and Fulk was aware of an overwhelming confusion. He found himself staring about him, gaping, as though he was a spectator safe from all danger.

  But the Belgrade men were loosing more than stones at them. Fulk saw one man hit on his bald scalp by a javelin and he fell instantly; another took an arrow in his shoulder, and turned round and around in his panic, lost, witlessly trying to see where to go for safety, his hand holding the barbed shaft to pull it free, and a man’s throat was opened, spraying blood widely, covering Fulk and forcing him to return to his senses.

  Already the men fighting were gathering like a clot at the front. The lines about Fulk were thinning, and he could see that he was close to the line of Belgrade men. Suddenly he saw Odo, who was grasping an enemy’s spear in one hand and hacking with his sword at the man who held it. He saw Odo stab suddenly, and there was a gout of blood, and the spear was free. Odo sheathed his sword and held the spear overhand, jabbing it viciously at the men before him.

  ‘Be careful!’ Fulk shouted, and shoved through the throng, ignoring the men underfoot who cried piteously as he stamped on them, hurrying to Odo’s side just as a man leaned forward from the Belgrade line to stab at Odo’s bare armpit. Fulk’s sword knocked the lance away, gouging a great chip of wood from it, and the shock almost tore the sword from his hand, but he managed to keep his grip and stumbled as he thrust forward. He saw a gaping wound open in the man’s cheek, and the fellow dropped his lance and put his hand to his face with dismay. Fulk realised that the man was younger than him. This was probably his first battle too, but then he heard a screamed warning, and ducked as another spear came at his head. It ripped a slash in his scalp, and gave him a headache, but he found to his surprise that he could still wield his weapon. Another spear was thrust at him, narrowly missing, and he saw that it nearly took Odo’s eye, and that was when the real raw, red rage took him over. He bellowed something, he didn’t know what, and fought.

  There was no time to think of the enemy, no time to care for a man who might be only a boy, there was only the next stab and slash, cutting at men as best he may. He took the spear in his hand and yanked it, then turned it to stab at another man, the leaf-shaped blade slicing through the man’s shoulder, and Fulk shoved hard, and tried to recover it, but it was jammed in the man’s side now, and Fulk let it go, hacking at a forearm with his sword and seeing the blood mist the air, but then men behind were pushing, and in the press there was no space even to hack, and it was a case of battering with his hilt at a head, bringing the pommel onto a pate, punching with the cross-guard, dragging his sword’s blade across a face, head-butting another, and all the while he was aware of the deep, all-consuming fury, the desire to kill, to maim, to injure, to punish those who tried to stand against him and his brother.

  Fulk hacked, stabbed, slashed and buffeted the men before him, determined to kill and keep on killing until these men withdrew. When there was a momentary lull, he glanced about him, searching for Odo, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Odo was punched in the face and saw bright blue and red sparks even as the teeth were loosened in his jaw. He swayed, and stumbled backwards. A youngster, perhaps only fourteen or fifteen years old, was with him, and helped Odo take a few steps away from the fray.

  ‘Master? Master? Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Odo could barely hear him. There was a ringing and a hissing in his ears. He shook his head and closed his eyes, feeling waves of nausea crashing through his body, but then the lad’s urgent call got through to him, and he looked up with a smile. The boy was a man’s height, but had the build of a ferret, thin and scrawny. His eyes were too close together, and Odo thought he looked like a boy he had once known back in his home village. It gave him a fleeting nostalgia to remember him, and he had a sudden memory of a walk along the riverbank, the two of them talking under the willows and beeches about the girls in the village. Odo recalled he had been embarrassed, for he knew that he had a calling to go to work with the Church, but still he was aware of the attraction of women. It was not long afterwards that he and Fulk had left the village to be apprenticed in Sens.

  This boy nodded to Odo as though confirming he was recovered, then turned and ran to the front again. Odo’s eyes followed him. He wanted to display his gratitude, but even as he opened his mouth to call his thanks, he saw the boy jerk, suddenly taking a pace back. When he turned to face Odo there was confusion on his face, and he looked down to his breast. With horror Odo realised there was a bloom of crimson on his tunic. The boy looked at Odo with alarm creasing his brow, and he opened his mouth, but no words came, only a stuttering. He suddenly gave an inarticulate cry and his face shattered like a broken jug before he fell to the ground.

  ‘No! No!’ Odo bellowed, and the anger slid into his body like a blade of ice, cold enough to chill, hard enough to kill. It froze his pain and he leapt to his feet, scrabbling for his sword. He gave a roar, lifted his weapon, and ran at the enemy.

  Fulk saw him.

  Odo ran full tilt into the front rank, hacking and slashing wildly, his blade catching one man under the jaw and knocking his head back, a great gash opening from chin to eye, then he brought the blade down onto another’s head; deflected by a cap of steel, it bounced into another man’s neck and he went down. In his fury he was fighting without skill or science, but his emotions lent strength to his arms and he knew no fear. Those before him began to melt away, injured or in terror at his lunatic onslaught. He beat at shields, and when a pair of men in mail and capped with strong helmets stood in his path, he knocked aside their weapons and got so close, he could draw his dagger and stab at their faces until they too fled from his anger.

  A man rushed at Odo from his side. It was a heavy-set youth, whose initial attack almost brushed Odo aside, but then Fulk’s brother sprang back, grappling like a wrestler. His sword was gone, and he had only his dagger, but although the youth tried to disembowel Odo with a wide cut, Odo let the blade pass him and closed with him, trying to stab. The youth grabbed his knife hand, but Odo managed to slice into his sword arm and the weapon fell to the ground.

  The two were struggling together now, and Fulk realised that both were gripping Odo’s knife between them, each attempting to stab the other. Odo had his teeth bared, and his face was white and sweating as the knife’s point moved this way and that, now under the youth’s chin, now curving back to Odo’s throat. They swayed with the effort, and all the while the two stared into each other’s eyes in an obscene parody of sex.

  Fulk shouted and started to move to them to help his brother, but even as he did, Odo’s face suddenly changed. His expression grew feral, almost inhuman. It wasn’t Odo in that moment. He leaned forward and screamed abuse at his opponent, then opened his mouth and clenched his teeth on the man’s nose, twisting and pulling like a terrier at a rat, until he could jerk his head away with a gout of blood. His enemy roared in pain, and Odo bent his legs and thrust upwards, legs and arms together. The dagger slid into the youth’s breast, even as Odo spat the bloody lump into his face, and he bared his teeth, now red and befouled, as the youth stiffened, twisted and slowly weakened, the dagger deep in his heart.

  It was good to see that Odo was safe, but even as Fulk felt the relief flood him, it was tempered with a cold disgust. Odo had never foug
ht with such ferocious determination. It was good that Odo had won, but Fulk was simultaneously chilled by the expression he had seen on Odo’s face. It was almost demonic.

  The pilgrims were pulling back, and Fulk could not see why. Then all thought of Odo was driven from his mind as he heard another noise, a terrifying sound like thunder, and felt a pounding concussion at his feet. At first he had no idea what could have caused it, but then, over the heads of those nearest him, he saw the knights again. Sir Walter and his men-at-arms were charging into the Belgrade flank at full gallop, and he heard their battle cries and bellows as they came, saw a knight’s pot-helm struck from his head in the first crash as a spear caught it, saw the eruptions of blood as spears pierced the bodies of the men standing before them, and he felt simultaneously joyous and horrified to see such slaughter.

  He cheered, he could not help it. His horror was overwhelmed by the delight to see how a force of Christian knights could tear a bloody hole in an enemy’s line, but even as he did so, he caught sight of Odo. Odo had grabbed the hair of another man lying on the ground. He pulled the man’s head up, and looked deep into his eyes. Then Odo laughed, rested his sword’s edge across the man’s throat and, even as the fellow begged for sanctuary, drew it slowly across his neck.

  The sight was enough to freeze Fulk’s bowels.

  Sybille heard the blaring of horns and saw the mad rush of men to join the battle. The terror of another attack like that of the day before held her in its grip, but she busied herself looking after her daughter. She had made sure that she was close to the wagons, and now she rested her back against a wheel, holding Richalda in her arms. The men rushing to and fro paid her little heed, and it was only when an older man strode past with two sheaves of arrows in his arms and a spear held under his armpit that she began to look up and pay attention. She could see that the fight was continuing, and looked up to see the sudden charge of the horsemen. She carefully set Richalda on the ground, climbing onto the wagon for a better view, and could dimly see through the roiling cloud of dust how the horses slammed into the men of Belgrade, rolling up their flank and carving a bloody wedge through them. Sir Walter de Poissy and his men had destroyed the Belgrade left flank before the battle had been fully joined.