by Tony Roberts
“Right, let’s get the horses out on deck and onto land.” Casca hitched his sword higher on his belt, slinging the strap over his shoulder, baldric style, and waved to the Pechenegs to fetch their mounts. The sailors threw ropes onto the jetty and a group of soldiers jumped over the side onto the stonework, warily watching the Turks in the distance who made little effort to contest their taking of the jetty. The ship was made fast and the wooden gangplanks thrown out. Casca was one of the first out, sword in hand, and he ran to the end of the jetty and waved the sailors and soldiers to keep a covering barrage going. He didn’t want the Turks getting close.
Arrows were flying in both directions but the crossbows on the ships, and the deck-mounted ballistae from the two other ships drove the mounted archers away from the jetty, and the Pechenegs disembarked in grateful groups, glad to be off the lurching ship. Already some were looking better.
Asem came down the nearest walkway, leading both his and Casca’s horses. He mounted up first and waited until Casca got in the saddle. “Right, form a screen further towards the village,” Casca advised his junior officer, eyeing the smoking ruins of what had once been a habitable settlement. “We’ll have to see what’s left over there, no doubt. Mav, you take half the men and see if you can drive those vultures away from the castle. They don’t look capable of taking it, anyway.”
The two officers divided the men between them equally and the Pechenegs galloped inland, loosing off arrows at the half-hearted Turks. The enemy, seeing how many men were waiting to land, decided discretion was the better part of valor and galloped off in the direction of the castle, no doubt to report the strength of the imperial forces.
Casca rode in the wake of the Pechenegs and reached the top of the slope that led from the shoreline. The land opened out before him and he took stock of the undergrowth off to the right, near the castle. Good ambush territory there, just the sort of thing the Turks specialized in. He called one of the marine officers over. The man came running, his eyes shining with excitement, followed by a squad of archers and a couple of siphoners.
“See that brush there, by the gully?”
“Sir,” the marine nodded.
“Burn it. Don’t want any unwelcome surprises.”
The two siphoners stepped forward, flanked by the archers who watched for any danger, and pressed the stoppers on their brass tubes. Gouts of flame shot out from the muzzles and engulfed the bushes in a mass of burning liquid. As the undergrowth charred and blackened, screams could be heard and a knot of Turks came staggering out, dropping their bows, covered in flames. They fell one by one and shriveled before the Greeks’ eyes. Some Pechenegs came galloping past, interested in the action, and watched fascinated at the unusual weapon as the marines stepped forward and repeated the process, burning the rest of the undergrowth.
Casca looked at the charred lumps that once were men with distaste. His own memory of being burned alive resurfaced and his guts turned over. A bad way to go but at least it had saved the lives of a few of his men. And now their flank was secure, he waved his Pechenegs on. He waved his thanks to the marines and galloped off in the direction of the castle.
As he neared, he could see it was a typical imperial construction, with circular towers, curtain walls, and was constructed of stone and brick bands. The gates and windows were ruined but had been stopped with a variety of items in a desperate last-ditch effort to keep the Turks out. At the approach of the Pechenegs who were letting loose a withering curtain of missiles at the disconcerted Turks, the besiegers turned and fled, leaving those inside the castle to be delivered from danger.
Casca rode up to the gatehouse and lifted off his helmet so those inside could see he was no Turk. “You are saved,” he yelled in Frankish, “the forces of Emperor Alexius have arrived!”
A face appeared in a hole high up and peered at him for a moment. “Thank God,” he replied. “You have arrived just in time.” He vanished and Casca could hear shouting, followed by screams of relief, weeping and cheers, all intermingled. The smell of death and burning mingled and Casca looked to the landward horizon.
The land rose there and the distant Turks could be seen gathering, possibly discussing whether to attack or retreat. Casca motioned to Asem and Mav to make sure the Pechenegs were alert and to maintain their screen. By now some of the sailors and marines were arriving, amazed that the old castle had held out. The furnishings blocking the gateway were being pulled away from inside and in moments the first of the grateful occupants came tumbling out, almost incoherent with relief.
Casca dismounted and allowed the first six or seven to embrace him, delighted they had been saved. He got a garbled tale of how the Turks had suddenly attacked the village, scattering the soldiers and slaughtering people at will. Thousands had died, and hundreds more taken away into slavery. Casca wondered what the hell had happened to the rest of them, and how they had been defeated so easily.
One of the men informed him that Geoffrey Burel was in command. The rest were either dead or wounded – or missing. Casca thanked him and pushed into the castle, brushing aside those eager to get out. The scattered stones and bodies inside told their own story, and some of the survivors sat where they had sunk in relief and were now openly crying, the shock of what had happened over the past few days finally bursting over them.
Casca gave a few words of comfort to a couple before looking up and around. He saw Burel standing on one of the walls, looking at the relief force with an unreadable expression. “Hey, you, Burel! I want a word!”
The Frank stiffened at the tone in Casca’s voice and glared down at him. “Speak to me with respect when you address me, Greek!”
“You deserve no respect from me. You commanded a disaster. You’re unfit to command anything! Look at the mess you caused.”
Burel threw a stone he had in his hand down with force and stamped along the walkway to the opening that led to the tower next to him. A moment or so later he appeared in the courtyard, a thunderous expression on his face. He came stalking up to Casca and drew his fist back, intending to strike Casca across the face, a humiliating gesture. Casca caught the man’s wrist as it began to strike and held him fast. Burel, enraged, swung his other gauntleted fist but this, too, was held fast. His brown eyes met Casca’s light blue, and he saw nothing but determination and steel behind them. And there was something else, too. Something Burel could not identify for certain, but it was something terrible and overpowering. The Frenchman sank to his knees as his strength gave way and he knelt at Casca’s feet.
A few of the knights with Burel began to move across the courtyard but Casca’s Pechenegs who had entered the castle drew back their bows and waited for their commander’s word to stick them. Casca shook his head and looked down at Burel. “Tell your men to surrender their arms to my men, or they will die. Your crusade is over, Burel.”
The Frenchman bowed his head and was helped up by Casca’s hand bunching his collar. “Tell them, damn you!”
“Yield,” Burel said shakily. The events of the past few days had overwhelmed him. “Lower your arms.”
The knights, confused, did so, not understanding what was going on. Surely these Greeks were fellow Christians? Surely they were here to fight the infidel Muslims? Then why were they angry and aggressive towards good Christians?
Casca turned Burel around. “You’re coming with me.” He looked at his men. “Disarm the Franks; lead them to the ships. Feed them, give them water, but they are not to stay here.”
Burel looked at Casca in bafflement as he was forcibly pulled along out of the castle. His eyes were red-rimmed, his stubble dusty and flecked with spittle. He had fought hard, all seemingly to no avail. The smoke from the burning bushes billowed up high into the air, filling their mouths and noses with an acrid stench. Pechenegs rode slowly from one end of their screening patrol to the other, watching the countryside, while more Greeks under Katakalon came marching up to assist with the rescue of the dazed and bewildered crusaders. Most of
them seemed to be women and children, and they were weeping for their lost ones. It would be a huge effort to get them all onto the ships, but they would have to before night came, for the Turks would return.
“I want you to understand what your so-called leadership has achieved, Burel,” Casca growled, dragging him towards the ruins of Civetot. The land fell away from the rise the castle was resting upon, and it wasn’t long before the bodies were reached. From their attitude and position, it looked as if many had been cut down fleeing for the castle.
Casca pulled Burel to a halt and the two men stood on the edge of the settlement, looking across a scene of carnage. Thousands of corpses lay all about. The ground was soaked in blood, and flies lay all over the ground and on the bodies. Some were black with the swarms, and were literally crawling. Casca held his breath; the stench was overpowering.
Burel’s lower lip trembled; he gazed at the dead, then turned around. “I’ve seen enough,” he said in a dry, whispering voice.
“Then listen to me well. Your Crusade was a mess. You were unprepared, ill-led, woefully lacking in plans. What the hell did you think you could achieve?”
Burel looked at Casca in amazement. “God’s will!”
“Is this God’s will? The death of all these women and children? No – it was your doing! You’re a disgrace. Your part in this sorry affair is over, but the legacy will last long after you are gone. We’re returning to Constantinople.”
“But-but what of the Muslims? You must punish them!”
“In time, Burel, and without your – dubious assistance. But we must plan, must have enough men who can fight, and be led by decent generals. There were none of these things in your Crusade. Let’s go.”
They stumbled back towards the shore and cleaner air. Asem came up on horseback, looking worriedly over to the horizon. “Sir, Turks are gathering in the distance.”
“Are they, by God? Well, they’ll get a nasty shock if they try anything. Get this man to the ship and then form a skirmish line on this ridge top. We’ll be the last to leave, and we’ll only go once everyone’s been rescued. I’m going to the castle.”
Leaving a lost-looking Burel with Asem, Casca began making his way back to the castle, but saw a figure off to the left, searching the bodies close to Civetot. Tutting in annoyance, he trotted towards the figure, a woman, bent over one particular corpse, a soldier with a terrible wound down the side. He heard the sobbing long before he got there, and guessed it was the woman’s loved one.
“Madame, please, we must go,” he said softly, looking down at the bowed dark head. The long hair of the woman fell untidily over her face and onto the wasted features of the dead man, dressed in the standard armor that could be found in northern Francia or Normandy; the mail hauberk, a tunic of leather, a cloth overcoat and the conical helm with the nasal guard. He looked as if he had been one of the better armored men in the army but it hadn’t saved him from the downward slash of a Turk’s curved sword.
The woman merely remained where she was, weeping as if her heart was breaking, which, Casca guessed, wasn’t too far from the truth. A couple of his Pechenegs circled watchfully just out of ear shot, looking from time to time at the distant Turks. It seemed some had made their way deeper into the interior where Nicaea lay, and since that was the Turkish capital, they may be asking for reinforcements. The city lay perhaps thirty miles away, along the Dracon valley, a steep, heavily wooded river feature, so it was unlikely any new arrivals would get here before the new day.
Night was beginning to fall as the refugees were being herded down to the jetty and the waiting ships, and the men were getting nervous. All very well having more men in daylight, but darkness turned the odds on their heads, especially when fighting on enemy territory. “Madame, please.” He put his hand on her shoulder and she shuddered, flinching.
“Please leave me here,” she said between sobs.
“I cannot. The Turks will be back. We’re leaving. I won’t let you become just another of their slaves.”
“My husband is dead,” she said in an empty, toneless voice. “I care not what happens anymore.”
Casca took her by the arm, pulling her up. He swung her up and over his shoulder, and walked away from the scene of slaughter, the woman crying and otherwise doing nothing. Just another widowed female. War did that in spadefuls. The Pechenegs retreated too, escorting Casca down towards the boats. The refugees were being loaded onto the two other ships with Casca’s lying slightly off-shore, guarding the embarkation. Torches were being lit to light the way now the day was fading.
It was getting cold. Casca put the woman down near the shore and stood over her as she huddled herself, sat without a care at his feet. He asked for his horse to be brought and kept a watch. Mav arrived with his mount and reported that the castle was now empty. Casca nodded and ordered him to bring the Pechenegs back towards the shore.
Peter’s Crusade was finished.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Her name was Giselle de Doumanche. Small, dark, with full lips, brown eyes and dark, curling hair that dropped to her shoulders. She had been married three years but with no children, and her late husband, Walter de Doumanche, had been the second son of a minor noble in Soissons. With no prospect of inheriting land any time soon, he had taken the cross in order to find some land out east, like many who had joined up with enthusiasm.
Giselle had gone along with him. They had sold what possessions they had in Soissons, which didn’t appear to be that much, and Walter had even time to pick an argument with his father and brother before they went. His brother was going to join Hugh’s crusade, since Soissons lay in his territory, while his father wished for one of them to stay in case neither came back.
It all seemed quite acrimonious and Walter had vowed never to return. Now he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t even have a grave to mark his fall. Not that running away from battle was worthy of note, but perhaps some time in the future a relative might wish to see where he had fallen.
Giselle, having nothing now in the world, stuck to Casca’s side and, not having the heart to tell her to go away, he took her in and gave her a room of her own at the back, overlooking the land walls. Casca’s room overlooked the Golden Horn which was much more picturesque but Giselle wasn’t interested in anything much at that point. She was pretty depressed and still in shock.
Over the next couple of weeks Casca managed to get out of her what exactly had happened after Nicomedia. The nobles had taken over, forcing Peter into a minor role, one of spiritual use only. The Crusade had fractured at that point; the Germans marching on ahead with the French-Franks tagging along behind until they got to Civetot. From there the Germans had plundered the land all round Nicaea, even, according to Giselle, killing the villagers and eating children. Casca thought this fanciful and a little bit too much propagandist, but he let that go.
From Nicaea the Sultan sent an army out to bring an end to the slaughter and bottled the Germans up in a castle called Xerigordon and in eight days had forced their surrender, enslaving those who converted to Islam and slaughtering those who didn’t. The news had panicked the French and many had advised a retreat but Burel was hard-headed and, with the support of the rank and file, ordered an advance down the Dracon Valley. The Turks had ambushed them and driven them back in confusion to Civetot where they had overwhelmed the remaining crusaders and that was that.
All very distressing. Casca shook his head at the appalling ineptitude of the crusaders. No wonder they had been wiped out.
He carried on supervising the setting up of the camp sites. By now word had reached the palace that the armies of the crusading nobility were on the move. Already one of the leaders, Hugh of Vermandois, the liege of the de Doumanche family, had arrived, minus any soldiers. Apparently he’d been shipwrecked crossing over from southern Italy and had been escorted to Constantinople where Alexius was even now being the perfect host. Casca hadn’t seen him or had even got any official notification of it, but he’d heard through th
e more reliable grapevine. If the emperor wished to keep Hugh’s arrival as secret as possible, that was his affair.
Casca had been officially told however of the first army marching towards the Empire, that of the northern Franks under Godfrey of Bouillon, Duke of Lower Lorraine, along with his two brothers Eustace, Count of Boulogne, and Baldwin, plus a host of lesser lords and nobles. They had entered Hungary and were making their way down the Danube valley towards Belgrade, the frontier town of the Empire. Alexius had ordered the imperial officials there to arrange the smooth transfer of the army down the old roads to Thrace where Casca and his Pechenegs would take over and escort them to the camp. They were expected to arrive in Thrace around the beginning of December, but of course this was always subject to change.
While he was tackling the headache of supplies and other logistics, he took the opportunity of questioning Giselle about Godfrey. She shrugged and merely said he was her overlord and that she and her late husband had been expected to do as they were bid should he ask. She had never met him. It was during the time he asked her about Godfrey that he became aware of something she was keeping about her in her pockets, something she clearly was guarding secretly.
“Giselle, what is it you’ve got there under your cloak? You’ve been fiddling with it all the time and looking to see if I’ve noticed anything. Every time I look away you check to see if it’s there. It’s irritating me.”
Giselle went red-faced and tight lipped.
“Oh, come on, Giselle, don’t go all silent on me! I’ve taken you in and cared for you. If you’ve got something there I need to know about you could at least do me the honor in letting me know. I have no idea what it is but you’re crapping yourself in case anyone sees it.”