A Man of Value (21 page)

“It’s hard to separate fact from rumour,” Ram said to Baudoin. “I’ve heard word of thousands of crusaders, a mighty army.”

“There’s persistent talk of Belgrade, of the armour of crusaders hanging from castle walls,” Baudoin added. “You’re right. It’s hard to believe some of the stories.”

Ram’s private army made good progress. They’d taken on provisions at Saint Germain. Whenever they passed through the lands of a baron or magnate, Ram made a point of presenting himself, and his son, as goodwill emissaries of the King of the English. He would deal later with any objections from Rufus, if they came.

“I don’t want to be perceived as a threat. This way we can make good connections and allies which might stand us in good stead on the return journey.”

More often than not, they were treated with the hospitality nobility obliged. If they needed food when none was available, they traded for it. Ram gave orders there was to be no pillaging. They followed what they deemed to be the most reliable rumours. But as the sennights went by, Ram became frustrated they could never be sure they were on the right road.

“I don’t want to have to go all the way to Jerusalem to rescue Caedmon,” he complained. “Who knows if he’ll want to be rescued? Perhaps he’s dead anyway.”

“Don’t despair, Papa,” Baudoin urged. “I have a good feeling we’ll find him.”

Everywhere they saw evidence of the passing of huge hordes of people. Ram sensed his men were shocked and disgusted at many of the sights they encountered.

“This crusade is a disaster, Baudoin,” he lamented frequently. “Crops have been devastated, village after village pillaged, women raped, human waste and detritus soil the landscape.”

“Surely this isn’t what the Pope had in mind when he called for the crusade,” Baudoin often remarked.

After six fruitless sennights they passed the rusting armour still hanging from the walls of Zemun. Baudoin gaped at the sight. “Well, that story was true at least. Let’s hope Caedmon wasn’t one to lose his armour that day, if he came this way. Survival is hard enough
with
armour.”

When they arrived at Niš, Ram again presented himself to the Commander as a wandering emissary from the King of the English, not a crusader. He confided to the commander that he was merely a distraught father, seeking news of his son who had been naive enough to join the crusade.

The Commander agreed, through an interpreter, as he entertained his important guest with a sumptuous meal. “I too have children. Sometimes we must save them from their own folly. And this crusade is pure folly. There was a great slaughter here, caused by a senseless argument over grain. We were forced to kill thousands in an effort to restore order. But I don’t know if your son was among the dead. Though—I did hear tell of a knight from Scotland who saved the life of a miller.”

Hope surged in Ram’s heart. “Scotland?”

“Yes, he and a Norman knight rescued the miller from drowning.”

“A Norman knight? The Scottish knight was with a Norman?” Ram wanted to make sure there was no misunderstanding because of the language differences.

Having been reassured that such was the tale, Ram told him, “We’ll press on. My hope is renewed.”

The commander raised his eyebrows, obviously not understanding what had given the Earl new hope. “As you wish. The horde moved on to Constantinople. I’ll provide you with an escort.”

Ram bowed in acknowledgment of the generous offer. “We’re in your debt.”

They arrived in the great city and, after several fruitless attempts, Ram managed to secure an audience with the Byzantine Emperor. Once in the Emperor’s presence, he used the same tack he had in Niš, pleading the case of a distraught father.

His face grim, Alexius replied, “My dear Earl, I wanted the Crusade. We must rout the Saracens from the Holy Land. But we must do it with a properly equipped army, not a rabble of poorly armed peasants. I warned their leaders not to proceed against the Turks. I told them this peasant army would be slaughtered if they insisted on moving into Asia Minor.

But they didn’t wish to heed my warnings. I arranged for them to be ferried across the Bosporus. I can only offer you the same advice and service if you choose to go. But it’s dangerous. Though you have a well-equipped contingent of your men, you don’t wish to meet up with the Turkish army. They are a deadly force.”

Ram had become increasingly worried about this talk of a poorly armed host of peasants. “I sometimes wonder, Baudoin, what Caedmon has become involved in?”

“There were knights too. Don’t you think Caedmon would have allied with them, rather than the peasants?”

Once across the strait, they heard of a split in the army, of the loss of authority of Peter the Hermit and the creation of a French faction.

“I’m not sure why, but I feel Caedmon would have joined the French. His Norman blood would draw him to that group. I’m more convinced than ever of it after hearing the tale of the two knights who saved the miller.”

Baudoin nodded his agreement. “I also believe it was Caedmon who saved the miller.”

As fragile hopes were blossoming, they stumbled across a handful of traumatized women and old men who had escaped the massacre in what had been the Crusaders’ main camp. It was the worst news—news they’d hoped never to hear. The whole crusading army had been slaughtered on its way to Nicaea.

“It’s too dangerous to continue,” Ram said quietly, standing dejectedly by his horse, looking at the ragged skeletons who were all that was left of the People’s Crusade. “We must accept there’s no choice but to turn back. We’ll take these people back with us.”

He issued the order to one of his men to assist the unfortunates. Turning to Baudoin, who was still on his horse, staring in disbelief at the condition of the survivors, Ram swallowed hard. “Caedmon must be dead. The odds against his having survived this horror are too great. We’ll ask the Emperor if we might rest a few days in Constantinople, before setting out on the long journey back to England. Hope is dead.”

Baudoin dismounted wearily and went to embrace his father. They stood together for long minutes in silence, sharing their grief.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The abandoned fort had no roof and the besieging Turks rained a series of arrow attacks on the Christians, killing many. Then the Turks sat back to starve the defenders out. The Normans huddled together to discuss their options.

Caedmon had emerged as a leader. “Many men and horses have already died, not only from the attacks, but of thirst. Our only chance is to get word across the strait to the Emperor, and hope he’ll rescue us. I’ll try to slip out tonight and find a boat.”

“I’ll come with you.” It was Amadour de Vignoles who’d spoken.

“It may be suicide, Amadour.”

“It will be my honour, then, to die with you, brave Englishman. If I stay here, I’m a dead man anyway.”

Their Norman friends agreed. “God go with you both. We’ve no other chance. We’ll search for a place in the walls where you can slip out, without alerting the Turks. There’s always a bolt hole somewhere in a castle. At least in every Norman castle.” They laughed, but there was no humour in it.

My father would be proud I can now converse with my Norman friends. Hopefully my attempt to reach help will succeed and I will see them again.

This may be my last entry. If I don’t return and some kindly soul finds this journal, know that my name is CAEDMON BRICE WOOLGAR, son of Lord Rambaud Montbryce, Earl of Ellesmere in England, and Lady Ascha Woolgar in Ruyton, England. I am the husband of Lady Agneta Woolgar of Ruyton.

I WOULD WANT MY WIFE TO KNOW I LOVED HER.

He closed the codex, screwed the lid back on the inkpot, held the journal to his heart for a few moments while he prayed for God’s blessing, kissed the book and placed it carefully in his saddlebag. He said goodbye to Abbot, who seemed to sense Caedmon’s quiet desperation as he nuzzled his master.

“Thank you, worthy stallion. You’ve helped keep me alive. Hopefully we’ll see each other again,” he whispered as he stroked the horse.

They found a gate at the back of the ruin, overgrown with vegetation. When all seemed relatively quiet in the Turkish camp, Caedmon and Amadour slipped through it and slid carefully down the steep hill, away from the Turks. The enemy was camped on the other side, at the approach to the ruin, but it was probable they would send out patrols. They crept slowly away from the sea that was their ultimate goal.

They could hear Turkish voices, smell the pungent odour of the food cooked in their camp and didn’t want to bump into some wandering Saracen accidently. It was a still night and the blue smoke from the smouldering campfires hung in the silent air. Any noise might carry to the enemy.

Caedmon hoped the occasional muffled moans of pain and despair from the exhausted wretches huddled in the ruin would mask any sounds they might make. The slippery grass made it difficult to keep their footing in the dark. They ran their hands over the grass and assuaged their raging thirst by licking the meager moisture from them.

When they judged they’d gone far enough, they doubled back in the direction of the water and away from Nicaea. They found a pool of fresh water in a ditch and fell into it face down, slaking their rampant thirst, then staggered on for another hour.

“There,” Amadour exclaimed, pointing to a small rowboat pulled up on shore.

Caedmon’s spirits lifted. “This should take us down the strait. There seems to be no one about. Let’s get it in the water.”

“I pray I have enough strength left to row,” Amadour wheezed.

“The wind has come up. Let’s hope this stretch of water isn’t as treacherous as that between England and Normandie. This is a flimsy craft.”

A journey that should have taken them about an hour took two.

“The city seems to get nearer, and then further away,” Amadour complained, and Caedmon suspected the Norman’s tired muscles felt like they were about to rupture, as his did. They were exhausted by the time they dragged the boat out of the water. Two guards accosted them as they staggered up on the rocky shore. They feared they would be thrown into the dungeon, but finally managed to get the burly Byzantines to understand they were crusading Christians in need of help.

~~~

The Emperor and his guest, the English Earl, were breaking their fast, when a message was brought. Ram intended to leave at first light.

“Highness, pardon the interruption, there are two Crusaders who wish to speak with you. They tell a tale of escaping from the ruins near Civitote. They say there are many desperate crusaders who have taken sanctuary there and are trapped by the Turks. One of them is an Englishman, the other a Norman.”

“English and Norman? Good that you’re here, my dear Earl, to help me speak with them.”

When Caedmon and Amadour were ushered in, Ram didn’t at first recognize the filthy wretch spattered with blood, though the messenger’s news had drawn his interest. Caedmon was completely bald, his beard dirty and unkempt, his bronzed face gaunt. He was exhausted and desperate to get his plea to the Emperor. He didn’t pay attention to the other man sitting near Alexius.

“You bring a message, young crusader for Christ?” the Emperor asked.

“Your Highness,” Caedmon said hoarsely.

Alexius appeared startled. “I was told you were English. You sound more like a Scot.”

Ram jumped up from his seat and walked towards his son. “Caedmon? Can it be you? You’re a sight I’ve longed to see for many a day.”

Disoriented, Caedmon turned his attention to the man who’d spoken his name. It took him a moment to recognize him. He couldn’t believe his father was there, looking overjoyed to see him. The implications of what he must have gone through to get there, and why he was there, hit Caedmon full force. He collapsed to his knees in thanksgiving for his father’s forgiveness.

“
Mon seigneur?
Father, I can’t believe—you came for me—you came to search for me, the most ungrateful wretch anyone could have for a son.”

The man who had risked death to accompany him from the ruin ran to his aid.

“Amadour,
c’est mon père
,” Caedmon explained to the confused Norman, at the same moment that Ram said to the Emperor, “He’s my son.”

Ram moved quickly to embrace Caedmon, dragging him to his feet.

“Caedmon, Agneta is with child. We must return to England with all possible haste.”

Caedmon rose with difficulty. “With child?”

The Emperor, who by now had risen to his feet, held up his hand and interrupted. “First, what of this abandoned ruin and the besieged crusaders languishing there?”

Amadour explained, “Your Highness, there are thousands trapped there who managed to reach the safety of the ruin. We slipped out and crossed the strait to fetch help. The Turks have them under siege. There’s no food or water.”

Alexius summoned a servant and dispatched an order. He turned to the Earl and explained, “I’ve commanded a battle squadron be sent on the morrow under the command of Constantine Katakalon.”

“I would like to accompany them, if possible,” Ram asked.

The Emperor acquiesced to his wishes. “I’m delighted you’ve found your son. I invite you to take him to your accommodations. I will send servants to attend to his obvious needs. You have many things to speak about. We will take care of his companion.”

“Thank you, your Highness.”

Ram clamped his arm around Caedmon’s shoulders and escorted him to his quarters, muttering, “I can’t believe it. We had abandoned hope.”

Baudoin had been making final preparations for departure and was startled to see his father with an unpleasant smelling and unkempt ruffian. He’d never met Caedmon.

“Baudoin,” Ram’s voice broke. “This is your brother, Caedmon. God has seen fit to deliver him to us. Caedmon, your brother Baudoin.”

Baudoin’s jaw dropped open then he smiled. “Caedmon?”

Caedmon was astonished Baudoin had also risked his life to find him. What kind of family was this he suddenly belonged to? He hung his head. “Baudoin, I’ve been a selfish fool. Can you forgive my stupidity and blind hatred?”