Pilgrim's War Page 16

  The enemy were pouring away from the field. It was a great relief to see, but she felt little joy. She knew that somewhere in that struggling mass was her husband. She stood as though petrified, staring. Even as the pilgrims pressed forward, she saw the aftermath lying on the earth. A mess of entangled men lying moaning or weeping, many already dead. Blood lay thick and clotting on the ground making the grass slick, and she could smell it even from here, the steely odour assailing her nostrils, mingling with the garderobe stench of bowels opened. She heard a man calling desperately for water, and she went to fetch a flask, but then she stood and gazed. There were too many men here, far too many for her to assist.

  ‘Come, let us help,’ Guillemette said. ‘Mathena can see to your daughter.’

  She had appeared behind Sybille and carried three leather flasks. Her words woke Sybille from her horrified daze, and she hurried to join in giving some succour to the wounded.

  Many were too badly injured. The first was a man with a horrible wound in his belly. He smiled weakly, muttered, ‘I’ll see God now,’ and died. A second lay on his back with a hideous maul-blow to the left of his forehead. He stared at her with an expression of terror in the remaining eye. He was younger than Benet, she was sure. He sipped water and lay back with a grunt. Another man, and another and another, all with dreadful wounds that seemed destined to kill them, and she dispensed sympathy and water, hurrying to the river as her botelle ran dry.

  It was much later that Benet came back. He appeared from the direction of the main battle carrying a sword and tramped heavily towards her, slumping to the ground nearby. She was dealing with another man, dabbing at the wound on his scalp with a damp cloth. She felt drained as though all the life had been sucked from her this day.

  ‘Yes, wife. I am alive, I thank you.’

  She rested a hand on the man’s brow, and turned to look at her husband. His face was thinner, with lines etched more deeply into his brow and at the sides of his mouth. He looked like a man who had pulled aside a curtain and peered into Hell itself.

  ‘This man is injured. I must care for him.’ She didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘And not me?’

  She caught her breath. His linen shirt was stained with clots of blood. ‘My husband! What has happened?’

  ‘This? This isn’t mine. Another man had his head broken, and this is his blood.’ He leaned back against a pack and closed his eyes. ‘I killed a man down there, Sybille. I knocked him to the ground and stabbed him in the face until he stopped moving. It took a long time for him to die. A long time.’

  ‘Are you wounded?’ she asked, staring at his shirt.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think I care,’ he said. ‘It was not easy to kill that man.’

  ‘Benet, I am sorry! I didn’t mean you to go and suffer. I was just upset when—’

  ‘You thought me a coward, and . . . and I was. But Sybille, don’t . . .’ His voice caught, and she could hear he was so close, so very close, to sobbing. ‘Don’t ever make light of my courage again. I don’t think I could cope with it. Fighting in that mêlée was . . . it was hideous, wife. I fell because I put my foot on an arm. A man’s arm, just left there on the ground as though a man’s body was nothing. And I stepped on it.’

  She fetched the wineskin from the cart, and drew the stopper for him, tipping a little down his throat. He looked up at her, and she was reminded of the look she had received from Richalda when she had been young, and used to look up at Sybille while suckling. It held the same innocent, trusting, vulnerable quality. In Richalda it had been endearing, and life-affirming for her; in her husband, it was oddly shocking. He was the man she wanted to look up to, the man who she expected would guide, guard and protect her.

  To find him so dependent upon her was repugnant.

  Fulk stumbled about the battlefield and stared at the dead.

  Pilgrims were milling about and helping their injured comrades to their feet, or carrying them away. Kindly hands brought them water and eased the passing of those who were dying, but Fulk could see his brother bringing a different solace to the injured.

  He felt as though he was watching a different person, a stranger. Odo went from one to another of the enemy’s fallen, lifting their heads, staring into their faces, and then cutting their throats, each time watching the eyes of his victims as though savouring their final moments.

  ‘Odo! Leave them!’ he said.

  His brother turned to face him and gave a brittle smile. ‘This is the butcher’s duty at the end of a battle, Fulk. Didn’t you know? It is the job of the soldier to make sure that the wounded are given a speedy release.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this, Odo. Others can do it.’

  ‘You want to take over?’ Odo said. He stared at Fulk for a long moment, his eyes searching Fulk’s for any sign of weakness, before his eyes fell to the blade in his hand. The beautifully wrought steel looked dull and befouled by the blood it had drunk. ‘Perhaps I have done enough,’ he added, and he sounded weary, but then he pushed with his boot at another body, rolling it and peering down before stabbing.

  There were still shouts and cries, the clash and clatter of weapons striking steel, the screams of the wounded and bellows of commands being given. Some thirty yards away, the battle still raged, and as Odo cast his eye over the fallen, Fulk found his attention taken by the last few men standing against the pilgrims. There was a last contingent fighting about a flag, and he felt his shoulders sag at the sight of it.

  ‘Stop! Stop! Can’t you see they’re Christians?’ he cried. ‘They fight under the cross too!’

  Odo grabbed his arm as he made to rush past. ‘Of course they are, but they’re still enemies of God. Otherwise, why would they try to stop us from continuing on our way?’

  ‘Odo, they’re—’

  ‘They’re fighting to prevent us, Fulk. That means they’re enemies to us and to God. They will die.’

  Fulk could do nothing to stop the onslaught. He watched as the last men were hacked to pieces, and the flag slowly toppled, the great cross flapping like a bird captured on a limed branch, and then fell.

  He was chilled. Instinctively he felt as though that was a premonition of what must surely happen to the pilgrimage itself. This was no pilgrimage, this was savagery.

  Odo was at his side, but when Fulk glanced at him, it was as if his brother had been replaced with an inflexible man of iron will and no compassion.

  For the first time in his life, Fulk felt truly alone.

  CHAPTER 15

  Plains outside Belgrade, Thursday 5th June, 1096

  Sybille and Benet had returned to the wagon and to Richalda, releasing Mathena from her duties. Now, hearing a sudden cry and the clash of weapons, Sybille turned her head, seeking the source of the noise. Guillemette and Jeanne were nearby, and they sprang to their feet at the sounds. Esperte was with them, and gave a scream. Sybille stood and saw a group of Belgradian men. They had erupted from a copse farther down the line of the pilgrims, and now their swords flashed in the sun as they attacked men and women indiscriminately. A party of pilgrims was gathering, and launched themselves at the enemy.

  ‘More work for the poor coward, I suppose,’ Benet said. He hefted his sword in his hand. ‘When I return, think better of me, wife. I do my best.’

  She nodded, but not coldly. ‘Be careful, husband.’

  She settled down beside the wagon again, staring down at Richalda’s beautiful young face, and prayed that Richalda would be healed soon. Her breathing was quickening again, and Sybille was worried for her.

  Sybille suddenly had a sharp pang of fear. With Josse gone, Benet was her only protection. If he were to be lost, she would be alone in the world, and responsible for Richalda all on her own. Richalda was breathing harshly, and Sybille stared after Benet. She could see men struggling and hear the clashing of weapons. She stood on tiptoes, as though it could help her see further, and she was sure that she saw Benet hurtle into the midst of the fighting.
It made her heart miss a beat, to see him throw himself into the fight. It was not like him. Perhaps he had discovered some new wellspring of courage, she thought. Then the mass of men were moving away, the pilgrims pushing and shoving, the Belgradians retreating into the copse and out of sight.

  Sybille was glad to see that the fight was moving away. If the pilgrims were forcing them back, the Belgradians would not be able to come and threaten the camp or the stores.

  ‘Come back,’ she said quietly. ‘Be careful!’ Richalda muttered and moaned, and Sybille went to her, wiping her face and brow. When Richalda was calm, Sybille stood once more, her eyes going back to the copse, wondering how much longer the pilgrims would be. ‘Come back, husband,’ she said.

  ‘He’ll be back,’ Guillemette said. ‘He won’t want to leave you.’

  She was collecting firewood. Sybille eyed her for a few moments. In the little time she had known this woman, she had noted her dress, her confident manner with men, and her cynical, caustic manner when talking about life. It was no great guess to form a conclusion about her own position in life. So many women had joined the pilgrimage to win absolution for lives of sinfulness, but one profession was over-represented, because those who sold their bodies were marked with their sin.

  ‘You,’ she began hesitantly, ‘you are—’

  ‘I’m a whore, yes,’ Guillemette said. She straightened her back, raising a querying eyebrow. ‘I’m hoping that I need whore no longer, but sometimes a body must do what she can to live.’

  ‘I do not judge,’ Sybille said.

  ‘Yes you do. Whether you mean to or not. You look at me and think, how can she cope with the dishonour, how can she live by opening her legs to every foul man who will pay her, how can she live with herself? You think all this and comfort yourself by thinking that you would not. Yet you marry a man and open your legs for him, you will do as he asks whether you have a headache, backache, or the flux, because otherwise he might beat you.’

  Sybille’s hand went to her cheek where Benet had slapped her. It was still raw.

  ‘Yes, we are not so different,’ Guillemette said. ‘But I chose my life, just as you did. I don’t enjoy it, just as many wives don’t enjoy theirs, but it is the life I chose. Now I hope to get to Jerusalem and beg God’s forgiveness, and then I will start afresh.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I can take a market stall? No matter what, it will be better than living as the chattel of a whoremonger in Sens.’

  Sybille nodded. ‘What of the others?’

  ‘I don’t know Esperte and Mathena very well. We met them on the road. Mathena also made her living on her back, and Esperte is her adopted child. Jeanne was a poor woman sold by her husband. Then he gave her away to his drinking friends and she learned how much she was valued by him. She wants freedom from him.’ Guillemette eyed her more closely. ‘You are anxious? He will return.’

  ‘It is not for him. We were robbed. Everything we had was taken,’ Sybille said.

  ‘Everything? Perhaps I can help.’

  ‘I don’t think I could . . .’

  ‘I’m not talking about selling you,’ Guillemette said. ‘But I can earn a few mouthfuls. There are some who will pay me with food. I won’t see you starve.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know that—’

  ‘If you feel food from a whore would dishonour you, I won’t force you,’ Guillemette said tartly. ‘But your daughter needs food. Do you have the right to force her to starve?’

  Sybille glanced down at the child in her arms. ‘I don’t know.’ Richalda whimpered slightly, but then opened her eyes. They focused. Her fever seemed to have abated. Did Sybille have the right to deprive her of food? ‘Thank you. Yes, I would be honoured if you would help.’

  Odo moved slowly about the bodies of the enemy. There was nothing in his mind as he kicked a man’s body, looking for signs of life. There was a dull ache at the back of his skull that stopped any sympathy for the figures at his feet. He had no compassion. These were only simulacrums of humans, not true beings at all. They had fought against the pilgrims, and that showed they were no better than heretics.

  He picked up a body by the collar of his mail shirt and peered into the eyes. Was there a small flicker? He thrust his dagger’s blade into the man’s throat, and there was a sudden flaring in the depths of the fellow’s eyes. Odo ripped the knife sideways, cutting the vein at the side of his neck, and dropped the body, moving on to the next one.

  The picture of the youth running back to the line and dying so swiftly was in his mind constantly. That courageous young man had shown Odo how the pilgrims must fight. It was all or nothing. Kill or be killed. The enemy were so numerous that the pilgrims must be more brutal even than them. In battle the pilgrims must be more determined. They must give no quarter: in a fight against heretics there could be no compunction about ending lives. This sort of being deserved a quick ending, no more.

  He kicked another figure. It moved. He stabbed.

  Sybille helped Guillemette gather sticks and set about making a fire. She would heat some water with leaves and a little of their dried meat, she thought. It would make a broth for Richalda, and Benet would want some food when he returned. He was bound to be hungry. Guillemette left her to it, saying she would soon be back, and Sybille dared not ask where she was going. The answer could be embarrassing, although not for Guillemette, she suspected.

  She struck with her steel at her flint, but could not coax a spark. She struck again and again, desperate to make a fire, but after many attempts she had to restrain the urge to fling the steel and flint together as far from her as possible. Taking a deep breath, she tried a last time, and this time a spark landed on her tinder. She picked it up quickly, blowing on it, her eyes flitting back to the copse as she did so. When a flame suddenly erupted, she set the tinder on the ground and placed small sticks over it until she had a good blaze, and then put a pot of water beside it.

  There was still no sign of the men.

  ‘Where are you!’ she muttered, torn between anger and fear, hoping against hope that Benet would soon return.

  A man was hurrying past, heading in the direction of the copse.

  ‘What is happening?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know, mistress, but you should get ready to leave here,’ he said. ‘We’ve been attacked up ahead, and it’s said that there’re more attacking our rear. We’ve had a number of our people murdered and robbed. It’s dangerous. You need to get back with the main body, if you want to be safe.’

  ‘My husband, he was up there,’ she said.

  ‘There? With luck he’ll be back soon, but don’t delay. Prepare to leave so you can go as soon as he’s back.’

  Sybille watched him hurry away with a great emptiness opening up in her belly. She stood, staring after him, and then down at her daughter. Richalda needed her, but perhaps Benet did too. He could have been struck down and left for dead somewhere out there. Where was Benet? He should be back by now. He had only been going to stop the Belgradians from assailing the camp’s stores. What, was he chasing them all the way back to their city? She wanted to go and find him, but she could not leave her daughter here alone and unprotected. She felt tears begin to spring, tears of despair and confusion, but she knew that she must remain here. Richalda could not be left alone, and Sybille did not want to move her.

  Richalda gave a soft moan, and Sybille cast one last look towards the place where the men were all hastening, and then knelt at her daughter’s side and rested her palm on her brow.

  ‘Benet, hurry back! Please!’

  At the time Benet was leaning with his back to a tree.

  He had come here into the woods to find that the first fierce little battle was almost done.

  When the small force from Belgrade had erupted from the trees, the nearest pilgrims had grabbed whatever weapons came to hand and flown at them. Belaboured with sticks, rocks and some lances, the enemy had been held back, and then the pilgrim
s had closed the gap and began to fight with their bills and knives. Although they were not so well armed as their enemy, the pilgrims fought with desperation born of the distance they had come from their hearths. Theirs was an uncertain future, and they attacked with the fervour of the dispossessed.

  Benet ran up to find that the majority of the men of Belgrade had already taken to their heels. He rested at his tree watching them run away, a number of pilgrims pelting after them, occasionally pulling down a less swift man.

  He could return to Sybille, but his blade had not drunk blood. To go back meekly now would only encourage her to believe him a coward, and he could not bear the contempt in her eyes again. The shame he felt from hiding beneath the wagon while Josse was killed was there in his heart. It always would be. He had let down his servant, and Sybille could not trust him until he proved himself to her. He was not so devoid of courage that he could endure her contempt.

  A sob racked his breast and he put his hand to his face. He should never have brought his family on this pilgrimage. Richalda could die, and how could he look his wife in the face again if that were to happen? No, he would follow the men and kill at least one of the enemy. Then Sybille could see that he was a man still.

  With that determination, he pushed himself away from the tree and trotted after the others. The woods closed in about him, but there was a defined path leading between the trunks, and overhead it grew darker as branches met and obscured the sky. He heard shouting somewhere up ahead, and forced himself to a greater effort, lurching along as fast as his legs would allow.

  Suddenly he came to a roughly rectangular clearing. There was a little chapel ahead and on his left, more trees beyond, and in the middle, a mêlée of pilgrims and Belgrade soldiers.