Deus Le Volt

by Jon de Burgh Miller

  Miles away from any authority, the princes in charge of the crusade acted like children let out without their parents, heedless of all sense of responsibility and morals. It was no surprise that their men followed their lead and soon abandoned all pretence of civility. The whole camp had hanging over it the oppressive air of an explosion waiting to happen.

  Simon had explained that the princes’ contingents had been waiting outside the city for six months now, tired, hungry and hot, with little to occupy them but short raids and occasional skirmishes. In an effort to starve the people of Antioch out of their besieged city, the crusading armies had blocked all the supply routes and made sure that any food deliveries were met with the sort of bloodthirsty hospitality their forces had become notorious for. Emily knew that things couldn’t stay like this for much longer.

  ‘How long do you think it will be before Antioch falls?’ she asked.

  Simon shrugged. ‘It depends. We underestimated their stock, clearly. We’ve dammed their waterways, killed any outsiders who’ve tried to trade with them, and raided the outskirts enough times for them to know we are powerful, but still they resist.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier just to march in and take the city?’

  This time Aethelred laughed, burping as he did so before wiping his mouth on his arm. ‘Wench, look at us,’ he snapped. ‘Do you know how many years we’ve toiled to get here? If we mounted a full scale attack, we would be massacred trying to get through the walls. Even if we took the city, we don’t have enough men to make it to Jerusalem, not without waiting for more pilgrims to arrive. Besides, we have tried. Many times. But they have too many soldiers, and their walls are too strong.’

  Simon’s face was cold. ‘Six months ago,’ he began, ‘the Turks sent an army from Damascus to destroy us.’

  ‘It was a great victory for Christ,’ Aethelred chipped in.

  Simon shook his head. ‘My uncle led the battle against them, flanked by Lord Bohemond’s men. It was a terrible day for Christ’s pilgrims. Although we killed or enslaved every one of the Turkish horde, the dead were many on our side. As Heaven fills with the fallen soldiers, our hearts grow emptier. That time took a lot out of us, and taught us to be careful.’

  ‘But we are not cowards,’ Aethelred said. ‘We should be the ones in charge. We should take the city from the Turks before we too starve.’

  ‘We wait,’ Simon continued, ‘because we have to. Because it’s all we can do.’ He took a sip from his flagon. Emily wondered if its contents explained his candour.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked.

  Simon stood up and stretched. ‘If you knew what we’ve been through, if you knew how noble our cause was...’ He reached across and took Emily’s hand in his, but she snatched it away. ‘We mean no harm,’ he continued. ‘We’re just doing God’s work. Do not fight the tide, Emily.’

  Emily folded her arms, a gesture of defiance. ‘Do I have much choice?’

  Simon knelt down, his voice a whisper. ‘Emily, there are few women in the camp. We sent them all home as conditions deteriorated. That means you are a sought-after prize, and constantly need to be on your guard for those who might take advantage of you. Serve me well and I will not only protect you from their advances but also ensure a great life for you when we reach Jerusalem, or here if you prefer to stay in this city. A far greater life than you could have had with that merchant.’

  The fire began to spark as it burned down. Emily knew it was futile to continue her protests. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said. She was worried Simon would take this as an invitation, but he simply smiled and stood back. ‘You’ll meet the other girls,’ he said, pointing to the washerwomen’s tent. ‘If they give you trouble, just ask me for help.’

  Emily thanked Simon and moved toward the tent, almost impressed by his chivalry. Perhaps there was hope for some of these knights yet.

  Emily cautiously peered inside. She saw a group of women getting ready to go to sleep, and felt envious. Being so far from home, not knowing whether Honoré was alive or dead, and surrounded by such squalor, she wanted nothing more than to curl up in a comfy bed and forget about everything, but she knew she had to keep awake and strong, for Honoré’s sake.

  Emily introduced herself to the other girls, who seemed friendly enough. A small comfort. One young woman, Edith, had a tiny baby that seemed to take an instant liking to Emily.

  ‘William likes you,’ Edith said with surprise. ‘He normally cries around strangers.’

  ‘Perhaps she’ll fit in well here,’ an old lady with a kindly face said. A brief bout of small-talk ensued, though Emily was pleased that the residents of the tent did not seem too nosy. There were a few questions about how she came into Simon’s service and why they had not seen her before, but for the most part the interrogation was light. The girls ranged in ages from one barely older than seven, to the old woman, Cecily, who admitted that she was probably going to be taking the short cut to the Land of Milk and Honey rather than be able to march all the way to Jerusalem.

  Cecily reached into a wicker basket and pulled out a pile of clothes, which she handed to Emily. ‘Here, take these. Change into something a bit more Christian.’

  Emily gladly took the clothes, and put on a medieval dress over her 20th Century undergarments. The new dress was itchy and uncomfortable, but far lighter than her old one, and she was relieved to be wearing something cooler at last. The new dress went all the way down to her ankles, which was impractical, but would at least stop the men leering at her legs.

  ‘Come on,’ Edith called over as Emily finished changing, ‘you’d better get some sleep. We’ve a lot to be getting on with tomorrow.’

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ Emily confided. ‘You have to help me get out of here. I need to find my friend, Honoré. He’s been taken away, arrested.’

  Cecily looked intrigued. ‘Another newcomer, is he? Why’s he been arrested? What’s he been up to?’

  ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong,’ Emily insisted. ‘We just came here to look for someone. A knight.’

  The woman snorted. ‘There are plenty of knights here. Did you want any one in particular?’

  ‘I... I’m not sure. Where would they have taken my friend?’

  Edith now chipped in. ‘If Lord Godfrey has not handed him to one of the other princes, then they’ll have thrown him in the pits.’ She gestured to one side. ‘Keep following the camp that way, you’ll soon find them.’

  ‘Who are these other princes?’ Emily asked.

  The woman looked surprised. ‘Our armies come from all over Europe, each one under a different prince’s command. It’s only by uniting side-by-side that we have enough men to flank this cursed city. You would be wise to examine the pits, though. If your friend was handed to one of the other Lords, he may already be dead.’

  Emily thanked the ladies and moved to the exit.

  ‘You’re not going now, are you?’ Cecily rasped. ‘It’s dangerous in the dark.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances,’ Emily said.

  The woman shrugged. ‘And where do you intend to go once you’ve found him? There’s nowhere for miles around, except the city. The Turks will slaughter you before you get near them.’

  Emily shook her head. ‘At least I’ll be able to free my friend. He’s no criminal. It’s only because he’s black that they’re suspicious of him.’

  Edith laughed harshly. ‘A Saracen? No wonder they arrested him. He may have a Frankish name, but appearances don’t lie in a place like this.’

  ‘He’s not a Saracen. We’re just traders. We told them that.’

  Cecily sniffed to indicate her disapproval. ‘You ought to think whether the Lord might consider consorting with such creatures as blasphemy, you know. I doubt the Pope would approve.’

  Emily was about to make some comment about the Pope taking a running jump, but decided ag
ainst it.

  ‘I have to try to rescue him. As a white girl, I should at least escape being killed for being a Saracen.’

  Cecily smiled again. ‘Child, you really don’t know our masters at all, do you?’

  Emily peered around the canvas flap at the front of the washerwomen’s tent and crept into the darkness outside. She moved around the different tents trying to get her bearings and match her location to Cecily’s directions. The camp was difficult to navigate. All the tents were similar, with only the coats of arms painted on the front distinguishing them, as the different families from across France, Normandy, England and many smaller European principalities staked their claim on territory that they prayed history would bestow on them, the right to own it divinely given to them alone.

  Eventually Emily found her way to the holding cells. Little more than a row of pits, the place smelled even worse than the rest of the camp, something Emily really hadn’t thought possible.

  She peered into the first pit in the row. ‘Honoré!’ she hissed. ‘Honoré!’

  Silence. ‘Can you hear me?’

  A hand clamped on to her shoulder and she spun around in shock.

  ‘You are not to see the prisoners,’ the guard informed her. ‘Unless you want to join them.’

  Emily scowled. ‘Please, just let me have a few words with the Saracen man who arrived today.’

  The guard shook his head. ‘No-one talks to the prisoners.’

  Emily decided to try to take the high ground. ‘Just wait until Lord Godfrey hears of this,’ she stormed, and tried to pass the guard.

  He pushed Emily away from him and she lost her balance, her foot skidding over the edge of the pit. The guard chuckled to himself as Emily fell into the dark hole, tumbling down the side to the bottom.

  Emily sat in pitch darkness, feeling very foolish. After a moment, a deep and familiar hot chocolate voice said, ‘What sort of a scrape have you got yourself into this time, then?’

  Emily tenderly picked herself up off the ground and hobbled over to the man-shaped shadow standing there.

  ‘I was worried they’d killed you,’ she said, giving Honoré a hug. He winced as she did so, evidently sore around the ribs.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he replied, ‘I wish they had. They’re not ones to be messed with, you know.’

  ‘Hey!’ Emily shouted up to the guard. ‘Get me out of here!’ She heard mocking laughter coming from above the pit. ‘This isn’t funny!’

  ‘Quiet, wench!’ the guard called. ‘You wanted to see your friend... so see him.’

  Emily sighed. She was tired and needed sleep, but knew there was no way she could bear to even shut her eyes in this place. In the end, she nodded off resting in Honoré’s arms, as he stayed alert to anyone who might try and approach them in the night.

  5

  As dawn broke, the crusader camp became a hive of activity. While Lechasseur was made to wait in the pit, Emily was hauled out by a pair of guards and taken to Godfrey’s tent. On the way, she passed several crowds of men busy at work hammering pieces of wood and metal, while others planned out military tactics with rocks and badges laid out on tables. There was an excited buzz in the air. Something of great importance was clearly about to happen. Emily wondered if this was the day that the crusaders would finally make their push toward the city.

  She found Godfrey slouched in front of a slab of stone that was serving as a table, nibbling on a pathetic looking bit of meat. From his frown, Emily guessed he was used to rather more generous fare than the crusaders were able to scrape together after months of besieging the city.

  ‘Sit down, girl!’ Godfrey said, rising from his makeshift table. ‘We wouldn’t want you attempting to kill me now, would we?’

  ‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ Emily said, before planting herself on a bale of straw next to the table. ‘And neither did Honoré.’ The seat itched and Emily had to wriggle around to get comfortable. It was a sight that Godfrey clearly found amusing, but his humour only made Emily more irritated.

  ‘As I’m sure you’ve heard, several of our men – good men, good Christian men – have been killed in their sleep by cowards who refuse to admit their crimes.’ He gestured toward one of his guards. ‘I have these men to keep me safe, of course, but most of Christ’s soldiers aren’t so lucky.’ He looked at Emily and did his best to stare piercingly into her eyes. ‘And coincidentally, you arrive from nowhere, just as another murder befalls us. Accompanied by a Saracen.’

  Emily sighed. ‘Look, I know my friend and I don’t exactly fit in around here, but do you really think we’d be so obvious about it if we were murderers?’

  ‘You are a woman,’ Godfrey said with a chuckle. ‘Not exactly known for using your head!’

  Emily didn’t find the joke funny, unlike Godfrey’s guards, who gave sycophantic false belly laughs.

  Emily realised she was going to have to demonstrate some form of ability that would gain her respect from her captors. ‘May I see one of the bodies?’ she asked. ‘I have some knowledge of medicine, healing and human anatomy. I may be able to find something that will lead us to the real murderer.’

  Godfrey looked at Emily with outright incredulity. ‘And what would a wench like you know of such things? Matters of life and death are the province of our Lord.’

  ‘Sir,’ one of the guards said, ‘she was in the company of a Saracen. They may practice witchcraft the likes of which we could never imagine. Perhaps they can put a curse on the murderer, save any more of us from being taken from our quest?’

  Godfrey walked over to Emily and looked into her face, seeking any sign of a trick. She shivered, and Godfrey turned to his vassals. ‘I suppose it can do no harm. Besides, I’d like to know how she copes with the sight of one of those corpses! Find Turstin’s body, and let her take a look. Just make sure she refrains from touching anything she should not.’ He turned back to Emily. ‘I’ll be back by Terce, and I expect to be told the results of your wicked practices.’

  The dead had been laid out in a row on the outskirts of the camp in a naturally occurring ditch. Despite Godfrey’s words about matters of life and death being reserved for God, there had been little attempt to cover the bodies – in times of such hardship, no-one could afford to waste a skin or a cloth on a corpse – and they’d been dumped to be eaten by the vultures, flies and wild dogs that occasionally scrabbled around the area looking for food. A few shovelfuls of sand had been used to cover them and try to stop the stench from spreading, but most of it had blown away, the soil being too light and the work too much effort for the crusaders to persist with.

  Godfrey had sent one of his vassals to accompany Emily, along with a burly guard to make sure she didn’t try to escape. The vassal reached down into the ditch and yanked one of the corpses up towards them. The other bodies tumbled to the side as their companion was removed. As the guard held the corpse up, Emily found herself inches away from the rictus grinning face of a man who had obviously been terrified in his final moments.

  The vassal threw the body down to the ground beside the ditch, and Emily crouched to examine it, trying not to be fazed by the gruesome sight. Unlike most people of this era, she had rarely seen death in the flesh before (at least, not in the part of her life that she remembered...), and every time she was confronted by it she felt a chill inside, as if part of her was nagging her to get away, not to get involved, while another part was fascinated by the spectacle.

  The body was a pale, off-white shade, battered and bruised, perhaps from years of fighting, and clad in rags. In places, Emily noted, its flesh was starting to decompose.

  ‘Do your work,’ the vassal said, ‘but you do not have long.’

  ‘Do you know how they died?’ Emily asked.

  ‘They were all stabbed in the neck.’

  Taking a deep breath and trying not to think of the germs she must be picking up by touching the
body, Emily turned the corpse over with her foot to look at the back of the head. A clear, star-shaped wound was visible at the base of the neck, from which a thin line of black-clotted blood ran to the shoulder blades.

  ‘It looks almost as if they’ve been killed for their blood, or at least something inside them...’

  The vassal raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Look at this,’ Emily continued. ‘The wound has bruising around it, which suggests that something was inserted here. Do they all have a mark like this?’

  The vassal nodded silently, and Emily turned to address him. ‘I didn’t kill them, you know. Neither Honoré nor I even have weapons, let alone something that could make a wound like that.’

  The vassal shrugged. ‘That’s for Lord Godfrey to decide.’

  Emily stood outside Simon’s tent for almost a minute, trying to summon up as much resolve and courage as she could, before finally she cleared her throat and marched inside. Simon stood in the middle of the room with his arms outstretched while one of his squires struggled to attach an awkward and heavy-looking plate of armour to his chest.

  ‘Emily,’ Simon said. ‘So the wolves didn’t get you?’