Pilgrim's War Read online

  Emersende knew the story well. She had seen Jeanne in a tavern and, seeing how Jeanne ensnared a couple of men, taking them outside for a fumbling knee-trembler in the alley behind, she had approached the girl with a view to offering her the protection of a bed in her establishment. As so often, when she saw the girl close-to, she saw that Jeanne’s eye was badly bruised, her lips puffed. ‘Who did that?’ she asked.

  ‘My husband,’ Jeanne said quietly.

  ‘Come with me and talk,’ Emersende said.

  ‘I can’t. He’ll see. If he sees me stop to talk, he’ll do more of this,’ Jeanne said, eyes downcast, a finger touching her eye.

  ‘You are truly married?’ All too often a prostitute would have a partnership with her blade. He would take the majority of the money she earned, and in return would offer her protection. The other side of the coin was, if she stopped working, he would often beat her senseless.

  ‘Yes. He loves me . . . I think – but we need money.’

  ‘Is he here now?’

  ‘Yes. He’s watching us.’

  ‘Point him out to me.’

  It was unnecessary. Her man, Edmond, was a heavily bearded fellow who stood with a group of other men near the doorway, as though to stop her from escaping his clutches. He was glaring at Emersende like a judge eyeing a convicted felon.

  Emersende nodded and looked to Christoph, her guard, making sure he saw the man too. Then she said, ‘You have skill in beguiling men. I would like to have you work for me.’

  ‘Edmond would not allow it. He . . .’

  ‘I will offer him more money than he makes now.’

  And it had worked. Edmond declared himself content with his share of the money, while Christoph loomed over him, and in return Emersende had made him swear that he would no longer beat Jeanne.

  Looking back at the Hermit now, Emersende said, ‘I don’t think that bag of piss and bones would keep you occupied more than five minutes, and that includes haggling over the price.’

  Guillemette feigned injured pride, bridling as though this was a challenge to her abilities. ‘I could have him five times in an evening, if I wanted,’ she declared.

  ‘Would you want?’ Emersende said.

  ‘I would prefer a stud half his age and double his weight,’ Guillemette admitted with a giggle.

  ‘Hey! Shut up! We’re trying to listen to the preacher,’ a man called.

  Emersende turned to stare at him, frowning, until her face cleared as she recognised him. ‘Don’t you tell me to shut up, Georges, or I’ll tell your wife what you asked for last week,’ she said.

  The man reddened while his companions laughed at his embarrassment, and Emersende smiled to herself. ‘I’ve seen enough here.’

  She led the way back to the brothel, proudly thrusting her bosom forward like a knight bearing his shield into battle, Guillemette thought. Emersende knew her place in the world. Once, like Guillemette and Jeanne, it had been mostly on her back, but now Emersende was a businesswoman of status. She ran her brothel with kindness and compassion. There were few women so independent, and fewer still with her income. She was proud of her status, even if she was looked down upon by the matrons of the town. They could try to look down on her if they pleased: Guillemette knew that Emersende was no one’s plaything. She could sell herself or her girls as she pleased, but for profit; she was owned by no man.

  ‘What’s he saying now?’ she asked as they reached the edge of the crowd. There was a sudden burst of cheering.

  ‘That anyone joining the journey can be reborn,’ Guillemette said. She gave a twisted grin. ‘Bit late for us, eh, Em?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emersende laughed.

  Neither woman noticed that Jeanne didn’t join in their mirth.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sens, Monday 24th March, 1096

  ‘There!’ Benet said as he returned to his wife and daughter. He was a man of middle-height, and had a broad smile that made his blue eyes all but disappear in a way that never failed to melt Sybille’s heart.

  She returned his smile as the crowds began to empty from the square. The old church at the top of the square loomed over them, and she glanced up at it, making the sign of the cross. It was a habit, but today it felt necessary, as though she had a need to ward off evil. All about them the crowds were repeating the same chant, fists raised and punching the air as they cried: ‘Dieu le veut; Dieu le veut; Dieu le veut.’

  At the far side of the square, under the wall of the old church, she saw women hurriedly stitching brown fustian crosses to the left breast of those who had taken the oath to march to Jerusalem, while clerks scribbled notes of names or took gifts to help the people marching. Many were happy to pay, she thought, rather than undertake such a perilous journey.

  ‘You know, I have been considering,’ Benet said. ‘Josse? Would you take Richalda and walk on ahead?’ He waited a moment or two, until he was sure that his daughter was out of earshot before taking his wife by the arm and leading her away from the crush. ‘The preacher spoke well. Perhaps we ought to think about joining his great pilgrimage.’

  Sybille felt a cold clutching at her breast. He gave a broad smile and opened his hand: in it lay a fabric cross. A shiver ran down her spine, and she gave an involuntary glance all about her at the town, the people, her home. ‘What, you mean to leave us here and go off on pilgrimage? How long would it take you to travel all that way? We would not know whether you would ever return. No, husband, please do not do this.’

  ‘No, I mean you and Richalda to come with me,’ Benet said. He was still smiling, his eyes twinkling. ‘This hermit, Peter, is gathering a huge army. Not just the scrags and tatters of the villages about here, but many thousands, from all the towns and cities in the kingdom and beyond. His military adviser is Sir Walter de Boissy-Sans-Avoir, and the Pope is speaking with other knights to have them join. They will bring their feudal hosts with them, so armies will march from all over Christendom! The Hermit says that he will lead his own army of the poor and meek. It is they who will inherit the earth, and it will be the common folk who will show the path of righteousness to the others. Imagine! An army of men and women dedicated to the support of God and winning back His land! And it is not only Peter. There is a host of preachers, all criss-crossing the lands and persuading Christians to join this great campaign. Even the Pope is engaged with this cause. It is the greatest issue of our time!’ He smiled, his excitement palpable.

  ‘Benet, it will mean a journey of hundreds of miles,’ Sybille said. ‘How could we afford such a—’

  ‘Hundreds? It will be many hundreds, perhaps thousands! My love, this will be the beginning of our future,’ he laughed. ‘I will sell the house, and with the money we will buy all we need for the journey. If we carry gold, it will be easier to hold about our persons. I will hold it in my scrip, wife. And then, when we have taken Jerusalem for God, we can settle there and enjoy a new life, a simpler life.’

  ‘Benet, how will it be simpler? We shall still have to buy food. We will need money!’

  ‘And we shall make money, my love. Just think! These people are innocent, they think only of the long march, but when they get there, what then? I will tell you! They will need to take on the land and make it fertile. When we have Jerusalem, there will be a need for men such as me, who can trade and deal, who can sell tools and food, who can help to make the city work.’

  ‘What of Richalda ? Do you think she will cope with such a journey? She is only seven years old, Benet! What if I die on the journey, who would look after her then?’

  ‘Woman, now you are being deliberately difficult!’ Benet said, perhaps more shortly than he intended.

  Sybille stood a little straighter. ‘Difficult? Husband, you are not thinking about the dangers. Look at me! Would you risk my life? Richalda’s life?’

  Benet gesticulated, pulling a grimace and taking a deep breath. ‘Sybille, my love, why do you never give me credit for having a brain? This could be the greatest opportunity of our li
ves, the chance to save Jerusalem! We would be the first to settle in a new Christian kingdom here on earth! Think! We could be among God’s most favoured people, and forge a new life in that most glorious land! We would be like kings, living out there. God Himself would look kindly upon all that we did. That is what the preacher was saying, that we should all benefit, if we would go with him.’

  ‘So you think we should sell everything and leave here on the word of that man? But he said that he had never been to Jerusalem himself, but that he had been turned back.’

  ‘Yes, but so what? It is Jerusalem, woman! Jerusalem! The land where Jesus lived. We would be living there in memory of Him! God would protect us from all dangers for that. You trust in God, don’t you?’

  She nodded, but all the while she held a picture of her daughter in her mind. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then we must prepare to leave. I shall sell the shop, you must procure the basics for the journey, and we shall set off as soon as all is packed and ready.’

  ‘Yes, husband,’ Sybille said as he pulled at her hand.

  ‘It will be good, believe me! We shall walk there, and at the sight of our host, all the heathens in the city will flee,’ he said. ‘They will not dare to confront the army of God!’ He grinned broadly, and then punched the air.

  ‘Dieu le veut! Dieu le veut!’ the people cried. To Sybille, their calls sounded like the giggling and jeering of demons.

  ‘What is it, Jeanne?’ Emersende asked.

  Jeanne had dragged behind as they walked from the square, and now Guillemette was a short distance ahead, seemingly alone with her thoughts. It left Jeanne and her mistress alone.

  ‘It is Edmond. He wants me to work more. He says I’m lazy. Because my money is going to you, I should work the streets again. He wants to sell me to his friends in the tavern.’

  ‘He promised me that he would leave you to work with me and only me,’ Emersende said, her voice cold.

  Jeanne shivered. When Edmond had confronted her this morning, she had been terrified. It was like the old days. He was drunk still after an evening with his friends, and he wanted her to go straight to them in the tavern near the river, but she had insisted that she couldn’t, and fled, hoping he would be asleep or sober when she returned.

  ‘Jeanne, you cannot come and work for me if you have bruises again,’ Emersende said. She had a disinterested tone.

  Looking at her, Jeanne was struck with a sudden cold fear. Emersende met her gaze and smiled, but while there was sympathy in her eyes, there was absolute conviction too. ‘What can I do? If he hits me, I cannot help myself.’

  ‘I cannot help you if you turn up battered and bruised. I need my sluts willing, eager and able to service the men. If you turn up beaten, the men won’t want you.’

  ‘What can I do, then?’

  ‘Don’t go back. Stay with us. I’ll have Christoph look after you, and when you go out, take him with you.’

  ‘But Edmond will be angry!’

  ‘Edmond will be drunk,’ Emersende said firmly. ‘He usually is. But I will not have you shared with a group of sweaty bar-drinkers who are but one step from the gallows. You know as well as I do that his friends are brutes, not like the customers that I bring.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you must stay in the brothel where we can protect you. If you want, I can send Christoph to gather your things when Edmond is not there.’

  ‘Would you look after me?’

  Emersende’s voice could have greased the city’s town’s gates. ‘Child, you are one of my girls. Do you think I would desert you? You are worth a lot to me.’

  ‘Thank you, Emersende,’ Jeanne said with tears springing afresh.

  Her mistress smiled and shook her head like a matron chiding a foolish child, but there was a hard glitter in her eyes that Jeanne did not see as she wiped the tears from her own.

  Cerisiers

  As Gidie the tranter clattered up the stony track to his home late that evening, he could not help but pause and look about him at his village.

  This was a good land. Here, on the hill overlooking the deep valley of the River Yonne, all he could see was green pasture, trees and verdant plains. It was a wonderful place. Once he had hoped to raise his children here, but all he hoped for now was a life without mishap. He was too old to worry about women. His main interest in life was his wine, of which he was inordinately proud.

  He shut his donkey Amé in the stable with a manger full of good hay, and made his way to the house, pouring a cup of wine and diluting it with water from his spring before sitting on his stool. There, he stared at his bed. It held memories for him.

  It was a broad bed, made by his own hands. They had conceived their child in that bed, and she had gone into labour in that bed, and she had struggled with the pain and fevers, and gradually she had succumbed and died in that bed. A neighbour had offered to take the bed, but he wouldn’t let it go. It was a symbol of his marriage, and he detested the thought of it being used by someone else. He could have burned it, but only a fool would burn a perfectly usable bed which would have to be replaced at some expense later. Better by far to keep using it. And although he was not a particularly spiritual man outside of church, he did sense that keeping the bed in some way kept his Amice by his side.

  But there was nothing else in this house that could hold him. It was a shuttered little place, with a cold, unwholesome heart. Gidie had never thought of it before, but now, as he glanced about him, he realised that it was like him: loveless, chill and closed up. He rarely spoke to others, and when he did it was to dicker over the price of transport, or the cost of goods he should carry to market. There was no one he could call a friend here, and he had not possessed a lover since the day of his wife’s death. That experience, watching her die, mopping her blood, had killed all lust in him.

  What, he wondered, was his life worth? If he were to die tomorrow, who would hold up a scales to his life and pronounce it good or bad? How would he weigh in the balance? God and all his angels could shrug and mutter that he hadn’t been a terribly bad man, but who would speak for him? Why would anyone speak for him?

  Gidie stared about the room again, and as he did, his eyes fixed on the cross over the bed. For some it was the sign of salvation and hope. For him it was only a reminder of his faithlessness and God’s punishment. God had punished him by taking Amice from him. His soul was blackened.

  The words of the preacher came back to him. What if he too could be forgiven?

  Sens, Thursday 27th March

  It was three days later that Fulk met his brother again.

  He walked into the tavern, ducking under the low lintel, and peered about the smoky chamber. The two brothers met here often. It was not far for either of them, and what the wine lacked in quality it made up for in price. Inside there were benches set out at the walls, and old casks served as tables. It was full of men already, and it was hard to see the far side of the chamber because of the press and the smoke.

  Fulk saw him.

  Odo was on a bench at the far wall, further away from the fire roaring in the middle of the room, and Fulk pushed through the crowds. Seeing a maid dispensing drinks near the fire, he asked for a large cup of mulled cider from her pot. He sniffed his drink, smelling sweetness from the honey and spices that had been thrown in, and his mouth watered at the odour. With a broad grin on his face, he made his way across the room to Odo, trying to sneak around to his side without being spotted, but as he approached Odo turned at the last moment. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘God save you, brother. I hope I find you well?’

  ‘God give you a good day,’ Odo responded. He looked Fulk up and down. ‘You look well, brother.’

  Fulk shrugged and grinned. ‘I have been fortunate. God has shone his face on me! I’ve found extra work, and I have been promised more money if I complete it all on time.’

  ‘No wonder you look smug,’ Odo observed. He knew his brother was always desperate to earn more. Fulk’s
master was notoriously tight-fisted. ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘Me?’ Fulk said innocently, sitting upright and trying to look hurt, like an abbess accused of theft.

  ‘Your smith would rather have his teeth pulled than pay you an extra denier,’ Odo said.

  ‘I am worth every sou he pays me,’ Fulk said.

  ‘He does no work himself, so he should appreciate you, if you are to be believed,’ Odo said.

  Fulk joined his brother on the bench. ‘The whole kingdom is in an uproar. It seems almost everyone is to join Peter the Hermit’s pilgrimage. Many of them are demanding weapons, and my master cannot be bothered to make them, so I have asked at another smith’s forge, and he’ll pay me plenty to make arrowheads, swords and long knives. That hermit could not have come at a better time.’

  ‘I am glad for you.’

  Fulk looked about him in the room. The tavern was filling with raucous men with cloth crosses stitched to their breasts. ‘Look at them,’ he said. ‘The fools are celebrating the fact that they are going to risk their lives! They have no idea what they will face while they are on their way, what hazards they will meet, what weather, what dangers from enemies and wild animals!’

  ‘No. They must be fools,’ Odo agreed. A faint glower puckered his brows.

  ‘They will probably half of them never come back,’ Fulk said. He thought of that: never have to wake early to light the fire; never be told what time to be back in his miserable, hard, cold palliasse; shivering at night, rather than staying out with friends at an inn where the wine flowed like liquid sunshine, and the women smiled on him. ‘They must be fools,’ he added, but less convinced.

  ‘They march to the Holy Land, which is to be praised. They have the conviction and determination. God will honour them.’

  ‘I have no doubt He will.’ Fulk saw a woman who was glancing about the chamber with a speculative look in her eye. ‘Meanwhile, there are many women who will need comforting when their menfolk are gone. We will be lucky!’