Beloved Pilgrim (28 page)

"Will it be ready for the morning?" she
asked.

"Of course, my lord."

Alain put in, "I will be glad not to be
cooped up in this sorry excuse for a town." He looked at Elisabeth
sharply, but with a grin. "Black Beast tells me he pulled your arse
out of the fire the other day."

Elisabeth laughed. "You could say that. And
you would be right. I Was nearly spitted and roasted. What about
you? Did you see any action?"

Alain shook his head ruefully. "When we got
to the fight it was all over. You did get a couple kills, he said.
But no prize."

She laughed. "No indeed. The pike man was on
me before I could take anything. Too bad, too, as I hoped to sell
it here in Ancyra and send the money back to Maliha."

Alain stared at her. "Why would you do that,
mon ami?" he asked, clearly puzzled.

She looked back at him and realized there was
nothing she could say that would make a dot of sense to him. She
elbowed him. "She's got contacts in the black market. I want her to
help me build my wealth."

Alain shook his head. "You are a young idiot.
She'll take everything and you will never see it or her again. That
son of a bitch Andronikos is probably in on it too. Slimy
catamite," he spat.

She could feel Albrecht behind her starting
to simmer. She punched Alain hard in the shoulder. "You're probably
right. That I am an idiot, I mean. You had better go. We are
supposed to be ready to head out first light."

The sunrise turned the clouds a smoky yellow
as they made their way along a narrow track to the north and east.
The track led to narrow gaps between higher ground, then out again
into the open, only to wind between hills again. Relieved to be on
the move after forced idleness, many of the pilgrims nevertheless
kept glancing about. The way was just too perfect for ambush.

The military leaders, Count Albert of
Biandrate and Hugh of Montebello, led the huge party at the fore.
Behind them came Stephan of Blois and the two noblemen of Burgundy.
These latter rode ahead of their own knights and men-at-arms. After
them came the vast mob of Lombards, who were drawn in large part
from the cities -- poor men, women and children. Some of them had
made the journey a few years back, coming late to join Peter the
Hermit. The Germans who came with Peter and the ragtag party of
Lombards made as much mischief as they could to discomfit their
rivals among the Frankish, utterly destroying Peter's mission. They
were virtually uncontrollable, then and now. When not brawling,
attacking the other forces' men-at-arms, or running after straying
children and livestock, they marched along, many of them drunk,
singing a mix of bawdy songs and hymns.

The Germans and others who rode with Conrad
had the misfortune to follow the refuse of Lombardy slums. "I think
if they don't stop singing for a few minutes, I may turn them over
to the Sultan myself," Elisabeth groused. She was glad to be on
horseback, for the rabble would just squat and relieve themselves
where they walked. She still tried to keep Gauner's hooves out of
it.

One of Saint Gilles's men came trotting
toward them on his way back to the rear and his commander.
Elisabeth waved him over. "What word?"

The man drew up and removed his cap to
scratch his lice-ridden head. "The van is just half a league from
the main road. Nothing seen yet, but there's a god-awful
smell."

Someone piped, "That's just the
Lombards!"

The man looked back unsmiling at Elisabeth's
similarly unamused look. "It's smoke. Smells like after the crops
are harvested and you burn the stubble in the field."

He saluted and doubled his horse's pace back
to the rear.

When the German contingent reached the place
where the land opened up to reveal the main road heading north,
they had to slow and gather in behind the Lombards. The army had
stopped. Conrad, standing in his stirrups, could not see what was
causing the delay. "Damn it," he muttered. "Why don't they send
someone back to tell us what is going on?" He urged his horse
through the press, reached the edge of the procession only to be
joined by Raymond. Elisabeth heard the Frankish knight mutter, "Now
what are the idiots doing?" He and Conrad rode quickly forward,
Raymond in the lead.

The Lombards mingled or sat or lay down where
they were. Elisabeth could hear grumbling among them, along with
women's shrieking laughter, a crying child who had just been pushed
in horse dung by an older child, the beginning of a drunken brawl,
and the ribald comments of a group of unkempt men taunting a shy
girl.

"Why are they so loyal to Bohemond?"
Elisabeth asked Black Beast, who rode at her side. "He's Norman.
Not Lombard."

"A bunch of them fought under him after they
messed things up for the Hermit. He is the Holy Land to them. And
everyone knows the fight between him and Raymond is a petty,
unworthy thing. Like a couple of bully boys squabbling over an
alley."

One of the German men-at-arms called out that
there was water in the middle of a mostly dried-up stream-bed, so
the knights and the boys tending the sumpter animals headed off
into the scrub to let the animals drink.

Coming back into the procession, Beast said,
"We must be moving."

The Lombards, from those farther up to the
stragglers just in front of the Germans, were standing up, brushing
themselves off, and gathering up their possessions and family
members. Near Elisabeth a fat woman was kicking a man who was lying
on the ground. He finally woke, got up, and slugged her in the
face.

Elisabeth started to urge Gauner forward, but
to her astonishment the woman fell into step next to the man, who
put one arm around her shoulders. The two walked on
companionably.

When at long last Elisabeth reached the place
where the path joined the main road she instantly understood what
had caused the sudden halt. The smell of stubble burned on a
cleared field was caused by just that. Only this time the crops
were the things burned, not the stubble. Someone, the Turks, had
torched every field she could see in either direction. While the
pilgrims took the alternate route, the Turks took the main road and
systematically destroyed any food the pilgrims could have
taken.

She glanced at a body off to the side of the
path. It was barely recognizable as the guide hired by Stephen. The
body was mangled, its throat slit and clearly visible stab wounds
inflicted by dozens of angry men. She caught the smell of urine on
the bloody body, urine and worse.

"Did he lead us down the path to delay us, or
did he simply tell the Sultan we would be here?" She turned to look
at Ranulf as he settled his mount to fall in step with hers. "Or
was he innocent, a poor man wanting silver to feed his family
with?"

"God knows," the mercenary captain said.

"Which God?" she said acidly.

In places where the crops had not been burned
they saw that everything edible was gone. The Turks, after all, had
to eat as well as they did. Even if the Turks never attacked, the
pilgrims were doomed if they could not find food. "How could this
all have been so badly planned?" she wondered in silence.

With the carts and livestock, the men-at-arms
and the camp followers on foot, it took days before they could even
hope to see the walls of Gangra before them. Scouts continued to
report that the army of Kilij Arslan, Sultan of the Seljuk,
retreated before them. Every step of the way they deprived the
pilgrims of supplies. All they found were burned fields, all the
sparse wood available likewise destroyed. Even the few wells they
came across were filled in or contained decaying carcasses, usually
of dogs, poisoning the water. The river just out of sight was at
its midsummer low, so silty water was available, though just
barely. Rations halved, the pilgrims marched steadily north and
east toward the Pathlagonian city. Everyone was hungry and parched,
exhausted. Even the Lombards quieted.

Whatever she had expected, what Elisabeth
experienced now was sheer hell. Though she did not wear her helm as
she rode in the blazing summer sun, she did wear her mail and the
thick padded shirt under it. She could not believe how hot the
metal got in the sun. The quilted gambeson held in the heat. She
got down from Gauner from time to time, not only to give him some
relief from carrying her weight and the weight of her armor but
because the horse's body heat was making it worse for her. She
could feel the sweat running out of her hair and down her neck and
back, where it tickled. She felt as if she wore a sponge full of
hot, smelly water under her mail. She longed to strip naked and
dive into a pond, but while some of the men took the chance and
went to soak themselves in the river, she did not dare. She
realized she must be starting to smell as bad as the Lombards and
other camp followers. She tried fantasizing about splashing in a
fountain with a naked Maliha, but after a short time the fantasy
itself started to torture her. She genuinely wondered if she would
ever be clean and cool again. She would not let that other thought,
the one about whether she would ever see Maliha again, crystallize
in her mind.

Elisabeth worried mostly for Gauner. The
small patches of green grazing that survived the devastation were
long cropped to the roots by animals further up the line. She meted
out small handfuls of grain she carried for him. He ate it
gratefully, then nuzzled her for more.

"Here!" came a shout from the line ahead of
her one afternoon as she fed her horse. "Give me that!"

It was a peasant, a big man with filthy hair
and beard and filthier clothing. He strode forward, one hand
extended and the other grasping a short thick knife.

"Why should that overgrown horse get to eat
when my children do not?" he demanded.

She drew her sword as he approached. "If we
come under attack, you will be glad of this horse when he carries
me to defend your sorry arse." Any impulse to compassion for his
little ones was precluded by her knowledge that what she said was
God's own truth.

"You knights," the man said as he spat on her
shoes. "You have messed things up bad enough, haven't you? We'll be
lucky if we get out of this alive."

Albrecht came to stand at her side, his sword
likewise drawn. "It was you pigs who insisted we change course, you
and your useless horde of ne'er-do-wells and vagabonds."

The man made a threatening gesture. "Are you
trying to tell me we would be doing any better in Konya or further
along?" He subsided rapidly, though he continued to spit both
saliva and epithets as he turned and slumped away.

Seeing Elisabeth's taut expression, her
squire reassured, "We'll take Gangra. Then we will have all the
food and water we need for our horses, ourselves and even the
garbage like him."

She made the sign of the cross. "From your
lips to God's ear."

Some cheer had made its way through the ranks
as the walls of Gangra came into view. That hopeful spirit melted
away as they neared. There was something solid about this fortress,
almost as if it was solid stone across. The battlements were
crowded with jeering men shaking their fists at the pilgrims, some
turning and exposing their arses in defiance.

The pilgrim leaders commanded the procession
to camp for the night some distance from the walls. Scouts sent on
ahead found a small clump of trees indicating the presence of
water. It turned out to be a well with a terrible taste, but it was
all they had. They took what they could, boiled some of it in pots
over green wood that smoked and spat. Most slept in spite of the
heat and stinging flies, while others stood watch, swaying with
weariness and downcast hearts.

In the spacious command tent, where Elisabeth
attended on Conrad, wine flowed readily enough. Servants darted
here and there with small plates of food kept for the commanders'
table. A scout stood, holding his helm in both arms, and slowly
imparted his intelligence.

"The town is fully garrisoned. More than
that, it is shut tight. It has thicker walls even than usual, and
it seems to have been supplied with everything they could need.
Food, water, fodder, weapons, you name it."

Stephen of Burgundy interrogated, "Where does
this information come from, man?"

"Peasants. Clerics. Deserters. Some of it
from our own scouts," he hurried to add, seeing that Stephen was
about to cast doubt on what could be trusted from Muslims. "We had
parties watching the fortress over the past few days. They saw the
arms and men stream in. The carts of provender as well."

Hugh of Montebello chimed in. "Any estimate
of the size of the garrison?"

The scout glanced at Raymond. "We cannot be
sure. Fifteen hundred, two thousand perhaps?" The commander nodded
his agreement.

All heads turned to him. He slowly rose and,
tucking his thumbs in his sword belt, gave them a frank one-eyed
stare. "It's too well fortified. Too strong. We are a larger force,
but they have food, plenty of it to last. We are on our last
rations."

He caught Archdeacon Ludovico's move to rise
out of the corner of his eye. "Look, without some sort of miracle .
. . ," he began to state ominously.

His face shot to the scout, who was clearing
his throat meaningfully. "What is it?"

Scuffing his feet on the carpet laid on the
dirt under the tent, the man reluctantly responded, "There is more,
my lord. One of the deserters says that reinforcements are on their
way."

"And shall we believe the words of a heathen
dog?" the Archbishop's man accused.

Raymond waved the Archdeacon to silence.
"What did he say exactly?" He turned, shouted to a servant, "Get
this man a stool and some wine."

They waited while the man took the wine, sat
on the stool before them, and drank deeply. "Thank you, my lord."
He drank again, then went on, "It seems that up until recently the
Sultan, Kilij Arslan, managed to outrage all the other warlords
with his presumption of command. He used the threat of Christian
pilgrim knights to try to browbeat them into bowing to him. They
scoffed, then removed themselves and their support."