‘During the Feast of the Innocents I heard she was to be married. Her father had promised her to a wealthy widower twice her age, and Amice was desperately reluctant. She visited me to ask how she might escape her destiny. Not that I could advise her. You know how such affairs are. I could propose that she go to a convent, but a nun should be devoted to God, not escaping from life because of . . . Well, I was duty-bound to advise her to go ahead with the marriage, to respect her father’s wishes, and to look to God for sympathy!’
He knew his admonishments would not work. In all conscience, he could not try hard to persuade her. So, as Easter approached, he held a service to witness Amice and her groom making their oaths before God at the church door, and as the delighted wedding group returned to the hall to celebrate, he joined for a while before making his way back to his church. There, he lay on the floor and begged for understanding, because he could not believe that marrying that young woman to a man so vile was in any way a good outcome.
He took to praying for her regularly. Every morning the couple would come to his church for Mass, and he would have to try to ignore what he saw. For her husband was a brute: grossly fat, loud, obscene in manner, and vicious.
‘He was the sort of man who would kick a dog and laugh to see it scamper away in pain. In that way, he treated his wife.’
Seeing Amice became torture. Every day she was reduced. Her face lost colour, and she became drained and weary, like a plant denied daylight. Even as the flowers began to bloom, the contrast between them and her was startling. By the time the trees were putting forth their first leaves, Gidie thought she must wither and die, if nothing was done.
Accordingly, one day when she came alone to church, Gidie drew her aside and spoke gently to her. He spoke with affection, and she smiled thinly. Then she admitted her secret: that she hated her husband; that she would poison him, if she could.
‘I knew my duty. I tried to speak to her reasonably, but all the while, my own hatred of her husband and, yes, my jealousy, interrupted me. No matter what I wanted to say, the words clogged in my throat, and I found myself declaring my own love for her.’
To his delight, and horror, she admitted that she felt the same for him.
From that, it was but a short step to escape. He should have wrestled with his conscience, he should have prayed for strength, and he should not have taken another man’s wife. All his learning told him that women were dangerous, that ever since Eve they were responsible for all that was wrong and sinful. Yet nothing had prepared him for his feelings for Amice. Any risk was worth the opportunity to spend even a short time with her.
So he threw away his career, his livelihood, and his soul, to live with the woman he loved.
‘I see,’ the preacher said sadly. ‘You took her and ran away?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is she?’
Gidie wiped his eyes.
‘We were happy. I found a small cottage and worked the land. But her husband discovered us. Fool that he was, he came to take her back, thinking a puny priest like me could not stop him. But I could not bear the thought of life without her; the idea drove me to distraction and violence.’
He barely remembered grasping the haft of an axe, nor the mad rush into the cottage, but he did recall Amice’s white, terrified face, and the blood that curdled on the floor about her husband’s shattered head.
‘So, not only am I the reason Amice became an adulteress, not only am I a renegade priest, I am guilty of murder as well.’ Gidie wiped his eyes again and turned to the preacher. ‘So do you still think me suitable for your pilgrimage? I am a moral and social leper. None should want to be near me. God Himself punished me by taking Amice from me in childbirth. He knows how valueless is my soul.’
‘Then rejoice! All those who join with the pilgrimage will find eternal life. Your sins will be forgiven, Gidie; all your past offences will be forgotten and you will be as a child. You will be renewed! Come with us and find everlasting life, just as this poor fellow here has.’
Gidie found himself sobbing. He was so desperate to believe the preacher was right.
Estissac
The brothers were back at the smith’s as the light was beginning to go down behind the trees of the forest to the west.
‘Come!’ the smith bellowed when Fulk knocked tentatively on the timbers of the doorway.
‘You want some ale?’ the smith said, seated on his anvil, his left leg stretched straight before him, and raised a large jug in his blackened hand. His skin looked as though a carpenter’s adze would be blunted by an attempt to hack through it, Fulk thought.
‘I’d be grateful for a cup,’ he said. Odo made no comment, but ducked his head in acquiescence as he took his seat on the besooted wall of the forge.
When the three had brimming cups, the smith raised his in a toast. ‘To your grand journey.’
They all drained their cups and poured more ale. Now the smith cocked an eye at Fulk. ‘So, boy, you want a good sword to attack the Turks?’
Odo leaned forward. ‘We had not thought to buy weapons yet, for we have many miles to go before we reach our destination, but it does make sense to purchase what we need before we reach a place where the pilgrims before us have bought all the stocks.’
‘You wouldn’t want to go to the city without a weapon, would you?’ the smith said. ‘Have you ever been to the lands over there?’
‘No,’ Fulk said.
‘You called them heathens, yet you know nothing of them. You have no idea what they are capable of.’
‘You do?’ Odo said, barely concealing the sneer.
‘Aye, boy.’ The smith rose and lit a pair of rushlights as the darkness swallowed the light outside. As he scraped sparks into tinder, he continued, ‘After I finished my apprenticeship, I went east. I spent time in the great city of Constantinople, and had thoughts of going farther, except I got into a fight and did this,’ he said, slapping his leg. ‘I was lucky, though. To earn some pennies I got to working with a Saracen master metalworker, who showed me some of his skills.’
‘You think they are worth knowing?’ Odo said. ‘What can you learn from a heathen?’
The old smith looked over at him. ‘First, that they know how to make swords that can hold an edge like a razor; second, that just because they are heretics doesn’t make them fools; third, that they are men, just like any other.’
‘You say we should learn from the enemies of Christ?’ Odo sneered.
‘I say that you should learn wisdom where you find it,’ the smith said. ‘Whether it is an older Christian, a follower of Mohammed, or a dog.’
‘A dog?’ Fulk asked, while his brother clicked his tongue and looked away.
‘Yes. If a dog learns that stealing food from the table earns it a kick, he will stop stealing. Dogs learn. A clever man learns from his mistakes.’ He looked at Odo. ‘A wise man will learn from other men’s.’
‘Do you have swords we can use?’ Odo interrupted.
‘I suppose so,’ the smith said. He did not move, but contemplated Odo before looking across at Fulk. ‘Under the canvas over there.’
Fulk walked to the far side of the room. On top of a low table there was a square of oiled cloth. He lifted the corner, and found himself looking down at three swords.
‘Bring them here,’ the smith called, refilling his cup. Fulk took up the three in his hands.
Two were identical. They had strangely grey blades, Fulk thought, but then, as he peered closer, he saw that the steel had little striations, like inked lines or etchings. The pommels were curious, made of steel with the same marks as the blades, but formed into teardrops, smoothly polished, that seemed to appear from the grip itself as though they had been extruded like pine resin from within.
The smith studied the two swords with a small smile before he passed them to the brothers. ‘These two were made by me under the teaching of my old master. They are light, they are keen, and they will cut a man in half, if you find him w
ithout armour.’
‘That is good,’ Odo said, his eyes sparkling as he took up one of the swords. He hefted it, chopping it before him as though an enemy stood there. ‘It is a bit short, isn’t it?’
Fulk said nothing. He took the hilt in his hand. The grip was slim, but comfortable.
The smith ignored Odo’s comment, but drew the third sword. It lay in a simple wooden sheath that was wrapped about with plain leather, as though it was a sword of no value or importance, but when it caught the light, Fulk gave a little gasp of surprise.
‘Pretty little thing, isn’t it?’ the smith said, turning it in the light. ‘This is the kind of weapon you’ll find out there in the deserts, boy,’ he said. ‘Sharp as a great cat’s claws, and as dangerous. See the silver ripples through the metal? The Saracens fold the metal of their blades over and over, with different metals, and then weld them all together. Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘It has a fascinating curve to it,’ Fulk said.
‘Watch,’ the smith said, and picked up a strip of cloth from the table at his side. He held it dangling in his hand, and then whipped the sword across. The strip was sliced cleanly in two.
Fulk’s mouth fell open. ‘How can . . .’
‘They call this Damascene, this steel. It is like nothing you will ever see again. Not until you reach the country where they make this. This is the steel that the armies of the Saracens bear.’
Odo shrugged. ‘Pretty enough, but we will have the word of God to protect us.’
‘And mail,’ Fulk grinned. ‘For when He is resting.’
Odo scowled at his blasphemy, but the old smith set his head to one side. ‘You think these swords are only good for slicing silks? This blade will go through ordinary steel just as easily as it cut that cloth.’ He indicated the blades they held. ‘Keep good hold of those swords, and you will be safe. I made them in a very similar way to this. Those blades may look just the same as any knight’s riding sword, but in truth, you hold weapons that will shatter many blades that come against them. They will last you both your lifetimes and your sons’.’
‘You swear?’ Odo said. ‘They look very short to me. All the men-at-arms I’ve seen wear swords longer than this.’
Fulk held his to the light of the nearer rushlight, and studied the patterns in the metal. They were less pronounced than those of the curved sword in the smith’s lap, but showed clearly in the light.
‘The longer the sword, the heavier it must be,’ the smith said, ‘or the metal will be brittle and break at the first battle. The heavier it is, the more you have to carry. You will have to purchase mail as it is, boy, and that will be a weight for you to carry across deserts and mountains. These will last you and preserve your lives. But handle them with care. These are not toys.’ He looked at Odo. ‘And do not use them wildly or without thought. It is easy to take life, less easy not to take it.’
‘What does that mean?’ Odo asked.
‘You are going to a foreign land, where the people are different. The culture is different. Don’t think you can walk in and destroy everything they know and love. You will be entering a place where you can learn much. Just as I did when I learned how to work metal to create these blades.’
‘What can we learn from Saracens?’ Odo sneered.
The smith eyed him coldly for a long moment, then turned to Fulk. ‘What of you?’
‘I will be happy to learn what I may,’ Fulk said. He weighed the sword in his hand again. He swung it experimentally, turning his wrist and watching the steel whirl at either side of him. It felt like a living thing, as if it had taken hold of his soul and had become welded to him, an extension to his arm. It was so intense a sensation he was chilled, as though the steel had entered his marrow. A shiver suddenly ran down his spine.
The smith was watching him closely, and now his eyes creased into a smile. ‘You don’t have to say anything. That sword has chosen you.’
CHAPTER 6
Near Reutlingen, Saturday 3rd May, 1096
Fulk left Odo to fetch water. There was a small stream not far from where they were camping, and once their evening protection was erected – a pair of cloaks spread over a length of twine between two trees, the corners weighted with stones to hold them, and a small fire near the entrance to keep them warm – Fulk left Odo setting about preparing food. They had leaves and some salt sausage they had bought at the last hamlet, and now Fulk fetched water to make a pottage, thickened with a little barley he had bought in a market earlier, casting occasional doubtful glances through the trees at the small castle on the hill over the town.
Often they would try to get to towns before nightfall, and beg for a bed in the hayloft of a stable, but today they had arrived too late to plead entry to the town, and Fulk felt exposed and threatened by the shadowy building. At least with so many other pilgrims on the road it was unlikely that he would be a victim of brigands or greedy men-at-arms.
They were making good time. Since collecting their swords they had marched every day, excepting Sundays, because Odo had declared it would be shameful in the eyes of God. Taking the route the smith had described briefly to them had been easy. The simple truth was their way was clear. It lay in trampled grasses and mud, as an ever-growing river of people swelled and ebbed along the way. Every day more people joined and overtook them, walking on with the speed and strength of those who had not already covered a hundred miles or more. The proof of the pilgrim army was here, in the roadways turned to mire by the passage of so many feet and hoofs.
It was a never-ending surprise to see so many people each evening. They would stagger to the side of the road and make what they might of the grassy verges, or push on in among the trees in search of a comfortable space. Even when Odo and he were walking in comparative loneliness, every evening they would find the same huddles of people on the ground.
Tonight they were lying on every available space, for the most part wrapped in cloaks against the dew with their backs to the trees. Children lay snuggled on their parents’ laps, some few curled up together like small packs of puppies. All about was the quiet murmur of the exhausted, an occasional sharp crying from a child, but mostly just muttered comments amid the hiss and crackle of the little fires. Some were cooking. More were too weary to hunt for suitable sticks. Fulk looked about him as he went, wondering what were their stories, what had led them to join this band, what misery or grim poverty could have tempted them to leave homes, hearths and loved ones. Was it the pure desire for excitement, like him, or by the laudable ambition to do God’s work?
He filled his leather flask and made his way back to his encampment with Odo, but on the way he tripped over a young child. She lay rolled up in a dark russet cloak, and if he had been looking more where he was going, rather than at all the other people about, he would have seen her.
‘Ow!’ She glared up at him. ‘That hurt!’
Fulk looked about. There were three women nearby. One, an older woman, was blearily rubbing the sleep from her eyes, while two others were already sitting up and staring at him.
‘I am sorry, ladies,’ Fulk said. ‘I didn’t see her in the gloom.’
The younger of the women, he saw, was bruised, with fading black and purple marks that marred her fair features. He noted that she looked embarrassed. The other women were less vulnerable in appearance. The older of them was in her middle years, perhaps forty-five, Fulk estimated, and had the shrewish look that older, widowed and unwanted women could wear. She was up and cradling the child already, so he wondered if the girl was her daughter. The other woman was over thirty, he guessed, but still had the slim good looks of a woman who was in her prime. She eyed Fulk with a measuring stare, her chin raised. It made him uncomfortable, as though he was a bullock being appraised at market. Still, she was a handsome woman, and he decided to make himself appealing to her, at least.
Putting on his most winning smile, he asked for their names, and although the one called Jeanne remained sitting, looking grumpy, the two
others were prepared to be companionable enough. Fulk grinned broadly at them. ‘I am Fulk. My brother is over there somewhere, a scruffy, ugly churl you wouldn’t want to meet. We’re walking to save Jerusalem. Are you all joining the pilgrimage?’
Guillemette nodded. ‘There was nothing to hold us back,’ she said.
Fulk’s smile widened. She had the confidence and lack of embarrassment of a woman who had sold herself often enough. When she looked at him there was no shame in her eyes, only a worldly comprehension, and when he cast a glance over her body, she didn’t recoil with anger, but eyed him as if considering how much he would pay. ‘Do you lack for anything?’ he asked.
‘We need food,’ Jeanne said. ‘We came with very little, because . . . because we were in a hurry, and we don’t have anything to eat.’
Fulk looked down at the girl. She was too young for a journey as long and fraught with dangers as this, he thought. Odo would be angry, he knew, but . . . ‘Come with me. We do not have much, but it will warm you a little if you share with us.’
‘Why?’ Mathena asked.
‘I wouldn’t want to see a chit like this starve,’ Fulk said with quiet honesty, looking at Esperte. She was painfully skinny.
Guillemette tilted her head so that her throat was exposed. It was a deliberately coquettish movement, and Fulk could not help but let his eyes slide down the delicious line from the point under her jaw, along its length to the V of her collarbone, where he was sure he could see the pulse racing. From there on all was concealed by her tunic, but he could imagine the perfect curves of her breasts, and just now, after so many days of abstinence, the sight of this woman was overwhelming.
‘I will come with you,’ she said. ‘Jeanne, Mathena, wait here. We don’t want to lose our place.’
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