Beloved Pilgrim (27 page)

Returning to the command where it was
entrenched in a stone building, she discovered virtually all the
others who were sent to quell the looting repeated her acts. A few
more hardened and seasoned knights had taken no prisoners but
simply hacked away at any trespassers on the people and goods of
Ancyra. Her one unique act it seemed was when she had her men pull
soldiers off a holy man they were beating to death.

Elisabeth kept to herself an encounter with
two of Ranulf's mercenaries who were carrying hangings and other
items from a house. They stopped when they saw her, noted the blood
on her sword, and set the things down and bowed. Ragnar's quick
grin assured her that he would not put her to the test. Not this
time. Thomas stood and stared at her. She leveled a glare at both
and gestured with her drawn and bloody sword. Ragnar gave her a
quick and sardonic bow and he and Thomas left the goods where they
lay and ran off.

Any hope she had of getting clean was dashed
quickly. While Raymond and Stephen of Blois parlayed with the
commander of the Emperor's own troops for the garrisoning of the
what was again a Byzantine fortress, she and other knights found
places in the courtyard and some in houses to bed down. No one
seemed to have thought of how they would feed the pilgrims, and the
more resourceful either co-opted cook shops and kitchens or simply
moved in with residents and demanded to be fed. By the time she and
the others who had policed the looting realized that the latter was
happening, they were too tired and demoralized to lift a finger.
She and Albrecht bedded down in the porch of the mosque she had
protected, pieced together a brazier and cooked pigeons he had
caught, plucked and cleaned.

"Ragnar told me what you did." Ranulf stood
at her shoulder as she picked the meat out of her teeth with a
snapped pigeon bone.

"You mean got in the way of their rampage?"
she snapped ill naturedly.

Ranulf shook his head. "No, spared their
lives. I thank you. If they know what is good for them they will do
so as well." He looked about at the ruinous square. "I don't know
what got into Thomas. He's not like that. Ragnar is a Viking at
heart and is almost impossible to control."

She put her elbows on her bent knees. "I
would invite you to have some food, but we ate it all."

"No matter," he said. "I got some grub
earlier. And honestly," he added, holding up his hands, palms
toward her, to ward off any impression to the contrary. "May I at
least sit down for a while?"

She made no reply but slid over to make room
for him. Albrecht sat on a lower step and watched them both. She
reached for a water skin and offered it to the mercenary. "Only
water. Sorry," she shrugged.

Sitting, Ranulf replied, "Better than the
dust that's in my mouth and throat now." He took a swig, then
glanced around at the mosque. "This looks like it was a church
once. Any idea who it was dedicated to?"

Albrecht replied, "No. The place where it
might have been carved was smashed with what must have been a
hammer."

Elisabeth inserted, "What day is it? We could
dedicate the church to whatever saint's day this is. Is it St.
John's Day, midsummer?"

The mercenary thought for a few moments, his
chin in his palm. "I think it is the twenty-third of June. That
would make it St. Etheldreda's Day. The Franks say St. Audrey."

"How the hell did you know that?" she asked,
her eyes wide. "Were you a priest at some point?"

He grinned back at her and winked. "Something
like that. Let me think. What was she patron saint of?" He
scratched his chin. "Oh, that's right. Appropriate enough. The
throat." He lifted the wineskin and held it aloft. "Blessed be
thee, St. Etheldreda, for quenching my thirst, both bodily and
spiritually."

"Amen!" chorused the pilgrim knight and her
squire.

After some companionable silence, Ranulf
spoke. "Have you heard anything about what comes next?" His
question was directed at Elisabeth, who sat with her forehead
pressed onto her bent knees. He had noticed she was covered in
blood.

She looked up and yawned. "I should go find
Conrad and see what he says. I suppose we will continue north. Hope
the next fortress falls as easily as this did."

He indicated her blood-soaked tabard. "That
from the battle or the looters?"

"The looters. I didn't see all that much
action in the battle. You?"

Ranulf shook his head. "It all happened so
fast. My unit did not even move from our emplacement before we
heard the shouts that the Turks surrendered the city." He looked at
her from the side of his eye. "Aren't you looking forward to your
first all-out battle?"

She laughed harshly. "I suppose at least then
I will feel more like a pilgrim knight. But I have a good
imagination. I don't think war is glorious. It isn't clean. It
isn't merry."

"You don't know the half of it. There are two
things about battle you never hear anyone describe. It's loud and
it stinks. Even if you come away unwounded, your ears ring for days
and you can't get the smell of blood, guts and shit out of your
nostrils." He grimaced. "It's like a charnel house, only it's men,
not cattle you are smelling." He stood slowly, stretching his back
with the crackle of joints and a moan. "I should go see if my men
are staying out of trouble." He saluted Elisabeth, winked at
Albrecht and strode stiffly away.

Wrapped in her cloak on the hard stone of the
mosque's porch, "St. Etheldreda's" she reminded herself to call it,
Elisabeth discovered that she really could be tired enough to sleep
on a cold, unyielding bed. Her thoughts went immediately to Maliha,
but they were cut off in the middle of a memory of a kiss when she
dropped off.

She awoke sore and stiff, and as she
struggled to stand up, Albrecht brought her bread and wine. She
swung her arms and pulled her knees up one after another to stretch
them as she went into the alley they used to relieve themselves.
She came back only slightly more limber. "The twenty-fourth of
June, eh?"

Albrecht smiled. "Don't ask me whose saint
day it is. I never paid any attention to that. Except for my own
saint day."

"When is that?" she asked around a mouthful
of bread she dipped in the wine.

He looked blank. "You know, I don't remember.
Sometime when it is very cold."

"Elias and I had the same birthday, of
course. The twentieth of July."

He looked interested. "So which did you get,
St. Elias or St Elizabeth?"

She took a swallow of the wine, complete with
dregs, and smiled. "Elias."

He laughed. "It was meant to be," he said in
a mock portentous voice. "What was he patron saint of?"

"Twins," she said with no hesitation.

"Really?" he exclaimed. He knew by her snort
she was jesting.

Elisabeth went in search of the Constable of
the Holy Roman Empire after a quick visit to a fountain to try to
wash off some of the blood. It came off the mail, but she knew
water on mail was a bad idea. She hoped Albrecht had some oil for
it. The blood was too well set into the cloth underneath to make
much headway.

She found Conrad talking to several German
knights and joined them when the Constable nodded in her direction.
It seemed that someone had just asked him where the pilgrims would
go next. "North, to Gangra."

"Is it a fortress? As heavily garrisoned as
this one?" a knight asked and was applauded with laughter.

Conrad did not laugh, nor did he even smile.
"Don't know. We have scouts out to see what they can find out. And
foraging parties."

"Good. I think I could eat a camel." The
laughter rewarded the man who said this as well. Nervous
laughter.

"You may be lucky to get camel," the old
commander said acerbically. "We will see when the forage parties
get back. We will probably get through the rest of our own stores
and all of the city's in a couple days."

As it came to pass, turning Ancyra over to
the Emperor meant that his representatives would deny supplies to
the pilgrims. If they had taken and kept it, they could have
stripped the city of anything they needed or wanted, not only food
and water but also weapons, horses, women, not to mention booty of
a shinier kind. Instead Raymond stood with his arms limp at his
sides, flabbergasted at Tsitsis’s support of the council now in
charge of the city for Alexios.

"How do you expect us to go on without enough
supplies?"

The Pecheneg commander studied him
impassively. "You were not meant to take this city. You were meant
to take Dorylaeum and Konya. There you could take what you
wanted."

Stephen of Blois, red as blood in the face,
shouted, "How are those cities any different from this one? They
are in Seljuk hands."

"They would be in Byzantine hands had you not
detoured from the path you promised the Emperor you would follow."
Tzitas spun about and stalked away.

His one eye blazing, Saint Gilles scowled at
the Archdeacon, who stood to one side listening to the discussion.
"Are you happy now? We did as your people insisted, and now we are
neck deep in shit."

Archdeacon Ludovico, the cleric who
represented the Archbishop of Milan, who had not come with the
pilgrims due to his illness, pursed his lips. "You ought to know
what fighting in Paynim lands is like. It's not a holiday. It's
war. Holy war."

Stephen eyed Raymond as he stomped to the
cleric. "Is it Holy War we are here for or to save the arrogant
arse of that bastard Bohemond?" he demanded, shaking his fist in
the Archdeacon's face.

"It is not God's will that his knights should
battle each other but the heathens."

Stephen took an impulsive step toward the
Frankish knight, fearing he would strike the Archdeacon. The man
seemed to have himself under control in a heartbeat.

Instead he snapped, "Are these the heathens
we were sent here to eradicate from the Holy Land?"

Archdeacon Ludovico looked up and away as if
dealing with a vexatious child. "What matter, if they are heathens.
The Emperor . . . " he went on.

"The Emperor commanded us to go south."

"Almighty God requires that we go to the aid
of our brother Bohemond." Ludovico pressed his thin lips tightly
together to punctuate the point. He was going to argue no more.

"Oh for Christ's pitiful sake," Raymond
muttered, then turned and left the chamber, Stephen close on his
heels. Elisabeth, who had heard the exchange from the doorway
through which they passed, was able to hear their continued
exchange.

Stephen put a hand on Raymond's shoulder,
flinching when Raymond threw it off. "North, then," the shorter man
said. "How?"

The hero of the First Crusade glared at him.
"We shall have to learn where the main road is."

Stephen's self-satisfied grin presaged his
news. "I have a guide for us, Raymond."

Raymond stared down at him. "You do. Where
did you find him?"

"He came to me and a couple of the others. He
says he knows the path to take to regain the road to Gangra."

"And you believe him?"

Stephen was not happy with his leader's
response. The least the man could do was trust him to know when he
had good advice. "What can he do, one small man against our
thousands?"

The Count of Toulouse opened and shut his
fists at his sides. He frowned, considering. "All right," he
finally said. "Let's see what the latest report is from the scouts.
Then we'll decide."

Stephen smiled victoriously. "But of course.
I have other news. . . . "

Raymond sighed. Talking to Stephen was like
milking a goose. "And what is that, pray tell, Stephen?" He smiled
unctuously.

"I know where we can get a little more in the
way of supplies."

Raymond started to ask where and how it would
be obtained, but decided the less he knew, the happier he would be.
He bowed his head, his lower lip pressed out in thought. "Get it.
And once we have the reports we'll make our final plans. If
possible, we leave at dawn of the day after tomorrow."

Albrecht rolled his and Elisabeth's suits of
chain mail in a shallow trough of sand mixed with oil. He looked up
from where he worked when he heard Alain's greeting. "Where is
Elias?"

The squire got to his feet and made a short
bow. "My Lord Alain, he is with the Constable dealing with some
issues with the horses."

Alain was annoyed. He was not in armor, and
Albrecht noted a rent in his tunic and part of one of his shoes was
torn at a seam and curled and flapped when he moved. "My lord, what
happened?"

Alain glanced down at his clothes and shoes
and frowned. "Blois had us fetching supplies from where it was
hidden in a former mosque. The mullahs and their congregation did
not take kindly to our removing it." He narrowed his eyes. "I did
not realize I came to the Holy Land to fetch and carry."

"Why are they even still here?" Elisabeth's
voice came from several feet away. "The Muslims, I mean."

"The Byzantines seemed more tolerant than I
would have expected. Something stinks around here." Alain put out
his hand to clasp hers. "What news?"

She walked over to the trough and nodded her
approval of the cleaning Albrecht did on their mail. "Remarkable. I
thank you." She looked back over at the Frankish knight. "We are on
for tomorrow at dawn. It seems Stephen of Blois has a guide who
will take us on a path that goes north to the main road. Somewhere
between here and another fortress called Gangra. The scouts saw
Turks up north, but they were just camped. Not that many, they
said. We may have some trouble, but Conrad says it's nothing we
can't handle."

Albrecht pulled Elisabeth's suit of chain
mail out of the oily sand and started to brush it off, knocking
clumps of sand onto the dirt of the square. The metal underneath
shone unevenly. "I will scrub the dull parts with fleece until they
shine."