Pilgrim's War Page 22

  Later he made his way to a tavern, paying no heed to the small boy who watched him walk unsteadily to the bar, and who then ran from the port and into the town itself.

  It was a while later that a large, fair, hunched man entered the tavern and stood looking about him. Seeing Lothar, he crossed the floor to him.

  Lothar had managed to indicate that he wanted a large pot of drink, and was now staring into a cup of wine that tasted of sour horse-piss.

  ‘You are Frank?’ the fair man asked.

  Lothar looked up, oddly gratified to hear a familiar tongue. He took in the scarred man’s injured hand. So, he had been a warrior. ‘No, I am a Rhinelander. You?’

  Rhinelander, Alwyn thought. So, a man from the Holy Roman Empire. That was a relief. Alwyn had feared meeting a Norman and being forced to hold his hatred and anger at bay. ‘My name is Alwyn. I am from Wessex.’

  Lothar nodded. That explained his strange accent. ‘Are you a shipman?’

  ‘Me? With this?’ Alwyn said, and held up his left hand with the missing fingers. ‘I wouldn’t be much use hauling on a rope with this. No, I was a Varangian Guard, but now I live in the city and trade.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘Mostly whatever other people want,’ Alwyn said. ‘Where are you from, do you bring goods to sell?’

  ‘Me?’ Lothar laughed aloud. ‘I am a warrior, master. I live to fight. I am with the pilgrims who are coming to help your Emperor and to regain the Holy City of Jerusalem for God.’

  ‘A noble cause, if it be successful,’ Alwyn said. ‘How many are you?’

  Lothar shrugged. ‘Coming from Bari, we are some thousands, but our compatriots are marching over land, and they number the tens of thousands. It must be the biggest force ever gathered together to support our God.’

  ‘That will be a magnificent sight,’ Alwyn said. ‘When will they arrive?’

  ‘We have to take messages to the Emperor and wait for his response.’

  ‘I can help you to get them delivered.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I have been sent to report on you and your companions.’

  Lothar looked at him. The man did not inspire confidence. He had no gold at his fingers, and the tunic he wore had seen better days. He did not look the sort of man who would have the ear of the innkeeper, let alone the Emperor. Which made Lothar wonder who this earnest-looking man was. Perhaps nothing more than a felon seeking to reach inside Lothar’s purse, he wondered. There were felons all over the Empire, so he had heard. They were a strange folk, full of trickery and deviousness, who had raised lying and deceit to an art form, people said. ‘Why?’

  ‘The Emperor is astute. He wants to know that your commanders will keep the men in his entourage under control, he wants to know that the people with him will obey the laws of the Empire, and that he is not allowing a dangerous army to enter his lands, but a willing comrade-in-arms. You have many thousands in your armies,’ Alwyn said.

  Lothar nodded. ‘I will introduce you to my master, then. He will be glad of your help, I am sure.’

  ‘Good.’

  Lothar knocked at the door of the inn where his master had taken rooms, and stood aside to let Alwyn enter first. ‘Sir Roger, this man says he can help us.’

  Sir Roger was pulling a chicken carcass apart, and he sat back on his bench and peered at the man in the doorway. ‘You can help us? How?’ then a thought struck him, and he glanced at Lothar. ‘He can speak French, I assume?’

  ‘I speak it a little,’ Alwyn said. His hackles had already risen at the accent of the man in the room. He walked in and bowed his head slightly with the respect due to an equal, no more.

  Sir Roger looked at Lothar again. ‘You are sure of his credentials? He doesn’t look like a sheriff’s messenger, let alone a king’s or emperor’s.’

  ‘For all that, I am your contact. I have the Emperor’s seal and can have your messages taken to him at the speed of the imperial messengers.’

  ‘Show me this seal.’

  Alwyn slowly pulled a thong about his neck and withdrew a heavy golden ring. A disk had been carved into the upper surface. He held it up momentarily, then dropped it back down his collar. ‘It is sufficient to get your messages to the Emperor as swiftly as it is possible.’

  ‘It is good! I will allow you to take the messages, then. I and my guards will go with you and witness the message being sent. Is that fair?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your speech reminds me much of home. Are you from England?’

  ‘I am from Wessex.’

  ‘Quaint! I had forgotten the old names. Of course, our lamented king, William, changed the names, did he not? Whereabouts were you in Wessex?’

  ‘I come from the lands of Devonshire, from a town called Lydford. It was a thriving burgh.’

  ‘It is no longer. The rebellions over the years—’

  Alwyn was peering at Sir Roger closely. ‘You are Norman?’

  ‘My father is Sir Radulph de Toni. I am his son. We live in the manor of South Tawton.’

  Alwyn took a deep breath. There was a sickening pounding in his belly, and a roaring and hissing in his ears. For an instant he felt dizzy, and his vision clouded as if a black veil had dropped over his eyes. He felt stunned, as though a man had broken his pate with a maul, and could scarcely think. He wanted to grab his knife or a sword and hack this man to pieces, but even as he felt his muscles tensing, he heard the Vestes words in his mind again: Think on Sara and Jibril, Alwyn. Their fates depend on you. ‘I know it.’

  Sir Roger shot him a curious look, then motioned to his men. ‘Lothar, tell Gilles we will soon be leaving. We shall go with this fellow and be the first of the pilgrims to see Constantinople!’

  ‘Yes, Sir Roger,’ Lothar said. He was surprised to see that Alwyn had already left the room, and hurried out, calling to Eudes as he went.

  He need not have worried. Alwyn was outside, breathing deeply, a hand resting on the wall.

  ‘Are you all right, fellow?’ Lothar asked.

  ‘I just felt a little sick,’ Alwyn lied. ‘Something I ate.’

  It was nothing to do with his stomach, it was the effect of meeting the son of the man they called ‘The Butcher of Crediton’. And he had not tried to kill him. Yet.

  CHAPTER 21

  Constantinople, Thursday 31st July, 1096

  It was a relief for Alwyn to return to the city. He left Sir Roger’s party at the area designated for their encampment, and rode up to the gates and into Constantinople, slouched after riding many miles in the heat. His mount was exhausted too, and he dismounted and left the horse at the barracks’ stables near the gate before walking on to the palace with Sir Roger’s man, the fellow called Eudes. He seemed to take all in his stride, like a bumpkin who visits a city for the first time and refuses to be overwhelmed.

  Alwyn took him to the Vestes’ chamber and made a show of handing the document to John. John opened it and read, then instructed slaves to take Eudes to eat and drink while he discussed affairs with Alwyn. Soon they were alone with slaves bringing them drinks and platters of fruit.

  ‘I am glad to see you once more, safe and well,’ the Vestes said, and looked him over with apparent compassion. ‘Your journey has been difficult, I see. You are weary. Please, be seated. Take refreshments.’

  Alwyn took the cup of iced water and drained it thankfully. He could feel the chill liquid pass down his gullet, and sighed with gratitude as it settled in his stomach. It seemed to ease all the strains of the journey. A slave refilled his cup but Alwyn pointed to the jug of wine instead.

  ‘And now, to business,’ the Vestes said.

  Alwyn sipped. ‘The letters you received will have explained much about these barbarians.’

  ‘Yes,’ John said. He gave a laugh. ‘They actually demand the assistance of the Emperor, and said they want access to the city’s markets, and ships to transport them to Anatolia, and, and, and . . . They had a most impressive list of demands.’

&n
bsp; ‘I am not surprised,’ Alwyn said. ‘These are the same Norman bastards who beat us at Dyrrhachium. The same men who stole my land from me and my kin. Their arrogance is legendary.’

  ‘Are they trustworthy?’

  Alwyn curled his lip. ‘I would rather trust a rabid dog.’

  ‘They have no redeeming features?’

  ‘I don’t know. They look like barbarians, and steal other men’s lands.’

  ‘That is politics, and as for how they look, well, others have learned the benefits of silks and comfort.’

  ‘You want to know, are they a threat? Yes, they are. If you can, I would have them pushed off imperial soil as quickly as you may.’

  ‘I lean towards the same view. Did you see the army on the plains?’

  Alwyn nodded. ‘They are probably the fellows I saw before.’

  ‘Possibly. The first to arrive was a strong force led by Sir Walter de Boissy-Sans-Avoir. There is another group not far behind which has caused no end of trouble. It is a mob, an army of malcontents, peasants and felons, from all accounts. They’re led by a scruffy preacher they call “the Hermit”. He has the dregs of all the cities in his company: thieves, beggars, whores, all the most sinful and disgraceful dregs of northern cities; and he has told them that they will achieve salvation by coming here and killing Saracens. I suppose they may be good enough for that: killing or dying. They caused dreadful problems on their march. They robbed granaries, stole wives and daughters and raped them, and killed people even when they were offered supplies at low cost. It seems they expected to be fed for free! The first army was at least led by a knight, and had a modicum of discipline.’

  ‘Why did you send them on, if they were better than this rabble?’

  ‘You think I wanted to have the two armies merge on our doorstep? No, those already arrived here we will send on their way as quickly as we may. Those approaching our walls now, under the command of this “Hermit”, sacked Zemun and slaughtered all those inside. Thousands are dead, I am told. I heard this morning from Nish, where the King of the Hungarians has destroyed another army, putting all to the sword or introducing them to the benefits of culture by enslaving them. No, I want them gone as soon as may be. Our aim must be to have them all pass over the border as quickly as they may. If they achieve victories in the Sultanate of Rum we can capitalise on their gains, but otherwise we are best served by pushing them onwards.’

  ‘How many are there in the armies?’

  ‘Who can tell? Enough to take Zemun by storm, and to fight a pitched battle with the Governor at Nish. These are dangerous men, Alwyn.’ He picked up a paper and studied it, then peered over it at Alwyn. ‘Now, this messenger with you. What would you have me do with him?’

  ‘Send him back with a message to his lord,’ Alwyn said. ‘Tell them your terms and that you will help them on their way. You do not wish them to encamp here and become prey to ideas of taking the Empire.’

  ‘No.’ John was thoughtful. ‘Such an army, if disciplined and with sufficient numbers, could pose a threat even to the city.’

  ‘Especially with the Normans among their number,’ Alwyn said bitterly.

  ‘There are many of them? Yet you didn’t attack any of them?’

  ‘One is the son of the man who butchered my people,’ Alwyn glowered. ’If I had the opportunity he would be dead.’

  ‘Perhaps. Yet I think they should be allowed to escape your wrath – for now. The Emperor has promised them safe passage. If you were to fight them, that would not serve his aims. No, I think we should let them join the army that has already landed on the shores of Rum, don’t you?’

  ‘I will claim my right to kill him. I will seek trial by combat, if necessary.’

  ‘Later,’ the Vestes said sharply, ‘when the man is of no further use to me. If you move before that, Sara’s existence will become more difficult. I will take her back, and Jibril too. Sara would be welcomed in the brothels at the port, and Jibril would fetch a good price. Perhaps in the same place. Do not forget, Alwyn, your position here depends upon my goodwill and the Emperor’s favour.’

  Alwyn lowered his head. ‘In return, if I am injured, swear to me that you will look after the interests of both. If I am killed, you will seek to give them a pension. Send Sara to a good house and look after Jibril.’

  The Vestes looked at him, but nodded. ‘I so swear. But destroy my faith in you, and everything you value will be taken from you.’

  ‘Then keep the Norman from me,’ Alwyn growled, adding under his breath, ‘Because if you harm my Sara, I will kill you.’

  Outside Constantinople, Tuesday 12th August

  Fulk stared out at the sea and threw a pebble into the waters. It was a warm day, and he was bored of inactivity. He craved action. He wanted to get to Jerusalem, fight and win it, and return home with Odo.

  When they had set out, all had seemed so easy. They would take back the city, and return home with stirring tales of their battles and conquests. There was no expectation that the people of the Empire would show such distaste, even contempt, for the army that had set off to help them.

  They reached the great city full of joy. The sight of the massive walls was an inspiration to all. It looked impregnable. The walls were whitewashed with red tiles at the castellations, and could have been new. They ran for almost four miles, a great sweep of triple defences, with a moat, low outer wall, and then double inner walls to trap the unwary besieger. Villas and shanty towns spread in a suburban mess at the moat’s side, but all about was greenery, with gardens fed from carefully designed irrigation systems. Even from a distance the city inspired awe.

  ‘I had expected a more enthusiastic welcome from Emperor Alexius,’ Odo said.

  ‘He did promise food and supplies.’

  ‘But at the same time he refused permission for any of us to enter the city.’

  Odo stared blankly over the waters. Fulk knew his brother had felt the ban keenly; he wanted to pray at the great churches in the city where relics like the head of St John the Baptist were held. Praying for the intercession of such saints would be bound to help the pilgrims.

  ‘Odo? Are you all right?’

  ‘We should have been entitled to enter the city.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fulk was as enthusiastic to see the city as his brother, but for different delights. Peter of Auxerre had waxed lyrical about the Greek women in the Constantinople brothels. Fulk had heard so much about the earthly delights that eastern women could bring that it grieved him not to visit one. With the blanket prohibition on visits to the city, the only offers he received came from the broken women who were permitted to ply their trade outside the city walls. They were not what Fulk had envisaged, either in age or quality, and he had hoped that the order refusing permission to enter the city would be rescinded. Instead they had been bundled here, outside the city walls, while ships were readied to carry them on the next stage of their journey.

  Fulk glanced over his shoulder. Here he was near the first gate of the city, the so-called Golden Gate. It was built of huge slabs of marble, and had one vast entrance and a smaller way at either side. This main one in the middle was only rarely opened. It was the city’s most important gate, Fulk had heard, the ceremonial portal through which the Emperor would enter after a victory, or foreign potentates who deserved special honour. Sir Walter had not been allowed to enter through this gate, which showed much of the attitude of the people here to the pilgrims.

  As he stared at it, a horseman burst through a side gate and cantered down the roadway. Fulk watched apathetically as the man, clad in fine Constantinople mail, rode along the road from the city towards the pilgrim camp.

  He was not the first messenger to Sir Walter. Usually they brought complaints: apathy and indolence had led to disturbances. There were fights between pilgrims and city folk; some pilgrims took to breaking into houses. It was even said that some robbed people in the suburbs outside the wall, leading to much bad feeling. But it was all this inactivity. That was w
hat caused the problems.

  It was the Emperor’s own fault. He had enjoined Peter the Hermit and Sir Walter to remain here at the coast outside the city. There were many more armies marching now, he said, and their reinforcements would be needed if the pilgrims were to meet with Kilij-Arslan’s armies. Kilij-Arslan was the ruler of the Sultanate of Rum, as the Saracens named the territory of Anatolia, and he was reputed to have an army that was the equal even of the men of Constantinople. But, as Peter the Hermit told his followers, even such a powerful unbeliever would be forced to suffer the realisation that for all his vaunted wealth and authority, the God of the Christians was superior. The pilgrim army would destroy that of the Saracens.

  All Fulk knew was, he wanted to get moving. He felt lonely and distracted here in this strange land, and without the comfort of Guillemette he was desperate and confused.

  Odo glanced over his shoulder at the rider clattering along the road. ‘Perhaps we will be moving on again soon.’

  It was good to sit with Odo, although Fulk dared not broach the subject that tormented him. He had a suspicion that his brother was carrying on an affair with Jeanne, the youngest of the whores, but he wasn’t sure. It could have been just that Odo was bored with Fulk and Peter’s company. Certainly he spent a lot of time away.

  There was no hiding the fact that the army was growing fractious. In a real army, discipline could hold groups together, but here, with so many ordinary folk lumped together, natural rivalries abounded. Not that Fulk had any argument with Odo . . . but Odo had already ordered Fulk to keep away from the women, and now, Fulk thought with a grin, he had discovered the same delights of feminine company himself.

  Fulk wanted to move on and win back Jerusalem. That was the whole point of their pilgrimage, and he was keen to march on, not kick his heels at the seashore here.

  The army of Peter the Hermit was ready. It had reached this land of unbelievers, and now they were going to march to the Holy Land and take it back for God, surely.