Pilgrim's War Page 29

  ‘You do not wish to delay?’

  Odo glanced over his shoulder. Lothar was there, watching the crowd with a bland disinterest.

  ‘I would certainly prefer to be riding.’

  ‘You were not happy in the town.’

  ‘I saw that we had killed Christians. I’m not here for that. I came to kill the heretics,’ Odo said.

  ‘Yes, I am too. I want to help Christians. It is difficult to see how slaughtering our own will aid our cause. We must go further if we are to find the enemy.’

  Odo nodded. ‘I have no interest in remaining here.’

  Lothar nodded, and then held out his hand and clasped that of Odo. ‘We shall do our best for God.’

  The deliberations continued on into the afternoon. It was noticeable that the majority of the older knights thought they should first protect their lines of supply, while the younger men and most of the pilgrims wanted to ignore that and continue on their march. In the end the consensus was that the pilgrims should initially make a fresh attempt to take Nicaea. However, while the wine still flowed, many of the men there were unenthusiastic about setting off immediately. Rather, they thought that they should take a rest.

  Odo was frustrated. He did not want to remain here or turn back to Nicaea, and was reluctant to now sit about and wait while they all drank their way through the wine in the undercrofts. Making that choice, he felt torn.

  It was plain to him that Lothar was not alone in being keen on the idea of moving on, for Sir Roger was also enthusiastic. But it would be hazardous in the extreme to try to ride far with only Sir Roger’s company. Odo knew that a larger force would be needed

  As the men evacuated the courtyard, he walked to Sir Roger.

  ‘Sir Roger, am I right to think that you were less keen on the idea of waiting, as was I?’

  ‘I would much prefer action to all this sitting about and waiting,’ Sir Roger said. ‘I despise this laziness with all my heart.’

  ‘Could we not persuade others to join us?’

  ‘To what end? We may be able to waylay some travellers, but that will hardly suffice.’

  Lothar joined them. ‘There is another way, Sir Roger. All the men here are relying on the fact that there is no force nearby. Were we to scout about the lands all around here, maybe we could find other opportunities. At the least we could ride towards Nicaea and see that the road remains open.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And some may think that we seek plunder. They may choose to join us, if they fear that we will take much wealth and keep it for ourselves.’

  ‘If it achieves nothing else, it will stop me from boredom,’ Sir Roger said. ‘Very well. We will ride tomorrow at first light.’

  CHAPTER 27

  Xerigordos, Tuesday 7th October, 1096

  Odo woke next morning in the darkness before dawn and smiled to himself at the thought that he would be doing something again. He checked his sword was secure in its scabbard, bound his belt about his belly, took his scrip and a flask of water, and was at his horse outside the main gates as the dawn’s light spread over the lands before him.

  It was a beautiful country, he thought. Green, rolling hills with darker green trees and bushes, and pale-coloured, scrubby grasses covered much of the land about here.

  ‘You are keen, Odo,’ Sir Roger said as he and his men left the gate.

  ‘Who would want to remain in a building when there is a glorious view like this?’ Odo replied.

  Gilles looked over the land and shrugged.

  ‘I suppose you would prefer to see the hills of Dartmoor shrouded in mist and rain?’ Sir Roger teased.

  ‘I would be happier to know that I was in a land where there was not a great army gathering.’

  Odo peered at him. ‘What mighty army?’

  ‘If you think that the King of Rum will tolerate us kicking the shit from the people of Nicaea, and then capturing this fortress, I think you have a lot to learn about rulers,’ Gilles said.

  ‘Ignore him,’ Sir Roger said. ‘He likes to look on the worst of all possible eventualities. He has grown more and more gloomy as we’ve travelled. I think that he is never happy unless there is a dire warning ready to be given.’

  Odo nodded, but he kept an eye on the older soldier. Gilles rode with his spear in his hand like a man prepared for an ambush. It was, Odo thought, an eminently sensible attitude. Not because of fear, but as a matter of precaution. He rested his hand on his sword hilt once more, for comfort, and there was excitement, too, at the thought that he might soon be able to use his sword again. In his mind’s eye he saw the young man’s neck before him again, his blade slicing down and through, the head falling.

  It was a thrilling memory. He wanted to repeat it.

  They had already stopped to break their fast and rest the horses, when Odo heard a strange noise. It sounded like a number of rocks were being rolled over and over at great distance, or perhaps the sound of a thunderstorm far away. He stopped and listened with a frown on his face, and turned to Sir Roger. The knight had not heard it, and gazed at Odo with incomprehension, but Gilles had already jumped from his horse and lay at full stretch on the ground. ‘A long way off, perhaps a league or so, but it’s big.’

  ‘What is?’ Odo said.

  ‘The army that’s coming to take back the castle,’ Gilles said shortly. ‘Sir Roger, we have to ride back and warn them.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Is it a mighty army, do you think?’

  ‘If I can hear it that distinctly from so far away, yes, it is a huge army,’ Gilles said. ‘We need to get back now.’

  Their horses were already tired, but the men pushed them on, and by the middle of the afternoon they could see the castle on its hill directly ahead of them.

  At the sight, Gilles pulled up and stared about them. Odo saw him fix his gaze on a valley some two miles from them, and bent his own attention in that direction, but could see nothing. ‘What is it?’

  For answer, Gilles said, ‘The dust. Can’t you see it?’

  Sir Roger was with them now, and he too peered into the distance. ‘All I can see is a darkness in the sky.’

  Gilles put his foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle, taking the reins. ‘It’s the dust of many thousands of horses and men. Many thousands,’ he said with emphasis. ‘They are marching to take the castle, I would guess. We must get back and warn them!’

  Civitot

  Guillemette was sorry to see that Fulk spent little time near Sybille and her, but her time was taken up with other matters. Jeanne was upset and fractious, and Richalda appeared to have a return of her fever, although this time not so strong or debilitating. Still, it kept Sybille and Mathena busy, trying to keep her comfortable.

  Recently Fulk was rarely to be seen. Guillemette did make a point of looking for him when she crossed into the main camp, searching for food or water, but he was usually engaged with others, either learning new fighting skills or teaching them to others. She was proud to see that Sir Walter was making use of him. It gave her a little flaring in her breast to see him working patiently with the other men, sharing with them the skills that he had himself only recently learned.

  It was pathetic, she would tell herself at those moments. He had been a useful client on the way here, nothing more. She had taken his food, and given him her body in return. In all her years of whoring, she had never become that sad, jaded creature, the wench who fell for her client. That was invariably a sorry maid.

  But there was no denying her feelings. When she saw him and watched, a slight flush would colour her breast, and she was forced to hurry away before it could rise, blotching her throat or making her cheeks redden. If she heard others praise him, her heart would thrill; if they were unflattering about him, she would round on them like an alewife whose brew was derided.

  And the worst of it was, he had set his face on Sybille. There was nothing Guillemette could do about that. She knew as well as any draggle-tail that the men who would pay for h
er to lie with them were the sort who would think her beneath their status. A whore was a diversion, not a wife. Who could trust a wife who had been content to relieve an army of men? She must seek either a man who knew nothing of her past, or be content to die a spinster.

  It was painful, though, to see how Fulk would make sheep’s eyes at Sybille. Guillemette liked Sybille, but to know that she had lost Fulk to her, that was hard. Very hard.

  Xerigordos

  They rode as fast as they could, keeping to the valleys and avoiding any places where they might be seen and ambushed. The threat of the army behind them was constantly in their minds, and the thought of the army was enough to make Odo feel a panic, as he had just before the battle at Belgrade when they first entered Hungary. It seemed that he could any moment expect the horror of an arrow shaft in his back, and he crouched low over the horse’s neck as he rode.

  When they were close enough to hail the castle, Gilles began to roar his warning, but the gatekeepers did not appear to understand. There were two men sitting on a bench and drinking from pots of wine, belching grossly as they enjoyed the sun. Guards lounged at the open gates, and beyond them Odo saw a party of pilgrims watching a dogfight. All was peaceful and calm, and it was hard to imagine that they were bringing tidings of such fury. Then Lothar cantered past him and into the court.

  The company rode in past the two drinkers and after Lothar. Men shouted angrily as the dogs drew apart, one yelping as a horse drew too near.

  Sir Roger bellowed at the men. ‘There is a huge army on the way here! Man the defences and bolt the gates.’

  ‘Who are—?’ one of the drinkers began tipsily, but Lothar’s sword was at his throat and he stopped speaking as he felt the cold steel.

  ‘You heard Sir Roger. Bar the gates and sober up, man! There is an army coming, and when they reach us, they will rip out your liver to feed the pigs!’

  There was a snigger from the second drinker, and a bellow from the keep: ‘What is all this row?’ Sir Rainald appeared, his sword-scabbard and war belt in his hand. He peered at Sir Roger. ‘What is this?’

  Before Sir Roger could answer, there came a cry from the topmost tower. ‘There is a force approaching from the east! I can see a great cloud of dust, as though there is an army!’

  Sir Rainald gaped, but only for a moment. He bellowed for a horse. ‘I want scouts to ride east and south to confirm their line of march, and whether there is a place to form and hold them back. We may be able to ambush them.’

  Sir Roger glanced up at the tower. ‘How far are they?’

  ‘Two miles at most. They approach at some speed.’

  ‘We have no time to scout extensively, Sir Rainald. The enemy is almost upon us. We have to ride now to deny them this castle.’

  ‘Then ride! We will mount our beasts and join you as best we may!’

  There was one pass that Sir Roger had seen on their ride: a pair of hills that blocked the path of the Saracens. There was one valley between them, and it was to that pass that Sir Roger rode now, his numbers swollen by knights and men-at-arms from the castle. Sir Rainald was to gather more men and join them shortly.

  Lothar was content to be ordered by his knight, but as he looked about them he could not help thinking how desolate was this place. Even if they were to hold back this initial attack, there was little in the way of local plunder to restock their supplies at the castle, and little chance of a rescue column arriving. The dust in the air was choking as they rode, and he hawked and spat to clear some of the grit from his throat. It did little good, and as they slowed and came to a halt, Sir Roger holding up his arm, he took the opportunity to swill his mouth with a little water.

  ‘We will wait here,’ Sir Roger said. ‘As soon as they come about the bend in the road there, we can attack. I need a man on top of the higher hill there to keep a close watch.’

  While a volunteer hurried to the hill, Sir Roger took charge of the men in the valley. His plan was simple, and to most of the men it appealed in its simplicity. Odo listened as he outlined it. The Christians would remain in one block on the slope of the left-hand hill, and as the Saracens came though the pass, the Christians would ride down the slope and take them in flank. It would cause mayhem, being unexpected, and would throw the Saracens into disarray in an instant, so that even though the Christian numbers were tiny, they should still be able to score a great victory.

  ‘Don’t forget, the worst error is to let yourself get overtired in the first rush!’ Sir Roger called to the men, tying the laces of his padded coif. He exhorted them to deeds of valour. ‘We are here for Christ and the Lord our God. These heathens have no idea of religion, and they will be dismayed when we break their ranks with our charge, so it is likely they will turn tail as soon as we appear. If so, we must enjoy the fruits of our assault and follow them. There will be a great carnage here, God willing! We are here on God’s service; do not forget that! God wills it! We cannot fail!’

  Odo listened, and he felt almost ashamed to acknowledge his excitement at being on the brink of a battle again. His scalp seemed to contract, and he rubbed his brow with one hand, his other clutching at the spear he had been given. All about him was the squeaking of leather saddles and harnesses, the chinking of mail byrnies. Hoofs stamped and mounts blew and whinnied, but all the noises seemed dulled. Instead he could hear the thunder of his heart, the hiss of the breath in his throat, the subtle churr of the blood in his veins.

  He looked over at Gilles, who was eyeing the sentry on the hill and appeared to be listening with only half an ear; Lothar was sitting on his horse and idly swinging his sword about his side and over his left shoulder, limbering up his wrist and forearm. He caught sight of Odo’s stare and met it without blinking. There was no fear in his eyes, Odo thought, but neither was there any apparent confidence.

  Spurring his mount, Odo went to Lothar’s side. ‘God be with you,’ he said.

  ‘Let us hope He is with all of us today.’

  ‘He is!’ Odo declared fervently.

  ‘Good. Because we are going to be a pinprick in the side of an army the size of this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Think of the cloud of dust that they threw up. Only a large force would cause that. We will be facing many thousands of men. And we have a matter of a few hundreds? It is not enough. Prepare for one good charge, and then do not become embroiled further in the battle, but make your way back to the castle. Here we can become overwhelmed.’

  Odo was shocked and disgusted to hear such talk, but he curbed the barbed response that sprang to his lips. God would show the faithless; He would give them a great victory! In Odo’s mind he saw a great field of dead heretics. And God was there: He stood over them, over the rent and tattered flags and shattered bodies. There would be a great victory here.

  God willed it!

  He sat restlessly as the company waited, and as he did, the scene took on an unrealistic nature. It seemed strange to be here in the heat of the sun, waiting for an enemy to arrive and be cut to pieces. God would see such a battle here as had not been seen in many times a hundred years. The Christians would wield their weapons with such mastery. But meanwhile, the sun was hot, the air breathless and dry. He felt his throat hoarse and uncomfortable, and pulled the stopper on his water flask, drinking sips to clear it. Lethargy crawled over him, and he closed his eyes, nodding.

  ‘There!’

  Gilles’s shout startled him into wakefulness. The sentry on the hill was waving frantically.

  ‘Soon, my friends,’ Sir Roger said. He had a gleam in his eye, Odo thought, like a boy who has seen an opportunity to scrump from a neighbour’s orchard. Sir Roger gripped his lance and glanced from side to side at his men with a wolfish grin fixed to his face. ‘Are you ready? Ready to strike a blow for God against His enemies? Are you ready to fight for Him and for your place in Heaven?’

  The noise of approaching men was growing. It was less a thrumming of hoofs on the sandy paths, and more a solid s
ound, as if a leaden maul had struck an echoing stone, a dull, relentless, reverberation that was intriguing and appalling at the same time.

  Odo watched the sentry scramble and slide down the hillside until he reached the more shallow incline where he had left his mount. In an instant he was in the saddle and riding for the rest of the force.

  Sir Roger smiled as he came level. ‘Well?’

  ‘There are thousands of them! It is like watching bees inside a hive!’ the man panted. He wore a look of fixed horror. ‘There are too many!’

  As he spoke Sir Rainald arrived, riding along the same roadway. He saw Sir Roger and his men, but before either could speak, the vanguard of the Saracen army arrived.

  Odo had never seen such a force before. Flags and banners fluttered from a thousand lances, and rank upon rank of men on horses advanced along the roadway, their polished helmets gleaming in the sun, their mail shining like cloth made of thousands of diamonds. It was a sight to take a man’s breath away.

  Sir Roger lifted his hand, and was about to give the order to attack when there came a sharp trumpet blast, and the first ranks of the Saracens suddenly spurred at Sir Rainald’s men. Sir Rainald himself roared and lowered his lance and he began to charge, his company following suit. Sir Roger bellowed his own command, and Odo found his horse plunging down the hill towards the growing army. At his side Lothar allowed his lance-point to drop until it was pointing at his enemy, and then Odo felt a fierce exultation, as though God Himself had blown vitality and courage into his veins. Odo saw dismay on the faces of the leading Saracens, and he felt God’s power surging through him. He felt invulnerable.

  Their sudden assault on the flank of the leading columns was a complete surprise. The Saracens had only seen Rainald’s force, and the crash of armour striking at their side was enough to shatter their march. It slowed and stopped, the leading men panicked by the unexpected ambush. To Odo, the charge was a series of rippling crashes as succeeding ranks of Christians pounded into the Saracens, their lances stabbing through mail, leather, flesh and bone, crashing into the men and horses with the strength of a thousand hammers. A great concussion seemed to punch through his own arm as his lance struck a man’s torso, and the lance’s shaft seemed to come alive, thumping him hard under the armpit, then jolting sideways, almost breaking his wrist, and he tried for an instant to snatch hold of it again, before realising that his target had fallen from his horse and the lance was embedded so deeply in his body that it would be impossible to catch it again.