Crusade (31 page)

She smiled again. It was a kind, gentle smile. She knew I desired her, and her smile seemed to acknowledge that, had our circumstances been different, we might have been lovers.

Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but I took comfort in believing that it was true.

At first light the next morning, we began the gruesome task of burying the dead.

Estrith conducted a short service and recited the Twenty-third Psalm:

‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures,

He leads me beside still waters,

He restores my soul.

He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake …’

She ended with the comforting lines:

‘Surely goodness and mercy will follow me

All the days of my life,

And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’

She then added a few words of her own.

‘Dearest Ingigerd and Maria, may you rest in peace. Those of us who remain will continue to live our lives as we always have, in the noble tradition of Hereward and Torfida and all their brave companions.’

After an hour or so of quiet reflection, we then went into the forest to retrieve the family chest and the deeds to the land. It was where Ingigerd had said it would be, two feet below the ground in the middle of a pretty glade
which, in years to come, would be shaded by the two fine oaks planted in memory of Hereward and Torfida.

Edwin opened the heavy chest and took out the deeds. Beneath them was a surprisingly deep layer of silver coin. There were Frankish sous and deniers, German marks, English and Norman shillings, a few pieces struck with Muslim inscriptions and even some with images of Byzantine emperors – all in all, it must have added up to several pounds of silver.

‘Edwin, that’s a lot of silver.’

‘Ingigerd and Maria were very frugal, and the estate made a good profit. But there’s also money in there from Hereward and Torfida’s day. They hardly ever spent anything on themselves. A quarter part of it now belongs to you, Estrith.’

‘Nuns are not allowed to have any money.’

In response to Estrith’s words, Adela initiated a general discussion about our future.

‘What are we going to do with St Cirq Lapopie? There is no one left to work the land, and everything else has gone.’

Sweyn offered a solution.

‘Let’s sell the land to the merchants of Toulouse; they are always looking for sound investments. It is still productive and, with a few families to work it, could soon be a thriving community again. We could make it a stipulation of the sale that we retain the small plot where Mahnoor and the others are buried. We could then add the money from the sale, extract what we need to live on for a while, and deposit the balance with one of the Jewish or Lombardian moneylenders.’

The others nodded their approval, and I threw in my lot with them.

‘I have a few pounds of silver. I will add my coin to the deposit and we will all be partners in the investment. Edwin can be our chancellor and hold our purse; he is very careful with money. Agreed?’

Everyone agreed in a chorus, and there were embraces all round before we mounted our horses to leave St Cirq Lapopie for what we assumed was the last time.

Edwin, ever watchful of disciplines and routines, reminded us that even accounting for Duke Robert’s slower progress, he was likely to be close to St Cirq Lapopie. We looked forward to his company on our journey back down the Lot to Cahors, although none of us relished imparting our grim news.

Adela took a short detour via Old Simon’s shelter to leave a small purse of silver for him. I doubted that he had ever had the need for money, but it was a kind thought all the same.

Although I had spent only a day and a night in the home that Hereward’s family had made their own, I felt I belonged to it – as if it was now part of my heritage and my legacy.

23. Soldiers of Christ

We met Duke Robert and his retinue downstream only about an hour after our departure. When we told him what we had found at St Cirq Lapopie, he reported back to us on the discoveries his scouts had made regarding how widespread the epidemic was. People were stricken all the way to Bordeaux in the west, where thousands had died, and the fever had reached Angoulême in the north. But it had not spread as far as Toulouse in the east, which Robert ordered should be our next destination.

Everyone’s mood was sombre. Robert had issued strict commands that no contact be made with any of the local people; there was to be no hunting, no food was to be purchased and no water to be taken from wells. A combination of the meagre diet and the fear of a slow and painful death cast a pall over everybody.

When we reached the River Tarn at Montauban, we found that the Count of Toulouse had been able to contain the epidemic by closing all the bridges across the river. He had issued the same order for the Garonne beyond Moissac, using the two wide waterways to create a physical barrier all the way from the Central Massif to the sea. Crossing over either river was on pain of instant execution. It was an astute public ordinance, but presented us with the inconvenience that we were also denied entry to the County of Toulouse.

When we tried to cross the ancient wooden bridge, the Count’s men, to their credit, remained steadfast in denying us, even though they were commanded to let us pass by a sovereign duke. Sadly, a brief skirmish was the only way to get them to relent, during which several of the Count’s men were killed, as well as two of Robert’s hearthtroop.

Sweyn played a significant role in the skirmish by using his prowess as a horseman to gallop across the bridge and leap the makeshift barricade on the southerly side. It was a dangerous manoeuvre; he was an easy target for the several archers who unleashed their arrows at him, two of which struck his shield while one glanced off the lamellar mail protecting his horse’s chest. He then turned and used his lance to stunning effect, impaling one of the sentries and creating a major diversion which allowed more of Robert’s men to storm the barricade. With Edwin at her side, Adela was in the thick of the supporting assault, hacking her way over the barrier in harmony with the best of Robert’s knights.

When we reached Toulouse, Count Raymond rode out to intercept us, less than pleased that we had breached his cordon sanitaire against the putrid fever. He was at the head of a body of men at least 500 strong.

When our two parties had approached within ten yards of one another, he halted his advance and bellowed a warning.

‘I am Raymond St Gilles, Count of Toulouse, Duke of Narbonne and Margrave of Provence. You are not welcome here. Our land is under dire threat from an epidemic of a deadly fever. I order you to turn round and go back north of the Tarn at Montauban.’

Robert shifted slightly in his saddle, clearly annoyed at such an inhospitable reception, but he chose not to respond in kind – and, specifically, not to recite his many lordly titles.

‘My Lord Count, I am Robert of Normandy. I am here with Prince Edgar of the royal house of Wessex and England. I am afraid we had no choice but to breach your cordon at Montauban. Your men did you great service, but we had to force the issue.’

‘I know who you are. In all other circumstances my welcome would be fulsome and my table yours, but you have travelled through the heart of the plague and I cannot permit you to enter Toulouse.’

Robert, resigned to the impasse, sat back in his saddle. In his way stood a large body of men with a leader who, by the look of him, was not often bested.

‘Very well, I understand your concerns. No one in our camp is ill; nevertheless, we will retreat into the forest and forage there for two weeks. If, at the end of that time, we remain clear of the fever, I will petition you once more to enter your city.’

Raymond of Toulouse was disarmed by Robert’s diplomatic compromise.

‘I will take you at your word, Robert of Normandy. I will return on the morning of the day after the full moon, and we will discuss this again.’

The Count posted sentries to ensure that we kept our bargain, and rode back to his city.

Once again, Robert’s growing acumen had defused a potentially fractious situation.

Two weeks later, precisely when he had said he would, Count Raymond approached our camp and sent in his physicians to monitor our well-being. Everyone had to be examined – in particular, removing their shirts so that they could be scrutinized for the telltale rash of the fever on the chest. When it came to the turn of Adela and Estrith, they had no hesitation in exposing themselves, although they did turn their backs to the rest of us.

In Estrith’s case, she had abandoned her nun’s habit and chosen to wear the plain male attire of a minor nobleman – plain leggings and shirt, covered by a long, flowing surcoat, but minus the armour and weapons. After confirmation that our entire retinue continued to enjoy robust health, we were allowed to accompany Raymond through the gates of Toulouse.

A fine city, much more like the affluent cities of southern Europe than those of the north, Toulouse reminded us of Sicily. Moorish influence from Spain was obvious in the architecture of the buildings, all of which had the pink hue of the clay building bricks inherited from Roman times.

The most impressive of all Toulouse’s fine buildings was the Cathedral of St Sernin, which was in an advanced stage of construction. It was one of the largest buildings we had ever seen, built over an ancient crypt which, we were told, was 600 years old and contained precious relics given by the Emperor Charlemagne as well as the remains of many saints, including St Sernin himself.

Count Raymond hosted a banquet in his citadel in honour of his guests that evening. It was a grand affair which was marred by a long litany of prayer, led by the Count
both before and after the food, and the discreet counsel of the stewards, who told us that he disapproved of drunkenness.

The Count, although he had the frame and demeanour of a battle-hardened warrior, was clearly a religious zealot. Well into his fifties, he sat with his son, Bertrand, a man of about thirty, who was the image of his father and who, given the way he modestly sipped at his goblet of wine, seemed to be similarly devout. Robert and I agreed that our stay would not be a raucous one. I was abstemious, but Robert proceeded to ignore the advice of the stewards and imbibed the deep-red wine of the region liberally.

Estrith was asked to sing and charmed our new host as completely as she had delighted Duke Robert. Although she was a few years older than Bertrand, he took a particular interest in her. After her performance, he leaned over to speak to me.

‘Why does she dress as a knight?’

‘Well, partly because Adela does and partly out of convenience. We are a group of brothers-in-arms.’

‘But two of you are women.’

‘It is Adela’s calling. She chooses the way of the warrior. Estrith is not a knight – in fact, she is an ordained sister of the Church and a renowned churchwright.’

‘How interesting. I would like to talk to her about our new cathedral. She and I have a lot in common. I have considered becoming ordained, and I take a particular interest in the building of St Sernin.’

I felt a distinct twinge of jealousy at Bertrand’s thinly disguised fascination for Estrith, especially as his amorous
glances towards her seemed to be reciprocated in equal measure. Perhaps his religious purity applied only to drink and excluded the intoxicating effect of women – or perhaps he was simply a charlatan.

My thoughts were interrupted by Bertrand’s question.

‘And what of Adela; surely you don’t permit her to wield arms?’

‘Indeed I do. She is a very accomplished knight.’

‘I have never heard of such a thing! Women are not allowed to enter an order of knights.’

‘That is true in Christendom – although I would allow it – but she was made a knight of Islam in Sicily, as was Sweyn, by a fine man called Ibn Hamed, Emir of Calatafimi.’

The look of horror on Bertrand’s face confirmed my sudden realization that I had made a serious error in mentioning our Muslim affiliations to this Christian dogmatist. Our conversation did not last much longer, and my companion was soon engaging in animated whispers with his father.

After the feast, Count Raymond led us all to the crypt of St Sernin, where he began to lecture us about the sins of Islam and the righteousness of Christianity.

‘Nearly four hundred years ago, the Moors of Spain, those heretics who worship a false god, came within a hair’s breadth of taking this city. We were besieged for three months, a stranglehold only broken when my noble ancestor Odo, Duke of Aquitaine, appeared with his army and defeated the Arabs outside the city walls. Ten years later, the Arab general, Abd al-Rahman, brought an army over the Pyrenees to the west and conquered
Bordeaux. Again, Odo ended their marauding at Poitiers and killed al-Rahman on the battlefield, saving Europe from the infidels –’

Robert, now somewhat inebriated and weary of Raymond’s hectoring, interrupted.

‘So, Raymond, does your history lesson have a point, or may we return to more entertaining matters?’

Visibly irritated by Robert’s sharp question, the Count’s voice rose in annoyance.

‘My point is very simple. The Moors are still in Spain – and, more importantly, their Muslim brothers are lords of the Holy Land. It is an abomination. They should be cleansed like vermin in a granary!’

Such invective was too much for Sweyn, who rounded on the Count, despite the fact that he had no business addressing his superior unless spoken to.

‘My Lord, why is it a problem that Jerusalem is ruled by Arabs? Their prophet, Muhammad, is no different from Christ; we all worship the same God Almighty.’