Pilgrim's War Read online

Odo gave him a cold look. ‘You would try to ravish their women while they march away to war? That would be a callous, disgraceful act.’

  ‘It would be a kindness! Think of those poor women, deserted, desperate, keen to find a little solace in a cruel, lonely world,’ Fulk said virtuously.

  ‘You are a man with no soul,’ Odo said. He was frowning.

  ‘Me? I am just a man trying to support those who will be left behind,’ Fulk said lightly, but then he gave his brother a serious nod. ‘And some will need support, Odo. Think of those who will die on the journey, or who will die in the wars out in the Holy Land. Their wives and loved ones will not hear of many of their deaths. Some may never know what happened to their men, but will remain here, growing older and more frail, wondering always whether their men have died, where they might be buried, or whether they simply deserted their families, and remain in some foreign city.’

  Odo shook his head. ‘That is no excuse for you taking advantage.’

  ‘You will too, when you see the young women throwing themselves at you. Even you won’t be able to refuse them a little comfort in their sadness.’

  ‘I would certainly refuse them.’

  ‘You think so? I’ll bet you will change your mind when the first wench pleads with you, clinging to your sleeve and begging for the solace of your company. Although, to be fair, she needs must be entirely desperate to seek comfort from you!’

  ‘I would not. I will not be able,’ Odo said, more quietly. He was staring into his drink like a man suspecting poison.

  ‘What, you think you would be able to maintain your hard, firm exterior? As soon as a little maid like that blonde one over there started pleading with you with tears of frustrated lust in her eyes, your heart will melt!’

  Odo look at him with exasperation. ‘I will not, no, because I will not be here.’

  ‘Why? What does that mean?’

  ‘Fulk, open your ears! I won’t be here! Listen: the world is changing. There are people out there who need our help to defend them and the Holy Land. This could be the time for all Christians to come to the help of Jerusalem. Perhaps it will be the end of time. Maybe the—’

  ‘Odo!’ Fulk’s face had become a mask of shock. ‘Don’t say that you have taken up the cross?’

  With a shamefaced smile, Odo reached into his purse and pulled out a large cloth cross.

  Fulk winced at the sight. ‘You can’t! Look at you, you don’t even own a decent knife, let alone a sword. You don’t know how to hold a weapon or fight. You’ve spent your life making bread!’

  ‘God will give us the strength we need. He will guard us on the march, and He will protect us in our battles.’

  ‘If we stay behind, we can help to look after the town! With all these men leaving, there will be a need for men with brains and intelligence. We could make a fortune here, Odo! I could make money enough to start my own forge; you could buy a shop in Cook’s Row, or a bakery of your own! Don’t throw it away to go on a fool’s errand!’

  ‘Fulk, my mind is made up. I have already told my master.’

  Interest broke Fulk’s tirade. ‘How did he take it?’

  Odo winced. ‘Not well. He threatened me with a peel.’

  Fulk grinned. ‘I hope there was no bread on it at the time!’

  ‘It is decided. I shall go.’

  Fulk frowned. ‘You are mad. Worse, you are a fool. Going all that way, on the word of a hermit you’ve never seen before.’

  ‘He spoke the word of God.’

  Fulk pulled a face. He looked like a man who had bitten into a sloe berry. ‘Well, there’s only one thing for it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll have to go with you. It would be impossible to leave you all alone for such a long journey. You would get yourself into trouble trying to cross the market without me to help you. Besides, I’m the one who can fight. No one would accuse you of being the one to get into scrapes. That has always been my forte.’

  Odo shook his head irritably. ‘There are lots of things you have not considered.’

  ‘I will soon pack and be prepared.’

  ‘You? I remember that time when you planned to meet a maid, and forgot you had already agreed to meet another at the same place.’

  Fulk winced. The ensuing battle was still painful to recall. ‘Aye, well, that was embarrassing, but—’

  ‘And the time your master left you in charge of his business for a day, and you drank all his strong ale and wine, and he found you hog-drunk in the—’

  ‘I confess, that was a mistake.’

  ‘Mistake? It all but cost you your apprenticeship.’

  ‘Yes, well, even apprentices have their foibles.’

  ‘I will have your life on my conscience. I am glad to be responsible for myself, but not you too, Fulk.’ Odo shook his head grimly and finished his cider.

  ‘I am responsible for myself. Now, buy more drink. I’m coming too.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Odo asked, his eyes searching Fulk’s face.

  ‘Yes.’ Fulk finished his drink and held out his empty cup. ‘Come, let’s drink to our journey! It will be an adventure. And you’re so determined to protect the women of this town against my lusts, the least you can do is buy me another cup.’

  ‘If you’re determined to go, well, I suppose I cannot stop you. It is said that the grand iter is to begin on the second Monday after Easter. I suppose that gives us time to settle our affairs.’

  ‘I have to join you. After all, knowing you, you’d wander in the wrong direction entirely,’ Fulk said lightly.

  ‘Wait! This is a serious undertaking, Fulk. It is a pilgrimage. If we go, we have to go understanding that we are pursuing God’s will. It is no light-hearted jaunt. You must be sober, and no fornicating on the way.’ His eyes glazed over as he seemed to stare into an uncertain future. ‘We must be aware of the serious nature of the task before us.’

  Fulk glanced at the crush of people near the bar. The woman he had seen earlier had disappeared. He was sad for a moment.

  ‘Odo, you could make even a feast taste sour! Cheer up, brother, and buy me more drink. I think I will need it, having agreed to this.’

  Sens, Thursday 3rd April

  Jeanne pressed the latch on the door nervously. The latch was wood, and stuck, and when she forced it, there was a loud click. She warily pushed at the door, peering around it into the room beyond. It was dark, and she was struck with the idea of stepping into Hell itself. The door with its leather hinges was a gaping maw, and she shivered involuntarily.

  She had not brought Christoph. He had been busy removing a drunk when she set off, and she didn’t wait in case her courage dissipated. Instead she had come here alone, and she was regretting that now as night drew in. She felt terribly vulnerable standing here, on the threshold of her home.

  Stepping inside, she was about to cross the room when she heard a sound and froze. It was the noise of a stool scraping on the packed earth of the floor.

  ‘You thought you’d find me gone, you bitch, didn’t you?’ he said as he swung his fist.

  In the dark Edmond’s blow was misplaced, but while it glanced off her jaw, she felt her teeth crash together. Blood filled her mouth while lights flashed and sparked in front of her, and she fell to the floor like a corpse. She had no sensation in her legs or arms, only an all-consuming pain at her mouth and skull that seemed to envelop her head.

  ‘You’ve been living at the brothel for the last few days, you bitch! You didn’t think of me, did you? You want to leave me, wife, is that it?’ he said, and now he was closer.

  She could see his boots, and saw one draw back, but couldn’t speak to complain or plead. Instinctively she tried to retreat from him, for she knew what was coming, but her body would not respond, and the kick caught her right breast. She gave a harsh grunt from deep in her throat. The agony was so intense, she was reduced to hacking sobs, curling like a child while tears flooded her eyes. She was aware of his kneeling beside her, and sh
e could smell his breath, sweet and sickly like the wine he had been drinking, and then she saw something shining with a sickly grey gleam in the dark, and she whimpered. The sight of his knife was enough to spark energy in her muscles, and she tried to push herself away. She scrabbled with her hands, trying to get purchase, but he caught her tunic at the neckline and gripped it hard, pulling her towards him, lifting her to her feet.

  ‘If you try to escape me,’ he said, bringing his knife’s blade up and resting it on her nose, ‘I’ll mark you so that no man will ever want you again. I’ll cut off your nose, your ears, your lips, and no man will even look at you, let alone pay for you. Look at you! A slut! A whore! You’re lucky I keep you in my house. But from now on, you’ll do what I say, and just now, I say you’ll service my friends. You owe me, bitch! You’re my wife, and you’ll do as I say!’

  He thrust her away, and when her head hit the wall, it was mercifully enough to make her lose consciousness, but not for long enough.

  When she woke, her nightmare really began.

  CHAPTER 3

  South Tawton, Thursday 3rd April, 1096

  Roger de Toni rode through the vill at the head of the seven horsemen, his father at his side, and stared down at the peasants labouring in the filth in the fields. A young man in his early twenties, he was still new to the land here. His hair was the dark brown of his people, his eyes a pale grey, the same as his mother’s. His build was much like his father’s, and typical of a warrior who had trained with sword, shield and lance since the age of six. His shoulders were broad and strong, his belly narrow, his right arm powerful as befitted the son of a knight, and he rode like the messenger of death and war that he was.

  ‘Look at them! They hate us,’ his father said.

  Roger glanced at the villeins without interest. One or two dared to meet his gaze, but for the most part men, women and children looked away. Cowed, pathetic, these folk were inconsequential. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Always be aware. These people still dream of removing us. They were beaten less than a generation ago, and it would take little for them to rise up again.’

  ‘And be cut down again. Really, they are cattle to be herded.’

  ‘Cattle? Have you never seen an angry bull?’

  Sir Radulph used a sharp tone as he spoke. ‘Do not mistake our position here. These fools may be ignorant but there are many of them. If they wished, they could kill us all.’

  ‘What of you, father? Do you hate them in your turn?’

  ‘Me? What would be the point? It would be like hating the sheep in my flocks, or the cattle in my herds. They are not worth hatred.’

  ‘No,’ Roger agreed. He did not hate the people here either: he despised them. They were weakly, pathetic. Once they had been a proud nation, but since the glorious campaigns of King William they were destroyed and only of use as workers.

  ‘You dislike this land, don’t you?’ his father said.

  ‘There is nothing to like,’ Roger said. ‘Look at it! It is green, yes, but only because it rains every day. There is little sun or warmth such as I knew at home in Normandy.’

  ‘Your brother will take Conches-en-Ouche,’ Radulph said. ‘The castle there is the family’s, and we have to keep that as the centre of our family’s authority. But, given time, this little collection of hamlets will become equally as valuable, I swear. The land is rich and fertile, you have good woodland, and you have power.’

  ‘This is a border territory. The men of Cornwall seek to foment trouble at all times. We will have to fight them to keep their unrest stilled,’ Roger said.

  ‘Then do so. Show them the iron fist,’ Radulph said. He turned to his son. ‘This land was taken by me and I will not cede it. If the people need to be beaten into acceptance of my rule, they will be. You must control them as you would a rache: a hunting dog is not subdued by kindness; it is brought to obedience by the club and the whip. The people here are no different. You will have to use all means to keep them controlled. Do so.’

  ‘I would prefer to remain in Conches,’ Roger said. ‘I want warmth. This cold, miserable land is draining to a man with ambition, and I have plenty. I don’t want to be stuck here like a hazel twig planted in this damp soil.’

  ‘What would you do, then?’

  They had reached the little wooden fort that was their home. In defence against outlaws and brigands the gates were routinely kept locked. A loud bellow at the porter soon had the men scrabbling to unbar the gates and, with a graunching of iron, they were opened. Sir Radulph led the way into the castle’s court, the donjon on its small hill before them.

  The men dismounted with a clattering of steel and Roger followed his father up the hillock to the hall.

  To Roger’s surprise the local priest was waiting for them.

  ‘There is urgent news, my lord,’ he said to Sir Radulph.

  ‘Speak!’

  The priest bent his head in a deep bow. The knight demanded proofs of respect from those who lived on his lands, as much from priests as from villeins. While his father gruffly welcomed their guest, Roger de Toni moved to the cupboard and jerked his head to the steward for a cup of wine, almost draining it as the steward took a second to his father. It was rude to drain his own first, but Roger was thirsty and out of sorts. This wooden hall was cold, and although the peasants had filled the gaps in the walls with daub, still the wind howled through. The flames in the middle of the floor moved, the smoke gusting and dancing with every breeze outside.

  What he wouldn’t do to escape this foul, chill island.

  The first thing he would do when he owned this fortress at the extreme of civilisation would be to build a stone castle. Not to protect from enemies, but from the wind. These walls offered no more protection from gales than a mail shirt.

  ‘I have a message, my lord,’ the priest said. He was an elderly man and spoke haltingly in the presence of his Norman overlord, for Radulph’s short temper and violence were well known in the parish. ‘It is from your cousin, Stephen, my lord. He asks you to join him.’

  ‘Me?’ Radulph stared frowningly. ‘What is this? Join him why?’

  ‘The Pope has declared a great expedition, a journey to the Holy Land to liberate the poor Christians of that land from the cruel Saracen oppressors who treat them like stones to be crushed underfoot,’ the priest said.

  ‘Well? What of it?’

  ‘Your cousin has decided to join in this great pilgrimage, and he will join the Pope’s forces. He asks, will you join him with your feudal host, to help take Jerusalem from these Saracens, and bring the city back into the light of God’s grace.’

  The knight drained his cup and held it out to be refilled. ‘Read it.’

  The priest began from the top with the lengthy, polite salutation, but Radulph grumpily gesticulated with a hand, waving it around and around until the priest skimmed over the rest and got to the meat of the message.

  ‘This he says: he is collecting a force to fight under his banner. He will leave at Easter, and proposes to meet with you and others at Rome. From there, he will take the road to the coast and take ship and make his way to Constantinople, and thence pass into Anatolia, and by stages march to the Holy Land and Jerusalem as the good Pope has asked.’

  ‘To the Holy Land?’ Radulph shook his head, and then walked to his great seat on the dais and dropped into it. He cast an eye about the whitewashed walls of his hall, at the tapestry of which he was so proud, and which was succumbing to the weather, at the small collection of plates on his sideboard and the tables against the walls. ‘It is many leagues to Rome,’ he said pensively. ‘A great many. I knew a man who took up the pilgrim’s garb, and he said he reached Rome, but that it was still further to the Holy Land. He never made it.’

  ‘Father! Let’s go! It will do me good to travel, just as we were saying. This would give me the opportunity to travel while doing God’s work. It is the perfect opportunity. Let’s go together and take our swords to recapture the Holy Land!’
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  Radulph smiled down at his son with a slight perplexity on his face. ‘Roger, you have little understanding of what you suggest. You have no idea of the distances involved, and still less of joining in a host such as this must be. It is a hazardous thing, to travel so far. Better if—’

  ‘This is God’s own work!’ Roger said.

  ‘And holding our lands here is our work!’ Radulph snapped. ‘If I go off seeking out Saracens to slay, there may be no castle here on my return. Do you want to have to win back our lands from the peasants just because we took time to journey all the way to the Holy Land?’

  ‘If you won’t go, at least allow me! Let me take a small force, perhaps ten men-at-arms, and I will go and win renown for you. I swear, I will come back with glory!’

  Radulph eyed him doubtfully, then threw a look at the priest. ‘What do you say, priest? Should my son go in my place? Do you think him old enough to command?’

  ‘I have known your son only a brief time, my lord,’ the priest said carefully. ‘He is a most competent warrior, I am sure, but does he have the skills to weld men to his ambitions? A commander who cannot command is a poor thing in battle.’

  ‘You say? Aye, I daresay you were a priest with the men who went to stand against King William when he stormed the beaches. Well, this is a cause in which it will be easy to keep the men together. There is only one purpose, the greater glory of God, and by the cross of my sword, I am sure that he will acquit himself bravely. Perhaps you should go with him, if you think that he would benefit from your counsel?’

  ‘Me?’ The old man looked shocked.

  ‘I jest, old man. You would scarcely make it to the coast, let alone across the Channel. But if my son is to go, he will need to have good counsel if he is to make it to Rome. I will send a good man with you, Roger. A man who has skill and knowledge. Someone who can guard you and guide you. You are too hotheaded on occasion, and you fret when you do not get your own way. This journey will cure you of that, I hope. But before you leave, you will be knighted. I will not have a son of mine depart for Jerusalem without being given his rank.’