Pilgrim's War

by Michael Jecks

  Carrion birds alighted on bodies near him, and Odo watched as they set about their task with gusto. It reminded him of his vision earlier, when he had seen Fulk injured. He felt no horror here, nothing for the bodies being desecrated any more than he felt anything for the birds. To feel sorry for the enemies of God would be heretical, and he was no heretic. No, he was God’s own man. He could feel that now. He hoped that Fulk too would soon come to realise the truly divine nature of their pilgrimage and stop his fornicating and complaining when Odo carried out God’s will. God wanted this. Dieu le veut.

  For this was not a mere walk to the Holy Land: this was a cleansing. God’s lands had to be purified and purged of the heretics who infested it.

  Fulk had seen her as she came around the bend in the road, and hurried to her side as she found Benet.

  He could not have mistaken her. Since that first day when he saw her in the market square, he had been aware of her, even when she had been out of sight. Her smile, her calm eyes, both had been much in his mind, especially since helping her from beneath the wagon. Now he saw her again with her face fixed into a mask of horror. He wanted to console her, but there was nothing he could do as she bent over the body of her dead husband with a grown woman’s desperate sobbing. There were not sufficient tears in the world for her misery.

  As he watched her he felt his heart tear at her grief.

  BOOK FIVE

  The Eastern Empire

  CHAPTER 17

  Constantinople, Thursday 5th June, 1096

  The thunderous knocking was enough to jerk Alwyn awake in an instant and he sighed as Sara began berating the man for waking the household so early. He climbed from his bed and stretched, pulled on a long tunic and walked to the door.

  He was a cocky one, this. Armed and gleaming like all the palace guards, and he held Alwyn’s gaze as he spoke as though to save himself the indignity of meeting Sara’s furious eyes. ‘You are to come with me. The Vestes has need of you.’

  ‘I will be with you shortly.’

  ‘He said to come now!’

  ‘And I will. As soon as I have dressed,’ Alwyn said mildly.

  The man opened his mouth, but Sara stepped in front of him. ‘You think you can command a man who served the Emperor before you were born? He was killing the Emperor’s enemies while you had snot on your face!’

  Alwyn grinned to himself. While she tore the man off a strip, Alwyn returned to his bedchamber and dressed.

  A call to the palace was a cause more for irritation than concern. Others would fear such a summons, but Alwyn was fortunate in that he had the measure of the Vestes.

  When he returned, Sara was watching the messenger with her dark eyes full of suspicion. She was Alwyn’s woman, a slave he had been given years before, and now his constant companion, more loyal even than his old hound. Three years ago he had offered her her freedom, thinking that she would appreciate the gift, but she had refused with an angry expression in her eyes that said she thought it an insult. He didn’t understand, but he was relieved when she chose to remain. She might have left him, and that would be intolerable.

  He marched to the palace with the guard. They did not speak on the way. Alwyn was known to him, of course; all the guards knew of the Saxon. His life had been one of constant service to the Emperor, and his position in the Varangian Guard had sealed his honour in the eyes of the Byzantines, even if his survival was, for him, a source of shame.

  The way to the great palace of Blachernae took him through the city from the rougher area near the coast where he lived, up to the rarefied atmosphere of the northwestern tip of the city. At the main gates Alwyn could not help but stare up at the gatehouse. It soared so high overhead it always seemed to him to float on the air. He was taken around the main buildings and out to the administrative chambers at the east. Finally he was taken to the room on the eastern upper circle of the building, with views over the Golden Horn and beyond.

  ‘Ah! Alwyn, you are most welcome. I thank you for coming to me so – ah – swiftly,’ the man at the table said.

  He was taller than Alwyn, a slimly built man with an easy smile that never touched his eyes. His beard was long and gleamed in the morning light, with red and golden tints gleaming.

  ‘Your messenger made it plain I was needed urgently,’ Alwyn said. He glanced about the room. It was richly furnished, with all the trappings to show that this was one of the Empire’s most powerful men. John was the Vestes, the head of the imperial wardrobe, and as such second only to the Emperor Alexius himself, in charge of all aspects of spying and control within the Empire.

  He was said to be almost as rich as the Emperor himself, and although Alwyn doubted that, the man had money. His riches came from the knowledge that he owned. When a ship arrived in port, it was John who received the most important cargoes: the messages from spies all over the Mediterranean and beyond. When a foreign city was attacked, John was first to know, and could advise his friends which investments to retain, which to discard; when plague ravaged a nation that was important on the spice routes, John knew to buy up stocks of the goods that would soon be in short supply; and he knew when an army was marching and it would be a good time to invest in arms manufacture. John held all the tendrils of information at his fingertips and, like the professional lyre players he admired, he was adept at playing them.

  ‘Ah, well, I thought it would be useful to have a talk with you,’ John said. He waved to a slave, who approached and bowed low, holding up a tray with wine and goblets already filled. John took one and sniffed the bouquet, indicating that Alwyn should also. ‘Some months ago the Emperor, may his reign never cease, heard of manoeuvres across the sea. Our lands in Rum are taken, as you know. We have lost Nicaea and land from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean. So the Emperor decided to write to the head of the – ah – Catholic church to ask for some knights to help us in our struggle to protect our city. He anticipated a few mercenaries who could be used to stiffen the Varangian Guard. It was a good idea,’ he added, sipping at his wine. ‘But the Pope, perhaps accidentally, misunderstood. He preached a new war against the Turks and Seljuks. And the – ah – common people,’ the words were spat like poison tasted on his tongue, ‘these peasants, decided to march. There are many armies of them, both at the borders with Hungary, and waiting, so we hear, at Bari and other ports, waiting to cross into our Empire.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Me? I will advise his Imperial Majesty to the best of my ability. Perhaps bring them here, feed them, entertain them, make them feel valued, and – ah – if they are true barbarians, we can send them across the straits to see how they fare. However, at all costs we ensure that all take an oath to return to the Emperor any lands they capture. We do not wish to have scoundrels appear and detach attractive lands from the Empire, after all. But a strengthening of the blood of some of our people may be useful. From all we have seen, there are some enormously vigorous men in the west.’

  ‘What of it? I cannot stop them.’

  ‘No, but you can – um – assess them. Who better? You can watch them, take a view on their strength and likely ability. We need to know whether they come to aid us, or to storm us. You were born among them, fought with them twice, and showed your valour against them. There are few indeed who can have the same appreciation of their strength and skills.’

  Alwyn said nothing to that. He felt only a coldness in his heart that John could ask this. John knew it was a Norman army that had shattered the shield wall at Hastings; Normans who had destroyed the Varangian Guard at Dyrrhachium. He had lost everything to them.

  ‘You have safer men to do this, Vestes. Don’t ask this of me.’

  ‘I need you to speak with these fellows and report back.’ His tone had hardened.

  ‘You know that they stole my country. They killed my King and all my family. If I meet with a Norman, I am likely to kill him,’ Alwyn said softly.

  The Vestes eyed him. ‘You must not. That could exacerbate . .
. difficulties for us.’

  ‘What if I meet the man who slew my father and uncle? The man who killed my comrades at Dyrrhachium? I would not be able to hold back my rage. Send someone else.’

  The Vestes’ voice grew silky smooth. ‘I do not like to threaten, Alwyn. However, consider. Think on Sara and Jibril. Their fates depend on you.’

  ‘You threaten my woman and my boy?’ Alwyn said bitterly.

  ‘You think I want to?’ John slammed his goblet onto his table with an uncharacteristic display of anger. ‘There is no one else I can send! You are the only man I can trust in this. So control yourself. If you hurt any of them, you may as well not return; you will be banished from the city and the Empire. Return to your own land, if you can!’

  ‘You know I cannot.’

  ‘So go and see them. Use this seal. It will ensure that your reports are brought back as swiftly as may be.’

  He looked away, down at the papers on his desk, and then out to the window and the view over the Golden Horn. At first Alwyn thought it was the natural cavalier rudeness of an aristocrat, a hint that Alwyn was dismissed. But then he realised that there was no intentional slight. It was just that the Vestes was at a loss.

  John was one of the most powerful men in Constantinople, and yet in the face of the armies heading towards his city, he was as anxious as a penniless peasant faced with an imperial command.

  Alwyn returned home and sat on his stool. Seeing his mood, Jibril was nervous and moved quietly about the room, bringing wine and bread and olives, but Alwyn paid him no heed. He was seeing in his mind’s eye those he had lost: Eadnoth, Godwyn, his father, his uncle . . . and he saw the flames of his hall leaping up to the skies again.

  John was a spider, sitting in the middle of his web and waiting for news. But was the news to be of rescue or of disaster? Normans were coming: the same men who had stolen Alwyn’s lands and killed his King before coming here to the Empire. Now more of the northern devils were approaching the Empire, and who could tell what havoc they would wreak when they arrived? Alwyn felt sure John feared these northerners more than he did the Muslims.

  The Empire was so vast, so strong and so impregnable in every way that the populace believed it to be inviolate, but Alwyn had stood against the Normans in the shield wall of the Varangian Guard, and he knew that the border between strength and submission was thin. Just as the barbarians had entered and broken Rome, so too could these new savages destroy the Eastern Empire by mauling the city that controlled it. It would take only a little for the safety and security of life in Constantinople to be overthrown. He loved this, his adopted city. If it was to be in peril, he wanted to help serve it and protect it as best he may.

  He would go and look at the different men coming to the city, he decided. But if there were any Normans there whom he recognised, he would risk banishment and exile from the city for revenge.

  CHAPTER 18

  Belgrade, Thursday 5th June, 1096

  Sybille was distraught when Fulk tried to pry her from her dead husband’s body.

  She screamed, clinging to Benet, wailing and sobbing, her desolation too great to endure, her entire body racked with grief. It felt as though she was floating outside her body, as if this horror was so profound that her soul was itself breaking free of her heart and rising in the still air, up among the branches. She was dizzy, and she could almost allow herself to believe that this was all a foul dream, a vision placed into her mind by an evil mare. But the moment passed, and she returned to her body with her anguish renewed and strengthened. It was soul-destroying, impossible to accept. Her husband could not have died!

  All recriminations – for his cowardice, blame for bringing his family here, for the death of Josse – left her. In her mind’s eye she saw her husband’s gentle smile; she remembered his soft strength as he held her in his embrace, and she recalled how they had separated earlier that day. The pain of that parting wrenched at her breast as if her soul was being ripped from her, and it was almost a relief to slide once more into mindless sobbing, her face at Benet’s breast.

  She was scarcely aware of Fulk as he pulled her free. He put one arm about her back, another under her rump, and lifted her to his chest. She clung to his neck like a child as he unsteadily rose to his feet. Although she weighed little, he was unused to bearing such a load.

  When they reached Walter’s men, Fulk set her down. There was a pot set over a fire, and he took a little of the broth from it, trying to feed Sybille, but she would take none of it. After a while, one of Walter’s men passed him a small, flat loaf. Fulk broke it and tried to push it between Sybille’s lips, but she pushed his hand away and stared about her wildly.

  ‘Richalda! Richalda!’ she cried, and sprang to her feet.

  ‘Mistress, wait!’ Fulk said, but she was already gone. She had to get to Richalda, to protect her. Sybille had to make sure that she was not alone in the world. She shoved men and women from her path, running as hard as though she were being chased by the Devil and all his demons.

  Fulk sighed and took some of the bread for himself. He almost ran off after her, but there was little point, he knew. She would be going to her daughter and her friends. The women would comfort her better than he could. He felt desolate to see her so distressed and to be incapable of helping her.

  Peter was watching him with a hard expression on his face. ‘What was that about? Have you—’

  ‘She’s just seen her husband die.’

  ‘She won’t be alone in that today,’ Peter said.

  ‘No.’

  Fulk returned to his camp. On the way he met Sir Walter’s priest and told him about the atrocity committed at the chapel. The man was shocked. He was ten years older than Fulk, balding, with a shock of grizzled hair about his tonsure, and he muttered a short prayer as he absorbed Fulk’s words. His tale of Benet and Sybille made the cleric grimace sadly.

  ‘The poor woman!’

  ‘She would not leave her husband. He was dead, but she was most devoted. I wish I could have consoled her.’

  ‘You did your best, and now you should take some men and, when it is possible, retrieve the bodies. A sad business.’

  ‘Where is Sir Walter?’

  ‘They are burning the land all about to punish the city for their attacks. We shall be here for another day or two,’ the priest said. He passed a hand over his face as though to wash away the memories of the last hours. ‘It is a terrible thing, war against other Christians. A matter of great sadness. But what else could we do?’

  Fulk had no answer. He left Sir Walter’s pavilion and made his way back to where he and Odo had left their gear that morning. His brother was there already, and looked up.

  ‘Fulk? Are you well? When you ran off like that, I didn’t know . . .’

  Fulk gave him a faint smile. ‘I am well enough. No serious injuries, I thank God. Only this,’ he added, touching the cut on his scalp.

  Odo thought he looked like a man who had endured a hideous ordeal and barely survived. His face was strained and pale, his eyes a little bloodshot. Odo went to his side and put an arm about his shoulders, leading him nearer the fire. ‘Sit.’

  ‘How about you?’ Fulk said.

  Odo ruefully lifted his left arm. ‘A little scratch.’ It was more than a scratch. A long, raking tear in his underarm’s flesh had been bleeding profusely. ‘It was one of the little shits who pretended to be dead. I missed him, and he suddenly did this when I was over him. He won’t do it to anyone else.’

  Fulk eyed it. ‘You should have it washed and have a poultice put on it. You don’t want it to go rotten.’

  ‘I will. Where are you going?’

  Explaining about the chapel, Fulk didn’t mention Sybille. She didn’t seem relevant just then.

  Odo heard the reticence in his tone but didn’t want to question him. There was no need to reignite the embers of their earlier row. Instead Odo sat with his back to a wagon’s wheel and tried to close his eyes for a while. He was satisfied
with his actions that day. God would be pleased, he thought. His mouth stretched into a smile of contentment. Yes, He would surely be pleased and want to reward Odo.

  Just as he was sinking into a doze, female voices stirred him.

  He opened his eyes, and instantly recognised Guillemette, but he had eyes only for Jeanne.

  ‘Is your brother here?’ Guillemette asked.

  ‘No. He has gone to perform some service for our knight,’ Odo said. He wanted to turn away from Guillemette; he didn’t like to be in the presence of a prostitute, but Jeanne was entrancing.

  ‘I was hoping he might be able to help. A friend is in sore need of assistance.’

  ‘A friend?’ Odo said. He shot her a look. ‘You mean another of your intolerable craft?’

  ‘No. A friend, who has been widowed. A good, Christian woman,’ Guillemette snapped. ‘Her husband is dead, her servant too, and her daughter is prostrated with a fever. She has lost everything to serve God, and yet you would condemn her because she is my friend! What a true, Christian attitude you have!’

  Odo scowled and would have spoken, but Guillemette had already spun on her heel and was stalking away, back towards the main wagon park. Well, if she did not want to wait and hear his apology, so much the better.

  Seeing Jeanne, who had remained, he said, ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to embarrass you.’

  She nodded. ‘You dislike her?’

  ‘I just think that for her to ply her trade here jeopardises the whole venture. How would it be if God looked down on the pilgrimage and saw whores and their gulls disporting themselves?’ He winced and glanced down at his wound. ‘He might even decide to halt us or deprive us of our goal: the Holy City.’

  Jeanne said no more about Guillemette, but insisted on looking at his arm. ‘I have two brothers, and would often bind their wounds,’ she said, crouching beside him, taking his arm and resting it in her lap. ‘It’s a nasty cut,’ she said, studying the puckered skin, ‘but it’s clean enough.’ She took his knife and cut a strip of material from her hem. She used it to bind his arm, and tied it off carefully. ‘Try to keep it from bad odours and keep it clean. If we had honey, I’d have covered it in some. That always helps.’