Beloved Pilgrim

by Nan Hawthorne

  "Where are they getting all those arrows from?" Elisabeth asked no one in particular.

  Gerhardt responded, "Well those that miss will be added to our arsenal."

  Few men or horses were hit. The tight column with its multiple rows of shields prevented the sort of casualties sustained in the first round of attacks. "If this happens again and again," Elisabeth thought to herself, "we wouldn't lose many men but it would slow us down to a crawl." She wondered how far they had to go and whether they had or could find provisions to last. Her old notions of what battle was like had altered extravagantly. It wasn't valor you thought about, and not even fear of wounding or death. All you thought of was where the next water and food would come from.

  The sun was still a distance from its zenith when the Turks suddenly appeared once more, this time on the rear where Saint Gilles rode. Another five hundred were in that attack, and to everyone's astonishment, as many again struck along both flanks. Now not only the Pecheneg and the Byzantines in the rear were struck, but one thousand Turks harried the Germans and Austrians all the way up to the Lombard noncombatants. The heathen archers streamed along the sides and shot their arrows high into the air so that they fell down into the middle. Only those who wore stout helms and shoulder armor could hope to avoid the arrows, and even they were vulnerable if arrows struck their mounts. Though the attack lasted no more than the time the first two had taken, perhaps several minutes, there were many more casualties.

  Raymond waited until the Turks were gone out of sight over the hills to the east for a midday rest. He had no real choice. The injured and the dead must be seen to.

  "Find us someplace to rest," he barked at an aide.

  Only a half mile ahead they found a deserted village. No people, no animals, and little water in the wells. Nevertheless there was some shade in the lee of the buildings and rough outer walls. The Lombards streamed in following the Burgundians' men-at-arms and took every space they could bully their way into. Elisabeth and her companions could not find shade for the horses, but a breeze wafting over a hill to the west that was slightly cooler than the heat of the day dried both human and equine sweat, providing some relief.

  Conrad stalked about the village stopping to talk with the clumps of men resting wherever they could find space. He made his way slowly to where Elisabeth and Albrecht sat with the three knights and their squires in the shade their own horses made. He returned their nods, asking how they fared.

  "That tactic," he informed them without preamble, "has not been used successfully since the Parthians."

  Alain looked puzzled. "Who were they?"

  Albrecht surprised his comrades by responding, "They fought Alexander the Great in Persia, is that right?"

  Conrad cocked a single eyebrow in appreciation. "Very good. The tactic was abandoned after Alexander decimated the Parthian army."

  "How did he do it?" Elisabeth asked.

  "Well, I can tell you it wasn't by riding out in small groups and trying to chase them down." Conrad's disgust was evident. Then he appeared to reconsider the courtesy of criticizing his fellow commanders. "Alexander's foot soldiers were just too well-armored and too good."

  Elisabeth observed, "Alexander was not called the Great for nothing. Not an easy example to equal."

  Conrad, looking away, made a gesture of dismissal and walked away.

  "What is going to happen now?" Alain asked rhetorically.

  Black Beast made a rude noise in his throat. "If that keeps up the rest of today and the next day and the next . . . "

  Bertolf, his squire, a barrel of a man even at his young age, shook his head. "We are not going to keep on to rescue Lord Bohemond, are we?"

  No one looked at him or replied.

  Chapter Thirteen ~ Only Way Out

  At night the pilgrims fell into sleep almost as soon as they lay on the ground from the sheer exhaustion of the day's march. They did not awake refreshed in the dawn. The blazing heat made the pilgrims, particularly those in armor, stupid from dehydration. Young joints resisted flexing as if their owners were aged. Sleep rather than being restful just fogged the senses.

  "God help us," Elisabeth thought, "if we are called on to act quickly."

  Quick turned out to be the last thing anyone would have to be. Not long after the column formed and began to move toward the mountains and sea, the Turks swooped down again. The turtle formation was almost second nature now. No one complained about the slow pace, stopping for the attacks, then moving at a crawl in between, because no one had the energy to move any faster. That single day felt like a week, and then in the early morning it was all to do again. On everyone's minds was one crippling realization. The slow pace meant more days on the road, and more days on the road made it inevitable that thirst and hunger would begin to claim lives as surely as any Turkish arrows could.

  There was no respite from the assaults. The only change for the pilgrims was that they were increasingly ill equipped to keep going. Water was even scarcer than before, and the grain carts were emptying. Added to the actual heat from the searing sun was the impression of heat from torched fields and groves. The acrid smoke turned already parched throats into painful cracking tissues.

  People started to drop where they walked. The very old stumbled, and though helped to stand again by their family members, soon fell to the ground. Some of the men among the noncombatants tried to carry their old people, but they were little hardier than their burdens. At first they laid their dead atop the lessening stores in the ox carts, but the weight took its toll on the already suffering draft animals. A near riot of protest at the removal of corpses to be left behind on the ground was quelled by yet another sweep of Turks whose arrows felled more of the pilgrims as they were too slow to get into a protective position.

  The fourth night after Gangra they made camp in the open. Elisabeth heard him and looked up as Albrecht, who had strayed from her side, lay down near her. "Where were you? What's wrong?" she added as she saw the desolation on his face.

  He rasped as much from his parched throat as from a desire to be discreet. "I went to look for the Lombard woman and her child. My water skin was under my cloak. I have been sneaking water to the child against orders. A guard came out of nowhere and grabbed me. I pretended I could not understand him, but he just reached under my cloak and pulled out the water skin. He asked me who it was for. I told him it was for my horse. But he was wise to me. He pointed out that the Bavarians' horses were picketed in the opposite direction."

  "What happened?" Elisabeth urged.

  "They took it, the skin. Confiscated. Asked me how my horse will drink now. I started to reach for my sword, but the other guards grabbed my arms. I asked on whose authority he confiscated my water. He said it was Toulouse, not that he wants for provisions himself."

  Albrecht scratched his bent head and made a derisive noise in his throat. "He told me I wasn't going to take water to my 'bit of tail.' As if I had the energy to fuck. He said that well will be as dry as the rest in no time with nothing to pay her."

  Elisabeth had wondered if Albrecht's Lombard woman had assumed from the first that he wanted something in return for the water for her child, and the only thing she had was her body. When the squire never made his advances, she would no doubt have been puzzled.

  "I couldn't keep looking for them, nothing to give the child. I knew the woman would be waiting for me, but I just turned and came back here."

  The next day the children started to die. Furious recriminations accompanied the soldiers' insistence that the bodies, not only the old people and the wounded who could not walk but now the little ones, be left on the side of the road at the mercy of whatever the Turks would do to them. Dozens became scores lining the path churned up by thousands of feet shuffling between stops to form the turtle.

  When the column stopped for its midday rest in a burned out grove of trees Albrecht, tortured by his failure to find and explain to the Lombard woman, dashed away to find her and learn how she and th
e child fared. Elisabeth followed. He searched in vain. He finally found some of the people she traveled with. They would not meet his eyes.

  "Where is Maria? Where is her mother?" he demanded in camp pidgin.

  One older woman bowed her head and croaked, "Gone, my lord. Both of them."

  "Gone? What are you talking about? Not dead?" he said with mounting fear.

  She shook her head. "You stopped bringing them water. She despaired."

  A young boy stepped forward. "When the Turks attacked last, she went out to them. She broke through the turtle and walked straight out toward the archers."

  Albrecht's eyes frantically searched the country back the way they had come. "Why?"

  The older woman put in, "Her child was dying. She wanted to get her water and food."

  "She gave herself to a heathen. He rode to her and leaned down and gathered her and the child up onto his horse." The boy hesitated.

  Catching the hesitation, Albrecht looked from the boy to the woman. "What happened?" he asked with dread.

  Tears started to course down the woman's cheeks. "The archer . . . he tore the child from her arms and flung it on the ground. I heard her scream. We wanted to go save the little mite, but the archers swooped down again."

  "I saw a horseman ride over the child." The young boy's voice caught on the words.

  Albrecht stood before them unable to move or speak. He slowly sank to his knees and lifted his hands to cover his face. A sound like a tortured animal came from him as he shook all over. The boy and woman exchanged looks and backed away.

  Elisabeth knelt by him and put her hands on his shoulders while they shook.

  Conrad rode to where his knights stood about a campfire, miserably contemplating the lack of any sort of food but hard bread full of weevils. He dismounted as they stood to salute, waving them to sit again. He sighed as he saw all eyes turned on him, waiting for the inevitable.

  "Lads, this has become intolerable. Something has to give. The commanders are meeting tonight to make a decision. The Count of Toulouse is going to recommend that we break through as directly as we can to the sea. There is a road along the shore back to Constantinople, and some may find ship's passage."

  "Back to Constantinople?" one man questioned. "In disgrace? What then?"

  "I know what I will do when we get back to Constantinople. That bastard, Alexios, will hear about . . . ," a voice from among the knights vowed.

  Conrad broke in, "Nay, it is too tempting to try to assign blame. We should not turn on the Basileus. He is a Christian. We should leave all recriminations for . . . "

  "The Lombard rabble! And that fat Archdeacon leading them!" another voice shouted.

  Conrad shook his head. "The Turks. They and they alone have brought us to this."

  Elisabeth, her chainmailed arms resting on chainmailed leg coverings, looked to her left when she heard Ranulf's derisive snort.

  He saw her look and explained, "I would be hard-pressed to find a soul here not fit to blame. This has been a sorry mess from the start."

  She kept her eyes level on him, wanting to argue but unable to form a case in her mind. She looked back at Conrad. He was still standing before them, in heated debate with several knights.

  She turned back to the mercenary. "How is Ruggiero?"

  The big Italian was a casualty of the most recent attack by Turkish archers. An arrow had made it through the shield wall when a man next to him had stumbled. The wound was in his thigh, the arrow removed cleanly, but he grew ever weaker no matter what was done for him.

  Ranulf grimaced and shook his head. "The arrow was poisoned, I think. The leech cleaned the wound as best he could, then we got a healing woman from the Lombard contingent to look at it. It smells like bloody hell and is red and hot. There are blotches that the woman said show the poison is working its way down his leg."

  She sat up, slapped her hands on her knees and rose. "Where is he?"

  Glancing at Conrad, Ranulf stood. It was clear no more would be imparted until the leaders made their decision, that all Conrad was doing now was canvassing the men for his part in the deliberations. He gestured away from the fire with his head. "Over here." He led her a short distance away to another campfire. Albrecht, she saw, was there, as were Ragnar and Thomas. In their midst, shivering under several cloaks next to the fire, lay the Italian mercenary. His face, all that she could see of him, was ruddy, and sweat stood out on his forehead. His dark, curly hair was plastered with sweat to his scalp. There was an unmistakable smell of putrefaction. She went to his side and knelt. "Ruggiero, my friend," she murmured. She put her hand on his where she could tell they lay on his chest. She knew better than to make empty reassurances. Ruggiero was dying.

  He opened his eyes, which had been squeezed shut against the pain that centered in his leg but was spreading up and down it and into his groin. He looked at her, and then stretched his head to find Ranulf's face looming above. "What . . . ?" was all he could get out.

  Ranulf's lips curled sardonically. "They are giving up. They are meeting this evening to decide what to do. Conrad said Toulouse wants to make a break for the sea."

  Ruggiero nodded. "About time," he rasped. "Too late for me."

  No one contradicted him. They were all soldiers. Even the two from Winterkirche could not pretend the wound was not mortal. The poison already overwhelmed the man's remaining strength.

  "Ranulf, make me a promise," the prone man said with a note of pleading in his voice. "When you move on, leave me where I can prop myself against something with my sword in my hand. At least I can try to go out taking one of the hell spawn with me."

  "I will stay with you," Ragnar began, his voice tight with the effort to keep grief out of it.

  "No, you won't," Ruggiero said. "If you do, who will keep Thomas from talking everyone's ears off?" He looked at the silent crossbowman. He saw the tears in the Englishman's eyes. He reached out a feeble hand to try to grasp his. Thomas reached out to meet him halfway. Ruggiero clasped the man's hand. He looked back to Ranulf. "Will you get me a priest?"

  Ranulf nodded. Ragnar stood and stalked away.

  "I'll go," Elisabeth said, getting to her feet. "You stay with your friend."

  She found Father Cyril, a Serbian priest, threading his way through the Lombard peasants, taking confession, soothing fears, his face twisted with the anger he felt at the misery all about him. When she asked him to come, he finished what he was doing and followed her. He knelt by Ruggiero's head. "I have no consecrated wine or bread," he admitted. "But I have trouble believing the Lord would deny you your place in Heaven over such trivialities." He leaned forward so Ruggiero could make his confession and receive extreme unction in privacy.

  Elisabeth could see the Italian's lips move, speaking into Cyril's ear, and Cyril nodding his head and making the sign of the cross.

  She looked up at Ranulf, whose face was haggard. Thomas knelt nearby with his head bowed so low his long dark hair covered his face. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, then did the same for Ranulf. He gazed back at her, his jaw taut, his eyes fiery, but he nodded. She and Albrecht walked away.

  In the morning Ruggiero was dead. "We will not have to leave him behind, not alive at least," Ranulf commented. "Let's get him buried. I do not want his body desecrated like the others we had to leave behind." He glanced at Ragnar. "Is that the ring?" he asked, gesturing to a heavy object in the Dane's hand.

  "Yes, he wanted me to take it back to Italy and find his wife and give it to her." He barked a derisive laugh. "He wants me to marry her and raise his children. What am I supposed to do with my own, I ask you?"

  Elisabeth looked from one mercenary's face to the next. It had never occurred to her that these men might have homes and families. She thought of Maliha and Tacetin, and a feeling of profound emptiness overtook her. She wondered if any of them would make it out alive.

  But they were not able to do the honor for their comrade, for the knights refused them the time. In the e
nd they had to leave Ruggiero, stripped of any valuables, unable even to pile stones on his corpse. Ragnar refused to leave the body alone, but Ranulf drew his sword and threatened the Dane with it. Ragnar stomped away ahead of them, not even trying to hide the tears of rage and grief. Ranulf and Thomas exchanged sorrowful looks.

  The oxen held out but many of the packhorses and mules did not. Their desiccated flesh at least provided some sustenance to the starving pilgrims. Eating meat unfortunately increases the amount of water a body needs, so the blessing was mixed. To the number of those with heatstroke and dehydration were added those whose guts could not take the abuse. Some became so ill that they could no longer go on.

  Black Beast told Elisabeth and Albrecht to go easy on any food, especially meat, so they and the knights with whom they rode were spared the gripping nausea and voiding of bowels.

  She had one less problem to deal with besides. Her monthly flux appeared to have stopped. After the pilgrims left Nicomedia her already sparse menses became spottier, and now that they had been on the road for over a month there was nothing. With a wan smile Elisabeth thought to herself, "Not that a little blood would be out of place these days." Everyone reeked, but she was just as happy to do without that one telltale odor.

  The relentless onslaught of archers about every hour or so continued. It had occurred often enough now that few even grumbled, but rather as soon as they heard the hoof beats got into the turtle and prepared to feel the impact of the hundreds of arrows yet another time.

  They were caught off guard therefore when that afternoon a large force of Turkish horsemen swept in at the column's van from both sides. The desultory move to turtle formation broke when instead of flights of arrows from thirty feet away a new tactic was underway. This time screaming attacking Turks with pikes and swords followed the arrows. The men in the van, the Burgundian knights and men-at-arms, were delayed getting into more accustomed order to fight one-on-one. They held off the swarm of Turks for a short time, and then panic set in. To Stephen and Odo of Burgundy's mutual horror, they watched as first a few knights, and then almost the entire remainder turned their horses and fled rearward. Stephen screamed himself hoarse calling the knights back, but they were long out of earshot. He and Odo were forced to retreat as well, left, as they were part of only a tiny company of mounted warriors.