P. Doherty - The Templar

‘I am sorry?’ Eleanor interrupted.

‘Sister, I tell you what I know. Go amongst my belongings.’ He banged his head against the baskets and panniers piled behind him. ‘Take the small one, now.’ He pushed himself forward, allowing Eleanor to free the saddlebags, two pouches held together by a strap. ‘Keep them,’ he gasped, ‘and all that is in them. God knows there is no one else. Now, sister, I must confess…’

‘Who was this horseman, this stranger?’

‘I don’t know. Anstritha did claim she had travelled to Outremer. She told me that she had secrets of her own. Just before I left, she admitted how her present troubles were the fault of a half-brother who’d plagued her life.’ Fulcher coughed on his own blood. ‘Sister, it was dark, she was terrified, as was I. She would say no more. The fire roared and they hanged her above it. Anstritha’s blood is now on my hands and those of others. We have to pay, I know that.’

Eleanor, more to humour him than anything else, kissed him on the brow, muttered the Jesu Miserere, took the bag and left Fulcher to Brother Norbert’s ministrations. She’d hardly returned to where Imogene lay sleeping beneath the cart when shouts and cries sent her running to a gap. Hugh and his companions came thundering back. A cart was pulled aside and the riders galloped through, accompanied by a high-ranking Greek officer in court dress, a long, ornate gown that hung midway down his boots, bright and richly embroidered with gold thread. Behind him was a young servant boy dressed in green. Immediately they were surrounded by the vicomte and his commanders and a heated discussion ensued. Eleanor hurried to join the fast-gathering crowd. Jehan, leader of the Beggars’ Company, was summoned and the debate continued. From the people around her Eleanor learned that the Greeks had attacked because a nobleman’s villa had been plundered: the owner’s wife, together with his two daughters, had been brutally raped, then hanged from the beams of their own house. The servant boy had escaped but would recognise the attackers, and the finger of suspicion was already pointed at Jehan’s company. The Greeks had issued an ultimatum: the perpetrators must be identified and summarily punished, otherwise a fresh attack would be launched. Jehan tried to defend his company, but the vicomte ordered him to co-operate or be expelled.

The entire Beggars’ Company was summoned and lined up along the carts. Shouts of defiance — ‘Toulouse, Toulouse!’ — were swiftly quieted by the vicomte’s commanders, drawing their swords, whilst Hugh, now their envoy, stood up in his stirrups and proclaimed that rape and murder had nothing to do with their quest. ‘Moreover,’ he continued, ‘if justice is done, the Greeks will offer provisions and escort us safely to the great city.’ Shouts of abuse echoed, followed by more cries of ‘Toulouse, Toulouse!’ Nevertheless, the mood shifted as more people joined the throng. The servant boy dismounted and, accompanied by Hugh and Beltran, walked along the line of Beggars. Four men were identified. They shrieked their innocence as Hugh ordered them to be dragged out. The servant boy, grasping the crucifix Alberic thrust into his hand, shouted his oath that he’d spoken the truth. The men’s fate was sealed. Another quarrel took place between the vicomte and the Greek. The vicomte pointed to Hugh. The official nodded in agreement, bowed and, turning his horse, galloped off, followed by the servant.

The four prisoners were hustled out from behind the line of carts and forced to kneel on the ground, still littered with corpses and broken weapons. Alberic moved along, crouching before each one, hand lifted in absolution. He had just reached the third when Greek horsemen emerged, riding slowly up to watch what was happening. Alberic finished. Hugh, carrying a basket, stepped forward. He drew his sword and, like a harvester collecting grain, neatly severed each of the condemned men’s heads, a slicing cut that sent the head rolling like a ball. Blood spurted up as the corpses toppled over. Eleanor looked away. Once Hugh was finished, he collected the heads, put them in the basket and, walking towards the line of horsemen, placed it on the ground before them. He returned, cleaned his sword on the clothing of one of the corpses, resheathed it and strolled back to the watching wall of Franks.

Bread, meat, wine and ripe fruit began to reach the camp just before nightfall. Carts piled high with produce were escorted into the camp by Turcopole mercenaries in flowing sky-blue robes, white turbans on their heads, black horn bows thrust into side pouches on their saddles. The arrivals were greeted with dark looks but Hugh, unperturbed by the brutal executions, went out to talk to the Turkish officer, who smilingly agreed to his request to stage a display of mounted archery out on the open meadowland. Hugh, holding Eleanor’s hand, watched the rider circle round a tree stump, horse and officer acting as one. The nimble mount turned and twisted even as the Turcopole, low in the saddle, loosed shaft after shaft into the stump.

‘This is what we will face, Eleanor,’ Hugh murmured, raising a hand in thanks to the officer. ‘These are the enemy, not Greek women and girls. Do you know they were mere children, raped, tortured and hanged before their mother, who was forced to witness it. If I had my way, I would enforce strict discipline on this rabble. Anyone who raises a hand against an innocent should be executed; it is the only way. The Greeks do not wish to fight us. They see us as defence against the Turks. Yet there is more bad news.’ He pulled a face. ‘Our leaders are arguing in Constantinople; they cannot decide on who will lead the army.’

‘Hugh, look at me.’

He did so.

‘Tell me,’ Eleanor stepped closer, ‘why are you here? To impose order, to create a brotherhood, or something else?’

He slowly wiped the sweat from his dirty face.

‘I asked you a question, brother, a direct question that deserves an honest answer. We are travelling across the world to Jerusalem, yet there is more to it, isn’t there, than the freeing of Christ’s Sepulchre, the liberation of the Holy Places. You, Godefroi, Alberic and Norbert, there is something else, some secret.’

He opened his mouth to reply.

‘Hugh, I know you like no one else does. You don’t lie. Sometimes you simply don’t tell the truth! I have asked you to lend me that poem, “La Chanson de Voyage de Charlemagne”. What is in that, Hugh?’

He scraped his boots on the ground and, leaning down, took off his spurs, jingling them in his hand.

‘I promise you this, sister,’ he smiled, ‘I will tell you everything, but not now. We face problems enough. My execution of those men is not popular.’

‘Nor was their crime,’ Eleanor retorted. She stared at her brother. His unshaven face looked harder, more resolute. She felt tempted to tell him about Fulcher, but decided to wait. They were bound for Jerusalem, but Hugh and, to a certain extent Godefroi, Alberic and Norbert too, apparently had their own private crusade. She was sure it was not her own imagination, but decided to accept Hugh’s reticence for the time being.

They returned to the camp now all a-bustle, bitterness at the Greek attack and the subsequent executions swiftly receding as the food and wine were distributed. After Vespers, Eleanor, Hugh, Godefroi, Alberic and Norbert joined the leaders of other companies in a tented enclosure lit by cresset torches lashed to poles. The vicomte and his colleagues stood on a dais and openly debated what was to be done next. Shouted argument and counterargument ensued, wine and full bellies quickening tempers. Many claimed Count Raymond should not have abandoned them. A few voiced the wish to return home. Eleanor felt tired and sick. She excused herself and returned to the cart where Imogene, helped by a nearby family, had set up tent. Beyond the ring of carts, the torches of scavengers and other searchers moved around the battlefield. Guards on foot also patrolled in the jingle of armour and the creak of leather. Eleanor was about to settle down when she remembered Fulcher. She found the pannier where she’d hidden it and shook out the paltry contents: a dagger, some nails, a medal, pieces of silver and a thick-soled sandal, its leather upper prised loose from the stitching. Eleanor put her fingers inside and drew out a neatly folded piece of smooth vellum. She unfolded this; it was larger than she’d thought. The vellum was slightly oiled, the best to be found in any chancery or scriptorium. In the poor light she could make out a drawing like a map and the clearly written letters above it.