Pilgrim Page 5

  ‘Such thoughts are for dreams, Kurt.’

  ‘Not if I explore and find provision, if I should chance upon a wild pig or cat. One of us will discover something: a trove of roots, a fat river fish.’

  ‘Be careful. You are as like to stumble on trouble as to unearth a morsel.’

  She touched his cheek, and he dipped his head in rueful acceptance. She was right, always was, had learned from experience and the application of unctions to his many wounds that he and scrapes had common bond. He invariably chose the most challenging route and impossible of tasks. It made for excitement, caused Isolda alarm.

  He squeezed her arm. ‘I shall prove you wrong.’

  ‘And I shall ever be the elder sister who worries.’

  Their meeting had grown as youngsters wandered over to swap news and exchange supplies. They estimated the distance travelled and miles to go, traded rope belts and leather hoods, bartered pouches of calendula for handfuls of poppy seed. A boy carried a stick strung with field rodents and was instantly surrounded; a girl muttered prayers and gripped the injured foot of a comrade in pursuit of ecstatic healing. But there was further work to perform, the endless scouring of the upland and hunting through the low. To be still was to die.

  Striding out along the rough uphill track, Kurt had soon left the chattering activity of the children behind. He was content to be alone, relished his role as provider to the younger of their troop. He would reveal his worth to a doubting sister, would one day stand full-grown and equal beside his proud shearsman father. It was that father who had ordered son and daughter to the Holy Land, for better or worse, for reasons of poverty and the sake of spiritual absolution. Kurt did not miss him.

  Oak and birch gave way to the darker ranks of pine, the gradient steepening as he trudged. There would be plenty to find in the higher pastures if he were to look hard enough. His friends would welcome his return with cries of delight, would crowd to see what he had brought. Egon and Hans were fishing, Albert collected firewood, Zepp and Achim were stalking crickets and grasshoppers with a sack. He would achieve so much more.

  A shadow flitted among the trees. He ignored it, then slowed, his attention drawn to a suggestion of movement.

  ‘Gunther?’ He shouted again. ‘Is it you?’

  Mind and sight could play games in the dappling light. He resumed his course, halted, stared back into the retreating shadow of the woods. Nothing lurked there save his imagination. He whistled a tune, remembered and tried to forget tales of trolls and dragons. A bear might be exploring, a mountain cat slinking low. Or it could be Gunther.

  It began to rain, the heavy drops falling vertical and fat and accelerating into deluge. Water poured, running in rivulets from his body, coursing fast at his feet, drowning sound in torrential roar. Kurt stumbled blind and soaked through the sweeping grey. He had lost his bearings, was submerged in a gloaming that flickered in the shuddering storm. Thunder cracked. He shied. The path was now a stream, the forest an indistinct mass set against a wider darkness. He had to continue, had to find shelter, had to stay calm and succeed in his quest. It took effort to convince himself he was not frightened.

  Lightning flared. Briefly, in its dazzling brilliance, he could make out the contours of a structure, the makeshift shape of wood beams laid as a haven for goats and cattle. He headed for it. Another flash, an immediate fade. He wiped the teeming water from his eyes, blundered on for the vanishing and emerging cover. Thank God for such mercies. His hand reached and found the rough-hewn timber, pulled him to it, hauled him into the damp interior. Panting with relief, Kurt leaned on his knees and let his clothes drain. Only slowly did he become aware of a warm presence, and only in the next bursting shard of radiance did he see the blood and the body from which it came.

  The man was propped against a post, his expression unassuming, his chest pierced, a viscous stain saturating the front of his smock. It had been a recent kill. Kurt shuddered before it, wanting to run but held in check. One stared at the other, the dead inertness provoking inertia. Then Kurt fled. He was stumbling and crying, sliding to escape the horror and free himself of the clutching fear. So many questions invaded his mind. Yet they led to a single answer, to one solitary and unprovable fact. Gunther must have done this. The son of the woodsman had murdered as surely as he fed on the food of others and foraged on missions of his own.

  It was a hard blow that struck the side of his head, his impulsive stoop that deflected its crushing impact to a glancing one. He dropped, stunned and semiconscious, was being dragged through a dream of indistinct shapes and muffled noise to the edge of a slope. Vainly, he attempted to speak; powerless, he fought to stand. And far away he was moaning, beyond the sound of the thunder and the rushing closeness of a mountain stream. A pair of hands heaved him over, and he rolled down the bank.

  Rain was also falling forty miles away, sweeping the road from Freiburg along which the children had travelled. In a cattle-shed nestling against a scattered coppice of trees, a handful of stragglers huddled from the storm. They had joined the crusade late, were anxious to find the tail-end. But for the moment they would keep dry, preserve whatever strength they had. The downpour would pass.

  At first they thought they imagined the nearing rhythm and clop of hooves, then whispered uneasily and below their breath at the strange and foreign tongue they overheard. Rumour had it that bandits roamed in these parts. The children held each other close.

  In a gust-spray of precipitation, the door swung wide on its eel-skin hinges and four riders stood framed in the opening.

  ‘We seek one with the name Otto of Alzey.’

  Vaguely he comprehended he was half dead, almost drowned. He had to be alive to be this cold, must have been immersed a long time. Ice seemed to pervade his thoughts and bones, occupy his very being. He remembered things. The hands that propelled him into the wide and turbulent stream, the expelled air and eructing water, the enfolding splinters of pain. He had clawed at the sides, at the rock and grass, had sought purchase against the foaming current. To no avail. He was carried on, sent through a mist of terror and submersion to a tranquil state of dark and comforting acceptance. That was where they found him.

  He coughed again, and the water disgorged from his mouth. A hand was pummelling his back, its fingers wringing him out. So different to those that had gripped the implement used to club him, which had pushed him to a sodden oblivion. He would not tell his friends or Isolda of what he knew, of the dead stranger, of Gunther. Nor would he inform them of his dying thoughts and the image of the smiling and beautiful girl who had approached him in Cologne. She had come to him once more. They would think him mad.

  ‘Kurt, you are with us safe. Do not move or fret. We will take you back.’

  It was Egon, son of the blacksmith, who spoke. He was the strongest of them all, had the stolid nature and sturdy build of his male kinsmen. Happy fate that he and Hans had been catching fish downstream. Emptying on the ground, Kurt lay gasping, thankful and ashamed to be saved.

  Hans prodded him with his foot. ‘I have never landed an eel more difficult or large.’

  ‘Ignore his words, Kurt. He rarely catches fish of any kind at all.’

  ‘So speaks a blacksmith.’ Hans tutted at the rescued boy. ‘It seems you should sew and darn, and Isolda instead explore the mountain paths.’

  ‘I would truly create disaster.’

  ‘Your voice returns. A good sign.’ Hans leaned and patted his head.

  They hauled him upright and ferried him between them, his arms dangling limp around their shoulders, his feet trailing on the earth. He was shivering. There would be no triumphal arrival in camp, no amusing anecdotes to relate. Just two older boys and their bedraggled and whimpering find. It hurt to have let them down, to have disappointed himself. He bit his lip and forced back the pricking tears.

  ‘Kurt, whatever has happened?’

  ‘You are drenched. Did you fall or slip? Did you miss your step?’

  ‘Have you broke
n bones? Are you hurt?’

  ‘We will find you dry clothing, a blanket, food. You are as frozen as ice.’

  ‘Lie here. You must rest.’

  He had been right of one thing. They did crowd round, asking questions, showing their concern. Little Lisa held his hand, Zepp and Achim clung to him as a prodigal brother returned, Isolda wept and kissed his cheeks. But a great tiredness had overtaken him. As his companions worried and busied around him, he sank down and slept.

  When he awoke, the sun had gone and the light of a fire had taken its place. Green wood hissed and crackled, smoke billowed, and dampness evaporated in coiling wreaths of steam. Through this dusk-haze he could see the orange glow of faces, hear the murmur of voices. He was lucky to enjoy such companionship, a sister like Isolda. Ever watchful, she sat close and gently adjusted a rough horsehair cloak about him. He wondered if the girl from Cologne was thinking of him, and prayed she was safe.

  ‘Are you awake, Kurt?’

  ‘I am, Isolda. And I am sorry for the fear I caused, for the trouble and diversion I created.’

  ‘You would not be my brother without occasional incident.’ She found and held his hand. ‘At least you live, though will not be exploring on your own for a while.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  She laughed. ‘I know you too well to accept it. But I promised our mother that whatever befell us I would bring you to her unharmed.’

  ‘What will befall us?’

  ‘That is for God to know and for us to accept. I am sure He will be merciful if we persevere, if we are constant in our faith, if we continue in our endeavour.’

  ‘I did not think I was on holy mission as I bobbed about in a mountain stream.’

  ‘Yet it was the hand of Our Saviour that plucked you out.’

  The hand of Gunther that pushed me in. As the firelight briefly dimmed, he could distinguish the stars shining cold and bright above him. At times, they could comfort, would wrap the heavens in a blanket of silver. Tonight they merely hung indifferent and cheerless, reminding him of his unimportance, of how alone and vulnerable he and his fellow pilgrims were. Best not to dwell on things.

  ‘Take some food, Kurt. You must eat.’

  Egon crouched beside him and pushed fragments of charred and indeterminate meat between his lips. He gagged, chewed and swallowed. It could be fox, might be pigeon. To follow, tree bark would suffice. There was little point in enquiring or refusing on this journey. He had, after all, failed in his search for a wild pig or cat. His blunder, his damn fault.

  ‘Thank you for delivering me from the flood, Egon.’

  ‘Where the waters do not kill you, these scraps will.’ The son of the blacksmith fed him another piece. ‘How did you come to be there?’

  ‘I forget.’ He lied.

  ‘You have good balance, a fine eye, and sound fortune in spite of your escapades. And you arrive submerged at our feet.’

  ‘Accident may catch any of us. It has taken a few in our village.’

  ‘Until this moment not you, Kurt.’

  The twelve-year-old winced as he sat upright. ‘My tale is simple, the truth with it. I lost my way in the storm, must have tripped, received a blow to my head as I fell on the ground. When I came to, I was tumbling downstream, fighting to stay afloat and find handhold at the river edge.’

  ‘Anyone who cheats death in such fashion, who survives immersion and cannot swim, is tougher than an anvil in my family forge.’

  Hans had joined them. ‘I know anvils that float better.’

  ‘None that learn as fast as I.’

  Kurt was happy to let them talk, to sit among them and absorb their joshing kindness and the warmth from the fire. Through the valley and into the hills, further lights speckled the blackness, other bands of children gathering round to ward off the spirits and their own night terrors. A wolf howled, its cry low and mournful and rising to an echoing scream. Its brethren replied ghostly in the forest vastness. Someone said they were demons on the loose, another that monsters prowled. Isolda hushed them and began to tell a story, a tale of kings and princes, of noble knights and fair maidens. It would help steady their nerves, revive their tired minds for the morrow and resumption of the march.

  ‘And so it was that the evil baron marshalled his forces and set forth to conquer and rule the land of his neighbours . . .’

  Sparks cascaded from the fire, showering illumination beyond the immediate circle. In its radiance, Kurt had noticed the eyes of Gunther glimmering empty and indecipherable.

  Occasionally a camel would snort or groan, a desert fox yip and bark in the distance, but that was all. Out here in the Old Testament landscape, where acacia and thorn trees clung stubborn to the bone-dry surface, nothing would disturb the pre-dawn peace. That was how the commander liked it. His caravan was large, over three hundred camels tended by drivers, guarded by Mamluks, and loaded in Egypt with gold, iron ingots and weapons for Saphadin al-Adil, the Sultan of Damascus.

  The patrol of Bedouin auxiliaries had not yet reported in. Its lateness would provoke neither comment nor concern. Any threat was unlikely. No group of bandits was strong enough to challenge the steady progress that they made; no marauding Christians would venture so far or find them in this wilderness. Stealth and size gave them advantage. It allowed them to sleep well, to avoid having to mass in the cramped confines of the caravanserai strongpoints. Walls had ears, towers eyes, local traders and herders mouths that could blab and spread a rumour. The caravan would stay from view and hide out in the night.

  A guard dozed beside a group of hobbled camels. Behind him were the prone shapes of his travelling-party wrapped in their blankets against the desert chill, catching the last drifting moments of slumber before prayers and a new day recalled them to consciousness. Camel-dung fires would be lit, tea brewed, stew and bread eaten. They would set out again before the sun climbed too high, vanish ahead of any who might detect their presence. So the guard snored and broke wind and intermittently half opened an eye to reassure himself that things were as they seemed. Allah watched over them all. It was a wise course to trust in Him, to concentrate on idling time and chewing qat, on sinking into sweet narco-reverie once the amphetamine rush had palled. He yawned. A faint hint of movement had trespassed into his vision field, was agitating his unwakened state. He rubbed sleep from his face and strained to focus on the blurred figure approaching in the gloom.

  ‘Salaam ‘alaykum . . .’

  ‘Peace be upon you,’ the stranger murmured. The guard was stumbling to his feet, his mind too groggy to comprehend, his speech too slow to articulate response. He had not expected a visitor. There were instructions to kill those who posed a danger, to ward off those who came in close. But a lone wanderer offering felicitations was more surprise than risk. Besides, the guard had laid down his weapon, was attempting to find and retrieve it on the shadowed ground.

  ‘You need no spear or sword to confront me, my friend.’ The outsider spoke Arabic, his tone calm and reasonable.

  ‘Do not come further.’

  ‘Too late, my friend. I stand a mere five yards from you.’

  ‘It is near enough. Step away. Return to your journey.’

  ‘I cannot do that.’

  ‘The alarm will be raised, soldiers called, your punishment swift. I have orders to kill.’

  ‘We must all of us obey the authority of others. You and I, the soldiers and cameleers with whom you travel, the Bedouin sent out on patrol. Even the great Sultan of Damascus, Saphadin himself, answers to his family and tribe, to God, to the storms of circumstance.’

  ‘You have no business in this place.’

  ‘Yours has become our own, my friend.’ The line was delivered in French, the tongue of the crusaders.

  Aware that the situation had changed, was beyond his control, the guard shifted to meet the challenge. He was countered by a crossbow-bolt fired at short range. Its double head punched through his abdomen, exiting through his spine and carrying the stub qua
rrel and viscera behind.

  Out in the desert, a single arrow soared skyward, its tip flaming, its trajectory curving in a graceful arc. The signal had been given. In a sweeping line abreast, and with a shuddering of hooves, mounted cavalry emerged in a headlong charge for the camp. Some had swords and clubs raised, others their lances couched, and all were intent on destruction. A man cried out and ran, through fear or to alert. His gesture was fruitless. The enemy were among them, hacking at the confused and rising Arabs, bludgeoning and pinning the inert or slow. Corpses lay blanket-clad, larva-like, the whinnying of horses and shouts of men eddying in the maelstrom. Dawn was breaking, but there would be no call to prayer. Instead, a process of elimination was under way, conducted with ruthless precision and total efficiency.

  ‘Seize everything of value! Miss nothing and spare none!’

  Climbing into the saddle of a charger that was brought to him, the killer of the guard negotiated his way through the murder zone. He gave orders as he went, directing, encouraging, bringing to a close. Before him, firebrands were being tossed into stores of oil and combustibles, the light flickering and catching the ongoing carnage. A squad of Mamluks tried to resist and were taken to pieces; a youth scrambled to escape, sprinting for the grey horizon, and was ridden down. Watching, the commander nodded in appreciation. He could report mission accomplished, the snatching of riches, the goading of the heathen, the gravest of blows inflicted on Saphadin. The Lord of Arsur had performed his opening move.

  Chapter 3

  At an inn in the shadow of Basle Cathedral, cityfolk were drinking. Beggars and whores, young blades and tradesmen, the whole of humanity appeared to be represented in the riotous scene of colour and noise. A church spire could point to God. Here, energies were directed to earthier pursuits. In one corner, men and women crowded to watch a cockfight, cursing and yelling, trading money or insults as spurs struck and blood and feathers flew. Elsewhere, the inebriated slipped below tables, the insatiable fornicated against walls. Sodom and Gomorrah, a venue for loose morals and looser tongues, an excellent place in which to conduct a search.