Pilgrim

by James Jackson

  ‘See how she is grown, Matilda. See how she responds to my words and smile.’ He lifted and cradled the baby. ‘I would give my realm to have my queen beside me now. But as God has taken her, he has in turn granted me the precious gift of this daughter.’

  ‘She is like her mother, sir.’

  ‘Each day she is clearer reminder of her beauty. The lips, the nose, the hair, these eyes that change from blue to brown. There is no kinder token of her life than this.’

  Yolanda purred and burbled while her regent father held her and the nurse withdrew discreetly to the background. For a moment, it was possible to forget the outrage of that morning, to dwell instead in the innocence and pleasure of the baby girl. Her father passed her to Matilda, who caressed and bounced her gently in her arms. What simple delight, what incomparable means to banish the image of her manservant floundering on his horse, the sounds of pursuit, the fiery stench of the ballista bolt as it hissed past her head. Motherhood was a serene place. Matilda gazed down at the child. One day she would be lady-in-waiting to this queen, a mistress of the chamber and the wardrobe. And one day she would wed, not the dark and serpentine Lord of Arsur, but a boy prince or a true and perfect knight. She could dream and hope; she could fervently pray.

  The wet-nurse looked on. She was one of two assigned to royal duties, a recent addition to the household. Quiet and conscientious, she had a plain face and ordinary manner, careful hands and full breasts with which to nurture the infant. Of greater import, she was deferential and colourless enough to go ignored. The Lord of Arsur expected it of her.

  Otto led his grey mare slowly up the mountain path towards the village. The children had not blamed him for the death of Hans. That made it worse. It added to his remorse, to the heavy weight of guilt that sat solid on his shoulders. He had wanted to help his young friends, to assist pilgrims as his father did, to play-act a novice knight engaged in epic quest. Instead, he had seen an innocent slain. The killers had asked his name, had wanted a different victim from the guiltless goatherd found before them. Otto of Alzey they called for. The meaning was obscure, the succeeding horror all too real. He had to make amends, to atone for the desolation he had brought to the lives of his companions.

  The walled village was like any other, a compact affair nestling among the alpine splendour. Travellers would scarce bother to look up. It was just another waypoint on the route to Italy, timber buildings clustered within the stone perimeter, protected from storm and hostile intent. Otto was hopeful. With a purse of silver, food and clothing could be coaxed from the most unpromising source.

  ‘From where do you hail, my pretty youth?’

  She was naked and large-breasted, a peasant girl astride a rock, swaying rhythmically, moving her pelvis as she spoke. A siren, a seductress. Otto stared.

  ‘I come long distance, seek provision and apparel.’

  ‘Fine boy, you will come many times ere we are through. As for apparel, there is no use for it here.’

  He watched enthralled, hypnotized by her act, by her fingers pinching and kneading, by her hand sliding to work up a slick between her thighs. She moaned, her mouth open, her eyes bright. A finger rose to be licked.

  ‘We are sinners, my handsome one, all abandoned in our fallen and natural state.’

  Otto swallowed back his muteness, remembered to reply. ‘Sinners should repent and seek forgiveness. It is why I must travel on, why I have duty to find food for my brethren.’

  ‘One as you would be warm received in our midst.’ Her legs parted in accommodating smile.

  ‘I will pay for what I need.’

  ‘Indeed you shall, and in kind.’ She viewed him, her attention rapacious and lingering. ‘I see you are cocksure, rise already to the occasion. You have much to offer in your hose.’

  Strangeness bred its own ease and security. He was both repelled and drawn, confronted by her brazen sexuality and compelled by his own. There was noble and base motive in what he felt, a swelling ache, an urge, in both heart and loins. Carnality was not foreign to him. He had caroused and fornicated with the libidinous freedom that looks and position allowed. But this was something new. Perhaps she was a witch, had captured and enchanted her village. He would cast off such devilment, break free of her spell.

  He backed Gerta away. ‘I will find what I require in the next village, sister.’

  ‘You are wrong. Two miles hence is Gluttony. Its citizens consume every morsel, will not share with you the merest scrap of bread. Beyond it is Sloth, its inhabitants too idle to farm or put aside provision. They come to us and beg for food. At the end of the valley is Anger. Visit it, and you will receive the quarrel and whipping of your life.’

  ‘What kind of madness is this?’

  ‘Not madness, but deadly sin. You have stumbled upon us here at Lust. Our method is gratification of the flesh, our purpose to consume misdeed, to use it up, to purify the earth so that God may again see fit to send his Son.’

  ‘It is the blackest of trickery and magic.’

  ‘In Lust we call it faith. Come hither, my lord, and take your fill. By end of day, you shall have your packs and saddlebags swollen with supply.’

  Rumours abounded of such sects, of heretics who employed wickedness as a means of finding God. Otto submitted meekly, unsure why he did so, unquestioning as he followed his temptress through the village gates. It was a sight and situation he had never before encountered. Strewn about the square, in doorways and windows, on steps and over tether-posts, men and women copulated in a reckless frenzy of orgiastic delight. Restraint was gone, minds fled with it. In their place were the grunts and throaty cries of coupling, the uninhibited display of congress in numerous forms and multiple formations, the building of sound and pressure towards ecstatic religious climax.

  His guide was nuzzling his neck, nipping at his ear. ‘Do you care to be lost as we, to partake in vice for the sake of our salvation?’ She stifled his answer with a wet and deep and lengthy kiss.

  He struggled for air, his mouth disengaging. ‘I cannot.’

  ‘You will.’ She was rubbing her body against his, pulling him close, slipping her palm to engage his crotch. ‘For such prize meat, we shall give fair trade.’

  Another girl approached, wrapping herself sinuously around him. She too was naked, an auburn-haired beauty with arcing back and entwining limbs, her fingers probing and stroking, her mouth attending first to him and then to his escort. Nothing would hold them back. He sank into their combined embrace, giving himself over, losing himself to the moment, to the intoxication of mutual arousal and hot insanity. Someone proffered drink, unfurled straw bedding, removed his clothes. He was lifting a girl, planting himself deep, burying anguish and pain with thrusting hips and grinding abdomen. From a distance he observed her face contorting, sensed the vibration of her body, heard the joyous wail from her lungs. She clawed at him, fighting for breath and begging for more. The endless instant swallowed him.

  Errand had turned to feat of endurance. Through drifting scenes of gratification he played his part, plunging in, oblivion alternating with total clarity. He was led around and offered up, welcomed and accepted into every fold. Release came. When it was through, when he stumbled drained and spent from the portals of Lust, his grey mare was burdened with cheese and hams, with gourds of wine, with leather and canvas footwear for his friends. Contract had been honoured. He was unsure if he had profited or lost.

  Seven weeks after leaving Cologne, the children reached the top of the Mont Cenis Pass. It was a time to pause and reflect, to extract meaning from the desolation caused by the butchery of Hans, the loss of little Lisa, the departure of Roswitha and Albert. Their sacrifice had been worthwhile. Behind them was the massive bulk of the Grand Roc Noir, to its rear the slopes, the valleys, the lakes, the footsore miles they had traversed for God and glory and for the sake of their souls. And before them, beyond the mountain-fringed lake, was Italy.

  ‘O Lord, we give thanks for Your great mercy and understandin
g, for Your protection and comfort in our days of woe. May You and the Blessed Virgin and St Christopher guard us and keep us safe in our onward journey.’

  ‘Amen, Amen, Amen.’

  Kurt ended his prayer, crossed himself, and fell to his knees to kiss the ground. He had not intended faith to intrude too obviously on his mission. But death and adversity had changed that. He needed to believe there was reason for burying his friends at the side of the road, for discovering the lifeless corpse of his love; he had to assume there was divine purpose in going on. Even Otto had proper motive for reaching Outremer. He would emulate the older boy, would apply more thought to his wanderings.

  The young noble rested an arm across his shoulders as he clambered to his feet. ‘Italy and the world lie to our fore. Are you not struck by wonder?’

  ‘I am simply tired, Otto.’

  ‘An improvement on your constant appetite.’ They laughed and tussled good-naturedly. ‘You are in fine and ancient company here, for Hannibal passed this way in his campaign against Rome.’

  ‘Hannibal?’

  ‘The greatest of generals. He outwitted his enemy, led his army through these very passes in dead of winter.’

  ‘Then I shall never complain again of what we face.’

  ‘You should be proud, Kurt. See what you achieve, the distance you have travelled.’

  ‘We would not have reached so far without you beside us.’

  ‘I would say the same of you, young brother.’

  Side by side they stood and looked down towards the promised lands of Piedmont curving behind the far horizon. Around them were the jagged peaks they would soon leave, the Point de Ronce and Point Clairyo, Mont Lamet and Mont Malamot. Kurt had grown to hate them all.

  Isolda joined them in their contemplation. ‘I can scarce believe we are through the Alps.’

  ‘There is still long way to go. The coast is arduous; the sea poses threat of its own.’

  ‘The sea, Otto?’ She frowned in bewilderment. ‘Are not the waters meant to divide in the manner foretold by Moses, predicted by the preacher Nikolas?’

  ‘I was not alive when Moses struck his staff, not present when Nikolas sermonized in Cologne. I expect to take boat for the Holy Land as any mortal would.’

  ‘Should we pray more? Should we give ourselves to penitence?’

  ‘Enough has been done, and it will not alter fate.’

  Otto reached and took her arm, could not ignore how she shivered to his touch, how her eyes glowed soft with quiet passion. It would be different had she known of events in Lust, of his recent and sullied past. Egon was the better man.

  He released his hand and gestured at the view. ‘Hans would dear love to have stood where we now stand.’

  ‘Little Lisa also.’

  ‘For their sakes we shall keep strong and maintain our pace.’ He called back to the blacksmith’s boy. ‘Egon, you prepare to resume the march?’

  ‘As ever, Otto.’

  ‘Zepp and Achim?’

  ‘We too, Master Otto.’ The young voices of the brothers piped up, their enthusiasm let down by fading energy.

  ‘You wanted excitement and escapade, Kurt. It begins from here. No surrender to our fears; no diversion from our course.’

  ‘I am with you, brother.’

  The sixteen-year-old shouted loud to the rest. ‘Are we together in this?’

  They were as one. With focus in their eyes, renewed conviction in their step, they began the winding descent through the rolling banks of wild flowers. Otto walked the black stallion on, Kurt bringing the mare behind, Egon and Isolda shepherding the twins. The blind boy struck up a ditty, the others taking their prompt until their words rang out and cascaded joyous down the slopes. Just another dwindling band of children, one of hundreds en route for the unknown.

  Yet not quite the average group. The surviving Assassin wiped sweat from his brow and examined the oncoming party from the cover of a line of spruce. These infidel young appeared in high spirits, in spite of their journey and cataclysmic encounter. A charming spectacle. It could not have been easy for them. Of course, it had not been straightforward for anyone. Mistakes were made, targets misidentified. As a result, it seemed Otto of Alzey was progressing freely and very much alive in company with his friends. Whether here or in Rome, resolution was needed. It was a matter of honour, of pride, of following instruction to the letter and the end. And it was a question of timing. This noble boy had been sentenced, would therefore be killed.

  Chapter 6

  In the filtered light of dawn, a priest hanging dead from a rope and the branch of a tree presented an odd and forbidding silhouette. It might have been a bundle of rags, an effigy of sorts. But the bare feet gave it away. Unsettled, the children came to a halt and gathered close. They were on the broad river plain leading down to Turin and the river Po, the surrounding hills still unseen in the early-morning murk. The oak and its ripening fruit could mean many things: warning, suicide, the incidental handiwork of roving thieves. It was best not to linger. Yet, for all its horror, there was a grim fascination to the shadowy spectacle.

  Kurt stepped forward. ‘I will climb and cut him down.’

  ‘No, Kurt.’ Isolda gripped his arm. ‘It might be cursed, a harbinger of evil things.’

  ‘What is more evil than to leave a poor priest unburied and in a tree?’

  ‘We do not know the reasons, do not know if he should be committed to holy soil.’

  ‘He is Christian and we are pilgrims. It gives us reason, Isolda. Can we pass and let him rot, ignore the plight of another?’

  Egon sighed. ‘He is beyond plight where we may aid him, Kurt. We should leave it to older and wiser heads.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There is no authority for us to act.’

  ‘Yet we have the freedom. We have marched and suffered, thirsted and starved. And you think we cannot make decision?’ The twelve-year-old turned to the young noble for encouragement. ‘Tell them, Otto.’

  ‘All be silent and on your guard.’

  The boy had drawn his sword, as though intending to climb into the saddle and himself sever the rope. His words and the tilt of his head showed otherwise. He was concentrating on the dim and nearing distance, on points of light that had sprung to existence and were closing in semicircle about them. Debate ceased.

  ‘What is it, Zepp? What happens?’

  Achim clung tight to his brother. Perched behind him on the grey mare, and only partially awake, the blind boy had sensed the danger. His twin did not answer. He was trembling, staring with the rest at the flaming torches advancing towards them. The concave line stopped. There was silence, except for the sputter and hiss of firebrands, the inquisitive snorts of the horses and the shaking of their bridles. Ghostly forms had materialized into cowled figures clutching billhooks and scythes.

  Otto shouted to them. ‘Are you devils or men, friend or foe?’

  ‘We are the Pure Ones.’

  It was a deep and resonating voice that came from the leader garbed in black and stationed at the centre of the formation. A disquieting reply that made the children edge behind Otto. Unlike the young noble, they did not understand the Italian tongue, yet they could comprehend threat, discern the ritual in what they faced. Otto held his sword before him. He knew of these people, recognized that Pure Ones derived from the Greek word katheroi. He had his old tutor Felix to thank for that. They were Cathars.

  The leader again spoke. ‘He swings well, does he not? Are you approving of our sacred handiwork?’

  ‘There is nothing sacred in foul murder. It is wickedness beyond compare, a crime offending the laws and custom of all reasonable men.’

  ‘He was a prelate of Rome, a bloated suckling-pig feeding at the foul and poisoned teat of the papacy, of the whore seated on the back of the scarlet beast. For this he paid.’

  ‘Who are you to make such decision?’

  ‘A Perfect, chief of the Believers.’ The man indicated his credentes with a sweep
of his hands. ‘And who are you to oppose us?’

  ‘Otto of Alzey, son of Wilhelm. I travel for Palestine with my companions.’

  ‘It seems your journey is ended.’

  ‘A judgement I will keep for myself.’ Otto tightened his grip on his sword, rocked gently on his feet to test his balance. He could see his opponents were preparing, was readying himself.

  ‘Hand to us the children with you, Otto of Alzey. It is what we require.’

  ‘So you may butcher them as you did the priest?’

  ‘We shall liberate their souls as divine imperative and as act of purification. All matter is evil, its propagation through the rearing of young a deed in league with the Devil. Renounce sin, seek salvation, and surrender up your litter.’

  ‘I would rather die.’

  ‘A pity, Otto of Alzey. Even in this gloom you are as pretty as a damsel. You will doubtless fight and scream as such.’

  ‘I shall give account of myself well enough.’ He whispered behind him. ‘Make ready to flee, my friends. At my word, Kurt and Isolda take Maximilian and ride as the wind. Zepp and Achim, you will follow on Gerta. Egon, you are to escape as you may.’

  Kurt murmured back. ‘How will you get away?’

  ‘I will cover your retreat and put my faith in God These men are Cathars, see no reason in parley.’

  ‘What is their intent?’

  ‘To kill. I beg you do as I ask.’

  Instead, the twelve-year-old placed himself beside him, his pilgrim staff held defensively across his chest. Isolda also moved up; Egon too. Astride Gerta, the twins were rummaging for their small knives. It was a united front, a statement of resolve and shared destiny. They might die, but it would be on their terms and at an hour of their choosing. Kurt peered at the flickering lights, at the reflection from the cutting-edges. He was in a place of evil, and it was right that he should stay. They would not run, would not be cowed by Cathars or heretics of any hue or creed. He had preferred them without their lips, their noses, their ears, their eyes, he decided.