Chapter Thirteen ~ Only Way Out

At night the pilgrims fell into sleep almost as soon as they lay on the ground from the sheer exhaustion of the day's march. They did not awake refreshed in the dawn. The blazing heat made the pilgrims, particularly those in armor, stupid from dehydration. Young joints resisted flexing as if their owners were aged. Sleep rather than being restful just fogged the senses.

"God help us," Elisabeth thought, "if we are called on to act quickly."

Quick turned out to be the last thing anyone would have to be. Not long after the column formed and began to move toward the mountains and sea, the Turks swooped down again. The turtle formation was almost second nature now. No one complained about the slow pace, stopping for the attacks, then moving at a crawl in between, because no one had the energy to move any faster. That single day felt like a week, and then in the early morning it was all to do again. On everyone's minds was one crippling realization. The slow pace meant more days on the road, and more days on the road made it inevitable that thirst and hunger would begin to claim lives as surely as any Turkish arrows could.

There was no respite from the assaults. The only change for the pilgrims was that they were increasingly ill equipped to keep going. Water was even scarcer than before, and the grain carts were emptying. Added to the actual heat from the searing sun was the impression of heat from torched fields and groves. The acrid smoke turned already parched throats into painful cracking tissues.

People started to drop where they walked. The very old stumbled, and though helped to stand again by their family members, soon fell to the ground. Some of the men among the noncombatants tried to carry their old people, but they were little hardier than their burdens. At first they laid their dead atop the lessening stores in the ox carts, but the weight took its toll on the already suffering draft animals. A near riot of protest at the removal of corpses to be left behind on the ground was quelled by yet another sweep of Turks whose arrows felled more of the pilgrims as they were too slow to get into a protective position.

The fourth night after Gangra they made camp in the open. Elisabeth heard him and looked up as Albrecht, who had strayed from her side, lay down near her. "Where were you? What's wrong?" she added as she saw the desolation on his face.

He rasped as much from his parched throat as from a desire to be discreet. "I went to look for the Lombard woman and her child. My water skin was under my cloak. I have been sneaking water to the child against orders. A guard came out of nowhere and grabbed me. I pretended I could not understand him, but he just reached under my cloak and pulled out the water skin. He asked me who it was for. I told him it was for my horse. But he was wise to me. He pointed out that the Bavarians' horses were picketed in the opposite direction."

"What happened?" Elisabeth urged.

"They took it, the skin. Confiscated. Asked me how my horse will drink now. I started to reach for my sword, but the other guards grabbed my arms. I asked on whose authority he confiscated my water. He said it was Toulouse, not that he wants for provisions himself."

Albrecht scratched his bent head and made a derisive noise in his throat. "He told me I wasn't going to take water to my 'bit of tail.' As if I had the energy to fuck. He said that well will be as dry as the rest in no time with nothing to pay her."

Elisabeth had wondered if Albrecht's Lombard woman had assumed from the first that he wanted something in return for the water for her child, and the only thing she had was her body. When the squire never made his advances, she would no doubt have been puzzled.

"I couldn't keep looking for them, nothing to give the child. I knew the woman would be waiting for me, but I just turned and came back here."

The next day the children started to die. Furious recriminations accompanied the soldiers' insistence that the bodies, not only the old people and the wounded who could not walk but now the little ones, be left on the side of the road at the mercy of whatever the Turks would do to them. Dozens became scores lining the path churned up by thousands of feet shuffling between stops to form the turtle.

When the column stopped for its midday rest in a burned out grove of trees Albrecht, tortured by his failure to find and explain to the Lombard woman, dashed away to find her and learn how she and the child fared. Elisabeth followed. He searched in vain. He finally found some of the people she traveled with. They would not meet his eyes.

"Where is Maria? Where is her mother?" he demanded in camp pidgin.

One older woman bowed her head and croaked, "Gone, my lord. Both of them."

"Gone? What are you talking about? Not dead?" he said with mounting fear.

She shook her head. "You stopped bringing them water. She despaired."

A young boy stepped forward. "When the Turks attacked last, she went out to them. She broke through the turtle and walked straight out toward the archers."

Albrecht's eyes frantically searched the country back the way they had come. "Why?"

The older woman put in, "Her child was dying. She wanted to get her water and food."

"She gave herself to a heathen. He rode to her and leaned down and gathered her and the child up onto his horse." The boy hesitated.

Catching the hesitation, Albrecht looked from the boy to the woman. "What happened?" he asked with dread.

Tears started to course down the woman's cheeks. "The archer . . . he tore the child from her arms and flung it on the ground. I heard her scream. We wanted to go save the little mite, but the archers swooped down again."

"I saw a horseman ride over the child." The young boy's voice caught on the words.

Albrecht stood before them unable to move or speak. He slowly sank to his knees and lifted his hands to cover his face. A sound like a tortured animal came from him as he shook all over. The boy and woman exchanged looks and backed away.

Elisabeth knelt by him and put her hands on his shoulders while they shook.

Conrad rode to where his knights stood about a campfire, miserably contemplating the lack of any sort of food but hard bread full of weevils. He dismounted as they stood to salute, waving them to sit again. He sighed as he saw all eyes turned on him, waiting for the inevitable.

"Lads, this has become intolerable. Something has to give. The commanders are meeting tonight to make a decision. The Count of Toulouse is going to recommend that we break through as directly as we can to the sea. There is a road along the shore back to Constantinople, and some may find ship's passage."

"Back to Constantinople?" one man questioned. "In disgrace? What then?"

"I know what I will do when we get back to Constantinople. That bastard, Alexios, will hear about . . . ," a voice from among the knights vowed.

Conrad broke in, "Nay, it is too tempting to try to assign blame. We should not turn on the Basileus. He is a Christian. We should leave all recriminations for . . . "

"The Lombard rabble! And that fat Archdeacon leading them!" another voice shouted.

Conrad shook his head. "The Turks. They and they alone have brought us to this."

Elisabeth, her chainmailed arms resting on chainmailed leg coverings, looked to her left when she heard Ranulf's derisive snort.

He saw her look and explained, "I would be hard-pressed to find a soul here not fit to blame. This has been a sorry mess from the start."

She kept her eyes level on him, wanting to argue but unable to form a case in her mind. She looked back at Conrad. He was still standing before them, in heated debate with several knights.

She turned back to the mercenary. "How is Ruggiero?"

The big Italian was a casualty of the most recent attack by Turkish archers. An arrow had made it through the shield wall when a man next to him had stumbled. The wound was in his thigh, the arrow removed cleanly, but he grew ever weaker no matter what was done for him.

Ranulf grimaced and shook his head. "The arrow was poisoned, I think. The leech cleaned the wound as best he could, then we got a healing woman from the Lombard contingent to look at it. It smells like bloody hell and is red and hot. There are blotches that the woman said show the poison is working its way down his leg."

She sat up, slapped her hands on her knees and rose. "Where is he?"

Glancing at Conrad, Ranulf stood. It was clear no more would be imparted until the leaders made their decision, that all Conrad was doing now was canvassing the men for his part in the deliberations. He gestured away from the fire with his head. "Over here." He led her a short distance away to another campfire. Albrecht, she saw, was there, as were Ragnar and Thomas. In their midst, shivering under several cloaks next to the fire, lay the Italian mercenary. His face, all that she could see of him, was ruddy, and sweat stood out on his forehead. His dark, curly hair was plastered with sweat to his scalp. There was an unmistakable smell of putrefaction. She went to his side and knelt. "Ruggiero, my friend," she murmured. She put her hand on his where she could tell they lay on his chest. She knew better than to make empty reassurances. Ruggiero was dying.

He opened his eyes, which had been squeezed shut against the pain that centered in his leg but was spreading up and down it and into his groin. He looked at her, and then stretched his head to find Ranulf's face looming above. "What . . . ?" was all he could get out.

Ranulf's lips curled sardonically. "They are giving up. They are meeting this evening to decide what to do. Conrad said Toulouse wants to make a break for the sea."

Ruggiero nodded. "About time," he rasped. "Too late for me."

No one contradicted him. They were all soldiers. Even the two from Winterkirche could not pretend the wound was not mortal. The poison already overwhelmed the man's remaining strength.

"Ranulf, make me a promise," the prone man said with a note of pleading in his voice. "When you move on, leave me where I can prop myself against something with my sword in my hand. At least I can try to go out taking one of the hell spawn with me."

"I will stay with you," Ragnar began, his voice tight with the effort to keep grief out of it.

"No, you won't," Ruggiero said. "If you do, who will keep Thomas from talking everyone's ears off?" He looked at the silent crossbowman. He saw the tears in the Englishman's eyes. He reached out a feeble hand to try to grasp his. Thomas reached out to meet him halfway. Ruggiero clasped the man's hand. He looked back to Ranulf. "Will you get me a priest?"

Ranulf nodded. Ragnar stood and stalked away.

"I'll go," Elisabeth said, getting to her feet. "You stay with your friend."

She found Father Cyril, a Serbian priest, threading his way through the Lombard peasants, taking confession, soothing fears, his face twisted with the anger he felt at the misery all about him. When she asked him to come, he finished what he was doing and followed her. He knelt by Ruggiero's head. "I have no consecrated wine or bread," he admitted. "But I have trouble believing the Lord would deny you your place in Heaven over such trivialities." He leaned forward so Ruggiero could make his confession and receive extreme unction in privacy.

Elisabeth could see the Italian's lips move, speaking into Cyril's ear, and Cyril nodding his head and making the sign of the cross.

She looked up at Ranulf, whose face was haggard. Thomas knelt nearby with his head bowed so low his long dark hair covered his face. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, then did the same for Ranulf. He gazed back at her, his jaw taut, his eyes fiery, but he nodded. She and Albrecht walked away.

In the morning Ruggiero was dead. "We will not have to leave him behind, not alive at least," Ranulf commented. "Let's get him buried. I do not want his body desecrated like the others we had to leave behind." He glanced at Ragnar. "Is that the ring?" he asked, gesturing to a heavy object in the Dane's hand.

"Yes, he wanted me to take it back to Italy and find his wife and give it to her." He barked a derisive laugh. "He wants me to marry her and raise his children. What am I supposed to do with my own, I ask you?"

Elisabeth looked from one mercenary's face to the next. It had never occurred to her that these men might have homes and families. She thought of Maliha and Tacetin, and a feeling of profound emptiness overtook her. She wondered if any of them would make it out alive.

But they were not able to do the honor for their comrade, for the knights refused them the time. In the end they had to leave Ruggiero, stripped of any valuables, unable even to pile stones on his corpse. Ragnar refused to leave the body alone, but Ranulf drew his sword and threatened the Dane with it. Ragnar stomped away ahead of them, not even trying to hide the tears of rage and grief. Ranulf and Thomas exchanged sorrowful looks.

The oxen held out but many of the packhorses and mules did not. Their desiccated flesh at least provided some sustenance to the starving pilgrims. Eating meat unfortunately increases the amount of water a body needs, so the blessing was mixed. To the number of those with heatstroke and dehydration were added those whose guts could not take the abuse. Some became so ill that they could no longer go on.

Black Beast told Elisabeth and Albrecht to go easy on any food, especially meat, so they and the knights with whom they rode were spared the gripping nausea and voiding of bowels.

She had one less problem to deal with besides. Her monthly flux appeared to have stopped. After the pilgrims left Nicomedia her already sparse menses became spottier, and now that they had been on the road for over a month there was nothing. With a wan smile Elisabeth thought to herself, "Not that a little blood would be out of place these days." Everyone reeked, but she was just as happy to do without that one telltale odor.

The relentless onslaught of archers about every hour or so continued. It had occurred often enough now that few even grumbled, but rather as soon as they heard the hoof beats got into the turtle and prepared to feel the impact of the hundreds of arrows yet another time.

They were caught off guard therefore when that afternoon a large force of Turkish horsemen swept in at the column's van from both sides. The desultory move to turtle formation broke when instead of flights of arrows from thirty feet away a new tactic was underway. This time screaming attacking Turks with pikes and swords followed the arrows. The men in the van, the Burgundian knights and men-at-arms, were delayed getting into more accustomed order to fight one-on-one. They held off the swarm of Turks for a short time, and then panic set in. To Stephen and Odo of Burgundy's mutual horror, they watched as first a few knights, and then almost the entire remainder turned their horses and fled rearward. Stephen screamed himself hoarse calling the knights back, but they were long out of earshot. He and Odo were forced to retreat as well, left, as they were part of only a tiny company of mounted warriors.

The Turks unaccountably did not go after the fleeing knights. Instead they fell on the infantry who had been left behind when the faster horses carried their riders away. Left without their knightly commanders, confusion made what defensive effort the men managed useless, and the Turkish pikes spitted men through their leather and metal gabardines. Turkish swords rose and fell to cleave helms and shoulders. The few men who tried to follow their knights on their own two feet felt Turkish steel in their backs.

With difficulty the apparently fleeing Duke of Burgundy rallied his panicking knights, turned them back to the fore and fell on the Turks. They beat them off but it was too late. Not a single infantryman survived this unexpected attack. Stephen, Odo and the other Burgundian knights sat astride their heaving destriers staring unbelievingly about them at the bodies of every man who had come with them across Europe and on ship to Constantinople.

Other parts of the column experienced this type of attack interspersed with swooping archers' flights of arrows for the rest of the day, but no further panic occurred to decimate the ranks of pilgrims, now barely over five of the six initial thousand.

Finally ahead of them the pilgrims began to see mountains. At first the idea of having to climb dispirited them even further, but when someone said Kastamonu was just north of the first range of hills and that there were passes, the hubbub among soldiers and peasants alike began to convey some hope. At the same time the attacks by mounted archers slowed to a trickle and then stopped. When the first forage parties in days were able to go out and bring back a modicum of food and others came back with water from waterfalls, the elation was palpable.

Saint Gilles called his commanders as well as the leaders of the Lombardy clergy together at a camp at the junction of the valley they had ridden through for the past week or more and one that funneled between hills to the east.

He put his case forthrightly. "We cannot, simply cannot go on to Nixtar. We must break through to the Black Sea and regroup and start again south from Constantinople."

Hugh of Montebello protested, earning Raymond's baleful glare. "But what about Bohemond?"

With a long-suffering sigh, the hero of Antioch replied, "We won't make it as far as where he is held. We can do more for the bas . . . " Conrad's glance made the man veer in a different direction. "Do more for my lord Bohemond from Constantinople."

Stephen of Blois surprised Saint Gilles by saying something sensible. "For all we know the Basileus has already arranged for the ransom. We could get there and find the man already rescued."

"Well, we can't just head north," Albert objected.

Conrad spoke up. "Of course we will scout the passes first to be sure they are not full of ambushes."

Albert shook his head. "That is not what I was going to say."

Elisabeth, now almost a permanent shadow of the Constable's, looked over as Raymond broke in hurriedly, "We can get better news of Bohemond in Kastamonu."

Hugh looked at him. "Is Kastamonu in Byzantine hands?"

"No, it is not. We shall have to take it," Raymond said with resolution.

Someone among the lesser lords remarked, "Alexios would like that!"

Raymond's one eye flashed. "Yes, he would. And so will you when you see the booty you can come away with."

An interested murmur filled the space where the knights met. Finally something of what they had come for.

"And food. And wine. And women!" someone else piped up.

Ludovico put a damper on the enthusiastic response to these rewards. "My sons, there will be no wine. They are Muslims. And I should remind you all that you are holy pilgrims. You pledged yourself to chastity."

A few sniggers were all that broke the embarrassed silence.

Conrad hesitated, then clearing his throat, ventured, "My lord, are we in any condition to lay siege to the fortress?"

Mixed agreement and disapproval met the Constable as he waited for Toulouse's response. Raymond grimaced. "We shall have to scout it out and see. If not, it is but a short way beyond it to the sea. And that is Byzantine controlled."

The murmuring changed to general approval.

"My Lords of Burgundy," Raymond said, directing his glance to them. Both Stephen and Odo looked back at him. "I shall want you to put together a scouting party to check out the passes that run north to Kastamonu and thence to the sea."

The two noblemen from Burgundy saluted and turned to leave the gathering. The voice of Archdeacon Ludovico held them back.

"Should we not, my lords, also scout the way to the east? It seems to me that it is God's will that we not abandon . . . "

"Bohemond. We get it. The jackass got himself captured, why do we have to rescue him?" The hand Conrad placed on Raymond's arm was shaken loose.

"I just said it. It is God's will. Or does that not rank as high as your own, my lord of Toulouse?" Ludovico snapped.

Conrad leaned and spoke into the high commander's ear. Raymond nodded. "All right, we will scout in that direction as well. But it makes no sense to delay our arrival at the sea, so only several leagues into the valley. Then come right back," he said directly to Conrad, who clicked his heels and bowed assent.

The two parties, led by Stephen of Burgundy and Conrad, headed north into the mountain pass and east into the wide valley respectively. Elisabeth and Albrecht as well as the three knights they had met in Mölk were part of the Constable's scouting party. When, as light was fading, the German contingent returned to the main camp after learning very little of the way east, it found the camp in an uproar. Conrad spurred his horse as quickly as he could to the command tent. Elisabeth and her squire returned to their own campfire. They found a haggard Ranulf waiting for them there.

"Thank God," he called when they, after leaving their horses with the grooms who picketed them, strode up to him. "Thank God you are both safe."

"What is it, Ranulf? What has happened?" Elisabeth went to where the water skins lay under a clay pot and, taking one out, unstoppered it and brought the skin to her lips. She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her cloak and handed the skin to her squire.

"The Burgundians sent to scout the pass . . . they were ambushed. Dozens were killed. Knights and the Lombard infantry that went with them." Ranulf made the sign of the cross on his chest.

Elisabeth and Albrecht stood motionless and stared at him. "What sort of ambush?" she finally asked lamely.

"Archers again, on both sides. They let them ride in amongst them and then let fly."

Albrecht asked, "Stephen and Odo?"

"Made it back alive, though Odo had a fall from his horse and is recuperating in his tent. Nothing broken, or so I hear. Just banged up badly." Ranulf shrugged. "I wonder what the commanders will decide to do."

Seeing Conrad and his aides striding purposefully away from their horses, Elisabeth hurried to join them.

In the command tent, Hugh of Montebello sounded querulous. "I say we stick to the plan and head east. It is obvious we were not meant to run away but to continue to Nixtar to free Bohemond!" He turned to Conrad. "What was the scouting east in the valley?"

Conrad knew well what Hugh wanted to hear. He wanted reassurance that the way east was safe, but only to settle the dispute. Conrad had to please him, for he and his party had seen nothing to indicate any sort of trap or threat. Reluctantly he responded, "No obstacles we could see. The way was clear. There is a river almost the full length as far as we could see. We would at least have clean water."

His glance in answer to Saint Gilles's glare was resigned.

"I know I shouldn't like to have to face that misery again," said Stephen of Burgundy from where he sat on a campstool having a wound looked to by a chirurgeon. "From what I saw ahead of us, there could easily have been more ambushes on the slopes ahead. Frankly, whether we want to or not, I do not see how we can get through there to Kastamonu. I am no fonder of rescuing the Norman than you are. Is there not some other choice? Ouch, careful there!" he snapped when the man treating his wound tugged too hard on the bandage he was tying.

Raymond looked at Conrad. "Any way out of the valley farther to the east?"

Conrad thought a minute, and then shrugged. "Possibly. I think there may be another river about halfway down the valley that cuts across and into the northern mountains. Maybe there is a good pass there." He turned to look for the guides who knew the territory at least better than the pilgrims did.

"That is true, my lords," said one of the guides. "It is the Halys, though I cannot be certain how it flows to the sea."

Stephen of Blois stopped swirling a goblet of wine long enough to say, "There may be a pass, there is water, and we know to head north from here is death. The choice seems obvious."

The Count of Burgundy concurred. "At least head east to find a new way out."

Their lead commander scowled. "I see no reason not to expect the Turks to lie in ambush anywhere we try to get to the sea, but the devil you don't know."

It was spread about the camp that the pilgrims would head east with Nixtar as their goal. From the Lombardy campfires came a chant of "Bohemond! Bohemond!" along with the sounds of musical instruments, laughter and shrieks of general merrymaking. In the Burgundian camp the camp followers so recently bereaved by their double losses were already moving on to new liaisons.

At their campsite, Alain stood and took leave of his German companions. "Given the choice of that merry lot and your gloomy faces, I think I will see if I can scare up some wine and a wench."

Black Beast stretched and yawned. "I am beat from the scouting foray. I'm going to curl up in my cloak and get some sleep." He gestured to his squire. "Go ahead with Alain and Renard, Bertolf. You could use a little fun."

Gerhardt seemed to hesitate. "The Beast is right. I am all in, but you go have some merrymaking, Wiprecht." The two younger men jumped up from the campfire and trotted to join the Frank. Gerhardt and the big knight took their leave, huddling closer to one of the commanders' tents to take advantage of the windbreak.

Elisabeth and Albrecht sat looking across the fire at each other. "Do you want to go?" she asked him, waving a hand in the direction of the festivities.

Albrecht grinned. "To go get a wench?"

"I suppose not. I do miss Maliha terribly." Elisabeth sighed and rested her chin on her palm.

The look in Albrecht's eyes was wistful. "I wonder," he said slowly, "if, assuming we get back at all. Will they be waiting for us?"

"You doubt . . . um . . . that person?" she asked, surprised.

"I do not know. For all I know we will get back to . . . um, there, and I will discover I am no longer in the picture."

"I am as certain as I can be that I will find Maliha waiting for me." Her face was not the face of a confident person, however. "I hope."

They sat on in silence.