Pilgrim's War

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Did they not chase after you?’

  ‘I don’t suppose they thought we were worth the effort,’ Burel said with a curl to his lips. ‘They were too busy cutting the fingers from bodies to pull off rings, and searching the knights’ bodies for gold, or stealing the best harnesses from the dead horses, the devils!’

  ‘As soon as they have done with that, they will be here to find us,’ Fulk said. ‘They wouldn’t wipe out the main army for no reason. They are here to demonstrate that any army sent against them will be utterly destroyed.’ He glanced up as more men arrived. There was a steady stream now, and they began to make their way to the tower. All could see it was the only defensible building.

  Burel looked at the sea. ‘We will die.’

  ‘No. We will build what defence we may. Go to the tower,’ he said. ‘It is the only place with walls here that could hold most of us. See what needs to be done to secure it. Tell these people of the danger. They wouldn’t listen to me.’

  Burel agreed, and soon had his men hurrying across the ground towards it, shouting at the people all about as he went, trying to persuade them to join him.

  Fulk was away again. He rode across the old encampment towards the beach. From there he would ride faster along the sands to the port, he thought, but as he approached the water, he saw the two bodies. ‘My God! What treachery is this?’ he demanded.

  He dropped at the side of Jeanne, telling Richalda to stay on the horse. The incoming tide was about Jeanne’s head now, but her hands were still chastely placed over her breast. When he looked at Gidie, he was surprised to hear a stertorous breathing. Quickly, he rolled the man over. His head was a mass of blood and he was unconscious, but alive. Fulk pulled him to a sitting position, crouched before him, pulled both arms over his own shoulders, and tried to stand. It was fortunate that Gidie was old and wiry, for lifting his dead weight would have been impossible, were he heavier. As it was, it took three attempts before Fulk could stand. At the last attempt, Gidie grunted and mumbled and tried to stand. He retched, and Fulk sourly told himself that if the fellow puked over him, he would leave him here.

  ‘Where is Sybille? Gidie? Where is Sybille?’ he demanded.

  ‘Your brother . . . he has . . . her . . . She’s . . . at the harbour . . .’

  After a struggle, he managed to get Gidie into the saddle and climbed up after him, lifting Richalda up to the pommel, then holding the recumbent figure in place while the horse trotted back towards the tower.

  At the top of the sands, Fulk stared out to sea. He could see the ship sailing away over the water towards the city on the next coast. His eyes turned to the harbour, expecting to see Odo, and for a while he stood confused, wondering what could have happened to his brother, whether he had been attacked, or was still searching for Jeanne, or . . . but then a cold certainty struck him as he turned to sea again and stared at the ship.

  ‘So, Odo, we are deserted by you,’ he said. There was a quick, hollow despair in his heart at the thought.

  Alwyn left Sir Roger at the tower and hunted for Sara and Jibril. He found them at his shelter, and he spoke little, commanding them to leave everything but food and water. They must go to the tower, where everyone else seemed to be heading.

  Sara began packing, her manner slow and precise as she gathered up Alwyn’s few belongings.

  ‘Woman, leave it! Leave it all!’ he snapped. She turned to look at him with surprise and hurt in her eyes, but then she saw his urgency and began to throw a few more items together – bowls, a spoon, some twine – and when he took her by the arm, she looked at him with fear, but left the rest.

  Alwyn looked about them carefully. Jibril was at his side, gripping a lance and cleaver he had found in another shelter, and Alwyn set off to the tower with them both at his side. Jibril looked terrified, and Sara took his hand in hers. She reached for Alwyn’s left hand, but he snatched it away. He hated anyone touching it. It made him conscious of his deformity. Sara was hurt, but she held his gaze and deliberately took hold of it again. He glared at her, but set his jaw, and gradually his fierce expression softened, and together, hand in hand, they trotted over the plain.

  ‘Hurry!’

  Fulk rode back with the urgency of rage driving him. On the way he met the women and Roul, and he explained what had happened.

  ‘We have no choice. We will all have to join the rest of the men in the tower. It will have to serve as our fortress.’

  Guillemette nodded. Esperte was clinging to Mathena, and Richalda was sobbing, repeating, ‘I want Mother!’ over and over again, while she was passed down to Guillemette, who held her and tried to calm her, stroking her head and murmuring gently to her.

  Fulk rode with them, still clinging to Gidie as he went, but all the way he could see only the vessel crossing the water towards Constantinople. His own brother had deserted him: him and these others, whether for cowardice or some other motive he could not comprehend, but it left him desolate.

  At the tower he dismounted, pulling Gidie from the beast. Alwyn was at the gateway with his servant, and they helped him half-carry, half-drag the man inside. Guillemette followed with Richalda, and the others hurried in their wake, Roul bringing up the rear.

  Just inside the entrance he found Burel, who stood with his arms akimbo and glared about him. ‘This is your idea of security, is it? Not even a gate!’

  ‘Have your men bring rocks and stones to block the doorway,’ Fulk snapped. ‘If you have others to spare, set them to finding any weapons lying about the camp. Arrows, bows, knives, slings, extra rocks: anything!’

  Burel stared at him a moment longer than was necessary, but he began to bellow at his men as soon as he felt he had shown the correct disapproval of being ordered. Soon a stream of women and old men was coming towards the tower. Fulk walked inside the tower, eyeing the walls and wondering how long they would survive a dedicated onslaught. He found Gidie being ministered to by Sara.

  ‘My head hurts. I didn’t expect to have this when I set off.’

  ‘It’s been a few miles since Sens, old man,’ Fulk said. ‘You have more miles left in you.’

  The old tranter looked up at the sky and winced. ‘I think you and I would have been better served if we’d stayed behind, eh? Will I live?’

  ‘Someone has tried to open your pate and spill your brains, but you have the luck of the devil, so probably you will live!’

  ‘Someone?’ Gidie looked at him sharply and shot a look at Fulk. The sudden movement made him wince. ‘Yes, of course.’ He closed his eyes.

  Fulk was about to ask him what he meant, when there came a shout from above. Sir Roger was pointing.

  ‘Here they are!’

  They arrived in a solid mass of men and horses, bursting into the encampment like a pack of wolves seeing a flock of sheep. Fulk shouted to those outside to hurry, to get to the security of the tower, but it was already too late for many. The Saracens rode into the clearing at the gallop, the archers bending their fearsome bows and sending lethal darts into all who looked threatening. The old were cut down, with only some young nuns, children and women left alive. They were snatched and thrown over Saracen saddles, kicking and screaming, while more riders came with their fearsome curved blades, lopping off heads and limbs. With no armour or shields to protect them, the pilgrims stood no chance. Fulk gripped his sword and would have rushed out to try to save some of them, but he felt Godfrey Burel’s hand on his breast.

  ‘Go out there, and you’ll die. You know that. You won’t save a single life, but you’ll throw your own away for no purpose.’

  Fulk stared. It felt as though he was peering into Hell. He saw an old crippled man trying to escape the riders by hurrying to the tower, but then a lance-point appeared in his breast and he was thrown high into the air as the rider flicked him from his weapon. A pair of dames who could not have been younger than fifty were herded together by three laughing men and cut to pieces, while a child was run down by a large horse and trampled into the
mire. Fulk had to gulp back a sob at the sight. It went against everything he had ever learned or thought to stand back and watch this slaughter. He felt as though he was himself responsible for their deaths, as though by watching from the safety of the tower, he was colluding with the murders.

  Godfrey Burel shook his head. ‘It’s not worth it. Stay alive and protect the poor souls in here.’

  Lothar nodded. ‘God sent us here not to die senselessly but to free His people. The people inside this tower depend on us: you, me, and all the other men-at-arms.’

  Burel and Lothar were right. If he were to run out, Fulk would die needlessly. Fulk nodded curtly and turned his back on the slaughter. There was nothing he could do out there.

  The tower was a different matter. He clambered over the rocks laid in the gateway where two men, who were stonemasons and had experience of building dry-stone walls, were working swiftly. Soon they had three layers of rock, each reinforcing the last, with shields inserted between to spread the effect of any attack, and behind this the two built a hefty buttress to support their walls from rams. Satisfied with their efforts, Fulk took the stairs to the upper level and peered out. An arrow hit the rock of the battlements a foot from his head, and he flinched, but it gave a dull tock sound and pinged away.

  At the base of the tower a number of Saracens were already milling about on their horses, casting bemused looks up at the walls, one or two dismounting and airily sauntering to the gate itself with a swagger in their steps. Fulk saw a boy clambering up the stairs weighed down by a great rock that must have weighed almost as much as himself. Taking it, Fulk carried it to the wall above the gate. Peering over the edge, he felt a brief belly-swooping horror at the height, but then saw that a helmeted Saracen was at the gate with a spear, and appeared to be thrusting it at the stone wall to see if he could move it. Fulk waited until the man leaned forward to prod again, and then held the rock out over the wall and let it go.

  There was a short gasp of agony, and when he looked again the man was lying on the ground. His shoulder and upper chest had been smashed by the rock, and he was writhing in pain, moaning in shock. Another man on the walkway saw him, and grabbed an arrow to send it down and end the man’s life, but Gilles was already there. He pushed the bow away. ‘Leave him. While he suffers, the others will not want to come close, except to try to rescue him. Keep your arrow trained on them as they come to save him.’

  Fulk frowned. ‘That is not necessary, is it?’

  Gilles pointed to a pair of men hurrying forward. The archer drew back his bow, and took aim on the target. He loosed his missile and grunted with pleasure to see the first man fall with a squeal.

  Burel was nearby, his thumbs in his belt. He strolled to Fulk’s side, peering down, and said, ‘Were you out there today? I saw them cut down Sir Walter Boissy-Sans-Avoir. He died hard, and they hacked him about into little pieces. Feel no pity for them: none of them deserves it.’

  CHAPTER 35

  Civitot, Wednesday 15th October, 1096

  Fulk left the walls when day gave way to night, and made his way down the stairs. The whimpering man was still before the gate, but his comrades were not willing to risk lives to help him. Instead, as his pathetic cries for help grew quieter, they bent their efforts to sending arrows over the battlements and into the tower’s huddled pilgrims. Arrows flew, and although many missed their mark, striking the walls and flying away again, some few did bounce off the walls and thence into an old man or woman.

  The people were huddled together for warmth as the sun went down. The arrows that fell among them were a terror that few were prepared for. They tried to keep closer to the walls, but that was little protection, for all too often the arrows would strike a wall and run almost straight down it. Fortunately, these had little energy left to penetrate a body deeply, but every so often a shriek would puncture the evening quiet, and the women and a couple of old men would hurry to help them, teasing a hideous barb from a wound, or snapping off a shaft and pushing it forwards to avoid doing more damage. Three women and one boy died from bleeding when arrowheads sliced through arteries.

  ‘How are you?’ Fulk asked Guillemette.

  She was using a damp cloth to cool a man who lay shivering and weeping as a large barbed arrow was being removed from his thigh by Roul. Gidie the tranter sat in the corner of the wall nearby, watching with his eyes narrowed. His head was covered with strips of linen but his face was dreadfully pale. Fulk wondered whether he would survive from the blow – and then realised that it was unlikely any of them would escape this tower.

  ‘I am well,’ she responded. ‘But I would be glad of fewer arrows flying over the walls.’ She looked up at him and smiled weakly. ‘How are you? You look terrible.’

  ‘I will live,’ he said. ‘Though I could sleep for a week or more. Where is Richalda?’

  ‘There,’ she said, pointing with her eyes at a low building beside the gate itself, little more than a shelf that struck from the wall, with a thin thatch of leaves of some sort. Someone had constructed it to give shelter to animals, perhaps sheep, from the sun and worst elements, and now a pilgrim had added to its protection by throwing blankets over it. All the smaller children had taken their residence beneath it as the best means of protection that they had. Every so often they huddled together as a fresh missile struck the blankets, the smaller children whimpering.

  Fulk walked about the tower, then made his way to the upper walkway, deep in thought. Now that he had time to think, perhaps Odo had made the better choice. He had taken Sybille because she was there at the port, clearly, and he had saved her at least. If their roles had been reversed, Fulk would have saved Jeanne, clearly.

  Sybille: the mere thought brought her face to mind. He could imagine her here, could almost feel her warm arms about him. She had never looked more beautiful than in the moonlight. Her face seemed to have a luminous quality, her eyes meltingly wonderful. He could imagine her hair coiling about her shoulders and forming ringlets. He wished she had not been so recently widowed, that he should get to know her just as her husband had died, when she was in mourning. How long ago was his death now? He could not remember. It was outside Belgrade, and that was weeks ago, but not long enough. To try to woo her would be disrespectful to her husband’s memory and must hurt her feelings, but he did think of it. He thought of little else.

  What was the point of considering such a matter when they could be taken by storm next morning, and Fulk slaughtered with the rest? This was not the time to think of taking a wife. He must work out how to escape and make his way to her in the safety of Constantinople.

  There was no obvious attack forming from the Saracens, and Fulk returned to the ground. He spoke words of support to the injured, and reassuringly to the women and their children, saying the ship had escaped before the Saracens’ attack, and the Emperor must surely come to ease their plight. When he reached the children under the little shelter, an arrow landed, quivering, in the ground beside him. He picked it up and studied it, then passed it to Richalda. ‘Keep this. There is no better good luck symbol than the arrow that didn’t hit you,’ he smiled. ‘You will be safe now.’

  When he left to climb back up the stairs, he hesitated halfway and glanced back at Guillemette. When their eyes met, she held his gaze, not a whore measuring a client, but a weary woman who had seen too much death and wondered whether she would live to see another day.

  Civitot, Thursday 16th October

  The attacks were renewed early the next morning.

  They heard the Saracens at their morning prayers, and Fulk wished that the pilgrims had a priest with them to give a response to the heathens’ mournful wailing. The clerics had all perished in the battle, but there was a man who seemed to remember many of the words, and since no one was there to tell him not to, he recited several of the prayers. Although he was not qualified, the familiar words were soothing to the Christians.

  As the sky began to lighten in the east, Fulk was nodding at the upper
wall, sitting on the boards of the walkway, his back against the cold stone. He jerked awake, filled with a conviction that something was amiss, and stood warily.

  ‘They attack! All men, all men, to the walls!’ Sir Roger bellowed. He was at the upper walkway, and Alwyn saw men shaking their heads to clear them of their dreams before hurrying to the knight’s side.

  Sara was near, and Alwyn sent her below to help with the injured, away from danger so far as was possible. Jibril was already gathering up arrows, ready to supply the archers on the walls. Taking a quick pull of brackish water from his leather flask, Alwyn made his way to the top of the wall and stared out.

  On the plain before the tower he could see the sparks and glows of the Saracen fires, and he frowned to see them, wondering why he did not see men moving about among them. He would have expected to see men walk before the fires on their way back from their prayers. But then he realised.

  The Saracens had come in the darkness, silently stepping forward, and now they were already at the gate. He could hear them moving about under him. He took up a stone and placed it on the battlements, rolling it forward and over the lip. There was a thud, but it was the sound of a rock striking gravel and sand, not a man. He picked up another and pushed this forward a foot to the right, pushing it gently until it toppled over. This time he heard a scream.

  Arrows flew past him, and he ducked back as they smacked into the castellations or hissed by. He grasped another rock, not an easy task with his broken hand, and set it on top of the wall. Men were with him now, and he saw Roul taking up rocks in both hands, hefting them and putting them on top of the wall ready to push them over. An old peasant woman was at his side, pulling rocks from a pile and rolling them towards Roul.

  Alwyn pushed her away. She was too old and feeble to do more than get in the way of the men. He saw Fulk and called to him. Fulk hurried to his side and was soon helping, lifting large pieces of rubble to the walls. Arrows flew all about them as they worked, and more and more men were arriving on the walkways as they struggled. Alwyn bent and lifted, feeling the muscles in his back and arms complaining. He straightened, and as he set the stone on the battlement, he saw an arrow climb from the army below him. It appeared to aim, seemingly, straight at him. He could not draw his eyes from the thing as it hurtled straight for his face. There was almost a sensation of relief to see it. His struggles would soon cease, he thought, and then, as though by a miracle, it dropped a matter of inches, and struck the rock he had placed on the wall. The missile sprang away, and Alwyn stood like a statue, his mouth gaping, and for a moment he felt as though his heart had stopped; he had been so convinced that the arrow would strike him that life seemed impossible. An urgent call brought him back to his senses. Near-death or not, there was work to be done. He bent again and, as he lifted another rock, he saw a ladder.