Pilgrim's War Read online

  Fulk punched at him. The effort was wild and ill-judged, and caught Odo a glancing blow on the cheek. Odo knocked his arm away, clubbed his fist, and was about to strike when Fulk’s second swing connected with the side of his jaw.

  There was a crunch as a tooth snapped, and Odo felt a sudden excruciating pain in his cheek and jaw together. His hand went to it and he staggered back, even as Fulk aimed another strike. But now Sybille had his arm in her hand, and begged him to stop. Fulk stood with his fists bunched, but under her gentle remonstrations, he gradually calmed and unclenched his hands. He let them drop and glared at his brother.

  ‘You insult a good woman, Odo. Men tried to rape her a little while ago. Pilgrims!’ he spat. ‘I am here to walk her to the market and protect her. Nothing more. She is an innocent widow and I will not hear you speak to her or of her in that vein.’

  ‘But you won’t defend yourself against accusations of cowardice?’

  ‘I see no need to defend myself. But as a Christian, I will not listen to your villeiny-saying about this woman or any other. You do not know her. She lost her husband back at Belgrade, and—’

  ‘I say you are a coward, then. You should leave her behind and join in the attempt to win back the Holy Land from the invaders, but you prefer to sit here and pet your latest lover. It is a disgrace that you should want to keep away from the fight, and worse that you would inflict yourself on a woman who should be mourning a dead husband, not flirting with you, brother. Your behaviour with her is likely to cause people to view her with contempt. Especially if they think you a coward too!’

  ‘Odo, I am no coward, but I won’t fight with my own brother. If you want to go and flail about, fighting peasants and robbing the odd shepherd boy, go ahead, but do not expect my approval. I will wait for a real army and I will fight with that.’

  ‘You will not join me?’

  ‘No.’

  Odo nodded. ‘You are no brother of mine.’

  Fulk ignored him, and returned to Sybille. ‘I’m sorry about him, mistress.’

  ‘Go to the devil!’ Odo snapped.

  Alwyn had stood in the shade of the pavilion as the riders appeared, and he remained there, glowering at the man who carried the pennant of the family of the de Tonis. He could see the man now, laughing with his companions, no doubt telling stories of how brave he and his men were while fighting shepherds and mothers. It made Alwyn feel nauseous.

  ‘My son, you are unhappy?’

  ‘Peter, Father, I am sorry. I did not see you there.’

  The older man stood at his side. There was an unwholesome odour about the Hermit. Alwyn had heard that he ate only fish, and drank nothing but wine, and it smelled as if his skin was impregnated with both: it gave off a sourness and smell of decay that was quite overpowering. But there was no denying his charisma. Alwyn had known some men who had the ability to silence a room by merely entering. His uncle had been one such man, and he had always heard that King Harold had been the same. Certainly the Emperor had that effect on people. But this shabby, shambolic old man had the same effect. If he stepped into a large gathering of people, they would grow quiet almost on the instant. It was the same when he came to the pavilion. Knights and men-at-arms would all give way to him, respecting him as a man, more than his position. He demanded their esteem by the force of his personality, even though he was himself so mild and humble.

  ‘I’m sorry, my son. I didn’t mean to surprise you. I saw you standing there, and wondered what was making you sad.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Alwyn glanced over his shoulder. Three of the Hermit’s companions were with him. They rarely left his side now. All were thickset young men who had devoted themselves to his protection. They would guard his body from the masses when pilgrims grew overenthusiastic in their proofs of devotion to him: touching his robes, kissing his hands. In battle these three would protect him. He inspired their loyalty and devotion.

  Peter stood watching the Saxon, a little smile curling the edges of his mouth up, as though listening to Alwyn’s soul. The silence grew unbearable.

  Alwyn said, ‘It is the man de Toni. I know of his family. They killed my father and uncle and helped take our manors. Even now I expect his father is raping and murdering my people. When he came to the shire first, he burned the great church at Crediton and killed many of the people. For that reason they call him the Butcher of Crediton. The church was a canonical church,’ he added. While Peter listened to a man, it was difficult not to fill in the empty silence: the Hermit’s own stillness demanded that a man fill the void.

  Peter nodded after a few moments more. He retained the little smile. ‘Yes, I can only imagine the horror of such events. But be at ease, my son. Here, you will achieve much more than you could at home. The people here need your help. Yet you must control your warlike spirit. Save your violence and anger for the heretics you must kill. Sir Roger does God’s will. Look! There he is, riding on his great destrier. He will earn renown! Mayhap you will too.’

  ‘I do not seek renown.’

  ‘What do you seek, then, my son?’

  Alwyn looked up and felt the sun on his face. ‘Justice would satisfy me. But I can have none. I am doomed.’ In his heart, he added, Doomed to serve those whom I should kill to honour my family and my King.

  ‘You will find peace with the great iter,’ the Hermit declared comfortably.

  ‘There is much distress. The men here grow restless,’ Alwyn said.

  The Hermit sighed. ‘I know. I must soon go to beg more food. The army is hungry, and that makes for disputes. I shall arrange to visit the Emperor again and plead with him for help.’

  He walked away then, serene amid the clamour of the people, followed by the three guards.

  Alwyn shook his head and watched the Normans ride away. They had gathered about them a significant number of other warriors, and as Alwyn followed the thick cloud of dust that followed after them, he saw Sir Walter striding towards him.

  ‘I did my best, but they wouldn’t listen,’ Sir Walter said. He dropped into his chair with a grunt and bellowed for his steward. ‘The fools don’t have the brains they were born with. Well, if they ride into danger, I will not send more after them to be destroyed.’

  ‘Where are they going?’

  ‘They have heard of a flock of sheep a couple of days from here. They’ll raid it and steal all they can, and then sell it off back here, I suppose. It’s hard to tell with men like them. Those Lombards and Rhinelanders don’t ride for the glory of God, but for the joy of battle and plunder,’ he added sourly.

  Alwyn nodded.

  ‘What would you do?’ Sir Walter said. ‘I have asked you often enough, and you always look like a man who has bitten into an apple to see half the maggot remaining. Why are you here?’

  ‘I was sent to serve you and the pilgrims. I didn’t come of my own free will,’ Alwyn said.

  ‘No? You were forced to join us here?’

  ‘My woman and servant are held captive against my good behaviour.’

  Sir Walter gave a fleeting frown. ‘That is not the act of a friend. These two are held hostage?’

  ‘Yes, but now I’m here, I will do what I can to help you.’

  ‘Will you? Against the threat of death to those closest to you? Would that mean I could trust your judgement? I need men I can trust just now,’ he added bitterly. His steward hurried to him with a cup of wine and Sir Walter drank it off quickly. ‘More!’ Turning to Alwyn again, he shook his head. ’Are you content that they remain there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very good. I will see what may be done. Now, the Hermit is determined to press on. All those who stood against him on the way here were destroyed by his peasants and whoremongers, and he expects to do the same with the Saracen armies.’

  ‘He’ll have a rude awakening,’ Alwyn said. ‘The Saracens are lusty fighters, and they have vast resources of men to support them.’

  ‘Then give me something – anything – to help me!
I need to persuade Peter that it will be best for us to wait for the arrival of more men, and better trained and armed men than this,’ he said, waving a hand vaguely that encompassed the whole of the peasant camp. ‘Because unless you do so, and I get a delay, we shall see the army break into small portions with the Holy Roman Empire’s men riding in one direction while the Franks ride in another, and the remaining pilgrims will get slaughtered by the first Saracen skirmishing party they meet. Give me something to stop this army collapsing!’

  CHAPTER 26

  Bari, Monday 29th September, 1096

  Heinnie paused as Bari came into view. He was marching ahead of the main body of men as was his wont. Occasionally Father Albrecht would join him, but others tended to avoid him, uneasy in his presence, as though there was some emanation about him, a hint of a ghostly presence. Heinnie had become a solitary man – walking, eating and sleeping away from the rest. None guessed that he was haunted, and he must keep it that way, for superstitious soldiers would sooner end his life than keep him near if they learned of his burden; but it meant he must walk on ahead, with only the one companion – whom he dreaded.

  There was no peace, no comfort. He was always aware of the horror nearby, and when he slept it was a fractious, unrestful sleep, with the dream tormenting him.

  They had met with other remnants of the Count’s army. William of Melun, who since Moson had been affectionately nicknamed ‘The Carpenter’ by his men because he hewed down his enemies like wood, had a force of five hundred with him. But so many men tended to straggle, and the marching column was spread over almost a half-mile as Heinnie broke through a small wood and into the sun at the other side. To the brigands who stood waiting, he appeared to be on his own and easy prey.

  There was no warning, only a sudden whistle, and Heinnie found himself surrounded on all sides. These were not warriors but peasants, men attempting to steal from pilgrims. Their leader was a heavyset man with a barrel chest and a square head sitting on a thick neck that was so short, Heinnie could imagine his neck had been cut away and his head replaced. There were three others, two of whom looked as though they would gut a man for the fun of it, and a third who it seemed would barely know which end of a knife to hold.

  Heinnie could have negotiated, but these men would not bother to discuss their demands. They would kill first and investigate his wallet later. Besides, he was already on edge. A fight came as a relief.

  He looked at the foolish one, who smiled back at him, and then he swept out his sword and slashed it across the fellow’s belly. The man had no time to escape, and he shrieked, clutching at his stomach as his flesh parted.

  Heinnie did not bother to watch and wait. He had already darted to the side, leaving the heavyset man while he attacked the first of the peasants, driving forward hard with his sword. The man foolishly tried to block his sword, and Heinnie turned the blade, using all his body’s weight to drive it into the man’s breast. He coughed, retching as both felt the metal saw past a bone and slip on deeper, and then Heinnie had pulled it free and was facing the last two – but it was already too late for them. They were about to leap on Heinnie when the main column saw them and a shout went up.

  While the idiot alternately wept and begged for help, some twenty of the men hared after the felons, and soon the two were brought back to stand shivering with their companion. His belly had been opened by Heinnie’s blade, and he was in a grievous way. He sobbed with his hands over his belly as though holding himself together.

  When Father Albrecht reached them, he had the brigands trussed in short order, then ropes were slung over a couple of branches and the men were lifted by their necks until their choking dancing ceased. Their dead companion was hanged beside them as a retort to those who sought to take up the same trade.

  All the men stood about and watched as the three clung to life while they could, and jeered when the idiot’s wound began to widen and coils of intestine shook free. But Heinnie was not watching. His eyes were fixed on the road behind him.

  She was there still. A shape like a column of dark smoke in the roadway. He knew it. No one else could see her, but Heinnie could, and the sight of her chilled his soul.

  He had to get to Jerusalem to escape her. He must reach the city and find peace.

  Civitot

  Five days after Sir Walter’s plea for help, Alwyn watched Peter the Hermit make his way along the road to the harbour, his three guards following him, for all the world like a trio of cubs hopefully trotting after their vixen.

  He was uncomfortable to see the hermit leave the camp. Sir Walter was finding it ever more difficult to persuade the pilgrims to remain at the camp. Every day little groups of men would come and demand that they be permitted to leave, to take a large force and raid to the south and east, both to find food and to harass the enemy, and every day Walter grew more wan and angry at the constant demands.

  ‘Soon I will have a riot on my hands,’ he said to Alwyn, ‘and what do I do then?’

  ‘You prevent it, Sir Walter.’

  He threw a look at Alwyn. ‘You are a most composed man. Does this not alarm you?’

  Alwyn turned to him and smiled. ‘Sir Walter, I was never a commander. It was always my duty to remain in the line and obey orders. I used to crave action and battle, if only to relieve the boredom of lengthy marches and endless nights about the campfire listening to the same tales told by my friends. Now, they are all dead and I am here. If the men decide to go, you must let them go. Better that they ride out and use up their energies in raids, than that you should fight them and lose some of your men as well as them. We should not seek fighting between Christians.’

  ‘True enough,’ Sir Walter grunted. ‘Although it grieves me to admit it. We shall be likely to lose a large number of men, if we are not fortunate.’

  Civitot, Tuesday 30th September

  Sir Walter’s prediction was soon proved to be accurate.

  A small raiding party under the leadership of a French knight had ridden south and captured some men. From one they heard of a castle further to the south that was filled with wine and food, all there for the taking. Only a few days’ march, so the captive said, and so full of stores of all kinds that the army could be fed for a month.

  It took only a short time for news of this to spread like fire on the moors. All the pilgrims heard of the castle, and Alwyn and Sir Walter soon had a delegation.

  ‘We should ride now.’

  This was Sir Rainald, a one-eyed warrior from Bavaria, who was already jealous of the successes of other raiding parties and wanted his own fun.

  ‘We have been advised to leave the people of Rum alone until our other armies join us,’ Sir Walter said.

  ‘Although there is not enough food for us as it is!’ Sir Rainald snapped. ‘How will our situation improve with even more mouths to feed? No, I say we should ride, today, and bring back these stores. We have our prisoner as our guide, he can help us find the place.’

  ‘Peter the Hermit gave us instructions to wait here,’ Sir Walter said. ‘Wait until he returns from Constantinople, and then—’

  ‘How much longer? Suppose he says the others will be here in a month, in two months – what of it? We can begin this campaign now. I say we go. God wills it!’

  Alwyn turned away. Sir Walter saw him, and their conversation of the day before must have returned to him. ‘Very well. If you are so disposed, you may go. But only with a small force.’

  ‘I will take those who seek adventure and honour,’ Sir Rainald said.

  Sir Walter did not respond. Inwardly, he was seething at the implied insult, but he closed his mouth and said nothing as Sir Rainald and his companions left the pavilion, bellowing commands to their servants and men-at-arms.

  ‘You were right,’ he said to Alwyn.

  ‘I hope so.’

  Xerigordos, Saturday 4th October

  This was a larger force than that which Odo had ridden with before. There were many in the pilgrim camp who had
been jealous of the success of the first raid, and who wanted to join in this latest escapade.

  Sir Rainald had formed a force of some five thousand men, with priests and even two bishops joining in for the ride. He organised them into a raiding party, which Sir Roger was invited to join, and Sir Roger offered a place to Odo. Odo, his broken tooth sparking and flaring like a hot coal in his jaw, was nothing loath, and they had left at noon that day.

  Now, four days later, the dust rose and dried his nostrils, and no matter how he wrapped a cloth about his face, the grittiness of sand seared his throat.

  They were on their way to the place that the captured man had spoken of, a castle called Xerigordos, which was said to hold a large storehouse. They had brought their prisoner with them and, although he claimed to be a Christian, Odo suspected that the Lombards who held him would soon remove his head once they had reached the castle.

  Their captive was true to his word. After only four days they reached an unprepossessing little fortress on top of a rocky hill. Sir Roger and two other knights led their forces to its foot and surveyed the walls for a long while. There were shouts and jeers from the walls, but the knights ignored the jibes and made a methodical study. Soon they were back and calling a council.

  The castle was little more than a large keep, with walls that had been added later. Clearly it was never intended as a major defensive work. Even where the walls met the keep at the rear of the castle, the builders had not fully incorporated them into the tower’s stonework, but had allowed many of the rocks to butt against the tower’s squared sides. It had been a shoddy job. Perhaps the builders intended this to be only a watchtower to guard food stocks and protect the flocks in times of trouble against ruffians. The castle was enough to keep out raiders, but not adequate to defend it against determined men like Sir Roger.

  At the rear of the men, Odo listened as the knights discussed what they had learned. It was thought that there was a route to the top of the walls, if they could keep the defenders’ heads down. One of the Bavarian knights had a company of archers with him, and he promised that they would keep a withering assault on the castle while the walls were scaled. In short order the plan was agreed, and the men went to put it into operation. There were no ladders, but a pair of grapnels were found and attached to ropes, while a pair of carpenters took apart a wagon and fashioned a makeshift ladder. It would only have to work for a short while, because the men of the assault force would hope to be up and over the walls and opening the gates in no time.