Pilgrim's War Page 24

  The town had the small, whitewashed buildings that seemed to suit all the peoples of the Empire, but beyond the town’s walls and a large tower that looked as though it was partly ruined, Sir Roger could see the pilgrim encampment. It sprawled over a large area, and he could see many pavilions with fluttering banners, but between them were the hovels of the majority of the pilgrims. Some little better than a cloak thrown over sticks, others more substantial, this was where the army of Peter the Hermit had been left. Already Sir Roger could smell the stench of unwashed bodies, of woodsmoke, and the stink of latrines.

  ‘There is little organisation here,’ he said.

  ‘They are mostly peasants,’ Gilles said. ‘What organisation would you expect?’

  Sir Roger nodded. It was unreasonable to think that such men would know how to set up a camp. Still, after marching all the way here, he would have thought that someone would have set their mind to it.

  They made their way down through the streets and out to the camp itself, avoiding the beggars, slapping the hands of the urchins who demanded alms, and making their way to the largest pavilion of them all.

  A pair of men-at-arms stood with pole-arms held lazily in their hands, although they stiffened when they saw the party approaching.

  Sir Roger walked to them, studying the banner that flapped overhead. ‘I am Sir Roger de Toni. Inform Sir Walter that I would speak with him.’

  ‘There is no need!’ a voice boomed from inside the tent, and Sir Walter came to the flap. ‘I thought I recognised you, Sir Roger! Come, enter, and take a little refreshment!’

  Inside the pavilion was austere, but comfortable. Sir Walter’s armour was standing on a wooden former, and nearby was an open chest, displaying his weapons. A youth was sitting on the sand beside it, polishing the knight’s helmet. A trestle table had been set up, and a bowl of fruit was attracting the attention of flies, while thick rugs had been placed on the floor where his chair stood. It had the appearance of a room that had been well used.

  Sir Walter waved a hand and bowed. ‘You are most welcome, Sir Roger.’

  ‘I am honoured,’ Sir Roger said, bowing in his turn. It was four years since he had met Sir Walter while travelling to his ancestral home. Sir Walter had been kindly and generous to him then. Now he gazed about him with interest. ‘You have been waiting here for long?’

  ‘We came to Constantinople about ten days ago, and have been advised to remain here until more men arrive.’

  Sir Roger accepted the cup of wine that Sir Walter’s bottler passed to him, and sipped. ‘Are the pilgrims all happy to remain here and wait? I had imagined they would be all afire to kill Saracens.’

  ‘They are, but when you are given advice, it is worth listening to it,’ Sir Walter said. ‘It is always as well to be prepared when entering an enemy’s lands.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Sir Roger said.

  The older knight looked at him sharply. ‘You disagree?’

  ‘No, Sir Walter. You are much more experienced in such matters than I. I am only keen to get to test my sword on a Saracen neck!’

  ‘I feel sure you will have your opportunity soon!’

  The quiet voice came from behind Sir Roger, and he turned even as he saw Sir Walter bowing low.

  That was how he first met the Hermit.

  BOOK SIX

  Invasion and War

  CHAPTER 22

  Civitot, Monday 25th August, 1096

  Peter the Hermit was not an impressive figure. He was not above middle height, was as emaciated as a fasting monk, and had a long, unhandsome face. Sir Roger could easily see why others had named him a ‘donkey’, for his features were curiously similar. He had large, brown eyes, and his brow was surmounted by a shock of mousy-coloured hair. But for all that he was unprepossessing in appearance, and stank like a tomcat, there was an unmistakable aura about him. When he entered a room, humble though he might be, others would stop and listen to him.

  ‘Sir Roger, this is Peter, the man who leads us.’

  ‘No, Sir Walter, I lead no one. I speak the words that the Lord God has generously given me, and His words touch the hearts of those who want to see His Kingdom here on earth. It is not me. God gives us our direction and our inspiration.’

  ‘I am eager to follow His commands,’ Sir Roger said, bowing and taking Peter’s hand. There was a large ring on his finger, and Sir Roger kissed it as he might the episcopal ring of a bishop.

  ‘I am glad to hear it, my son,’ Peter murmured. ‘I am sure you will satisfy Him. Remember, all you need do is follow His will.’

  ‘How soon shall we leave?’

  ‘You see, Sir Walter? The energy and enthusiasm of youth. This young knight is as keen to be off as your destrier when he hears the trump of war. He is made of fire and energy!’

  ‘We have been advised to wait for the other armies,’ Sir Walter reminded him.

  ‘That is good. We should always take the advice of those who have our interests at heart,’ the Hermit said.

  Sir Roger could feel the tension between the two men. It was plain that Peter was keen to continue, while the knight wanted to remain here and wait for more men.

  ‘So long as waiting is not to be misconstrued as cowardice,’ he added mildly.

  Sir Walter looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Nothing! Except . . . if our enemies begin to think that we are lying here idly, their confidence will grow. They can prepare better defences against us. The surprise of our attack will be diminished. I wonder why the Emperor would want us to remain here longer than necessary.’

  ‘What makes you say that it could be longer than needed?’

  ‘Only that we have no idea how long it will take for other armies to reach us here. There are the men under Hugh de Vermandois, more from Lorraine and Normandy. They will try to reach Constantinople in the next two months, but I don’t know whether they will succeed. And in the meantime we will be stuck here for the winter.’

  There was no need to say more. The frown on the Hermit’s face was all too eloquent. Armies died in the winter, even without an enemy.

  ‘We would be foolish to leave the coast until we have replenished our forces,’ Sir Walter said, with the tone of a man repeating an oft-articulated argument.

  ‘But our enemy will improve their forces and defences. They will know to recruit more men, to look at their walls, to prepare.’

  ‘If we launch ourselves at them now, they will assuredly have the upper hand.’

  ‘But we have the Lord God on our side,’ Peter said.

  ‘And surprise,’ Sir Roger added. He could feel Peter gaining in confidence.

  ‘At the very least we must wait until we know what has happened to the other armies,’ Sir Walter said. ‘It would be foolish to march when we have no idea how long it will be before we have more soldiers. They will be with us, perhaps, very soon. Why do we not send someone to find out whether there is any more information about the armies before we make a decision?’

  Peter the Hermit nodded slowly. ‘I suppose that would seem sensible.’

  Roger agreed, but in his heart he was cheering. He was sure that his words had helped tip the Hermit over the brink. Much though Sir Walter would be infuriated, Roger was sure that he had the same reticence as so many older warriors. His natural inclination was to wait until he had at least twice the number of men as his enemy to ensure success, but Roger had no such inhibition.

  A Christian knight was worth three or four of the men in a heathen army. There was no need to be diffident. They would sweep away their enemies with the wrath of God’s vengeance.

  Civitot, Wednesday 3rd September

  They had been at the coast in Anatolia almost two weeks when matters came to a head.

  ‘It’s not fair! How dare you, you thieving coxcomb!’

  ‘Master, this is less than the prices charged in the city!’

  ‘It’s a liberty!’

  A small crowd had already gathered abou
t the merchant and his servants when Fulk heard them. There was a sharp cry as a stone was flung, and the people would have launched themselves at the trader and beaten him to death, had Fulk not shoved his way between them.

  ‘Good friends, wait! What is this? A dispute about prices, and you would slay a man for the price of a loaf?’

  ‘These bastard dealers reckon we’re all thick as a castle’s wall!’

  The trader was waving his hands urgently. ‘No! It’s not true! We are charging less than we would in the city, for our Emperor has told us to be . . .’

  ‘You’re lying!’ the man said, and threw a punch. The trader was thrown to the ground, and the man who had hit him hurled himself forward. Others joined in, and it was only as Fulk’s sword flashed and ended near the first man’s neck that a sudden stillness fell over the men there.

  Afterwards Fulk could not say why he had done it. There was something about seeing the whole crowd moving forward as though to tear apart a man who was, when all was done, only trying to bring them food. But just at that moment he felt only the raw, fierce injustice, and he was close to killing the man who had broken the trader’s nose. ‘Get up! If you so much as touch him or his food, I swear you will die here and now!’

  ‘You can’t—’

  ‘Speak again and I’ll have your head!’ Fulk snarled, and his blade wavered close to the man’s throat. He stepped back urgently, and Fulk looked at the rest of the men in the crowd. ‘This man is only here to trade. If you don’t like his produce, if you don’t like his prices, if you just dislike his face, you can leave here now, but in the name of God, anyone who attempts to hurt him or any of the other traders here will answer to me!’

  There came another voice to his left. ‘And to me. I am Sir Roger de Toni, and any man who attempts to steal from honest traders will suffer the penalty. These are not Saracens! Gilles, Lothar, help him.’

  ‘I am glad to see you, sir,’ Fulk said, ducking his head in a brief bow, while keeping his eyes on the crowd. Sir Roger’s men were already pushing through the people to his side. Some had already slipped away, and while the ringleader stood eyeing Fulk warily as though trying to memorise Fulk’s face, his support was dwindling rapidly. He realised this soon enough and backed away, his face black as a thundercloud.

  Fulk turned to help the merchant, who was effusive in his gratitude, and pressed a large loaf of bread on him.

  ‘You were brave to leap into the fray like that,’ Sir Roger said.

  ‘No, it was foolhardiness! I could have been pulled to pieces.’

  ‘But you were not. You had the correct amount of courage and anger to cow even the bull at their head,’ Sir Roger laughed. ‘Who are you?’

  Fulk had seen Sir Roger many times about the camp, usually close to Sir Walter’s pavilion or talking to the Hermit, but he was not surprised that the man had not noticed him. How many knights remembered the faces of their own vassals, let alone a man-at-arms from another man’s retinue?

  He explained his position with Sir Walter, and that his brother was with him.

  ‘That is good,’ Sir Roger said. ‘We will have need of men like you very soon, I am sure. Can you handle your sword well?’

  ‘I suppose I shall only learn when I use it in earnest in battle,’ Fulk said.

  ‘I shall look forward to seeing you, then.’

  Fulk continued on his way, but then he caught a fleeting glimpse of a woman at the well near the town’s walls. With a lifting in his heart, he set off towards her. Surely it was Sybille?

  Sybille carried the jug of water back to Richalda and Roul, her mind empty.

  She spent much of her time with a blankness in her heart and head. There was little enough to think about. Only finding food for Richalda, and hoping that God would protect them in His mercy.

  ‘Mistress! Please!’

  She heard the calling, but for some time it did not occur to her that it was she who was being hailed. Only when Fulk appeared before her, red-faced from running in the heat, and gasping, did she realise he had been calling her. ‘Master,’ she said, and waited for him to speak.

  ‘You remember me, I hope?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I wanted to know you were well, and your daughter?’

  ‘She is well enough, I thank you. Her fever broke, but she is still rather weak. I hope she will . . .’ she felt tears flood her eyes and did not finish the sentence: . . . she will survive to see Jerusalem.

  He could guess her thoughts. ‘At Jerusalem she will be healed.’

  ‘You think so?’

  Her tone was dull, weary and defeated. He leaned down a little, until she looked up into his eyes. ‘I am certain of it, mistress. She will be fully healed as a child touching the Madonna’s skirts. Believe me!’

  She gave a thin smile, but it was at least a lightening of her previous mood. ‘Come with me, sir, and meet her. Since you are so convincing about her health.’

  He followed her to where the wagons all stood in a rough circle. Many people had formed a tented community there, protected from the wind by the wagons themselves. She led him past the wagons and out to a quieter area to the north. Here there was a smaller encampment, and she took him past little groups and families sitting by their fires.

  ‘Why are these people all out here?’

  ‘In there,’ she said, nodding back to the wagons, ‘no woman is safe. There are gangs of men who get drunk and decide to fornicate with any woman who has no man.’ She held his gaze for a moment, then continued walking. ‘I have a friend who defended me against men who tried to take me, but it was too dangerous to remain there. We came out here to be safe, just as have these others.’ Safe. Yes, she had felt more safe out here.

  ‘It could be dangerous. If the camp were to be attacked,’ Fulk said. ‘You would be at risk, this far from the camp.’

  ‘At risk?’ Her mind went back to the night outside Philippopolis, when Guillemette had saved her. Ever since then she had been intensely aware of the way that men watched her. She could feel their eyes on her body, imagined their rough hands on her breasts and buttocks again, imagined the stubble of their beards on her neck and throat . . . it was disgusting: a nightmare. Out here, away from their lascivious attentions, she was happier. But she could not tell him that. Not here, with so many others about.

  She had been lucky. While she ministered to Guillemette that evening, the men who had sought to rape her had been persuaded to leave her by the others whom they had woken. But Sybille knew how close it had been. She could have been raped and murdered and no one would have known. What then would have happened to Richalda? That was the thought that tormented her every day now: that Richalda could be left orphan here on the road.

  Her daughter was sitting under a blanket, with a man standing by. Seeing Fulk, he scrambled to his feet, but Sybille raised her hand and shook her head. ‘He is a friend, Roul.’

  Fulk nodded to Roul, and peered down at Richalda. ‘You look a lot better,’ he said.

  She gave him a smile, and he was glad to see that she was in truth more healthy than when he had seen her outside Belgrade when her father died, but she was still very weak-looking. He recalled why he had been in the market, and unwrapped the loaf from its kerchief. ‘I have bread. Would you like to share it?’

  Their delight made his gift worthwhile. While they ate, Fulk eyed Sybille. ‘Do you have much food?’ he asked.

  ‘No. We live as best we can while begging for scraps,’ she said with a kind of desperate forlornness about her as she continued, ‘It’s impossible! My husband was robbed, and everything we had was taken before he was murdered, so now we have nothing. No food, no shelter: nothing! He was planning to make a business out there, and without him, I can see no life for us in Jerusalem, but neither can we afford to return home. The cost of the food here is ruinous, but the cost of the walk back to Sens would be beyond our means. My only course is to marry another man with money, or . . .’

  She did not have to vo
ice the thought in her mind. A single tear ran down her cheek as she stared down at the bread in her hands. Her voice held only wretchedness and futility.

  Fulk puffed out his cheeks. ‘I would offer myself and—’

  ‘No, I need no man’s offers from sympathy,’ she said, and now she bustled about as though regretting a momentary lapse into dejection. ‘We will survive, and, as you say, the Lord God will provide for us. We were lucky to meet Roul after my husband and servant were both killed. Master, I am grateful for your gift of food and your company, but I am sure you have many other calls on your time.’

  ‘So this is time for me to leave,’ he said. He grinned. ‘Never mind, mistress. I will return, and I hope to find you in better spirits when I do.’

  ‘You may wish for it,’ she said. ‘I only pray that we leave this place soon and make our way onwards. How much longer must we wait here?’

  Constantinople, Friday 12th September

  Alwyn’s summons came sooner than he had expected.

  As he entered the Vestes’ office, he found another man there, a man-at-arms, he reckoned, taller and more thickset than most. ‘You wished for me, my lord?’ he said to John.

  ‘We are to have more armies arriving soon,’ the Vestes said. ‘But the people who have already crossed the Horn are growing restless, apparently. They are concerned that they are depleting their resources too swiftly.’

  ‘They are poor folk, and they’re paying too much here,’ the man said. He was wearing a thick leather jerkin, and a sleeved shirt of linen. At his belt was a short sword that looked as though it had seen service in several battles. Alwyn noticed that the cross was notched and scratched, while the hilt had been stained over time. The man had the look of a religious fanatic about him, more than an ascetic.

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘This man, Odo of Sens, is a captain in the pilgrim army. He has come to ask when they might leave the coast. I wanted to persuade him that it would be best to remain there,’ John said. ‘What would be your opinion?’