The Germans and others who rode with Conrad had the misfortune to follow the refuse of Lombardy slums. "I think if they don't stop singing for a few minutes, I may turn them over to the Sultan myself," Elisabeth groused. She was glad to be on horseback, for the rabble would just squat and relieve themselves where they walked. She still tried to keep Gauner's hooves out of it.
One of Saint Gilles's men came trotting toward them on his way back to the rear and his commander. Elisabeth waved him over. "What word?"
The man drew up and removed his cap to scratch his lice-ridden head. "The van is just half a league from the main road. Nothing seen yet, but there's a god-awful smell."
Someone piped, "That's just the Lombards!"
The man looked back unsmiling at Elisabeth's similarly unamused look. "It's smoke. Smells like after the crops are harvested and you burn the stubble in the field."
He saluted and doubled his horse's pace back to the rear.
When the German contingent reached the place where the land opened up to reveal the main road heading north, they had to slow and gather in behind the Lombards. The army had stopped. Conrad, standing in his stirrups, could not see what was causing the delay. "Damn it," he muttered. "Why don't they send someone back to tell us what is going on?" He urged his horse through the press, reached the edge of the procession only to be joined by Raymond. Elisabeth heard the Frankish knight mutter, "Now what are the idiots doing?" He and Conrad rode quickly forward, Raymond in the lead.
The Lombards mingled or sat or lay down where they were. Elisabeth could hear grumbling among them, along with women's shrieking laughter, a crying child who had just been pushed in horse dung by an older child, the beginning of a drunken brawl, and the ribald comments of a group of unkempt men taunting a shy girl.
"Why are they so loyal to Bohemond?" Elisabeth asked Black Beast, who rode at her side. "He's Norman. Not Lombard."
"A bunch of them fought under him after they messed things up for the Hermit. He is the Holy Land to them. And everyone knows the fight between him and Raymond is a petty, unworthy thing. Like a couple of bully boys squabbling over an alley."
One of the German men-at-arms called out that there was water in the middle of a mostly dried-up stream-bed, so the knights and the boys tending the sumpter animals headed off into the scrub to let the animals drink.
Coming back into the procession, Beast said, "We must be moving."
The Lombards, from those farther up to the stragglers just in front of the Germans, were standing up, brushing themselves off, and gathering up their possessions and family members. Near Elisabeth a fat woman was kicking a man who was lying on the ground. He finally woke, got up, and slugged her in the face.
Elisabeth started to urge Gauner forward, but to her astonishment the woman fell into step next to the man, who put one arm around her shoulders. The two walked on companionably.
When at long last Elisabeth reached the place where the path joined the main road she instantly understood what had caused the sudden halt. The smell of stubble burned on a cleared field was caused by just that. Only this time the crops were the things burned, not the stubble. Someone, the Turks, had torched every field she could see in either direction. While the pilgrims took the alternate route, the Turks took the main road and systematically destroyed any food the pilgrims could have taken.
She glanced at a body off to the side of the path. It was barely recognizable as the guide hired by Stephen. The body was mangled, its throat slit and clearly visible stab wounds inflicted by dozens of angry men. She caught the smell of urine on the bloody body, urine and worse.
"Did he lead us down the path to delay us, or did he simply tell the Sultan we would be here?" She turned to look at Ranulf as he settled his mount to fall in step with hers. "Or was he innocent, a poor man wanting silver to feed his family with?"
"God knows," the mercenary captain said.
"Which God?" she said acidly.
In places where the crops had not been burned they saw that everything edible was gone. The Turks, after all, had to eat as well as they did. Even if the Turks never attacked, the pilgrims were doomed if they could not find food. "How could this all have been so badly planned?" she wondered in silence.
With the carts and livestock, the men-at-arms and the camp followers on foot, it took days before they could even hope to see the walls of Gangra before them. Scouts continued to report that the army of Kilij Arslan, Sultan of the Seljuk, retreated before them. Every step of the way they deprived the pilgrims of supplies. All they found were burned fields, all the sparse wood available likewise destroyed. Even the few wells they came across were filled in or contained decaying carcasses, usually of dogs, poisoning the water. The river just out of sight was at its midsummer low, so silty water was available, though just barely. Rations halved, the pilgrims marched steadily north and east toward the Pathlagonian city. Everyone was hungry and parched, exhausted. Even the Lombards quieted.
Whatever she had expected, what Elisabeth experienced now was sheer hell. Though she did not wear her helm as she rode in the blazing summer sun, she did wear her mail and the thick padded shirt under it. She could not believe how hot the metal got in the sun. The quilted gambeson held in the heat. She got down from Gauner from time to time, not only to give him some relief from carrying her weight and the weight of her armor but because the horse's body heat was making it worse for her. She could feel the sweat running out of her hair and down her neck and back, where it tickled. She felt as if she wore a sponge full of hot, smelly water under her mail. She longed to strip naked and dive into a pond, but while some of the men took the chance and went to soak themselves in the river, she did not dare. She realized she must be starting to smell as bad as the Lombards and other camp followers. She tried fantasizing about splashing in a fountain with a naked Maliha, but after a short time the fantasy itself started to torture her. She genuinely wondered if she would ever be clean and cool again. She would not let that other thought, the one about whether she would ever see Maliha again, crystallize in her mind.
Elisabeth worried mostly for Gauner. The small patches of green grazing that survived the devastation were long cropped to the roots by animals further up the line. She meted out small handfuls of grain she carried for him. He ate it gratefully, then nuzzled her for more.
"Here!" came a shout from the line ahead of her one afternoon as she fed her horse. "Give me that!"
It was a peasant, a big man with filthy hair and beard and filthier clothing. He strode forward, one hand extended and the other grasping a short thick knife.
"Why should that overgrown horse get to eat when my children do not?" he demanded.
She drew her sword as he approached. "If we come under attack, you will be glad of this horse when he carries me to defend your sorry arse." Any impulse to compassion for his little ones was precluded by her knowledge that what she said was God's own truth.
"You knights," the man said as he spat on her shoes. "You have messed things up bad enough, haven't you? We'll be lucky if we get out of this alive."
Albrecht came to stand at her side, his sword likewise drawn. "It was you pigs who insisted we change course, you and your useless horde of ne'er-do-wells and vagabonds."
The man made a threatening gesture. "Are you trying to tell me we would be doing any better in Konya or further along?" He subsided rapidly, though he continued to spit both saliva and epithets as he turned and slumped away.
Seeing Elisabeth's taut expression, her squire reassured, "We'll take Gangra. Then we will have all the food and water we need for our horses, ourselves and even the garbage like him."
She made the sign of the cross. "From your lips to God's ear."
Some cheer had made its way through the ranks as the walls of Gangra came into view. That hopeful spirit melted away as they neared. There was something solid about this fortress, almost as if it was solid stone across. The battlements were crowded with jeering men shaking their fists at the
pilgrims, some turning and exposing their arses in defiance.
The pilgrim leaders commanded the procession to camp for the night some distance from the walls. Scouts sent on ahead found a small clump of trees indicating the presence of water. It turned out to be a well with a terrible taste, but it was all they had. They took what they could, boiled some of it in pots over green wood that smoked and spat. Most slept in spite of the heat and stinging flies, while others stood watch, swaying with weariness and downcast hearts.
In the spacious command tent, where Elisabeth attended on Conrad, wine flowed readily enough. Servants darted here and there with small plates of food kept for the commanders' table. A scout stood, holding his helm in both arms, and slowly imparted his intelligence.
"The town is fully garrisoned. More than that, it is shut tight. It has thicker walls even than usual, and it seems to have been supplied with everything they could need. Food, water, fodder, weapons, you name it."
Stephen of Burgundy interrogated, "Where does this information come from, man?"
"Peasants. Clerics. Deserters. Some of it from our own scouts," he hurried to add, seeing that Stephen was about to cast doubt on what could be trusted from Muslims. "We had parties watching the fortress over the past few days. They saw the arms and men stream in. The carts of provender as well."
Hugh of Montebello chimed in. "Any estimate of the size of the garrison?"
The scout glanced at Raymond. "We cannot be sure. Fifteen hundred, two thousand perhaps?" The commander nodded his agreement.
All heads turned to him. He slowly rose and, tucking his thumbs in his sword belt, gave them a frank one-eyed stare. "It's too well fortified. Too strong. We are a larger force, but they have food, plenty of it to last. We are on our last rations."
He caught Archdeacon Ludovico's move to rise out of the corner of his eye. "Look, without some sort of miracle . . . ," he began to state ominously.
His face shot to the scout, who was clearing his throat meaningfully. "What is it?"
Scuffing his feet on the carpet laid on the dirt under the tent, the man reluctantly responded, "There is more, my lord. One of the deserters says that reinforcements are on their way."
"And shall we believe the words of a heathen dog?" the Archbishop's man accused.
Raymond waved the Archdeacon to silence. "What did he say exactly?" He turned, shouted to a servant, "Get this man a stool and some wine."
They waited while the man took the wine, sat on the stool before them, and drank deeply. "Thank you, my lord." He drank again, then went on, "It seems that up until recently the Sultan, Kilij Arslan, managed to outrage all the other warlords with his presumption of command. He used the threat of Christian pilgrim knights to try to browbeat them into bowing to him. They scoffed, then removed themselves and their support."
"We know that. So?" Odo of Burgundy interrupted, earning a flash of anger from both Raymond and Conrad.
"Our arrival and taking of Ancyra changed all that. The Danishmend leader is alarmed now and is coming to meet us under Arslan's banner."
Count Albert, Anselm's military commander, turned to the Archdeacon. "Danishmend?" he inquired, one eyebrow lifted.
"Malik Ghazi," Raymond supplied. "Go on," he urged the scout.
"Yes, Malik Ghazi. And he sent to Ridwan of Aleppo to furnish reinforcements up from the south." The man drooped, his bad tidings exhausted.
Odo asked Conrad, "How many troops could they be bringing?"
The Constable sighed. "God knows."
All were silent save for a muted "Shit!" that issued from the lips of Raymond de Saint Gilles.
Chapter Twelve ~ No Turning Back
The word came down. They were to bypass Gangra. Conrad had all he could do to silence the protesting voices.
"But what about supplies?" came one angry demand.
Conrad held up his hands for silence. "Would you rather starve while you sit here in siege or at least have a chance of finding supplies on the road north?"
A knight accused, "Have you and the other leaders left your balls back in Constantinople? We can take that city!"
The Constable's face reddened. "We are going on. That is all there is to it."
The disappointment of the leaders' decision turned to anger. It could go either way, toward rebellion against those leaders or retribution against the environs of the city. The leaders, with the help of their heavily armed elite knights, skillfully turned the focus of that fury on the farms and dwellings outside the walls.
The scene was one of utter devastation. The knights were carefully instructed to make for whatever supplies were above ground or in storage. The Lombards and many of the men-at-arms of all nations were left to smash and grab, rape and kill. The fact that there was little to smash and few to rape and kill made their ravishment the more brutal. No structures, no trees or shrubs were left and not a soul survived their rapacity.
The Turks on the battlements shouted in outrage, but no one emerged to fight them. It seemed they had as little regard for their people as the Christian pilgrims did. All the while the small army of priests stood in the shadow of the fortress, out of range of arrows, and intoned their incessant prayers.
The tiny amount of supplies gathered and packed onto sumpter horses, the pilgrim procession streamed desultorily north, followed by shrill shouted insults and derisive laughter from the battlements of the fortress of Gangra. The pilgrims themselves were largely silent, save for muttered recriminations and irritable complaints from every contingent.
"Where are we going now?" someone whined.
A deeper voice replied, "Kastamonu. It's in the mountains to the north, just this side of the Black Sea."
The van with Stephen of Burgundy in the lead was no longer in sight of the fortress of Gangra when Saint Gilles's trailing force was just barely in sight of it. Downhearted at having to bypass what might have been a treasure trove of supplies, not to mention booty and women, the knights and men-at-arms trudged after their leader, leaving the fortress behind. When a great shout came from the direction of the gates, the last of the soldiers looked over their shoulders to see them open, and dozens of mounted men streaming forth.
While the ordinary soldiers panicked, the Pecheneg with Raymond's forces in their disciplined ranks turned to face the attackers. They quickly formed the line into a tight column with men with shields facing outward. Men behind them held up their shields at a slight angle from the vertical of the outer row, creating the start of a turtle formation, named for the protective shell of that beast.
Meanwhile the knights under Raymond, who screamed his orders to his own commanders, forced their men to gather in the middle, holding shields aloft. It seemed this seasoned hero of the capture of Antioch and the Pecheneg leader Tzitas knew what to expect. From the vantage of their horses' backs the knights watched this play out. The Turks who streamed from the fortress split as they neared the column, breaking into two offensive lines of mounted archers, who rode along and fired arrow after arrow at the crusader forces. The sound of the arrows thudding into shields was a staccato accompanying the eerie ululations of the Turks. The drumming was punctuated with an occasional clang as an arrow struck a helm. Few hit flesh.
A messenger tore north along the column to warn the other commanders, keeping just ahead of the pursuing Turks. While the rear drew to a near halt with the slowly-moving and aptly-named turtle, the forces ahead also slowed and turned their heads to see what was happening. Conrad's company, riding before the rear forces and just behind the mass of Lombard rabble, followed their commander's quick directions and formed the forward extension of the shield wall that enclosed the noncombatants as well. At the center lumbered the carts and sumpter animals, adding the bellows of oxen and nasal call of mules to the pandemonium.
Elisabeth found herself painstakingly threading the center of the narrowing procession that connected the rear forces with the last of the peasants. Albrecht, at her command, rode forward with the mercenary captain Ranu
lf to protect the men, women and children who shrieked and wept at the assault they could hear but not see all around them. Elisabeth glimpsed the other three mercenaries take position together, Ruggiero on the outermost wall with his shield held defensively in front of him, Ragnar with his Norseman's helm just behind, and Thomas with them, crossbow raised to take shots from time to time over their shoulders at the swiftly passing Turks.
It was all Albrecht and Ranulf could do to keep the mass of Lombard peasants from trampling each other. The two men used their horses' bodies and weapons to keep them in a line, slowing them to a crawl. They could not hear their own captains' orders for the screaming of the people, old and young, as the unseen terror seemed to last for hours.
In the van Stephen of Burgundy and the Lombard knights and soldiers heard what passed and scrambled to form their own defensive formation. The entire half-mile-long procession compacted into a snake that slithered almost to a stop.
Then the assault stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The mounted Turks, without a single casualty, turned and rode back in the direction of the fortress. The men in the shield wall watched warily as the last of the attackers disappeared to the south.
"Keep in position!" commanders bellowed as some of the rear guard began to relax. "They may come back!"
They did not. The fading sounds of ululation and hoof beats left the column to the lamentations of the camp followers. Clerics chanted prayers were no less frantic. None was injured by anything but the crush around them. As the threat of the Turks' return appeared to be over, commanders among the men-at-arms assessed the damage.
Beloved Pilgrim Page 21