Fulk was less sure. He and Odo alone could do little, but surely a protective screen could be thrown around the more vulnerable?
He was about to go and suggest such a manoeuvre when he saw Sir Walter’s horse wheel, closely followed by a number of his men-at-arms. They rode back, one force breaking away and cantering in the direction of the city horse, while the rest joined up with the rearmost sections, riding in a column between the wagons and the city. The riders from the city changed their direction and began to move away from the columns, seeing their easy prey barred by a fence of steel. The column continued on their way, but even as Fulk started to think that their path might be safe, he saw a fresh force form.
It was a shining army. Banners flew high overhead, and there was the glitter of steel through the heat haze and dust. Odo nudged him.
‘Fulk, I really think they don’t want us here,’ he said.
The thought that they might be embroiled in a real battle was enough to make Odo break out in a sweat. He clenched his fists tightly and stared at the balls of muscle and bone. It seemed odd to think that soon these fingers, which had until now only ever kneaded dough to feed people, might soon be busy trying to kill other men.
He could see that Fulk was anxious. At least Odo had the conviction that this was God’s own march. Fulk was less certain, and so he felt more nervousness. Odo only hoped he would have the strength of character to lead Fulk by his own example. For now, all they need do was keep stolidly plodding on, while the riders trotted in a course that took them parallel to their line of march.
‘What are they doing?’ Fulk said.
‘I don’t know,’ Odo said.
An older man to the left of Fulk glanced across. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘What?’
The man had the look of an experienced fighter, and said his name was Peter of Auxerre. He had greying hair and a face that was as weather-beaten as an old mariner’s. Faded blue eyes the colour of steel gauged the distance between the pilgrims and the horsemen, and he nodded to himself. ‘Aye, they’ll be here soon. They don’t want us to escape after crossing when we were told not to, and with the raiding Sir Walter has organised they will want to punish us. While he sends his knights to raid the countryside, the people in that city, especially the governor, will expect to see us all pay the price. And they’ll want it to be a high price, I’ll wager.’
‘What will they do?’ Odo asked. There was a flatness in his voice that told Fulk he was worried.
‘Do? They’ll attack us as soon as they might, when they feel certain that they are safe, when they feel that we are unprotected. Aye, that’s what I’d do.’
‘You have experience?’ Fulk asked. His own voice was not so flat. It sounded high and fearful even to his own ear.
Peter grinned. ‘Don’t worry, youngster. Sir Walter isn’t dead yet. He’s a good lord, and a better warrior. These bastards haven’t ground him into the dust, and nor will they.’
‘Fulk and I aren’t worried. These men won’t stop us. We’re serving God,’ Odo said. ‘With Him on our side, we cannot fail.’
‘Good. But I think God will help most those who know how to help themselves. So you trust to God, if you wish, but I’ll put my trust in Sir Walter and Wolf-biter.’
‘Eh?’ Odo said blankly.
Slapping the sword at his side, Peter said, ‘This! When I was a lad, my father was attacked in the woods, and this was the sword he bore to fight off the wolves.’
‘So it saved his life?’
The man looked at him blankly. ‘No: he died, which is how I got his sword. Still, the wolf died too. Have you two fought before?’
‘In taverns,’ Fulk said, his eyes turned towards the horsemen. Were they nearer now? It looked as though they might be converging on the marching men.
‘A tavern, eh?’ Peter looked at him more closely. ‘Well, the main thing today will be to stand up to the horses. Throw stones at the beast’s heads, hit their eyes, if you can. And hold your shields up.’
‘We don’t have shields,’ Fulk admitted.
The man rolled his eyes. ‘Then stand back and keep out of the way. I’ve been here before. They will try to ambush us, or tempt us into chasing them. The main thing is, keep in the ranks and do not leave them for any reason. If we start to chase after them, our column will collapse and they will pick us off one by one. It’s how they’re trained.’
‘How can they hope to ambush us here?’ Odo said, staring about them. There was a patchwork of fields here, with a series of channels dug into the soil to irrigate them. The road itself was solid, but the dust was choking.
‘They know this land, boy. Don’t think that because they wear shiny metal that they’re only keen to look pretty. Those bastards are good fighters, and they win often because they make sure they know the territory where they fight. Here, it’s all their own turf, so you can be sure that they’ll know it like the hairs on their hands.’
The crossing of the river was terrifying for Sybille. All the way she clung to a rope for fear that she must be thrown from the craft. She had been quite certain that the shipmen knew nothing about sailing, for all their loud confidence, because every time the wind caught the little vessel, it heeled over, convincing Sybille that it must surely capsize, and she could not swim. If it were to turn over, she would die, and Richalda too. So she gripped her daughter tightly as the craft wallowed and bucked, and the waters slapped against the hull, and the wind blew gently, and the sun shone down. Mathena at her side felt like a rock of confidence compared to her.
While she endured the crossing, Benet lost little of his fretfulness. His eyes were fixed on the approaching shore, and she could see he was terribly anxious. He chewed at his lip until it bled, and he could not keep his fingers from playing with a loose thread on his tunic. He was fully aware of the disaster that losing their money represented, and he was ashamed.
Not that the money was uppermost in her mind just now. She was more concerned about her daughter.
Overnight Richalda had been sick, and then suffered from diarrhoea. Disembarking, Sybille watched over her with increasing concern. The child was pale, and as they waited for their pony, she began to sleep once more. She was over the worst of the fever, Sybille felt, but was still very weak, as was Sybille after staying up all night with her. She had no energy. A man at her side offered to carry the child a distance, but he himself looked so old and decrepit that Sybille could not trust him to bear her any distance without dropping her. As the horns blew again, Sybille began to plod on without thinking, stumbling when her weary feet struck rocks and rubbish left in the roadway, her eyes half-closed, her mind empty. Josse had to touch her shoulder to attract her attention when Benet hurried up with the pony, and helped her swing her leg over the saddle, passing Richalda to her when she was seated.
Horns blared, brazen and alarming, up and down the marching line, as Sybille bound her daughter to her. She had a long loop of material and wrapped it about them both, as she had when Richalda was only a babe. After all the privations of the last weeks, Richalda seemed little heavier than when she had been a baby. When Sybille touched her brow, the child did not seem to be burning, but Sybille was anxious that she was not drinking enough.
Richalda moaned and mumbled, her eyes shut, her forehead creased with whatever nightmares were intruding. Sybille smiled down at her, but she was constantly aware of the tears threatening. No child should have to endure the risks associated with such an appalling journey, especially one who was unwell. And now they did not even have money to buy her herbs or a medicinal draught.
‘Dear God, please, don’t take her!’ she murmured, looking down at Richalda’s face again. The child’s eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t wake. ‘Please, take me in her place. Punish me however you want, but don’t take my little girl!’
Josse looked up at her as though he had heard her words, and she said defensively, ‘God wouldn’t want to take her, would he?’
‘Mistress, G
od will seek to protect her, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘But we must hurry.’
She looked about them. They were at the rear of the column with the other camp-followers, the old, frail, unwell, the women and the children, and the marching men were drawing away, leaving a space between the followers and the main body of men. Suddenly she saw a cloud of dust rise from towards the city. ‘What is that?’
The man who had offered to help was still near them. Now he glanced back at the rising dust. ‘They follow us. I expect they wish to ensure we do not steal from them. The governor has denounced us for defending ourselves against his henchmen yesterday. Now he wants to make sure we go away for good – or perhaps he wants our baggage?’
‘He is a good Christian,’ Josse said with heavy sarcasm.
‘Why don’t they help us?’ Sybille said despairingly.
‘We will be safe, wife,’ Benet said. ‘They will not hurt us. They know we—’
‘Husband, be still!’ she snapped. The memory of their lost wealth lent poison to her tone. ‘They are not behaving like friends, are they? Do you think they’ll wait until we are many miles from them, and then send for us to return and use their market? And then beat and steal from us, just as they did from you?’
‘This is different,’ he protested.
‘How so? We starve because they will not let us into their market! Now they chase us away!’
‘They are fearful, that’s all.’
‘They are fearful? What, of us?’
‘We have nothing to fear, woman! Here, we are in the Empire. The Emperor will hear if we are mistreated, and surely he will punish those who dare—’
‘I would prefer that we weren’t mistreated in the first place,’ Sybille said. She looked down at Richalda again. ‘Oh, God, please hear my prayers. Don’t take my little child. Take another,’ she said, deep in the protection of her heart.
There was a shout from in front, and she peered forward urgently.
‘What is it, wife?’ Benet demanded. ‘You can see better than us!’
‘It looks like a herd of cattle,’ she said, and her mouth watered at the sight. It seemed to her that God had answered her prayers. ‘Perhaps they have taken pity on us!’
Her husband exchanged a glance with the man in the cap.
The older man said, ‘We should hurry to keep up. I doubt those beasts were willingly given. Sir Walter has captured them for our food, and the Bulgarians will want them back.’
On they trudged. Seeing others do so, Fulk had wound a strip of linen about his mouth and nose against the horrible dust that rose on all sides. It got everywhere. His eyes were gritty, his lips sore and dry, and he blinked as he marched, trying to clear his eyes of the tiny particles of grit in the air. Even clenching his teeth made them grate and crunch, as though he was chewing on a cheap maslin bread crust. It was horrible.
‘How much longer?’ he asked of no one in particular. He felt as though his entire body was shaking with fear.
‘We’ll soon rest,’ their companion Peter said. He had experience of many battles in his life. ‘We will need a camp where the cattle can be butchered.’
‘At least we have food now,’ Odo said.
The appearance of the first herds had been a surprise, but it made sense. Since the Bulgarians would not allow Sir Walter’s men to buy food, he had taken the initiative and seized what he wanted. Raiding parties of men-at-arms had scoured the countryside nearby in search of cattle, sheep, anything that could be used to feed his host. Now Sir Walter’s men were marching to the tune of lowing cattle, which promised a meal later on. There was a more cheerful atmosphere among the men, and some sang as they passed by the city and on beyond.
‘What is that?’ Fulk said.
Odo peered forward. ‘It looks like a dust cloud.’
Peter hawked and spat. ‘Aye, well – perhaps the men of Belgrade want their cattle back.’
At the rear of the column, Sybille rode on with mindless mechanical repetition. Her head was empty of any thought but concern for her daughter, and she hugged Richalda to her as they jogged along. Sybille hoped that soon the army would halt, and she would have an opportunity to feed her. Richalda was waking periodically, but she felt horribly hot again, and when Sybille felt her brow, it was burning.
There was a shout, and she saw a man a little further ahead suddenly plunge face-first to the road, where he writhed and wriggled like a dog with a broken back. She watched him with dull incomprehension, until she saw the shaft jutting from his shoulder.
Sybille heard a low, growling moan. It came from her own throat, she realised. Josse looked up at her, startled. Benet was at the far side of her pony, unaware of the danger until, all at once, the arrows began to strike all about, the vicious missiles bouncing from stones with sharp metallic clicks, or striking people with sad little soggy slaps. Benet’s eyes opened wide, and he was about to shout, when an arrow plummeted down and pierced the pony, hitting just in front of the withers. There was a jerk that Sybille felt through her thighs, and then the pony began to stumble and walk around to the right.
‘My God! No!’ Benet shouted, staring with horrified fascination at the arrow’s fletchings protruding from the beast, even as Sybille shrieked, fearing it had struck Richalda, but her child was safe.
All about there was sudden mayhem. Men and women screamed and wailed, running in wild confusion, some this way, some that. No one knew where the arrows came from. When some saw horsemen riding quickly towards them, a few ran to meet these newcomers, thinking it was a force of pilgrims, friends who could protect them.
But it was not; it was the enemy.
‘Husband!’ Sybille wailed, but Benet could do nothing.
He stood unmoving, gaping at the sight of men and women being slaughtered as the arrows flew, striking at random. His mouth moved, but he was slow and befuddled like a man intoxicated. ‘No, no, they cannot mean to hurt us,’ he muttered.
Josse ran to Sybille, but before he could reach her Guillemette was already there and took Richalda, muttering, ‘Quickly!’ Josse daringly threw an arm about Sybille’s waist, pulling her from the saddle. The pony wandered on a few paces, but the arrow had found its mark. The pony collapsed, tumbling to the ground, hoofs kicking. If Sybille had been in the saddle, she would have been crushed.
Men were falling all about, but there was a wagon a short distance away and Guillemette was already pelting towards it. Josse pushed Sybille, and they ran to it. Sybille saw Esperte standing and screeching as the men rode towards her; Sybille grabbed her arm and pulled her along too. Seeing Sybille running, Mathena and Jeanne hared off after her. Benet at last came to his senses and, with a little whimper of terror, joined in the mad rush as more arrows dropped in among the column from the fast-approaching horsemen. Sybille reached a wagon and flung Esperte beneath before hurling herself after, scarcely aware of the stones that ripped the skin from her knees and hands. She crawled further under the wagon until she was nearer Richalda, who lay still in Guillemette’s arms. Her elbows flayed by the sand and gravel, Sybille held out her hands and took her daughter, sheltering her head in her hands, arching her body over her daughter’s and looking about her.
Already several men and two women were dead. One old man was crawling towards her, an expression of desperate determination on his face. She could see the arrow in his back, but then another hit him, high on the spine, and she saw his eyes register utter hopelessness. He still attempted to drag himself forward, but to no avail. It seemed to take an age for him to die. His head dropped to rest on his arm as though he was resting. His eyes held hers as the life seeped from them and his body slumped.
Richalda was whimpering, and Sybille rocked her and shushed her, as if the child had been woken by a bad dream. Except this was no bad dream, it was a horror. She saw Josse run to a fallen man. There was an axe near him, and Josse grabbed this and crouched near the wagon. Meanwhile, she felt a hand on her foot, and saw Benet trying to scramble beneath with her. He crawled
up beside her and put his hand on Sybille’s shoulder. She shrugged it away. His eyes were wide with horror and terror, but even as she thought of telling her husband to join Josse, Richalda’s eyes opened, and Sybille found the tears welling. While the arrows sleeted down and the cries and screams rose to the heavens, she sat rocking gently, tears running freely down her cheeks.
There were shouts, a rumble of hoofs that was like thunder drumming on the ground, and a long-drawn-out shriek as a woman was speared in the belly and pinned to the wagon behind her. She stood, her hands on the shaft almost as though she was holding it there, her face white and strained with the agony, and Sybille wanted to tear her eyes from her, but she could not. As she watched, the woman began to choke, and blood dribbled from the side of her mouth. Her cries became a long, low wail of pain and grief, and then the sight of her was blocked as another body appeared. Sybille saw a child flung into the air, then a woman was cut down and fell in front of the wagon, her dying eyes staring into Sybille’s. Sybille was fleetingly grateful that the woman’s body would hide her and the others from the riders; self-disgust followed swiftly on the heels of her gratitude.
She heard a shout, and suddenly the woman’s body was stabbed by a long lance and thrown up into the air. A thunder of hoofs went past, a thick cloud of dust rising from them, and she could feel the ground trembling as though rejecting the horses riding to battle. The noise and the reverberation increased, and she closed her eyes, putting her hands on Richalda’s head, waiting for the spear-thrust that would end both their lives. This was the end.
CHAPTER 13
Belgrade, Wednesday 4th June, 1096
The horsemen were trained in their manoeuvres. Fulk saw a number start to ride in at the column. ‘They’re attacking! They’re attacking!’
‘No, boy, these are just skirmishers. They’ll loose a few arrows to soften us up, see how we respond,’ Peter said.
He was standing at Fulk’s right, and nodded with professional approval as he watched the Belgrade cavalry. ‘They’ll send in bowmen first, to sting and irritate us. Then, if they can, they’ll hope to get some of the marching men to give chase. Those few will be tempted away from the main column so they can be cut to pieces in safety by the main force of horsemen.’
Pilgrim's War Page 13