Instead, he grabbed his sword and drew it, waving it at another man, and somehow blocking a blow that was aimed at his head. It sent a painful reaction down his arm to his shoulder, and he hacked at his opponent’s face, but already the two were driven apart by the mêlée, and another man was ramming into him, all but crushing his left leg against his horse’s body. The blood sang in his heart, and he fought on, secure in the knowledge that God was with him. A heavyset Saracen with beard and white teeth struck at him with a gauntleted fist, and he had to duck, wondering why the man didn’t use a sword. He heard a scream, and Lothar rode into the fellow, his sword whipping round and cutting deeply into the Saracen’s neck. At once he fell without making a sound.
Lothar punched his shoulder. ‘Get back, you fool! Ride for the castle!’
Odo could make no sense of his words. They had ridden into the side of the Saracen horde, and surely they had slowed their advance. With their attack, and that of Rainald, the Saracens would be retreating soon. He glanced to where Rainald’s attack had started, and realised there was no sign of the knight and his men. Only some bodies on the ground showed where they had been. Then, he looked to the left, and saw advancing towards him the full might of Kilij-Arslan. Thousands of spears, thousands of archers, thousands of fierce warriors, and at last he realised the danger they were all in.
He snapped his horse’s head around and set spurs to his flanks, riding as fast as he could, aware all the while of the loud noise of Lothar’s horse. A zipping sound in the air came to him, and he looked over to see a black-shafted arrow flying past him. Looking behind him, he saw others from Sir Roger’s party following and, behind them, archers on horseback, casually drawing their strings back and taking care to aim before letting fly into the backs of Sir Roger’s men. But for all his panic, it felt as though his horse was little better than ambling, no matter how hard he raked its flanks with his spurs.
Then they were around a curve and riding hard, and Odo felt his beast lengthen his stride and he had to cling on for dear life, praying that he would not fall, and he saw another pair of men tumble from their horses with arrows in their backs, but he felt the alarm start to leave him, because when he looked over his shoulder, the pursuit was not keeping up. Their horses had travelled too far already that day. Sir Roger held up his hand when they saw the enemy was returning to their comrades. All the men gathered, most of them breathing heavily, while their mounts stood with heads held low, desperate to gather their breath. After a few moments to rest, they continued back to the castle, each of them counting the cost.
From Sir Roger’s own company Odo thought four men had disappeared. That meant he had lost half the men who had accompanied him from Tawton already on this pilgrimage, a shocking number. Lothar and Gilles were still with him, as was Eudes, but when Odo looked at Sir Roger, the shock was clear in his eyes. He had brought his men here thinking that he would win honour and glory, and instead he had thrown away his men needlessly.
‘Sir Roger,’ Odo said firmly, ‘you must not weary yourself with feeling blame for this. God will reward those who died with a place in Heaven, and He will send you a still greater victory.’
‘They responded faster than I would have imagined,’ Sir Roger said quietly. He shook his head as though to clear it. ‘In God’s name, we must have reinforcements to fight these. We are not so numerous as to be able to defend ourselves.’
‘But we have a castle,’ Odo said. ‘They will not be able to winkle us from that so easily, will they! We are Christians, after all!’
He spoke with confidence, but when he looked at Lothar, he saw an expression of resigned hopelessness in his eyes. Lothar was less convinced of the protection offered by the castle.
Lothar looked as though he thought it would be a trap.
As they clattered into the castle’s court, it was obvious that only a few of the Christians had managed to escape the slaughter. Sir Rainald was already sitting on a bench outside the hall, bellowing commands while a surgeon pulled at the arrow in his shoulder. The barbs were hideously elongated, and the surgeon was inserting a knife to hold back the flesh while he wriggled the barbs loose with pliers. A bishop was intoning a prayer nearby, his face as white as marble as he eyed Sir Rainald, who was rapidly losing blood.
It did not affect his voice. ‘Is that the last of them? Close the gates and bar them! The bastard Saracens will be all over us like lice on a peasant in a moment! Sir Roger, do you have many archers? Have them all posted on the walls. We need all the archers we can get. Have the rest of the men hunt down every last arrow in the castle. I want every archer to have sheaves of arrows. Where are the boys? Ah, there!’ Three lads who had been used to serve as grooms on the ride to the castle scurried forward. ‘When the arrows start to fly, boys, you will collect all those you can find from the enemy, you’ll gather them up and take them to the archers. As soon as you have enough for an armful, take them to the men who need them. And we’ll need someone to bring water to the archers, too. Who can do that?’
Lothar walked to Sir Roger. Odo was near, and went to listen, wondering what could be so urgent that Lothar would think it worth interrupting the preparations. He had a suspicion it was something to do with the expression he had seen on the man’s face earlier.
‘Water. What is there here?’
‘We have the cistern.’
‘How full is it?’
Sir Roger shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘How many men are there here?’
‘What is your point?’ Sir Roger said.
‘Just this: we have enough water in the cistern for a matter of three or four days, with all the men here. This little castle was designed for a garrison of perhaps two hundred. With so many, the cistern would keep them in water for a few weeks. With as many men as we have, there is not enough to survive a siege.’
‘What of it?’
‘We have no fresh water, Sir Roger. Only the cistern. Our enemies outside will have access to as much water as they wish. There is the well outside the castle walls, and the spring down in the valley. They will keep the Saracens well supplied. At the same time, we will suffer the torments of thirst.’
‘Then we should fetch water to fill the cistern.’
‘To what end? To increase our ability to live here for another two days? Three? Sir Roger, we should ride from here. Now!’
Odo interjected, ‘Ride away? We are soldiers of Christ, in God’s name! You would have us flee from these Saracen butchers?’
‘Yes,’ Lothar said. ‘To remain here is to fail. My cause is to fight Saracens and protect Christians, not to pick fights which I cannot win, but to fight the battles I can, to the glory of God.’
Odo was looking over his shoulder to the nearer valley. ‘I think you are too late, Lothar. They’re here.’
Civitot
Fulk was weary after a day of training a score of youths and three ancient men. Trying to explain to them how to block an enemy’s blow, and retaliate immediately, with men who had never held a sword in their lives before, was exhausting. Most would do better to grasp a club or polearm.
He had avoided Sybille since the day he had quarrelled with Odo. It was unseemly for him to try to speak with her. Others would see him and come to the wrong conclusions, and that could reflect on her. He wouldn’t put her through that kind of torment. No, he must leave her. It was a relief that his duties occupied his mind and time so much. Not that they pushed her from his mind; that was too much to hope for.
The sun was moving to the west as he reached the main camp. It was growing. Every day more dribs and drabs of pilgrims arrived, and the encampment grew further to the north and east. Now it took time to walk from the harbour out to the farther edges.
A wind had picked up, and it was raising dust and sand and throwing it into people’s eyes as he passed by the market area. As he walked, he heard a familiar voice. Looking past a huddle of men and women near a stall, he saw Sybille and Guillemette talking to the propriet
or. He was holding up a glistening, slimy mess that, Fulk realised as a tentacle drooped free, was an octopus. Fulk turned his head and bent his feet to walk away from the women, but he could not. He found he had stopped in the roadway, and he chewed his lip, thinking, ‘No, I have to leave her alone. I cannot speak with her. She’s only been widowed a little while . . . I must leave her alone.’ But his feet refused to walk on, and soon he heard Guillemette call him for his advice. He would have seen, if he had looked, a look of delight to see him pass over Guillemette’s face, but that it was quickly wiped away and replaced with a look of calm indifference as Sybille caught sight of him.
‘You want?’ the Greek trader was asking as Fulk drew nearer. He allowed it to dangle temptingly.
‘How much?’ Guillemette asked, and on hearing the man’s response her face fell. She glanced at Sybille, and the two shook their heads in unison.
The trader permitted a slight frown to cross his brow. He suggested a lower price. Sybille shook her head more vehemently and Guillemette rolled her eyes in disgust. ‘That is twice its worth!’
‘You may go and buy one from another trader if you think you can win one as plump and tender as this,’ the merchant declared.
Fulk leaned on the counter and peered at his wares. ‘You call that fresh? It’s been in the sun all day. You won’t sell that to anyone else. You’re trying to catch these ladies because they’re alone in a strange land.’
‘No, it is perfect!’
Fulk turned his back decisively and glanced at both women. ‘There is a man on the harbour selling fresh fish. We would do better—’
‘Wait!’ the merchant called quickly.
‘Do not waste any more of these ladies’ time,’ Fulk said.
Soon the octopus had passed into Guillemette’s ownership for a fair price, and the three walked back towards the camp. Fulk escorted them to the outer fringes, near to their own tent. There he took his leave.
‘He was brief,’ Guillemette observed.
‘He knows he cannot hope for anything from me. He has avoided me since his fight with his brother.’
Guillemette nodded. Sybille had told her of that. ‘You give him no encouragement?’
‘How can I? It will be months before the anniversary of Benet’s death. I cannot fling myself at him. If I did, he would respect me as little as . . .’
She broke off before mentioning Guillemette’s profession.
‘I think you are being ridiculous,’ Guillemette said. There was a tension between them, but Sybille was wrong to think it was her faux pas.
Guillemette was deeply jealous.
BOOK SEVEN
Disaster
CHAPTER 28
Xerigordos, Tuesday 7th October, 1096
They arrived like a plague of locusts, Odo thought, swarming over the plain before the castle, destroying everything in their path.
He stood on the walls as the first outriders appeared, and he had thought that they would make perfect prey and took a bow, nocking an arrow to the string before drawing it back as he had seen others do. The riders remained at the far edge of the plain, but he felt sure that he could hit them. He let the missile fly and simultaneously let out a sharp cry of pain. The string had raked down his bare forearm, scraping the flesh from elbow to wrist, and the arrow hurtled off harmlessly to the left.
‘Do not loose any more,’ Lothar grunted beside him. ‘You won’t reach them there, and you’ll do yourself more injury if you’re not used to loosing arrows. We don’t have enough arrows to waste.’
‘I thought I could hit one of them,’ Odo muttered, gripping his forearm and holding back the words that wanted to fly.
‘At that range? Have you ever used a bow before?’
Odo didn’t answer that. He had not, as it happened, but he had seen others, and it did not look difficult.
‘Those men are there only to test us, and count our heads,’ Lothar said. ‘Do not do their work for them.’
‘What will they do?’
‘The same as us, I expect. Launch a ferocious assault on the walls, see if they can fight their way to the causeway here, and then, if they can’t, build siege engines to batter the walls, or send engineers to mine beneath and force their collapse. Either way, we will be here for days, and we don’t have water for that.’
‘So . . .’
‘So we shall have to ration the water, sharpen our weapons, and pray,’ Lothar said uncompromisingly.
Civitot
Alwyn was lying on his back and meditatively wiping his whetstone along his sword’s blade when he heard the shout and a scream. He rolled from his palliasse and hurried out.
He saw Sara with two other women, both cowering from a pair of men who were attacking an older fellow with a staff. The older man was being forced back, and he would surely die unless something was done. He ran to the fighting men just as the older fellow stumbled. One of his assailants was a fair-haired man who gripped his sword two-handed. He was about to deal the death blow when Alwyn grabbed his elbow and pulled, kicking his leg away. The fellow was overbalanced, and tumbled to the ground. Alwyn did not wait, but thrust his sword at the other man. ‘What is happening here?’
Sara ran to him, but he thrust her aside. She would be in danger if she stood there. He kept his eyes fixed on the assailant’s face. ‘Well?’
The old man spoke first. ‘I am called Gidie. These two tried to molest this lady, Sybille,’ Gidie said. ‘They have tried before to take her honour.’
‘Is this true?’ Alwyn asked Sybille.
She nodded, her face a mask of shock. Jeanne was with her, and she put her arms about the older woman while glaring at the man still standing.
As if he suddenly realised his danger, the man struck. His sword rose and he would have slashed Alwyn’s arm from his body had Alwyn not anticipated his attack; stepping forward, he blocked the man’s sword with his own and punched him in the face with his damaged hand. The man fell, but as he did Alwyn heard Sara scream. Turning, he saw that the other fellow had climbed to his feet again, and had his sword in his hand.
Alwyn stepped away and tested the weight of his sword once more. He swung it loosely about his wrist, waiting while the other man caught his breath. He snapped a blow to Alwyn’s left, which Alwyn could easily ward, and then moved in closer, his left hand clenched to punch Alwyn’s face. Alwyn had to duck his head below his shoulder, and the blow caught him on the top of his skull, making him see stars for a moment, but then he slammed his right hand and his sword’s pommel into the man’s face. The steel hit the man on the cheek and scraped up to his temple, tearing a gash in his skin and sending him flying backwards.
He heard a crack as Gidie’s staff rapped sharply on the other man’s head, and then Alwyn was standing, panting, the victor.
While other pilgrims came and bound the two, trussing them ready for judgement and a short jig at the end of a rope, Jeanne and Sybille went to Gidie, and while Sybille took his arm and held it to her cheek, Jeanne flung her arms around him and clung on like a lost child.
Sara ran to Alwyn and clutched his arm. ‘You must be careful! I thought he would kill you!’
Alwyn gruffly tried to speak, but no words would come to him. Instead he hugged her. ‘When you see men fighting, don’t come to me, Sara. You have to run and hide until it’s safe.’
‘No. I won’t leave you. I will be with you – always.’
Xerigordos
The Saracens were still arriving. Their men filled the lower plains now, and their flags could be seen all about the castle, fluttering gaily in the breeze. More were arriving, and the sound of tent pegs being driven into the ground could be heard as a constant timpani. There were shouted commands in the strange tongue of the Saracens, and Odo could see groups of men rushing backwards and forwards, bringing weapons and materiel to set positions. Then Lothar gave a short prayer. ‘There.’
Odo followed his pointing finger. ‘What?’
‘They are coming!’ He leaned
down and bellowed into the main court, ‘They’re forming ranks! To the walls!’
‘What is it?’ Odo asked. He felt foolish, not understanding what was going on, but still filled with the thrill of imminent action. As he stared over the plain, he saw men forming into columns. Some had tall ladders, others carried bows and axes, and all appeared to be waiting for a command; even as more and more Christians came rushing up the stairs and took up their positions on the walls, Odo could see the Saracen leaders before their men, riding up and down on their horses and urging them to great feats of courage.
And then his mind seemed to go into a strange stillness. He watched, and his ears could hear noises, but he could make no sense of either. Odo peered down at the men milling about, and saw archers send their missiles up at him, but he could not so much as flinch from their passage. He gazed about him at the men on the walls. In their faces he saw resolution, defiance, courage or fear, but in all he saw determination. Yet he felt none of it. He was a spectator, not a participant. He was a straw in the wind, a man who had joined the pilgrimage without knowing what it might involve. When they set off, he had thought it would be a glorious effort, an easy opportunity to come and fight the weak, cowardly Saracens who waged war only on the poor Christian population. He had thought it would be an easy task to assail these godless people and throw them from God’s lands. But now he was confronted by them, and the sight emasculated him.
A clump about the back of his head made him turn. He found himself facing Lothar, who glowered at him. ‘Are you asleep? You think to stand here and watch while they attack? You are only a watcher at this battle? No! Prepare yourself, and listen to the orders. When the men place their ladders against the walls, you must push them away. Yes? Then, if men succeed in climbing the walls, you must kill them and knock them down, yes? Keep your head down from the arrows, and pray to God that none of them manages to hit you with an axe or sword. Do you hear me?’
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