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The Pilgrimage: A Novel

Chapter 3

The demon is here again, and I wake with a start with my heart in my mouth and the blood drained from my limbs. I look over at him, I can see him clearly in the moonlight picking his way among the bodies of the other paupers as they sleep. He is black, with thin arms and thin legs and a bloated red belly and fanged, fat head. He sees that I am looking at me and – help me Jesus – he flies at me so fast that I can hardly see him. Now suddenly his is on my chest, he sits upon me and presses down with such a terrible weight that I can hardly breathe, let alone move. I try to cry out but I can’t make a sound, I try to move my arms to push him away but they are weighed down and I look at them now and I see that that strands of the grass and shrubs have sprouted around me while I slept and hold my limbs fast to the ground. Then he opens his mouth.

‘We’re coming for you’, he hisses at me, his stinking breath gushing into my face. ‘You know why, don’t you, don’t you?’

I look past him, he directs my eyes, and as I cast my eyes around I see friends from the village standing around amongst the bodies of the living. There is Gerald, he stands swaying and sobbing as Margaret, her limbs entwined with pond weed, is held under water by another demon as she struggles and kicks, condemned to be drowned for all eternity. I look further and Bill and Bob, their bodies covered in cuts, and there is Dave, walking towards me. There are worms in his body and then his head is rolling at my feet, screaming at me.

And then I see Maude, screaming in pain. The flames are all around her and she is on her knees, her arms held out towards me. Her lips are moving, she is saying something – I strain, I struggle to hear what it is but I can’t understand the words.

I struggle against my bonds, desperate to reach out to her. I call, but cannot force the breath from my crushed body. I blink, and then cannot open my eyes again. I am blind, deaf, dumb, paralysed. My eyes open, light slithers over the eastern hills and the demon has gone.

I flex my fingers, and suck in the bitter air in great gulps, my heart pounding. My head and back hurt from the sleeping prostrate on the cold and stony ground. I sit, and pull my cloak tightly around my shoulders. I’m cold, colder than I have been for a long time, but I know that soon, as the sun rises, it will become murderously hot. This is truly a devilish land.

Rubbing my hands together to try to get them working properly again, I delve into my purse for what scraps are left to me, the remnants of what food I could scavenge from the dead after the battle. It is hard to recollect, my head is clouded, but I think it’s now two days since the enemy were overcome. That means, I think, that today we will begin our journey once again.

Other pilgrims are starting to stir now, their silent, waif-like figures rising unsteadily to their feet as if the dead themselves were being roused by the early morning light. The light will not rouse some bodies. I look around, and wonder how many victims this night has claimed, how many of the bodies that have not yet begun moving have given up the ghost on this cold, bleak hill, and how many of the bodies which lie around here have been dead for days.

********************

The wagon is full of tormented bodies, and the air is thick and heavy with the stench of decay. As the oxen plod onwards, hauling their bloody cargo, I catch the sideboard and haul myself onboard. The first of the bodies I see in front of me lies still, his jaw slack, pus oozing from a jagged, encrusted wound on his naked chest. Flies buzz and settle on my face as my eyes accustom to the dim gloom under the stitched-hide cover. Many of the bodies lie still, although some wave hands weakly by their heads, attempting to summon a draft of fresh, cool air. They seem to me like fish hauled from their watery medium and left to drown on land, flapping listlessly in their doomed struggle to obtain succour from the alien air. I stumble among them, searching, treading on lifeless fingers and slipping on sanguinary effluent as the wagon pitches and jars along the track.

Finally, I find Arnulf, lying towards the back, his eyes closed and his head resting on a crude pillow of blood-encrusted cloth. I untie my bottle, and hold it to his open lips, and gently squeeze a few drops into his parched mouth. He is still bandaged with the scraps of my cloak, although they are filthy with dirt, blood, vomit and shit. I unwrap them, and try to make out the shape of the livid wound, although the light is so poor that I cannot tell where the region of fleshy blood ends and becomes instead bloody flesh. I take from my purse the leaves of brown wort, old now and lacking in vigour, and curse silently at the delays I have suffered.

I spent two days helping to bury the dead, constrained against all reason by my Lord Baldwin to remain near at hand. To the frustration of God’s purpose, I have been digging pits, when there are thousands at hand to dig pits, and I have been performing the rites, when the army is full of priests who could conduct this task. In the evenings, I have crept away from my Lord’s camp like a thief, I am forced by this contrary circumstance to adopt the manner of an evildoer in order that I may conduct the task of a lover of Christ.

And when, on that second night, I found in the gloom Tancred’s camp, I found my path blocked once more. Not one of the pickets stationed around the low hill on which the camp was sited would even admit Arnulf’s existence to me. Under the devils orchestration, they would not let me even enter the camp. And so, weary and frustrated, I returned to the Lotharingians.

Then, on the third day, the army started moving once more, and the wounded were brought together in the centre, and I, without a horse, have spent the day running, first from my station with Lord Baldwin in the rearguard, and then back and forth, from one cart heaped with the dead and dying to the next, looking for the knight to whom I owe my life. Indeed, it is a hard task that I have performed in the service of the Lord.

I found the wagons that carried the wounded of Bohemond’s forces, and on asking for Arnulf, was directed to a peasant woman and she, with shawled head and gaping teeth, told me that she counted Arnulf among the men that she nursed. She, thinking that I had come to administer extreme unction (and Lord forgive me, I let her believe it), gestured me towards the wagon in which he lay.

Now I am here, and I have brought salves and salvation. As the drops of water trickle into his mouth, his eyes open, and he stares passively up at me. Then, abruptly, his eyes open wide with alarm.

Priest! he exclaims, and I tell him hush, relax, you are not dying, I have come to make sure of your life, not to prepare you for its end. I take hold of the leaves, and I tear them, saying Domine Padre et spiritu santu over them, three times, to bring their healing properties to the fore, and then I spit on then and press them together, hard, until the juice begins to run. I tell Arnulf to grit his teeth, and press the shredded compress to his wound. O brave knight, I see the pain flash across your face but you does not offer up a sound. I wrap the stained bandages around him once more and, holding his hand, I pray.

********************

We march on, southwards mainly, I don’t know any more than that. We follow the army, and the follows the valleys, and the hills on our left grow ever steeper day by day. Although we’ve been marching now for three days, we still occasionally see the bodies of the fallen pagans, cut down as they fled from that terrible battle.

The land is dry and stony, and cattle and men alike slip and fall on the unsteady ground. I am thirsty and hungry, as usual, but I keep close to Duke Raymond’s army, because he often will arrange a food handout for us poor pilgrims.

********************

Woe upon inconsolable woe, now I know how much danger Arnulf’s soul is in. Not only is he plagued from within by misconceptions and errors, but those around him would practice witchcraft on him. Now I have learned – I walk behind the cart, watching over him, so that no mischief may be perpetrated on him. In the morning, after I return from Duke Godfrey’s camp, my work begins. I cast out the spells that I know the witch has cast upon him.

I call upon the blessed virgin, obsecro te domina sancta Maria, and upon the Lord Jesus Christ, her son, Domine Iesu Christe fili Dei vivi, for the strength to oppose this devilry. By unceasing prayer I try to heal the damage done to his soul, for without a healed soul his body will not heal, of that I am sure. But I am weak, and I am sinful, and my prayers do not carry the power of the blameless. Arnulf is burning from within with the heat of this holy struggle, and I am torn, torn between the need to watch over and pray for him, and the need to collect the cooling herbs.

I plead with his friends, who return to be with him often, I plead with them to turn out the witch, to banish her from their midst, but they pay me no heed. Her spell has been woven over them too, they tell me that she is a great healer, and has saved the lives of many. Saved their lives, I reply but condemned their souls to eternal damnation, but they act as if it is no concern of theirs.

So I remain here, walking behind I guard against the witch’s return, and she does return everyday, for the devil is persistent. She pleads with me, insisting that she must bring him water, or food, or linen, but I do not let her near, and I share with him the little that I have, my ration of food and water that I have brought up with me from my Lord Baldwin’s camp.

And at vespers I return to that camp, against all justice I return and leave Arnulf to the mercies of the witch, for I dare not disobey the Lord to whom I am bound by oath. In the morning, the battle begins once more.

********************

The wagon bumps and clatters on, and I am sick of it. I am awake now, most of the time. I lie, exhausted, trying to sleep, the pain of my injured body keeps me awake. The priest has left the wagon – I asked him to, the chanting of psalms was torturing my throbbing head – and now he walks by the side of the cart, keeping pace. Sometimes, I ask him for water, and he passes a little leather bottle in under the sheeting and I gulp back some of the sour, rancid liquid. But he cannot bring me sleep.

The wagon stops, and there are voices outside. Low voices, the priest I think, answering to another. And then a shout, ‘Arnulf’, and a rapping on the wooden sideboard. ‘Arnulf’, again, ‘are you in there?’. It’s Bernard!

Yes, I call back to him, yes, I’m here. Another voice answers, come on, you lazy sack of shit, we’re getting you out of this cesspit.

They clamber onto the back, and pick their way over the bodies towards me.

– Can you stand? Asks Bernard, and I tell him that I don’t know. Well come on then, he says, try it, and he and Roger take hold of my shoulders and hips and raise me up, and I feel surprisingly little pain. One each side of me then, they retrace their path to the mouth of the wagon, and help me down. I stumble then, and struggle to straighten my knees but my legs won’t respond. The priest is here, urging them to be careful, and Maude too. Then Roger takes hold of my legs, picks me up and they carry me across to another cart, standing nearby.

The cart is half-full of grain and other provisions, but there is just enough space for me to lie down. They’ve rigged up a shade for me too, God bless them, and I collapse onto the clean boards, thankful to be out of that festering hell.

Who’s that bloody priest, he’s always hanging around here! Says William.

I dunno, I reply, he’s been good to me, looked after me.

You’ve got Maude here, to take care of you, says Roger. What she don’t know about putting people right nobody does, and if the Lord decides your numbers up, well then its up, and that bloody Priest. Christ, he’s hardly old enough to grow a beard. Besides, there are priests enough around here, good, Norman priests, without him skulking around. Nah, what the hell’s he doin’ here, he’s after something, I reckon.

I reckon he likes you, cries Bernard, winking ostentatiously at William. Hey, priest! He shouts. You’ll get no piece of Arnulf’s arse – he’s not that kind of boy! And I see, out of the corner of my eye, Michael slinking off and away from the cart.

No, don’t worry, we’ll look after you mate, says William. My eyes close, and I feel tired, very tired. ‘Bloody heroes’ I hear Roger say, laughing, before I am too tired to listen any more.

********************

I hear that Tancred has made you his lieutenant.

Yes, Rainald says, yes. William’s death caused problems, of course, because he was a natural ally, somebody we could rely on. So William dying was a problem, but it some ways its been a blessing too, because a lot of the knights that were following William have transferred their allegiance to Tancred. And Tancred got a lot of respect as result of his command during that battle too. So he’s famous now, knights are flocking join with us, and he’s put me in charge of the new guys. Of course, they’re not part of the hundred, but its great, because it give us a bit more bargaining power, you know, a bit more chance of getting what we want.

– Oh yes, I say. I look away, trying to work out what it is that he means. I try to tease it out of him. Yes, I venture, Tancred’s really not happy about the route that Raymond wants us to take.

– Well, yes, replies Rainald, but it’s not that simple. I mean, we’re going to Antioch, we’ve go to take Antioch otherwise there’s no way we can carry on to Jerusalem. But there’s more to it than that, because there’s all these Armenian towns between us and Antioch, Christians you see. Now, we’ve got to get these towns on our side, take them from the Turks, and everybody’s agreed on that. But taking the cities isn’t the problem The question is who gets control of them.

– And Taktikios says that they should belong to the Emperor, because they used to be part of the Empire.

– Yes, and a lot of the provençals agree. What Raymond says is that well, number one, everybody has sworn an oath to Alexius, and it’s true that that’s a problem – but it’s not an insurmountable one, because Alexius hates us as much as we hate him. If we really wanted to, it wouldn’t be to difficult to work up a pretext, something that we could use to say ‘hey, Alexius has broken his promises to us, so we’re not bound by the oath anymore.

No, the real problem is that we still need Alexius, and not simply his soldiers and that mangled-faced buffoon Taktikios. What we really need from Alexius is supplies, food and the like. It’s not so bad here, but Antioch is deep into Muslim territory. But the Romanians have got good fleets,

– I heard that there’s supposed to be an English fleet somewhere around, on its way to meet us at Antioch, or so people say.

– I’ve heard those rumours too. It makes sense. When we met Robert at Nicaea, he was saying that the English were putting together a fleet when he left Normandy. Though if they’ve travelled all this way by sea they’re either foolhardy or crazy. Bohemond says there are Norman captains operating around these here too.

Anyway, it doesn’t change matters. Even if an English fleet gets here, there as likely to end up with Alexius as they are with Robert. Cyprus is loyal to the Emperor too. So we’re dependant on the Emperor, and we can’t afford to piss him off.

Now the direct route would take us straight along the Pilgrim Road, through Cilicia and straight down to Antioch, but Taktikios and the Romanians want us to divert up north, into Cappodacia, and take control of the Armenian cities there. Cappodacia’s not going to be a piece of cake, but pretty much all of the commanders are agreed that we’ve got to capture it. Apparently the territory’s pretty rough, and the Turkish King, his name’s Hasan, has got a lot of troops, but the idea is that Cappodacia’s in a really good strategic position, both for the Romanians and for us. If we get control of Cappodacia, then the whole area to the north of Antioch will be secure for us, and it’ll also create a secure frontier behind which Alexius can mop up the rest of the Turks.

– So everyone’s agreed then, we divert north into Cappodacia?

– Well that’s what that scheming bastard Taktikios would like to happen. But you know that Baldwin’s been getting chummy with that Armenian.

– Which Armenian, I ask.

– Well, he says he’s the brother of an Armenian prince. Anyway, from what we’ve heard, he’s been telling Baldwin that the towns of Cilicia, along the Pilgrim Road, are hardly defended by the Turks at all. The people there are all Armenian too, and they’re just waiting for an opportunity to get rid of the Turks. The whole region is just crying out for someone to grab it. The question is, who? Well, you can imagine what Baldwin thinks.

– But, I ask, won’t that be going against the oath that Baldwin made to Alexius. I mean, if Baldwin takes over Cilicia, then we’ll lose the support of the Romanians.

– Exactly Arnulf, exactly. We’ve got to work out a way to get control of those Cilician towns before Baldwin does, and to do it so that the Army doesn’t lose the support of the Emperor.

I lean back onto the sacks of meal and chew over this bit of news.

– How’s that monk friend of yours doing, asks Rainald.

And I tell him, he’s no friend of mine. Nobody likes him, I wish he’d bugger off back to wherever he came from. Hell, the guy just follows me round like some kind of lap dog. I wouldn’t mind but he’s always sticking his nose in, always trying to lecture people. And the moment anyone says anything that he doesn’t like, well he just scuttles off.

– He thinks the world of you, says Rainald.

– Bernard reckons he’s an arse bandit.

– Bernard’s an idiot. And so is that William. They’re tough, they’re good fighters, but they’re stupid, and that’s dangerous. Listen Arnulf, you’re their leader, you’ve got to take the lead. Whatever you decide, they’ll follow. They hate Michael because he’s weak, so they bully him. But you’ve got to be smarter than that, Arnulf. Look to the long term.

I am taking the lead, I tell him. He can stick around with us, I’m not going to stop him. But I’m not going to let him get too big for his boots. The other day he just came in and chucked away the charms that Maude had made.

– And? Says Rainald. You survived?

That’s not the point! If he’s going to be around us, then he’s got to play by the rules. And if he can’t hack it, then he should bugger off.

They hate Michael because he looks weak, because he’s on his own, and because he doesn’t know much of the world – although, God knows, neither do they. Most of all they hate him because he worships you. But he’s smart, Arnulf, you know that, and he’s loyal. And those two things are vital. If you want a piece of advice from an old soldier, when you’re on campaign you need all the friends you can get.

********************

It’s early morning, but Arnulf is already awake when I catch up to the supply wagon that carries him and swing myself aboard. I ask him how he slept, and he tells me not too good. Is it much worse, I ask him, and he snaps back – no! I think he is upset with me, but I’ve brought a peace offering.

Arnulf, I say, I’m sorry about the other day. He doesn’t respond. I tell him, but I’m trying to help you, you know that. Those charms, they’re the devils work, it’s true, even if Maude doesn’t realise it. They’re not going to help you, they can only make things worse. The only way you’ll heal is by God’s mercy, but those charms only left you open to Satan’s influence.

Here, look, I have brought something for you. I reach into the folds of my habit and take out the small, precious pouch. Gingerly, I hand it to him, and he takes it, holding it between his fingers and palpitating it with his thumb. He pulls at the drawstring, squints inside, and then sniffs at the contents.

It’s dust, I tell him. Dust from the floor of the Church at Monte Gargano, the most holy seat of St Michael. It will heal you and keep you well, better than any pagan charm. No, take it, it’s for you. I traded my spare shoes for it, with an old man, a clerk, who used to be a sub-deacon there. You should mix a little with milk and honey each day and drink it, the Heaven knows where you’re going to get milk and honey out here.

He’s quiet for a while. I look back over the long, trailing lines of trudging men, women and animals, all silent as they follow in the cart’s wake. Then I turn and I look anxiously at him, expectantly, hoping for at least some flicker on his impassive face that will show that he understands, that he’s forgiven me.

– The sky is a different shade of blue here, he says.

I look at him, and then look up at the cloudless sky. You’re right, I say, it’s not so dark as it is in Normandy. I wonder...

– What? He says.

I wonder if the sky gets lighter as you get closer to the centre of the earth, you know, closer to Jerusalem.

– Well, it certainly gets hotter.

They say that the earth is round, you know – round like a ball I mean, not round like a wheel. I’ve read that the further south you go, the hotter and hotter it gets, until you reach a belt round the middle which is so hot that nothing can survive.

– That’s stupid! He exclaims. If the earth was a ball, then anyone who wasn’t at the top would fall off!

No, you see, God’s hand is at work to stop it. Everything that’s created from the earth, like rocks, and man himself, everything is brought to the same point, right at the centre of the world. But because, well, the earth is at the centre of the earth, then we get, well, we get stuck on top. I pause, suddenly uncertain of myself.

– But Jerusalem is at the centre of the world.

I stop, flummoxed, and then he laughs, and that fills me with such pleasure that I laugh too, and when the laughter dies down he turns to me.

What you were saying earlier, about the charms. You’re right, I know you’re right.

********************

The wagon stops, and I grab hold of the side boards and haul myself up to watch such scenes of delight and joy as I had never dared hope to see. The scarce rain dashes in thudding drops onto the heard, parched dirt, and brings life to sun scorched pilgrims like wilted flowers at the end of a summer drought. All around, people hold their mouths open to the skies to receive sweet manna from the lord and then turn to hug one another as the water runs in grimy rivulets down their hollow, beaming faces.

Michael is on his knees, praying. Many are on their knees, giving thanks to the Lord for our deliverance. As I look, he raises his cowled head and sees me and stands up.

– This must surely is sign from God, he says. This must be the place, this must be Pisidia.

I look around, from the cool, dark forest that lies a stretches away to the west almost as far as I can see, and then to the east, across the broad, green scrubby plain to the broad grey mountains that sit hunched on the horizon. Certainly, the pilgrims seem to think that this is the place that God has been leading us to, since they are spreading out across the plain and towards the forest, each eager to claim his patch of ground before the rest of the army arrives. Yes, I say, this must be our paradise.

It worries me, however, that, I don’t think that the army commanders have ordered this encampment – it’s only just past midday, after all, and there are many more marching hours left. I hope that thos ahead of us know that the army has stopped. I can’t see the banners of Bohemond or of Tancred, and call to Michael, to ask him if he knows where they are.

– No, he replies, I can’t see them either, but I know that they are up ahead somewhere.

The wagon train has stopped but, without word from the Bohemond, we cannot unload the camp materials. The drivers sit by the roadside in huddled groups, and the animals stand, heads bowed, waiting for the goad. The rain has stopped, leaving the air permeated with its cool taste. I call again to Michael and he comes over and helps me out of the wagon and, resting on his shoulders

The hard earth of the road is covered with a thin layer of silty mud, and I lean hard on Michael’s shoulder to take the strain from my unsteady feet. Michael slips too and I, unthinkingly, plunge my weight onto my wounded calf. As I flinch, my knees buckle and I stumble heavily into him and then pitch forward into the churned mud at the side of the road. Sharp stabbing pain shoots through my body and I groan helplessly, writhing in the mud, while I feel Michael’s thin hands upon me, ineffectually clutching at my shoulders as he tries to drag me to the unsullied grass.

I kick and struggle onto the bank and lie there as Michael frets around me like a stupid girl. Every inch of my body hurts. ‘For Christ’s sake will you just fuck off! I scream at him. It’s bad enough that he’s dropped me in the mud, without this charade. As I shout at him he freezes and looks at me with eyes wide and I stare back at him and say coldly, get away from me you idiot, you’ve done enough damage for one day. I watch as he scampers away, across the road a behind the wagon, although I can still feel him looking at me.

I lie back and close my eyes and try to ignore the pain, which slowly subsides. After a while, with the pain nearly returned to its normal, dull ache, and I begin to relax as the sun’s warmth dries my soaked clothes. I wonder if the Monk is still looking at me. I kind of wish that I hadn’t lashed out at him –although it was his fault that I fell, he was trying to help and I should have known better than to trust his weak body. I think of calling out to him when instead I hear the sound of galloping horses coming down the track. I open my eyes and I see the fine sight of Bernard and William in full armour, waving their lances over there head’s and calling out ‘Arnulf! Arnulf!’.

I wave back to them as they approach, hurling themselves off their horses as they reach me. They stumble over the ground and William exclaims the good news.

– This is it Arnulf. Tancred says that we’re to camp here, at least for the next few days. Pisidian Antioch is only a few miles away – I’ve seen it myself, and it’s not even defended. Oh, Arnulf you should see this place, there are farmlands and villages all over, all you have to do is ride through and locals shower you

– And the girls round here Arnulf, they’re bleeding gorgeous. Come on, lets go and grab a few! And with this Bernard grabs hold of my arm and yanks me to up and I shout, no! Bernard lets me drop back onto the grass and says sorry mate, didn’t know you were still in a bad way.

I tell him yeah, it still hurts, I think I’m gunna have to leave the ladies to you, Bernard.

– Hey, don’t you worry about it, says Bernard. Tancred’s agreed to give us some money for us to hire a doctor.

– And not just any doctor, says William, no, we’ve brought you the best doctor in the army. He’s from Salerno, no less.

Salerno! Where the hell did they find a Salernan doctor in this place? I guess he must have come over with Bohemond’s lot. So where is he?

– He was with us, says Bernard, looking over his shoulder. We had to leave him down the road a bit cause I don’t think his old nag can get much past a trot. Yeah, here he is, he adds, and he points at this grandiose man trotting gracefully towards us on a huge, piebald stallion.

– Yeah, adds William, he’s a bit of a starchy old fart but he’s a bloody fine doctor.

– Hey! shouts Bernard, there’s that bleeding monk again, he’s hiding behind the bleeding wagon. Christ what a prick!

Then William shouts

– Stop hiding, you little rat, don’t you want to meet the doctor? Come on, no need to be frightened – you might learn something!

When the doctor reaches our little group, it is plain to see that he is a very great gentleman. At first, I notice his horse, a tall, long-legged beast. It shows fewer signs of starvation than the other horses I’ve seen today, even when compared to those of Bernard and William (and their horses, as warhorses, are supposed to receive fodder at the expense of the other beasts). His fine clothes, all in black, are clean and new, and show none of the grey dust from the road that infiltrates our tawdry rags. Indeed, His cloak, edged with gold thread, hanging in light and graceful folds down as far as his knees, and his broad, soft-rimmed hat, which sits squarely atop his long, thin face, look as though they are newly tailored – cut and sewn just this morning The contrast between the filth and squalor of our little party and the demeanour of this grand man could not be greater.

He remains atop his horse for a few moments, his dark eyes surveying us impassively from beneath drooping eyelids as he looks from William, who scrambles to his feet as soon as the doctor’s gaze falls upon him, to Bernard, who spreads his arms in welcome and grinning broadly, bows to him with a great flourish, and then to Michael, who stands clutching the side of the wagon, as if to shield himself from the penetrating stare.

– Allow me, cries Bernard, and springs forward to offer him a hand down. The doctor looks at him for a few withering moments before dismissing him with a flick of his hand and dismounting.

– William scampers over to the doctor and gestures with an open hand in my direction. This is the patient, he says, as though it isn’t obvious. The eminent man ignores him and walks towards me, but then Bernard takes up a flanking position and interjects.

– Yes, he’s called Arnulf, he’s from Normandy, you know. They breed em tough up there, tough but stupid!

– Yeah, says William, charged straight at those turks like a madman, we couldn’t hold him back, you know. Next thing we know he’s not there. We were looking for him for hours afterwards, until we found him like.

– Oh, do be quiet, says the doctor. How can I be expected to examine this patient with you two chattering on like a pair of old women?

The doctors plucks at the dressing, peeling back the fabric, tearing it away where it has stuck to my skin. Then he spits on his fingers, rubbing the saliva into his boney digits, and plunges them into the gaping wound. I choke back the cry of pain, biting hard, grimacing as he probes the livid margin.

– How long have you had this wound? Since Dorylaeum? And it has not yet healed? Dear dear. The wound has been tended however, by whom? The question is directed at William.

– Maude’s been looking after him, mostly, says William.

– Maude?

– Yeah, she’s one of the camp helpers, you know. She’s not a proper doctor, not like you, but she does what she can. She knows a thing or two about medicine, got all the spells, not written down or anything, but all in her head. She’s...

– No, he has a poultice of brown wort. He has been treated by someone with pretensions to learning, not some Norman peasant woman.

– You mean little Michael, says Bernard. Little Michael’s hiding, over there behind the wagon – I think he’s scared of you. Come on out Michael, Bernard calls, stop being such a prick.

Michael approaches, his right arm folded tightly across his chest, flicking his gaze from me, to the doctor, and then staring hard at the ground before the doctor.

– Your grace, he starts, I’m Michael. It has been my honour and privilege to have tended for Arnulf since he was hurt. I was taught by Alex of Tosny, one the brothers at the monastery of Rebais, and I have read of Galen, and applied what I knew with what little I have. With my pitiful skills, your worship, I’ve done what I could in these miserable conditions to keep Arnulf well. I am so glad that you are here now, your grace, and I know that you, learned friend, that I’ve done well

– You are a fool, a miserable halfwit. The idea that some jumped-up noviciate can glance through the works of the master and then be turned loose upon the unsuspecting patients is quite unbearable. This poultice of unprepared Brown wort is so crude as to be next to useless. Believe me, Galen’s Physic is a powerful thing best left well alone if you do not have a full understanding of it.

Turning to William, the doctor continues. It seems to me that the patient has received the most execrable standards of care, and my advice is to keep this monk well away from him. Look at him, he’s filthy, covered in mud! No wonder he is so unwell. No, this will never do. What the patient needs is rest, boy, and plenty of it. And he needs proper shelter, with a good, comfortable bed, not stuck in the back of some oxcart. Wholesome food, too, is imperative. Plenty of meat, eggs and cheese.

My advice to you is to remove all these filthy rags and burn them. Provide him with clean clothes, and bathe the wound regularly. Take him to the camp and once he is there, do not move him again until he is well, this is most important. I shall return in a few days to see how he is getting on. In the meantime, keep that monk and his half baked medicine away from him. Oh, and tell your woman that if she persists in her devilry she will be condemned to hell.

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I have not made a shelter. A shallow bank shelters me from the worst of the wind, and shields me also from the others of Baldwin’s retinue. I curse myself for my stupidity. I curse myself for my lack of learning. I curse myself for my pride. The doctor was right. What foolish presumption did I take on my part to even think of indulging in half learned arts?

I sit up, and I can see the camp fires a stone’s throw away. The tents of his Lordship’s party are arrayed around them, and I can hear the faint strains of music and laughter frifting toward me like a thin memory.

Truly Lord, as you are my witness, I did what I thought was best.

Tomorrow, we resume our pilgrimage. Tomorrow, we poor pilgrims must gather our meagre belongings and, like restless wolves without a lair, set out once more along our path.

Such greenery. The sounds of running water bring refreshment to my soul as much as the clean, fresh water brings refreshment to my aching body. The strong, broad leafed tree that shades me has a sense of permanence, of residency, that I cannot know myself. I am a hollow within, empty, blank.

********************

– The way Tancred sees it, if we’re going to take control of these Armenian principalities, we’ve got to get there first, before Baldwin. The fact that the Armenian people don’t have much time for the Romanians – most of them are monophysites, heretics – well that helps us. But there

And I shudder at this. Heretics? Surely nobody’s saying that we should use heretics to split these towns away from the Emperor! We’ve come this way to help decent Christians, not heretics. They’re no better than the Saracens.

– No better, and no worse. Listen, it’s what people say and do that matters in the long run. There’s no point standing by Christians if they’re going to be the first to put a knife into your back. Listen, this isn’t Normandy now, we need to make use of any allies we can. their leaders see themselves as Dukes of the Empire, even though they have to pay tribute to the Turks.

To be continued ...

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Copyright © 1999 Dr Tom J Rees. All rights reserved.