The Rightful Heir

by Diana Dickinson

  The next morning, they all poured out of the gates and jostled for the places closest to the now completed platform. Raoul and his companions joined them, curious to find out what was going on.

  “Who is it?” Raoul asked the man next to him who was gazing with rapt attention at the bare-headed, crimson-robed man who had mounted the steps and was raising his hands for silence.

  “It’s our blessed saint – Bernard, Abbot of Clairvaux. Hush! Listen to the word of God.”

  The huge crowd gradually became quiet as they waited for the famous cleric to begin.

  “The earth trembles and is shaken,” he said, his voice reverberating with solemn power, “because the King of Heaven has lost his land, the land where he once walked...”

  A subdued murmur ran round the crowd, stilled again as the abbot continued. His speech was long and impassioned. He appealed to them as fellow Christians, telling them to rise up and do battle with the forces of darkness. They had been offered the chance to save their souls, he said, to gain everlasting glory, to win a place at the right hand of God.

  “Go forward, knights,” he exhorted them finally, “go forward in safety and with undaunted souls drive off the enemies of the Cross of Christ!”

  “Crosses! Give us crosses!” the crowd roared, surging forward with outstretched hands.

  Strips of crimson fabric were seized from the Abbot’s assistants and men fell to their knees, clutching the precious symbols of Crusade.

  Raoul listened, amazed. God must have led him to Vezelay. How else had he happened to be there on that very day? He had known nothing of Saint Bernard’s purpose. With a swelling heart he stumbled forward to receive his cross, pressing the cloth to his lips as he knelt in prayer. From this day on, he resolved, he would forget his bitter frustration and his tainted blood. If he was to die young, at least now he could do so in a Holy cause.

  PART TWO

  THE KNIGHT

  1147 – 52

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was almost dark when they halted to make camp. Raoul dismounted wearily, patted Hercules on his powerful neck, unfastened the saddle then pulled it and his bed roll down, setting them on a reasonably level stretch of ground. His two companions dismounted, unsaddled their horses and then the three beasts were hobbled nearby to find what they could in the way of grazing. There would be little enough, that was certain.

  Once the horses were settled each man then unbuckled his sword-belt, took off his helmet, and removed his shirt of chainmail. Around them many hundreds of soldiers, some mounted like them, many on foot, were doing the same: seeing to their animals first then settling down for the night to find what rest they could. A few lit fires and the soldiers’ dark shapes could be seen crossing in front of or huddled around the bright wisps of flame. There was a low murmur of conversation and the occasional restless whinny from one of the horses.

  “Has the foraging party returned yet?” asked one of Raoul’s friends.

  “It doesn’t look like it,” Raoul said with a sigh.

  He pulled a hunk of stale bread from his pouch, broke it into three and shared it among them. It was almost inedible; they each took a swig of water from the leather bottle which the third man produced from his pack and then squatted on the ground while they ate. All too soon the meagre crust was gone.

  Raoul stood up, wrapped himself in a cloak which he retrieved from his pack, then sat down again with a sigh. They had been on the march now for more than three months and the nights were increasingly cold despite the sun’s heat during the day. There would be rain that night or tomorrow, he thought, which would only increase their discomfort. There had been great banks of cloud in the east at sunset and the wind was blowing strongly from that direction.

  It had seemed almost incredible to Raoul that after Saint Bernard’s address had inspired Frenchmen in their thousands to take the cross, it had been only in June of this year that the army had finally left Paris. Raoul had filled the time in between as best he could: there had been tournaments and minor skirmishes between barons which offered brief employment for his sword. Once or twice he’d been tempted to take up minstrelsy again or even to return to Félice. But then he heard she had made a prosperous second marriage so that temptation was removed. Eventually, King Louis had issued his final call to arms and they marched out at last, trumpets braying and banners waving. Of the four men-at-arms who had come from Montglane with him, only these two, Pierre Chardin and Gustave de la Tour, had eventually joined the Crusade. René had preferred to stay in France and Jacques had been injured in a tavern brawl three weeks before they set out.

  At first there had been a holiday atmosphere on the journey. As they travelled through eastern France, more and more Crusaders joined them: some were rich knights with well-equipped troops; some were little more than poor farmers with leather jerkins and rusty spears. Each was welcome – entitled to wear the Red Cross on his tunic and receive his share of meat and drink from the King’s own commanders. The villagers and peasants cheered them as they marched by, ran from their houses with gifts of cake and ale, or pelted them with flowers.

  Even in Bavaria, far from home, they had been treated like heroes, like an army who had already won a war, not one merely setting out to fight it. French King Louis was joining their own King Conrad in his Holy War. They were welcomed, fed, and sent on their way with kisses and blessings.

  Now, hundreds of miles further south, as autumn approached and the countryside became ever more rocky and infertile, there were no cheering crowds, and nagging hunger was a constant presence. Their last issue of oatmeal had been three days ago and the little bread they had received that morning had been stale even when it was handed out.

  “We can’t go on like this,” Pierre muttered. “Unless King Louis intends to fight the Infidel with an army of skeletons, he’ll have to give more thought to fodder, both for us and the horses.”

  Raoul nodded in agreement.

  “I don’t understand why he’s following Conrad’s route anyway,” he said. “I’d have thought it was obvious that the Germans would’ve eaten anything worth eating as they passed through. And country like this barely feeds the few miserable folk who live here, never mind two armies in close succession.”

  “I don’t think much is obvious to our beloved King,” said Gustave with a snort. “If it was he’d have had the wit to leave the Queen and her ladies safely in France. You’d think it was a week’s hunting trip rather than a war we were engaged in.”

  “I don’t think King Louis is the one who decides where the Queen goes,” Raoul said. “And in any case, isn’t she related to some great lord in the Holy Land?”

  “Raymond of Antioch’s her uncle, I believe.”

  Beyond where they were seated, over to the right, there was a sudden flurry of activity as a party of horsemen rode into the camp.

  “The foragers, thank God!” Pierre exclaimed. “Now perhaps there’ll be meat or meal for porridge at least.”

  “I’ll get a fire lit,” said Gustave. “You go and demand our due. Your powers of persuasion are greater than ours – or at least they are where tavern wenches are concerned!”

  “I don’t think the same applies with the King’s knights – at least I hope not!” said Pierre, “Or do I?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Raoul said with a laugh, recollecting his performances as Cleopatra and Dahut.

  “Whatever you get, just don’t eat it all on the way back!”

  “Trust me! Have I failed to provide for us yet?”

  “Hah!” Gustave snorted. “I remember that time in Rouen even if you’ve forgotten.”

  Recalling all too clearly several very hungry days in a rebel baron’s dungeon, Raoul picked up their meal sacks and, in common with everyone else in the camp, hurried towards the newly returned horsemen who had already begun to dole out foodstuffs.

  “Not so fast, soldier.”

  Raoul’s way was blocked by the imposing bulk of a well-armed knight.

/>   “Whose command are you under?” the man demanded.

  Raoul hesitated. He was under no-one’s command, directly. There had been no need. The King and Saint Bernard between them had promised riches on earth and glory in Heaven to anyone willing to march south, whoever they were.

  “Come on, come on. Are you deaf or stupid? Whose command are you under, man?”

  “God’s, I suppose – isn’t this supposed to be His Holy War?”

  “As neither wit nor blasphemy will get you food, I suggest you find a better answer.”

  “King Louis’s then.”

  “Don’t waste my time, soldier. I can see that you are not wearing the badge of the Royal Household. In fact you don’t seem to be wearing anyone’s badge at all.”

  “Are you telling me that rations are only being issued to those under the banner of some knight?”

  A crowd of similar soldiers had gathered beside Raoul by now and they muttered angrily at what was being said.

  “That’s it. By order of the Duke – he’s in charge of provisioning this army and that’s his decree. If you don’t like it, go and tell him so.”

  “Look, we’ve all marched many hundred miles with the wish to fight in the Holy Land. Does King Louis no longer need us?”

  There was a growl of agreement from the growing crowd.

  “I don’t intend to argue with you – with any of you.” The knight and the group of others behind him drew their swords, ready for the trouble which now seemed inevitable. “You can find your own food or put yourselves under a noble’s command and he’ll give you rations. That’s your choice. There’s not enough for anyone else.”

  Raoul turned away. He had no intention of getting involved in a fight. He must consult his friends about their best course of action. While all three of them enjoyed their freedom, the freedom to starve seemed like a dubious privilege.

  The following morning at first light, after a miserable night, the three young men rode slowly through the camp in search of the Royal party. As Raoul had expected, not long after midnight there had been a storm, with strong winds and stinging icy rain. Their small fire had been quickly doused and they had merely had to suffer the weather in the open, without comfort, shelter or even full bellies. Their horses, bold enough on the battle field, had been in terror of the lightning which had flickered incessantly over them. It had been hard to soothe the frightened beasts. Elsewhere in the camp, soldiers had been less vigilant. A number of tents had been demolished by a frantic destrier and several horses had bolted. Now, stiff, tired and cold, they had all agreed that they must seek service with the King and thus appease their hunger.

  Throughout the camp, men were stirring. Some were starting to pack up their sodden gear. Others attempted to wring water from their cloaks or struggled to light cooking fires with wet wood and damp kindling, coughing in thick clouds of acrid smoke. Some of the nobles slept on in the relative comfort of their tents while wretched squires rescued armour from puddles and started to groom the mud-spattered horses.

  The King’s encampment was obvious enough as the Oriflamme fluttered limply above a collection of large, brightly decorated pavilions. There was little sign that any of the nobility had left their beds but the squires and pages bustled about their many tasks. Clothes-lines had even been set up on which to dry the ladies’ rain-soaked gowns and head-veils. Several fires had been lit and Raoul’s mouth watered at the cooking smells which wafted from the pots which hung above them. Raoul dismounted and hailed a nearby squire.

  “My companions and I wish to attach ourselves to the King’s guard,” Raoul said firmly. “Please tell us where we can find the captain.”

  The squire laughed.

  “You haven’t a chance, soldier. I’ll fetch the Count but he’s trying to get rid of troops, not acquire more. Food’s scarce, in case you hadn’t realised. But stay here and I’ll see what I can do.”

  A few minutes later the squire returned followed by richly dressed man in early middle age. He looked as if he had just stepped out of a luxurious bed-chamber rather than having endured a stormy night in a flimsy shelter.

  “Lord Antoine de Bar sur Aube, captain of the King’s guard,” the young man announced. He bowed deeply then stood back and gave them an impudent grin before returning to his duties.

  “Well,” the Count said impatiently, “what do you want?”

  “To join the King’s guard, my lord.”

  “Hah! And what makes you suppose you could do that?”

  “My friend here,” Raoul gestured to Pierre, who stood holding the reins of their three horses, “is an expert horseman, unrivalled with the lance. My other friend,” he indicated to Gustave, who drew himself up into a strong, proud pose, “is an excellent swordsman who was declared supreme champion at the Royal tournament last Christmas at Poitiers. Indeed he defeated the Count of Blois himself in single combat.”

  “And you, young man?”

  “I’m even better than they are, with battle-axe, sword or lance.”

  “Well, you don’t want for boldness, that’s clear,” said the Count with an amused grin. “Squire, bring these men fresh bread and bowls of pottage.”

  With a certain reluctance, the boy obeyed him but as the Count still lingered nearby, he could hardly refuse to carry out his orders. His scowl showed all too clearly that he thought food was wasted on badly dressed ruffians like these.

  “Does this mean we are now under your command, my lord?” Raoul asked tentatively after he had mopped out his bowl with the last morsel of bread.

  “I’m sorry to say it does not,” the Count told him. “We’ve more use for ladies’ maids than for men-at-arms in this camp. Where are you from, soldiers?”

  “Montglane,” said Pierre and Gustave.

  “Brittany,” said Raoul simultaneously.

  “Make up your minds, lads! Your only chance is to seek out a Lord from your own region, wherever that may be, and make your allegiance to him – say that you owe him service. Let me see now, the Count of Blois is in command of the men from the Loire – your friend here knows him, you said. And the Count of Tréguier leads the Breton men – he’s over there, I think.” The Count waved towards the northern edge of the camp. “But I don’t suppose either is looking for vassals just at present. There are too many hungry men in this camp already.” He lowered his voice. “You’d make a thousand friends if you offered to escort the Queen and her ladies back to France, I can tell you. But that’s as unlikely as the Turks turning Christian. Still, good luck to you. You’re bold enough to succeed if any can.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Raoul said. “We will do as you suggest. We appreciate your kindness.”

  “I’m not going near the Count of Blois,” Gustave muttered to Raoul as they walked away. “Not after what happened at Christmas. He’d rather feed me to his dogs than welcome me to his command. Stupid old fool! Why doesn’t he admit he’s fat and old rather than trying to be a fearless warrior? I didn’t know he’d come on Crusade – but I should’ve guessed he would.”

  “Ah well, at least you got us breakfast, Raoul,” Pierre said. “I feel better for that, I don’t mind admitting.”

  “What about the Breton Count, Tréguier? Do you know him, Raoul?”

  They led their horses towards the far edge of the camp. The sun had broken through the clouds now and the ground steamed in its heat.

  “I’ve heard of him but I don’t know if I’ve seen him. Is that his banner over there?”

  “Must be,” said Pierre. “That’s the only other sizable troop.”

  Several hundred men were camped on the last stretch of flattish ground. Some still lay wrapped in their cloaks, trying to catch up on sleep after a wakeful night. Others cooked or played dice, huddled round smouldering camp-fires. Further off a line of horses and pack animals were tethered. Beyond were the steep wooded hills they had descended the evening before. Several tents had been erected but they were small and drab compared with those in the King’s camp.r />
  “I’m looking for the Count of Tréguier or the captain of his forces,” Raoul told the group of slovenly looking men squatting round the nearest fire.

  “Fetch his lordship, Paul,” one called to a slight youth who was polishing a helmet beside the entrance to a mud-stained tent. The soldier spat into the fire and looked up at the three newcomers. “Want to join us, do you?” He laughed and continued in Breton. “Not if we can help it.”

  Raoul smiled as if the man had made a pleasantry.

  Wiping his mouth on a linen napkin, the Count emerged and looked from his men to Raoul and his companions.

  “More layabouts trying to get a share of our fodder, my lord,” the man by the fire announced in Breton, getting slowly to his feet. His friends, perhaps eight or nine in number, did the same.

  “Is that right?” the Count asked.

  “I’m sorry, my lord, I’m afraid I didn’t catch what your man said.” He was aware that various foul looks were being cast their way and that one or two had actually drawn their daggers. “I understand you are in command of the Breton troops, my lord. My father’s family comes from Léon; I lived for some years near Vannes and although my childhood was spent in Normandy, my friends and I claim the right to offer you our swords and our service.”

  Pierre and Gustave exchanged glances. Raoul had told them nothing of his origins. In the tournament circuit there had been no need to do so.

  Tréguier belched.

  “And why should I want you?”

  “Occupying, as I see you do, the vulnerable rear position in the army, I expect your lordship would like to have the very best troops about you – to protect your person, and to win you glory – not to mention a good share of the booty...”