Beloved Pilgrim Page 19

  "I know he would. And he will be happy, wherever he is, to know you are loved. Have . . . " She hesitated. "Have you made any promises?"

  His look was wry. "You mean do I trust him? Is he going to forget about me the moment I ride out of the gates? Do you trust Maliha?"

  Warmth filled her at the thought. "I do. And you are right to remind me that as singular as it feels, our love is not the only love in the world." She frowned. "Nor are we the only lovers to be separated so soon." She glanced at him. "I would not blame you if you chose not to continue. I would release you from your vow."

  Albrecht stared at her. "You can release me from my vow to you, my lord, but not to myself, not to your brother, and certainly not to God. I am coming, whatever will be will be."

  She clasped his arm again. "Deus lo volt."

  In camp Elisabeth found herself drawn to the mercenaries' fire. They welcomed her and her squire with no ceremony. As they sat on the blankets around the fire, Thomas handed them the wineskin the mercenaries shared. They drank gratefully and sat listening to the conversation around them. A brace of other soldiers sat in the group. One was gesticulating feverishly.

  "What have they got to say about it?" he was saying. "As if they haven't already taken the wind out of this pilgrimage with their idiocy."

  She took the cup of stew with meager vegetables and unknown meat and ate, listening carefully to learn what was amiss.

  "He is their big hero. He's a Lombard himself, devil take him," Ruggiero said, not hiding his disdain for all things Lombard. One of the other men glared in his direction, but the mercenary ignored him.

  "How did he get his Lombard arse captured anyway," another man asked.

  "He's not a Lombard. He's a Norman," a peevish voice corrected.

  "Who?" Elisabeth managed to whisper to Ranulf.

  The man who had just spoken shouted, "Bohemond, that's who. The Prince of Antioch," he said mockingly.

  "Over Alexios' dead body."

  "And our valorous Raymond's. No way Saint Gilles will turn north to go save him."

  Ranulf answered the man's question like a priest lecturing small boys. "Bohemond made it his business to get to Antioch first, and being the leader of the pilgrims, he got his way. He claimed he had Alexios's word that Antioch was his. Raymond of Toulouse did not think so. But in the long run, Bohemond set himself up for a nasty surprise. Raymond went on to Jerusalem, getting the credit in heaven with that move. Nobody could extract Bohemond from his principality, but last August when one of his allies called for his help with an attack by the Paynim, he ventured out of the city and got himself ambushed. He's rotting in Nixtar up to the northeast."

  Ragnar puffed out his chest. "He's being held by Danish men!" He jabbed himself with a thumb.

  Ranulf rolled his eyes. "The Danishmend, Ragnar."

  Ragnar elbowed the man next to him to indicate his mistake was no more than a jest.

  Elisabeth ventured, "But won't someone ransom him?"

  "How do we know all this, anyway?" the florid gesticulating man asked.

  Ranulf supplied, "He managed to send one of his knights to Baldwin of Edessa. And I have heard that Alexios will ransom him but only if the Turks turn the man over to Alexios. He is miffed that the man acted in such ill faith."

  "You seem to know a lot about this fellow, Norman. Have you served under him?" the Lombard asked.

  Ruggiero, Ragnar, Thomas, Elisabeth and Albrecht all stopped eating and drinking and looked at him. "Not as such. But I have met him when I fought for his uncle, Roger of Sicily, against the Amalfi rebels, the poor sods. He's quite an imposing fellow. Taller than any man here. The very model of a heroic knight. Sharp as an adder's bite. And definitely not in it for the glory of God."

  "So are you all saying that the Lombard contingent wants to go rescue him?" Elisabeth asked.

  Ruggiero grinned. "That's exactly what they want, for us to turn north after we take Ancyra and overrun all of the Seljuk strongholds on the way. That should make Alexios happy. If we can pull it off, that is."

  "And why wouldn't we?" Ragnar demanded of his companion.

  "I'm not saying we wouldn't. But it's rather out of the way. We are supposed to be on our way to Jerusalem." Several voices affirmed Ruggiero's sentiment.

  "And as far as I am concerned, Alexios and Bohemond can go bugger each other."

  This comment from the florid man was rewarded with general guffaws.

  Elisabeth turned to Ranulf and asked in a lower tone, "Saint Gilles seemed pretty tight with the Emperor. Will he overlook his resentment against Bohemond and go try to rescue him?"

  Ranulf took some time before he answered. "I don't know. It may be less that he goes along with the idea than that he really won't have a choice."

  She gazed at him, astounded by the change in plans.

  One face that did not appear in the long line of pilgrims on the road was Archbishop Anselm's. She knew he had fallen ill and remained so. It was said he would join the next contingent; that was, if he recovered. Much of his entourage stayed with him in Constantinople, but his military leaders rode very near the fore. Needless to say, the Lombard rabble loaned their noise and stink to the procession, Archbishop or not.

  As they rode, Albrecht had his eye on the large force of Pecheneg warriors that the Basileus insisted travel with the pilgrims. They were a squat race, with slanted eyes and drooping moustaches over clean-shaven chins, which made them look like they were always scowling. They wore chain mail like the pilgrim knights, but they wore garish colored coats with highly decorated bindings along the front and hems. Their outlandish helmets were conical and sported some sort of tassel or feather from the pointed top. They were remarkable riders who carried round shields like the English, long narrow swords and elaborately curved bows. The squire thought them the most exotic beings he had ever seen.

  Their leader, Tzitas, road ever at Saint Gilles's side. Everyone knew Raymond was Alexios's man now, and some wondered if the Pecheneg were there to enforce Raymond's preeminence as leader of the pilgrim force. If it was so, his capitulation about going to free Bohemond seemed unexplainable.

  Albrecht asked Ranulf, who, with his men, now rode with Elisabeth and himself, "Where are they from?"

  Ranulf glanced over at the fierce body of the Pecheneg. "North of the Black Sea. They are all mercenaries."

  His eyes wide, Albrecht repeated, "North of the Black Sea?" He pondered. "So, does the Emperor want Bohemond rescued or not?"

  Ranulf shrugged. "I don't know. My guess would be not. Perhaps the Basileus does not savor setting his mercenaries on the Lombard rabble. And whatever hurts the Turks is his gain."

  "So you are saying the diversion might actually play into the Emperor's best interest."

  The mercenary captain smiled at him blandly in answer.

  Much of the journey from Nicomedia was through Byzantine territory, so supplies were plentiful. The crossing into Seljuk Turk-ruled lands was most noticeable when the supplies stopped coming. It would be nothing but plunder and foraging now. They had enough to last until they reached the stronghold at Ancyra, but not for a long siege. The leaders insisted with bombast that they would overrun the fortress easily. The more experienced knights were doubtful but said little.

  Elisabeth had expected the desolation of unending desert once outside the immediate environs of Constantinople. Instead she beheld wide grasslands on either side of her as she rode. It was beautiful, if strange to her eyes more accustomed to dense German forests. The distant hills were gently rounded and dotted with clumps of trees. The higher hills were sometimes completely forested. Sheep grazed in peace until they were in Seljuk territory. Then the grasslands, though they obviously were used as pasture, were empty. The people who lived in the small mean villages had advance warning of the pilgrims' approach. The livestock was concealed in unseen glens. All but the oldest women were also missing. Eyes both hostile and curious followed the horde as they traveled to Ancyra.

  Elisabe
th felt both excitement and dread as the first sight of the walls of the city appeared over the horizon. It took her mind off the pain of parting so soon from Maliha and Tacetin. It was, however, her first battle. Like any other soldier or knight, she was aware that her days on the earth might be few in number. She suddenly realized she did not know if her beloved was Christian or Muslim. She prayed the former was the case, so at least they would be reunited in Heaven. Then it occurred to her that while she herself might be forgiven everything for making her way to Jerusalem, the Almighty might not be so sanguine about Maliha's part in their illicit lovemaking. Her fear grew more intense as the consequences overtook her imagination.

  With the hundreds of other knights she pressed toward the command tents the leaders of the force occupied at the encampment thrown up out of arrow's reach of the battlements of Ancyra. Though she was unable to get close enough to hear what they discussed, others passed back at least reasonably credible versions of what those who could hear told the rows of men behind them. Hearing that the commanders were surprised to see few men on the palisades she peered up at them, her hand shading her eyes. She could pick out individual figures in onion-shaped helms. She was unsure due to her inexperience how many she should see, but it seemed few. They stalked about their fortifications carrying their spears upright.

  Saint Gilles, still vexed at the change of plans, nevertheless dominated the discussion of strategy. It was to be an all-out assault, unless, of course, the garrison rode out to attack. No one seemed to think that likely. Even if it was fully garrisoned, the pilgrims outnumbered them at least three to one, including Tsitsis's mercenaries. If no reinforcements came from Kilij Arslan, self-styled Sultan of the Seljuk, this stronghold would certainly soon be back in the hands of the Emperor.

  Nothing had changed when, not long after, Elisabeth found herself fully armored and fully armed in one line of pilgrim knights. She thought she saw Gerhardt's and Black Beast's mounts, one in the line to her fore and one in her own line. Alain must be in here somewhere, but the mercenaries with Ranulf were no doubt each with their respective troops, swordsmen Ranulf and Ragnar and pike man Ruggiero with the infantry, Thomas with the crossbowmen.

  Elisabeth knew that the two weapons implicit in siege warfare were intimidation and starvation. Neither seemed likely to have an impact with Ancyra. However frightening the horde of pilgrims, militant and otherwise, might appear to the occupants, it did not take eagle eyes to see that they were utterly without siege engines. Without something to smash through stone walls, all they had to shoot at the wall were crossbow bolts.

  Starvation was left, but she wondered now if that would be the proverbial two-edged sword. No longer in Byzantine territory the pilgrims' own access to supplies was limited. She thought of the packet of dried bread and lentil paste she carried in her saddle bag, so lovingly prepared and packed by Maliha's hands. The force had provisions, but for how long? The countryside was rich with crops, undisturbed as of yet by the Turkish armies. Foraging parties would find the food and livestock hidden by farmers and villagers eventually, but it would run out just as surely.

  There was a shout from a distance. Her eyes shot to the battlements. If it had come from any of the men there, now running to the south ramparts, she could not interpret the meaning. Then she heard a chorus of shouts nearer the ground, and she learned one way a siege becomes a pitched battle.

  The Pecheneg were deployed nearer the city walls on the south. Elisabeth could see that they were, as a mass, riding full tilt toward a stream of horsemen and men on foot that appeared to be spilling from that side of the town. Even from this distance she could see they were Turks. The colors, the armor, the trappings of the horses told the story. Faced with the might of the pilgrims and the prospect of unendurable hardship, or perhaps in an attempt to leave a doomed city and join their Sultan in a more honorable contest, the armed men of Ancyra were making a run for it. She looked from side to side to learn what the commanders would do.

  Conrad rode forward and with one raised arm, sword in hand, signaled, "Advance!" Gauner, though drawn to chase the horse's tail in front of him, waited for his knight's command. At last, the work he was trained to do. That she had made her brother teach her as well. With a lump in her throat, she drew her sword, joined the battle cry, and rushed forward to chase the deserters.

  The Pecheneg were already on them by the time she and those in her column overtook the runners. They cut them down to a man. The horses negotiated the bloody bodies scattered about. The mercenaries from north of the Black Sea paused very little in their chase during the slaughter and poured down on the hindmost Turkish cavalry moments later. Some of the mounted Turks turned to face the attackers while others sped forward. Tzitas waved his men onward, leaving the pilgrim knights to face those who sacrificed so they had a chance to escape.

  Elisabeth braced herself, angling her body forward and down toward Gauner's neck. She kept her eyes on the men in onion helms and watched as the first line of knights crashed into them. Some of the knights held lances, and those they opposed went down with futile slashes of their swords against the long weapons. Only a heartbeat later, Gauner's forward rush hurled her toward one man in chain mail just like her own but with a hood that covered all of his face but his eyes under his helm. He was on a nervous horse that seemed as intent on Gauner's huge bulk and fiery eyes as the Turk was on her, his enemy.

  She had learned well. She watched his eyes, not his sword arm, and saw instantly what he meant to do. It was straightforward, nothing fancy, simply a slice down to dislodge her own weapon from her gauntleted fist. She tapped her horse's flank with one foot, and he swerved to the left just enough to distract the Turk. With a wild backhand she swung as she passed, catching the man on the back of his sword arm, driving it forward and loosing his grip. The sword flew up and over the horse's head to land somewhere on the other side. The Turk screamed in pain and rage. As they both turned their mounts to come together once more, she saw the man's fierce eyes and marveled at how little fear she saw in them. She heard him cry out the name of his God as he rode directly at her. He now threw his horse to cross her path with its body.

  His intention was to cause her to swerve again so she would be unbalanced as they passed so he could crush her skull with the mace he had pulled from somewhere about his person. Instead of swerving she pulled back on Gauner's reins and kicked him forward, causing him to jump and kick to the front and rear at the same time that he stopped. She heard the snaps as the full force of Gauner's kick broke the Turk's leg and his horse's ribs. As Gauner hit the ground he turned slightly and kicked again at the falling horse's head just as he had been trained. His rear hooves also struck the Turk who had come around the man she was fighting to close on her from behind. Gauner must have sensed him just in time to defend them both as their foes, front and rear, fell in pain, blood, and screams. She settled Gauner after a couple more kicks, which was just enough time for the second man to slip off his dying horse and charge the two or three steps toward her, swinging with his sword at her waist. Instinctively she brought her sword point into his eyes and he impaled himself on it as it blocked the blow he had aimed.

  Her first kills in battle, only her second and third ever. It had gone just as Elias taught her, with Black Beast's tireless tutelage adding the rote reaction she needed to develop. She did not have time to consider the significance, however, as another Turk with a pike shot toward her. The man was covered in blood, whether his own or a pilgrim knight's she could not know. She danced Gauner sideways to escape the path of the pike whose point drilled directly to her chest. As he passed her she saw a mace swung at the Turk's head, its deadly points smashing and piercing the gleaming helm. It was Black Beast, roaring as he came down on his victim. The man fell from his horse, which panicked as he hung from where he was caught in part of the saddle. It sidled away in fright. The Turk's body shook loose and thudded to the ground. Black Beast whirled his horse, rode to the Turk's mount, and claimed its reins.


  She recognized his right to take the prize and remembered her own kills. She looked around, peering as best she could from the eyeholes of her helm, and saw that the battle was over. Even up ahead the Pecheneg milled about the dead, prodding bodies with their weapons. Some hopped down from their horses and started to remove armor, swords, anything they could take from the dead. Some held the leads of two or three horses.

  She realized that by killing both of her opponents' horses she had no prize. She looked back at Black Beast who dismounted and started to rifle the dead just as the Pecheneg were doing. He reached up to hand her both of his horses' reins. "Hold these for me, will you?" he asked, his voice hoarser than ever from screaming war cries.

  She took the reins and watched as he removed everything but the helm from the dead man's body. He kicked the helm so that it came off the man's head and skittered, bouncing, away over the other bodies. The head underneath was dented and bloody from where the mace's sharp steel thorns had crushed his skull. The Beast moved to another body. He looked up and growled very much like a beast when another pilgrim tried to assert his own claims. The man backed away for easier booty. Now that the deafening screams and cries of battle were silenced, she could hear the boasts of other knights intermingled with moans from the wounded and dying. The man Black Beast was searching made a sound. "Not dead, you bastard?" the big man said and took his heavily booted foot and stomped down hard on the man's throat. The moans stopped.

  Albrecht found her as Elisabeth rode exhausted and in shock toward the city. Its gates were wide open and pilgrims of all types streamed through the gap. Some knights on horseback attempted to control the mob, with some success. Once the people were inside, however, they seemed to dash every which way.

  Her squire road up alongside her. "Are you all right?"

  She reached up and pulled off her helm and pushed back her hood. Her dark hair was plastered to her head with sweat. She nodded. "No prize, though."