When the column stopped for its midday rest in a burned-out grove of trees, Albrecht, tortured by his failure to find and explain to the Lombard woman, dashed away to find her and learn how she and the child fared. Elias followed Albrecht, searching in vain until he finally found some of the people she traveled with. They would not meet Albrecht’s eyes.
“Where is Maria? Where is her mother?” he demanded in camp pidgin.
One older woman bowed her head and croaked, “Gone, my lord. Both of them.”
“Gone? What are you talking about? Not dead?” he said with mounting fear.
She shook her head. “You stopped bringing them water. She despaired.”
A young boy stepped forward. “When the Turks attacked last, she went out to them. She broke through the turtle and walked straight out toward the archers.”
Albrecht’s eyes frantically searched the country back the way they had come. “Why?”
The older woman put in, “Her child was dying. She wanted to get her water and food.”
“She gave herself to a heathen. He rode to her and leaned down and gathered her and the child up onto his horse.” The boy hesitated.
Catching the hesitation, Albrecht looked from the boy to the woman. “What happened?” he asked with dread.
Tears started to course down the woman’s cheeks. “The archer… he tore the child from her arms and flung her on the ground. I heard her scream. We wanted to go save the little mite, but the archers swooped down again.”
“I saw a horseman ride over the child.” The young boy’s voice caught on the words.
Albrecht stood before them, unable to move or speak. He slowly sank to his knees and lifted his hands to cover his face. A sound like a tortured animal came from him as he shook all over. The boy and woman exchanged looks and backed away.
Elias knelt by him and put his hands on his shoulders while they shook.
CONRAD RODE to where Elias and the knights stood about a campfire, miserably contemplating the lack of any sort of food but hard bread full of weevils. “Lads, this has become intolerable. Something has to give. The commanders are meeting tonight to make a decision. The count of Toulouse is going to recommend that we break through as directly as we can to the sea. There is a road along the shore back to Constantinople, and some may find ship’s passage.”
“Back to Constantinople?” one man questioned. “In disgrace? What then?”
“I know what I will do when we get back to Constantinople. That bastard, Alexios, will hear about—” a voice from among the knights vowed.
Conrad broke in, “Nay, it is too tempting to try to assign blame. We should not turn on the basileus. He is a Christian. We should leave all recriminations for—”
“The Lombard rabble! And that fat archdeacon leading them!” another voice shouted.
Conrad shook his head. “The Turks. They and they alone have brought us to this.”
Elias, his chain-mailed arms resting on his legs, looked to his left when he heard Ranulf’s derisive snort.
Ranulf saw his look and explained, “I would be hard-pressed to find a soul here not fit to blame. This has been a sorry mess from the start.”
Elias kept his eyes level on him, wanting to argue but unable to form a case in his mind. He looked back at Conrad, who was still standing before them, in heated debate with several knights.
Elias turned back to the mercenary. “How is Sebastiano?”
The big Italian was a casualty of the most recent Turkish attack. An arrow had made it through the shield wall when a man next to him had stumbled. The wound was in his thigh, the arrow removed cleanly, but he grew ever weaker no matter what was done for him.
Ranulf grimaced and shook his head. “The arrow was poisoned, I think. The leech cleaned the wound as best he could, then we got a healing woman from the Lombard contingent to look at it. It smells like bloody hell and is red and hot. There are blotches that the woman said show the poison is working its way down his leg.”
Elias sat up, slapped his hands on his knees, and rose. “Where is he?”
Glancing at Conrad, Ranulf stood. It was clear no more would be imparted until the leaders made their decision, that all Conrad was doing now was canvassing the men for his part in the deliberations. He gestured away from the fire with his head. “Over here.”
He led Elias a short distance away to another campfire. Albrecht, he saw, was there, as were Leif and Thomas. In their midst, shivering under several cloaks next to the fire, lay the Italian mercenary. His face, all that Elias could see of him, was ruddy, and sweat stood out on his forehead. His dark curly hair was plastered with sweat to his scalp. There was an inescapable smell of putrefaction. Elias went to his side and knelt.
“Sebastiano, my friend,” he murmured. He put his hand on Sebastiano’s where they lay on his chest. Elias knew better than to make empty reassurances. Sebastiano was dying.
Sebastiano opened his eyes, which had been squeezed shut against the poison that first centered in his leg but was spreading up and down it and into his groin. He looked at Elias and then stretched his head to find Ranulf’s face looming above. “What…?” was all he could get out.
Ranulf’s lips curled sardonically. “They are giving up. They are meeting this evening to decide what to do. Conrad said Toulouse wants to make a break for the sea.”
Sebastiano nodded. “About time,” he rasped. “Too late for me.”
No one contradicted him. They were all soldiers. Even the two from Winterkirche could not pretend the wound was not mortal. The poison had already overwhelmed Sebastiano’s remaining strength.
“Ranulf, make me a promise,” the prone man said with a note of pleading in his voice. “When you move on, leave me where I can prop myself against something with my sword in my hand. At least I can try to go out taking one of the hellspawn with me.”
“I will stay with you,” Leif began, his voice tight with the effort to keep grief out of it.
“No, you won’t,” Sebastiano said. “If you do, who will keep Thomas from talking everyone’s ears off?” He looked at the silent crossbowman, who had tears in his eyes. He reached out a feeble hand to try to grasp his. Thomas reached out to meet him halfway. Sebastiano clasped the man’s hand. He looked back to Ranulf. “Will you get me a priest?”
Ranulf nodded. Leif stood and stalked away.
“I’ll go,” Elias said, getting to his feet. “You stay with your friend.”
He found Father Cyril, a Serbian priest, threading his way through the Lombard peasants, taking confession, soothing fears, his face twisted with the anger he felt at the misery all about him. When Elias asked him to come, he finished what he was doing and followed him. He knelt by Sebastiano’s head.
“I have no consecrated wine or bread,” he admitted. “But I have trouble believing the Lord would deny you your place in heaven over such trivialities.” He leaned forward so Sebastiano could make his confession and receive extreme unction in privacy.
Elias could see the Italian’s lips move, speaking into Cyril’s ear, and Cyril nodded his head and made the sign of the cross.
He looked up at Ranulf, whose face was haggard. Thomas knelt nearby with his head bowed so low, his long dark hair covered his face. Elias put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, then did the same for Ranulf, who gazed back at him, his jaw taut, his eyes fiery, but he nodded.
IN THE morning, Sebastiano was dead. “We will not have to leave him behind, not alive, at least,” Ranulf commented. “Let’s get him buried. I do not want his body desecrated like the others we had to leave behind.” He glanced at Leif. “Is that the ring?” he asked, gesturing to a heavy object in the Dane’s hand.
“Yes, he wanted me to take it back to Italy and find his wife and give it to her.” He barked a derisive laugh. “He wants me to marry her and raise his children. What am I supposed to do with my own, I ask you?”
Elias looked from one mercenary’s face to the next. It had never occurred to him that these men
might have homes and families. He thought of Maliha and Tacetin, and a feeling of profound emptiness overtook him. He wondered if any of them would make it out alive.
But they were not able to do the honor for their comrade, for the knights refused them the time. In the end, they had to leave Sebastiano, stripped of any valuables, unable even to pile stones on his corpse. Leif refused to leave the body alone, but Ranulf drew his sword and threatened the Dane with it. Leif stomped away ahead of them, not even trying to hide the tears of rage and grief. Ranulf and Thomas exchanged sorrowful looks.
THE OXEN held out, but many of the packhorses and mules did not. Their desiccated flesh at least provided some sustenance to the starving pilgrims. Eating meat, unfortunately, increased the amount of water a body needed, so the blessing was mixed. To the number of those with heatstroke and dehydration were added those whose guts could not take the abuse. Some became so ill that they could no longer go on.
Black Beast told Elias and Albrecht to go easy on any food, especially meat, so they and the knights with whom they rode were spared the gripping nausea and voiding of bowels.
Elias had one less problem to deal with, besides. His monthly flux appeared to have stopped. After the pilgrims left Nicomedia, his already sparse monthly bleeding had become spottier, and now that they had been on the road for over a month, there was nothing. With a wan smile, Elias thought to himself, Not that a little blood would be out of place these days. Everyone reeked, but he was just as happy to do without that one telltale odor.
The relentless onslaught of archers every hour or so continued. It had occurred often enough now that few even grumbled, but rather, as soon as they heard the hoofbeats, got into the turtle and prepared to feel the impact of the hundreds of arrows yet another time.
They were caught off guard, therefore, when that afternoon, a large force of Turkish horsemen swept in at the column’s van from both sides. The desultory move to turtle formation broke when, instead of flights of arrows from thirty feet away, a new tactic was employed. This time, screaming, attacking Turks with pikes and swords followed the arrows. The men in the van, the Burgundian knights and men-at-arms, were delayed in getting into more accustomed order to fight one-on-one. They held off the swarm of Turks for a short time, and then panic set in. To the Burgundian commanders’ mutual horror, they watched as first a few knights, and then almost the entire remainder, turned their horses and fled rearward. Stephen screamed himself hoarse calling the knights back, but they were long out of earshot. They were forced to retreat as well, left as part of only a tiny company of mounted warriors.
The Turks unaccountably did not go after the fleeing knights. Instead, Elias watched as they fell on the infantry, who had been left behind when the faster horses carried their riders away. As Elias assumed would happen, left as they were without their knightly commanders, confusion made what defensive effort the men managed useless, and the Turkish pikes spitted men through their leather and metal gabardines. Turkish swords rose and fell to cleave helms and shoulders. Elias’s horror made him tremble. He wanted to turn away so he would not see the few men who tried to follow their knights on their own two feet feel Turkish steel in their backs.
Whipping his head to see what the mounted men had done, Elias saw with what difficulty the apparently fleeing Burgundy rallied his panicking knights, turned them back to the fore, and fell on the Turks. They beat them off, but Elias could see it was too late. Not a single infantryman survived the unexpected attack. The Burgundian knights sat astride their heaving destriers, staring unbelievingly about them at the bodies of every man who had come with them across Europe and on ship to Constantinople.
Elias felt his heart fall when he realized other parts of the column would experience this new type of attack, interspersed with swooping archers’ flights of arrows, for the rest of the day, but no further panic occurred to decimate the ranks of pilgrims, now barely over five of the initial six thousand.
FINALLY, AHEAD of them, the pilgrims began to see mountains. At first, the idea of having to climb dispirited them even further, but when someone said Kastamonu was just north of the first range of hills and that there were passes, the hubbub among soldiers and peasants alike began to convey some hope. At the same time, the attacks by mounted archers slowed to a trickle and then stopped. When the first forage parties in days were able to go out and bring back a modicum of food, and others came back with water from waterfalls, the elation was palpable.
Raymond called his commanders, as well as the leaders of the Lombardy clergy, together at a camp at the junction of the valley they had ridden through for the past week or more, one that funneled between hills to the east.
He put his case forthrightly. “We cannot, simply cannot go on to Nixtar. We must break through to the Black Sea and regroup and start again south from Constantinople.”
Hugh of Montebello protested, earning Raymond’s baleful glare. “But what about Bohemond?”
With a long-suffering sigh, Raymond replied, “We won’t make it as far as where he is held. We can do more for the bas—” Conrad’s glance made the man veer in a different direction. “Do more for my lord Bohemond from Constantinople.”
Stephen of Blois said, “For all we know, the basileus has already arranged for the ransom. We could get there and find the man already rescued.”
“Well, we can’t just head north,” Guibert objected.
Conrad spoke up. “Of course, we will scout the passes first to be sure they are not full of ambushes.”
Guibert shook his head. “That is not what I was going to say.”
Elias, now almost a permanent shadow of the constable, looked over as Raymond broke in hurriedly, “We can get better news of Bohemond in Kastamonu.”
Hugh looked at him. “Is Kastamonu in Byzantine hands?”
“No, it is not. We shall have to take it,” Raymond said with resolution.
Someone among the lesser lords remarked, “Alexios would like that!”
Raymond’s one eye flashed. “Yes, he would. And so will you when you see the booty you can come away with.”
An interested murmur filled the space where the knights met. Finally, something of what they had come for.
“And food. And wine. And women!” someone else piped up.
Ludovico put a damper on the enthusiastic response to these rewards. “My sons, there will be no wine. They are Muslims. And I should remind you all that you are holy pilgrims. You pledged yourself to chastity.”
A few sniggers were all that broke the embarrassed silence.
Conrad hesitated, then cleared his throat and ventured, “My lord, are we in any condition to lay siege to the fortress?”
Mixed agreement and disapproval met the constable as he waited for Toulouse’s response. Raymond grimaced. “We shall have to scout it out and see. If not, it is but a short way beyond it to the sea. And that is Byzantine controlled.”
The murmuring changed to general approval.
“My lord of Burgundy,” Raymond said, directing his glance to Stephen. “I shall want you to put together a scouting party to check out the passes that run north to Kastamonu and thence to the sea.”
The nobleman saluted and turned to leave the gathering. The voice of Archdeacon Ludovico held them back.
“Should we not, my lords, also scout the way to the east? It seems to me that it is God’s will that we not abandon….”
“Bohemond. We get it. The jackass got himself captured. Why do we have to rescue him?” The hand Conrad placed on Raymond’s arm was shaken loose.
“I just said it. It is God’s will. Or does that not rank as high as your own, my lord of Toulouse?” Ludovico snapped.
Conrad leaned and spoke into the high commander’s ear. Raymond nodded. “All right, we will scout in that direction as well. But it makes no sense to delay our arrival at the sea, so only several leagues into the valley. Then come right back,” he said directly to Conrad, who clicked his heels and bowed assent.
&nbs
p; The two parties, led by Burgundy and Conrad, headed north into the mountain pass and east into the wide valley, respectively. Elias and Albrecht, as well as the three knights they had met in Mölk, were part of the constable’s scouting party. When, as light was fading, the German contingent returned to the main camp after learning very little of the way east, it found the camp in an uproar. Conrad spurred his horse as quickly as he could to the command tent. Elias and Albrecht returned to their own campfire. They found a haggard Ranulf waiting for them there.
“Thank God,” he called when they, after leaving their horses with the grooms who picketed them, strode up to him. “Thank God you are both safe.”
“What is it, Ranulf? What has happened?” Elias went to where the waterskins lay under a clay pot and, taking one out, unstoppered it and brought the skin to his lips. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his cloak and handed the skin to Albrecht.
“The Burgundians sent to scout the pass… they were ambushed. Dozens were killed. Knights and the Lombard infantry that went with them.” Ranulf made the sign of the cross on his chest.
Elias and Albrecht stood motionless and stared at him. “What sort of ambush?” Elias finally asked lamely.
“Archers again, on both sides. They let them ride in amongst them and then let fly.”
Albrecht asked, “Stephen of Burgundy?”
“Made it back alive, though he had a fall from his horse and is recuperating in his tent. Nothing broken, or so I hear. Just banged up badly.” Ranulf shrugged. “I wonder what the commanders will decide to do.”
Seeing Conrad and his aides striding purposefully away from their horses, Elias hurried to join them.
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