There was a rustle behind me. I was sitting close to a patch of dead reeds and I turned, expecting to find one of the ominous spirit-birds studying me. Instead I found myself looking into a pair of red-streaked eyes set in a hollowed-out face. No, not hollowed: deflated. For these features had once adorned a plump, well-fed man who had, through misfortune not hard to guess at, become very thin all at once. The loose skin, emptied of its fat, hung in useless wattles along his jaw and under his chin. His cheeks were scabbed with fly bites, but when he moistened his lips with his tongue I noticed that his gums were still pink. Then something in the curve of the man’s diminished nose gave him away.
‘Matthieu d’Allaines!’ I croaked. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ The man flinched, and I saw that he was gripping the hilt of a short sword, and that the point was trembling in the air between us. I stood up and leaned the point of my own shimmering blade into the ground between us. ‘I thought I had left you behind in Damietta. And am I to suppose you came here to find me?’
Father Matthieu opened his wasted lips but no sound came from them save a gluey smacking as he tried to force words through the dry vault of his mouth. His knuckles were white around the hilt of his sword and without thinking I looked quickly about me, seeing if, should I run this monstrous creature through and kick him into the reeds, anyone would bear witness. There were many people milling around, but all in the same fevered trance. I knew that, unless they were roused, hardly a man in the camp could think of anything but the pain in his mouth or the clawing in his guts. I had only to lift my sword … But at that moment a ragged black shape detached itself from a knot of pikemen and scuttled towards us, and Father Matthieu, with a throttled moan of rage, stepped back and slid his sword into its sheath. Hurrying over was a friar I recognised, a simple fellow from Rouen, and he smiled happily at me as he took Matthieu by the shoulder.
‘My prodigal! Indeed, my prodigy!’ he exclaimed, shaking him feebly. ‘Sir knight, you have met the wonder of our army,’ he said to me. ‘This noble brother has come from Damietta to share the suffering of our pious king. He was caught by the blockade but threw himself into the river and hid on … on an eyot, is that right, brother? Hid there for weeks until he could slip past the heathen brutes. And so he has won through … a miracle, and miracles are sorely needed here, are they not? They are! Amen!’
‘So you did not go back to Rome,’ I said, eyeing the wrecked figure before me. ‘Tell me, how do you fare, brother Matthieu? Have you eaten many eels? You look like a man who has feasted on our delicious Nile eels, I think.’
‘Yes, I have eaten eels,’ he rasped, finding his voice at last. ‘And frogs, beetles, many crawling, scrabbling things.’ His voice was stiff with loathing. ‘No, not many – few, very few.’
‘Then you must eat something more wholesome. Here.’ I opened my purse with my left hand, keeping my right loose on my sword hilt, and fished out ten silver livres. These I gave to the priest from Rouen. ‘Buy this brave fellow meat and wine – whatever he desires.’
Matthieu’s bleared eyes widened, and the desiccated muscles of his face twitched this way and that, like lodestones in an iron mine, between the attractions of hatred and hunger.
Chapter Nineteen
5 April 1250
‘I’m going,’ said Jean. He was pale as dirty ivory and he could speak in nothing but a throttled hiss. ‘The king has ordered us to retreat or die. I think the choice is …’
‘There are Saracen galleys between us and Damietta,’ I said. It was the second Tuesday after Easter, two days after Louis had spoken to us, and now the king, who had the flux so badly that the seat of his breeches had been cut away, had finally decided to retreat. There had been some horse-trading with the Saracen queen, but we were in no position to negotiate anything. And so we were going to try and win through to Damietta.
‘Of course. Either way we die,’ said Joinville. I could smell the reek of scorbutus on his breath, and his gums were mottled black. ‘But I would prefer to die in action, and not have my throat slit like a sheep. Will you come with me?’
I looked around at the remains of the Christian camp. The sun was going down, and the ragged clouds were turning black against a pink sky. Acres of churned, sandy mud, trampled reeds, filthy rivulets were pocked with the figures of men, some standing in dejected groups, others crawling, still others lying motionless. Louis had ordered that great bonfires should be lit to guide the sick, those who could still move, to the galleys, that had been trapped when the Saracens blocked the river. The smoke was beginning to rise, and already a clamour was going up from the ships. On the other side of the river, the Saracens were shooting arrows into them, idly, as if this were nothing more than a fairground. Meanwhile, men were scrambling aboard, many losing their footing or, too weak to haul themselves over the sides, dropping into the churned slurry of the Nile. The sailors were screaming at them, urging their comrades on, but they too were crippled with scorbutus and the flux. It was a terrible scene: an army utterly defeated, in arms, in body and in spirit.
‘And the king?’ I asked Jean, who had sunk down onto his haunches, his knees shaking with fatigue. I could barely stand upright myself. My guts were in a constant roil, and the flux had scoured and seared my body until there was little left of me but the constant urge to shit. I reeked. We all did, from the king down to the blacksmith. Living skeletons, all of us, plastered with our own dung, spitting our teeth out, dropping dead in the midst of a sentence. And always, across the river, the gaudy, shining tents of the Saracens mocked us, and the Saracens themselves, sturdy, healthy and upright, goaded us with words and picked us off with arrows.
‘The king is determined to be in the rearguard,’ said Jean. He coughed, and the coughing turned into a spasm of vomiting. When he looked up, there were angry tears in his eyes. ‘I would stay with him, but I would like to die with my men. I owe them that much.’
‘Perhaps you will get through,’ I said. ‘Since you mention debt, we are owed a little luck, don’t you think?’
It was a feeble jest, but Jean gave a croaking laugh. ‘Will you come with me?’ he asked again. I shook my head.
‘I will stay with the king,’ I told him. ‘I speak a little Saracen, and I think my sword arm still works.’
‘Then God bless you!’ He put out his hand and I pulled him upright. We embraced, and I could feel the bones beneath my clothes jarring against him.
‘I will see you in Damietta,’ I said.
‘If the Lord wills it,’ he answered, and turning away he stumbled off towards a galley that had just hoisted the arms of Champagne to its masthead.
I found Louis standing with Geoffroy de Sargines in the flickering light of one of the bonfires. The sun was gone, and the galleys were going too, drifting down the river, rowed by men too feeble to walk, let alone wield an oar. There was an uproar in the Saracen camp, but over our own a thick silence hung, broken only by the groans of the dying, and the furtive chink of weapons being checked. Almost nobody was left save the knights of the rearguard, who were clustered around their horses. I recognised Philippe de Montfort, and he saluted me with a hollow smile.
‘Sir Petrus!’ said the king, jovially. He was leaning on the arm of a young page, and looked almost childlike himself, for sickness seemed to have burned his years from him and he seemed, in the eerie light, to be no more substantial than a starved child wearing stolen finery. I hated him then, for his jollity in the face of this great ruin his pious dreams had brought to us, but I found that I loved him too, for he suffered and tried to hide it, not from pride, I knew, but because he could not bear to distress his people. Inside its amulet, Earl Richard’s letter seemed to tug at my neck. I pictured Richard, and Cardinal John, and Innocent himself, all clean and scrubbed, calmly planning the betrayal of this man, and I silently cursed them all to the slowly turning spits of eternal damnation. But the letter still hung like a brick beneath my tunic. It seemed obvious to me, plain as the agonising gaps in my tee
th, that we were going to be captured – that is if we weren’t butchered, which seemed far more likely. What would happen if the Saracens themselves found the letter? I would still be a traitor to Louis, but what would the Mussulmen think of an infidel carrying a letter to a dead sultan? I could think of nothing to comfort myself save the thought that, if my crime came to light, I would most probably be dead.
‘Are you riding, Your Majesty?’ I asked, trying to match his cheery tone and falling short.
‘I am,’ he said. ‘We are waiting for Gautier de Châtillon and then we shall be on our way.’
‘Might I join you?’
‘By all means, dear man!’
‘Then I shall go and find a horse.’
‘Have this one.’ Geoffroy de Sargines came out of the dusk leading three horses: two chargers and a small straw-coloured cob draped in a caparison of blue silk. To my slight relief he handed me the reins of one of the chargers. ‘I brought this for Pierre de Baugy, but he appears to have died.’
‘And I shall ride this little beast,’ said the king. ‘Look, when I fall off I shall not hurt myself too much, eh?’ He was not joking, I saw, for when the page and I hoisted him into the saddle he could not sit upright but laid his head against the horse’s pale mane. More than ever he looked like a dying child. I exchanged a glance with Geoffroy.
‘Is my lord able to ride at all?’ I whispered to him.
‘That is as you see,’ he answered. ‘I believe he will not live to see the morning, but we cannot leave him.’
‘No.’ There was nothing more to be said. I pulled myself aboard my own horse with difficulty. I had become very weak, more than I had realised, and the effort caused my guts to let go once again. But no one noticed my soiled breeches. Every one of us was caked in his own shit, and the stench of the sorry remains of our crusade rose above us like invisible smoke, and mingled with the black fumes of our burning camp. Our gaunt, sore-pocked faces flickered in the firelight. We looked like minor demons in some corner of a painted hell.
Gautier de Châtillon came up with a pitifully small group of knights. We made off at a jog-trot along the bank. There were screams coming from behind us now. The emir’s men had fallen upon the camp and were making prisoners of anyone left behind, though from the noise it was plain that they were slaughtering those too sick or hurt to walk. The night around us was full of motion: the galloping of hooves on unseen paths through the reeds; the splash of oars on the river; horrible screams, drums and jubilation from the Saracen camp; the whirr of unaimed arrows and the whirr of bats. I do not know how long we rode, save that the night became blacker. For a little time we were alone, but then the first Saracen appeared on the path ahead and charged us. Perhaps he did not realise that we were so strong a party, for he tried to rein in at the last moment, but too late: de Châtillon’s sword took him in the chest and his horse fled snorting into the reeds.
But we were discovered. From the direction of the camp, a horseman came galloping up, came within a spear-thrust of the last man and turned back. In a little while we heard hooves again, and a large party of Saracens mounted on ponies came charging towards us. Some were holding torches which lit only their armour and clothes, so it seemed as if we were being attacked by faceless, yelling apparitions. De Châtillon gave a barked command and his men wheeled, put spears to shoulders and turned, spurring their horses down the path on either side of the king, who slumped, all but oblivious, in his saddle, propped up by Philippe de Montfort, who rode alongside. I drew my own sword, which I could barely lift, but by the time I had turned my horse the fight was over. The Saracens had met our charge and one was rolling limply down the river bank, but the others had drawn off and were pulling out their bows. Dropped torches had set the dried reeds alight. We set off again, faster this time. An arrow whizzed past me and struck de Montfort in the back. He cursed and scrabbled for it: the head had not pierced the leather of his hauberk. Another arrow bounced off my shoulder, and one struck my horse in the flank. In half a minute we were out of deadly range, but one of de Châtillon’s men was dying in his saddle, two others were shot through and groaning, and every one of us had arrows bristling out of hauberks and shields.
‘How is the king?’ called Geoffroy.
‘He lives,’ answered Philippe de Montfort. And that was all we learned, for at that moment fierce cries burst upon us and a large force of Saracens crashed through the reeds on our right flank.
There was pandemonium. I glimpsed de Montfort grabbing the bridle of the king’s horse and spurring his own mount into an exhausted canter. Then a fluted mace struck my shield and lodged there. As its owner was tugging it free I beat him on the turban with my sword until he let go. A horse and a man shrieked together as they fell into the river. I slashed at my attacker but he was already gone. Torches had set light to more drifts of dead reeds. A hand grabbed the hood of my mail shirt, jerking the collar hard against my Adam’s apple. I thrust my sword under my left arm and struck something yielding. There was a yelp and an oath and the hand let go. I raked my spurs against the bony flanks of my horse and set off after the king. I could just see the blue silk of his mount’s caparison gleaming in the light from the wildfire that was flaring around us. Philippe de Montfort was with him, and Geoffroy de Sargines, and they were galloping up the path wrapped in a pall of dust.
‘The king! The king!’ I shouted, but my voice was almost gone, and the effort made my throat burn. How long since I had drunk anything? A Saracen came at me and I swung my sword at him. He made his horse rear and laughed at me over its neck.
‘You bastard!’ I croaked. He was out of reach, fitting an arrow to the string of his short, curved bow. Kicking one more spasm of effort from my beast, I went at him and caught his arm with my shield just as he had brought his bow up to shoot. The arrow flew into the air but my shield slipped between bow and string and tangled me. I punched him in the face with the hilt of my sword and tried to free my shield arm but he would not let go of the bow and I was too close to stab him so I let go of the shield straps and let my arm slip out. Surprised in mid-pull, the Saracen jerked backwards and I stuck my sword into his shoulder, not a deep wound, but he cried out and fell under his horse, taking my shield with him.
‘Damn you, damn you,’ I was chanting under my breath. My head was spinning and my arms were suddenly as heavy as if they were sausage skins filled with sand. I had been cut somewhere on the head, for I could feel something warm trickling down my neck and back, but I did not remember the blow. The king and his companions were out of sight. ‘Oh, God,’ I moaned. I had to follow Louis. I had nowhere else to go. It was a terrible thought, but at that moment a sheet of flame sprang up in front of me as a whole thicket of reeds caught fire. The wounded Saracen screamed and his horse jumped through the fire. My own horse, terrified by the flames, gave a piercing whinny and flung herself after it. For an instant I was engulfed in searing red and orange, cupped in a fire-giant’s hand, the fingers closing around me. Then I was out in the night once more, hurtling down the narrow path, the river on my left, darkness on my right. And then my horse stumbled.
I felt myself flying through the air at an unearthly speed, faster than anything I had known before. The ground suddenly appeared. I remember seeing one broken reed stalk in perfect detail. And then nothing.
I opened my eyes to find men all around me. Some on horses, for hooves were stamping close to my head. Men were barking at one another in Arabic, but my skull was empty of anything save amazed pain and I could not make out their words. Someone kicked me as he passed. Then a face appeared above me. It was the man I had wounded, who had taken my shield. He bent down and stared into my face. There was blood all over the front of his tunic, and one of his arms was thrust into a sling fashioned from a sword belt.
‘Sorry,’ I said in English. His eyes narrowed. Then he punched me hard in the face and I lost the world again.
When I came to, it was the thin, dishwater light of early dawn in the delta of the Ni
le. I was lying among other men, some sitting, others sprawled or curled up around their pain and exhaustion. Six of us in all. We were near the river, and I guessed I had been dragged a little way from where I had fallen, for the reeds were not burned here. There was a knot of Saracens nearby, leaning on long spears. Weapons bristled from their belts, and one man was seated on the ground holding a bow with an arrow knocked to the string. He was lazily drawing the arrow back and forth, aiming it at one prisoner, then another. I looked at my new companions. None of us was bound, but we had all been stripped of our weapons and armour. But the amulet still hung, with Iselda’s stag, against my raw breastbone. One young man was almost naked except for a breechclout, and he sat shivering, streaked with blood and his own dung, trying to rock some warmth into his bones. I recognised one of Gautier de Châtillon’s knights, but no one else. No one, save for a short, hollow-cheeked man with a dirty rag bound turban-wise round his head. He turned to watch the man with the bow and I saw the white scar on his nose. Matthieu d’Allaines. Damn him: had he followed me? And in Lucifer’s name, with so many good men dead, how had he lived?
We sat there in silence, save for the moans of the wounded. The sun began to rise, and soon afterwards a Saracen nobleman rode up on a beautifully furnished pony. He made it prance around us while he studied our faces. Some cringed, some hung their heads. I looked up at him, but the effort hurt my head. He was talking to the guards, and then he rode off down the river bank. Immediately the guards strutted over to where we sat, spears levelled. They kicked a man lying on his face: he was dead. The boy in the soiled breechcloth looked up and whimpered. Two soldiers grabbed him under the arms, pulled him roughly three or four paces from us, and set him down. The one with the bow wandered over, glanced at us, pulled back the string until the ends of the bow were almost touching his body, bent down towards the boy and released the arrow. It travelled no more than a foot before it struck him above the collarbone and buried itself vertically up to the feathers. The boy coughed once, spraying blood onto the dusty earth, and pitched forward.
The Fools’ Crusade Page 25