Sir Walter’s men were different from the men-at-arms he had seen before, who had been mercenaries and always on the brink of violence. These men were from a very different mould. They were organised and disciplined.
They were a mixture: some younger, some older; Fulk saw many with fair hair who wore body-mail only, men of Lotharingia and Francia and Bavaria, who looked as fierce as Viking berserkers; near them was a collection of heavier-set men who spoke in the guttural tones of the men of the mountains. Unconsciously, Odo and he walked closer together.
‘Are you sure he said we would be welcome?’ Odo whispered.
Fulk said nothing. Towards the middle of the men he could see flags fluttering, and bent his feet towards them. There, in a pavilion, he found the knight he sought.
‘You did come,’ Sir Walter said. ‘Good! Find yourselves somewhere to rest, for it will take us time to negotiate.’
There was a clerk with him, who looked like a harassed older uncle. He shook his head perpetually with a worried frown on his face. ‘I do not think you comprehend the situation, Sir Walter. If we don’t get passage, we will soon have problems.’
‘We will not. The governor of the city will. If he wishes to delay us here and prevent us crossing the river, there will be consequences.’
‘Yes. We won’t get access to his markets and will starve,’ the clerk said.
‘John, my friend, we are here on God’s business, but we were asked to come here by the governor’s own master. The Emperor of Byzantium sent a message to the Pope and asked for the aid of the Christians to expel the heretics from Jerusalem. If he wishes to hold us here, that will redound to his discredit. And because I will not see so many good Christians suffer hunger, we will be forced to lay waste to the lands all about here. Now, do you go and tell him that I am adamant in this. We need ships and we need food, and for that I demand access to his markets in the city.’
Fulk had heard from others already that the army must pass over this great river to the city on the other side, Belgrade. With such an expanse of water to cross, and with so many pilgrims, they would need an entire fleet of ships. He was daunted to hear that there were difficulties. Apparently the people of Zemun wanted nothing to do with the pilgrimage, and the governor of Belgrade had already declared that he would not allow access to his food stocks or markets. Fulk had a strange feeling of despondency as he and Odo bowed their way from the knight’s presence and sought a place where they might put their belongings and rest as Sir Walter had commanded them.
Fulk found a space where he could lie down, but Odo scorned his wish for sleep. Instead he investigated what he could find. Although the town’s markets were barred to the pilgrims, occasional traders were appearing to offer food. Odo could see some carters setting out a variety of vegetables and dried fish on blankets laid on the ground.
He ambled towards the traders. More and more pilgrims were making their way there, and he eyed his roadside companions with distaste. Most of the men looked like the dregs of every tavern and low wineshop of Christendom, while the women looked like beggars and worse, and all about them ran the brats, bare-footed and ill-kempt. They had the fire of God’s will in their bellies, and that should count for something, but to him these people looked like scoundrels.
Into his mind, suddenly, flashed a picture of a battle. He saw bodies, limbs, blood, entrails lying in misshapen piles on the sand, with flags and banners fluttering. Carrion birds hopped and pecked, gorging themselves. He saw Fulk’s body, his eyes full of distress, and at Fulk’s side, that woman, his whore, with an expression of satisfaction.
Odo shook his head. The woman may be a prostitute, but he could not think that she was an agent of the Devil, here to tempt Fulk from the path chosen for him. And yet, who could tell? Perhaps some of these females who had professed their correct desire to join with the pilgrimage were, in truth, agents of Satan, come here to bring about the failure of this holy march?
No. Such thoughts were the meanderings of the unconvinced. Odo knew that the pilgrimage was desired by God, because the Pope himself had declared it so. The only matter Odo should concern himself with was that of how he would acquit himself, and that did worry him greatly. He feared that the first clash of arms would unman him. He had never been engaged in anything more deadly than a drunken brawl with a clerk in an alehouse. Never had he seen a man slain in anger, let alone killed one himself. The thought of standing in a battle and wielding weapons was terrifying.
He must do his best.
The picture of the battle returned to his mind’s eye, and he felt a flash of jealousy at the thought that Fulk would have a woman beside him even in death. With a loyal, loving woman at his side, Odo felt he would achieve so much. One like that young female who was walking with Guillemette: Jeanne. She would calm him, and allow him to fight for God without fear.
A man barged into him, and his maudlin mood was gone, replaced by irritation.
There was a wonderful array of foods set out on trays or sacking now, with dark-skinned locals shouting in an unintelligible confusion of noises. The pilgrims stood thickly about it, the men and women barging each other out of the way, so great was their desperation for food. Odo frowned to see a man place his hand on a woman’s breast and shove her from his path. It was tempting to remonstrate with him, but Odo could tell that it would be foolish. These men may wear pilgrims’ crosses, but they were tired and hungry. Tempers were frayed and the lack of language between the people of Zemun and the pilgrims was exacerbating a bad situation.
A man cried out and the mob was unleashed. Later, Odo heard that one pilgrim had punched another, but in the febrile atmosphere, none stopped to think. Pilgrims stormed forward, grabbing the men of Zemun and beating them. In moments Odo was caught up in the middle of a riot. He was struck on the back and almost fell to the ground, then a blow aimed at another man bounced off his shoulder, and he was shoved sideways. A fist was aimed at his face, and he tried to jerk his head away, but it caught him a glancing blow on the cheek and he fell against a man behind him.
Pushing and shoving, he made his way through the press, trying to get back to the safety of the camp, but even as he found himself in a clearer space, he heard shouted orders and the clash of weapons. There was a sudden panic, and men began to pull back as soldiers from Zemun appeared. They had been watching from the shelter of a small wood near the camp and at the first sight of violence they unsheathed their weapons and rushed forward. They pushed the mob back, trampling the food that had been spread out so appealingly. All was crushed underfoot as the soldiers began to wield clubs and other weapons against the pilgrims. As they were forced to retreat, the merchants of Zemun began to jeer and make obscene gestures, and Odo felt a loathing for them growing like a worm in his bowels.
These were supposed to be Christians. They should be glad to support the people’s pilgrimage. Instead they were determined to thwart the people marching to save the Holy Land. Odo longed to punish them.
They were doing the work of the Devil!
Sybille sat cross-legged on the ground, her daughter in her lap, and patted Richalda’s forehead with a dampened cloth. Panic was starting to rise in her breast. The muscles of her back tightened and her neck was tense. Her little girl was muttering to herself about aches in her joints and muscles. She felt so hot, and had clammy, sweaty skin, for all that she kept complaining about the cold. Sybille had never seen such an illness in her own child, and the sight was utterly crippling. In the face of Richalda’s illness, Sybille was incapable of logical thought. She sat and rocked her daughter, her mind empty of all but the thought that kept circling her head: ‘My daughter is dying and I can do nothing to help her.’
She was only dimly aware that a voice was speaking to her. Looking up she saw an older woman. Through the haze of tears, she saw only a woman clad in black, and felt an instinctive trust, perhaps thinking that it was a nun. She wiped her eyes as the woman spoke to her, and realised that this was no nun. She was as scruff
y and unwashed as all the rest of the pilgrims here, but her face was kind. ‘My name is Mathena. My little girl over there, Esperte, once had a similar fever. We had to bleed her to let out the bad humours. She recovered well, and your child will too.’
Sybille nodded, but she had no words. Looking down at her daughter, she thought how thin Richalda looked, how deeply shadowed were her eyes.
‘Mistress, you are tired out. My friends and I can look after your girl. You rest.’
‘I don’t know what to do!’
‘Let us worry about that. You won’t help her by exhausting yourself,’ Mathena said firmly. She sat down beside Sybille and held out her hands. Sybille passed her child to the stranger in a daze, not quite sure that she was doing the right thing, but as Guillemette and Jeanne joined them, she felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude, as if these women were going to make all well for her.
The first cries came on the cooling early evening air. Fulk had been dozing, his back to a tree, his chin on his breast, when he heard the bellow of outrage. He clambered to his feet, still muzzy, fumbling for his sword.
‘What is going on?’ he asked.
Odo was standing nearby, tense and alert. He had returned and told Fulk of the fight and how the pilgrims had been beaten. Three men were killed. Now he stood watching Sir Walter at his pavilion.
‘I told you what happened,’ Odo said.
‘This isn’t the same thing, surely?’ Fulk asked.
Odo shook his head slowly. ‘No. Other pilgrims didn’t hear what happened to us. They were enticed away before the riots. Some twenty of them wandered off towards Zemun because they have no weapons and wanted to buy some. But they were tricked. The people of the town beat them, robbed them, stripped them and sent them packing, as a message to all who seek to enter their town without permission, I suppose.’
Fulk looked at his brother. He had keen hearing, and just now he could hear stifled rage in Odo’s voice. ‘Odo, there’s nothing for us to get upset about here.’
‘Nothing for us to get upset about?’ Odo spat. ‘We’re here to help these people and all Christians. They have the temerity, the vicious, wicked desire to prevent us! I told you how shamefully they treated us at the market? They stand not only against us, not only in the way of men who want to cross this river, Fulk! They set their faces against God Himself!’
Fulk was alarmed to see Odo grasp his sword. ‘Odo, what are you doing?’
‘We came here in peace, didn’t we? I’m going to show them what happens when they try to stop a pilgrimage in support of Christ and His city!’
Fulk caught his arm. ‘Odo, don’t be a fool! We have to stay here with the men! You can’t just run out and fight all the men of the town.’
‘I won’t stand here and listen to them jeering us!’ Odo said.
Fulk heard the incomprehension and frustration in his tones. When he was a child, Odo would rage against what he saw as injustice, confused and angry at cruelty or unfairness. Hearing those tones in his voice now made Fulk smile to himself. ‘Odo, brother, they aren’t trying to upset you. They don’t even know who you are. They’re just protecting their own, that’s all.’
‘They robbed Christian men; they killed some of us!’
‘This is the border between two lands. It’s where Hungary ends and the Empire begins. There are always likely to be problems buying things. Maybe one of the pilgrims tried it on with a man’s wife or daughter? It’s easy to make enemies of people when you don’t understand their language or customs as well as you might.’
‘They robbed them. They stripped them naked and took their money, Fulk. That’s an insult to all of us!’
‘And an insult we’ll have to swallow. We have a long way to go. What, would you have us fight every city where an insult was hurled at us?’
He could see his words were not working. Odo was childlike in his response to an insult, and this, for him, was profound. To his mind, it showed that the people of the city did not respect God. It was an appalling slight, and the reaction had to be proportionate.
‘No! This must leave our pilgrimage in disgrace if we swallow such an offence.’
Fulk would have remonstrated further, but to his relief he heard the horns blaring. Soon they had their orders.
At dawn they would cross the river and continue on their way, whether the men of Zemun wanted it or not.
Josse was back before nightfall, and with him he had a shamefaced, anxious Benet, wrapped in a thick, coarse blanket that smelled of horse. Benet walked to the fire and sat at its edge, while Josse bowed to Sybille and walked away to help with the packing of their goods, ready for the morning’s river crossing.
‘What happened?’ Sybille said. She sat on the ground with Mathena still cradling Richalda. Jeanne and Guillemette had shared a small pottage with Sybille, and the women had managed to get some food into Richalda. She was still very pale, her eyes sunken, and with small, high spots of colour on her cheeks, but the cooled pottage with shreds of chicken meat had made her more comfortable.
Benet’s voice was tremulous, his hands shaking like a man suffering from a fever. His eyes were wide with horror, and he grabbed Sybille’s arm as though it was a lifeline in a swelling sea. She felt his shock, and drew him away so that his words could not be heard by Richalda, but he blurted it all out as they walked away.
‘They set upon us, Sybille! They set upon us as though we were no more than thieves and brigands. We went to buy arms and some mail, and the merchants we spoke to promised much, telling us to join them. They took us to the suburbs of the city, to a dwelling where they said they kept their goods, but as soon as we entered, they caught us and bound us. They beat us, and laughed the whole while, Sybille! They laughed. They stripped us naked, and took everything!’ Benet said. ‘Clothes, knives, armour – everything! – before throwing us from their door and jeering at us.’
Sybille stopped and stared at him. ‘What do you mean, “everything”? Husband! Your belt has gone – did they take your scrip? Your purse? Husband, tell me they didn’t take all our money?’
He looked away, shame and humiliation battling within him. ‘They took everything. We have nothing.’
Sybille stared, appalled. All their money, all the savings from Sens, had been tied about his belly, the coins enclosed in a roll of leather. It was the money they would need to travel to Jerusalem, the money they would need for food and drink.
It was all gone.
CHAPTER 12
Zemun, Wednesday 4th June, 1096
Fulk woke from a pleasant dream that involved a pot of ale and a pair of friendly maids.
‘Leave me in peace!’ he groaned as he saw the half-light before dawn.
‘We’re to make a move soon,’ Odo said. ‘We’re to cross the river before the men of that town can think about preventing us.’
‘They’ll be happy to be rid of us, won’t they?’
‘Probably, but the folk over the river might decide to try to stop us.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘Because the governor in Belgrade has said we may not use any of his markets. I don’t know what he expects us to do.’
‘Stay on this side of the river, I suppose.’
Odo pulled a face. ‘How could any man with half a mind think that he could order knights like Sir Walter to remain when they are on a journey for God’s glory? No knight who cared about his honour could obey an order like that, let alone a knight determined to fight for the Lord. What, would the governor expect the entire following of pilgrims to meekly accept his command and turn for home?’
‘Perhaps he just thought that we would take the easier option, since to argue would be to incur the displeasure of his Emperor.’
‘Then he’s a fool,’ Odo said. ‘Now, get up! We’re to break camp. We are to cross on ships Sir Walter has commandeered.’
He pulled the blanket from his complaining brother and packed his own effects quickly before standing and staring over the grey, s
ullen waters towards the city on the far bank. Behind the city lay broad plains and the shadows of great trees.
Odo felt a tingling in his belly. He thought it was God sending him the courage to continue.
Belgrade
Crossing the river had been difficult, but the people of Zemun appeared to be thrilled to be rid of them, willingly helping sail the army across to the other side of the river. Fulk had to distract Odo from others who were gleefully expressing their contempt for the pilgrims, some pulling down their hosen and baring their arses, others pointing with delight at the walls of the town. When Fulk stared, he was unsure at first what dangled there, until one of the other warriors in Sir Walter’s company told him that they were clothes and armour taken from the pilgrims who had been robbed and beaten the day before. Fortunately Odo did not hear. Fulk feared that his brother might succumb to outrage, were he to hear that.
About a hundred boats were gathered, and the men were gradually transported. Sir Walter sent a strong contingent of men-at-arms with the van, while he waited with the rest of the army, using his own company as the rearguard. There was little trust for the men of Zemun, and Sir Walter had a similar shrewd suspicion of those who lived on the other bank of the river.
Fulk and Odo crossed with the vanguard, Fulk glad to be leaving the Zemun banks of the river. As the fleet of boats disembarked, men on horseback could be seen riding from Belgrade. Fulk and Odo watched them anxiously, but as the pilgrims began to march, Fulk became aware that they were being organised into a solid phalanx many men abreast, with the wagons and women towards the rear. Fulk worried about that. ‘They will be at risk.’
‘What sort of risk?’ Odo asked.
‘Any riders from the city can ride in among them. The women and children wouldn’t stand a hope of escape against armoured men,’ Fulk said.
Odo shrugged. ‘There’s little we can do about that.’
Pilgrim's War Page 12