Bladesong Page 7

  Chapter 6

  1148.

  The crusading fires lit by Bernard of Clairvaux were already dampened when the Frankish army reached the Holy Land, but then Dragonetz was no naive boy looking for glory on earth and in heaven. At twenty-one, he was a seasoned warrior, accustomed to leading forays to protect his father’s lands in Aquitaine, or to suppress warring barons for his liege lady Aliénor, his Duchesse. He’d laid siege, organising the great rock-throwing manganels and wooden towers; he’d led cavalry charges and he’d killed without compunction. His father was a harsh teacher, a mailed glove concealing an iron fist, but his lessons kept Dragonetz alive and turned him into a leader who checked whether there was clean water and a safe haven for blood-gorged soldiers, before he waved his sword and ordered the attack.

  It was therefore with great frustration, rather than loss of illusions, that he endured the trek across land that turned friend to foe, before the army even reached enemy territory. Following in the wake of their German allies meant marching through black lands, pillaged and wasted by the troops before them. Every village was emptied before them, the people running scared or banding to take a small vengeance on anyone leaving the main group. Skirmishes and starvation diminished the enthusiasm of those with the holiest fires.

  Dragonetz gritted his teeth and soldiered on, under the orders of his superior. Geoffroi de Rançon, Aliénor’s Commander of the Guard, was a neighbour of the Dragon domaine at Ruffec, a man in his fifties and a veteran of the battles following that of the Field of Blood. His experience of fighting Oltra mar would no doubt be essential to their victory once they reached enemy territory. Or so Dragonetz thought at the time, having great respect for his Commander from riding out with him in Aquitaine.

  The road to Byzantium was long in months and hunger, alienating ever larger numbers of people, and ending any possibility of returning this way. Dragonetz was clear in his own mind, even if others were only speaking of the route to victories and the glory of God; the way back would have to be by sea, whatever the level of glory or ignominy. In the event, Byzantium provided neither the haven nor the allied force expected by the German Emperor Conrad and King Louis. The two rulers finally met up there and combined their troops, whose idea of forage took little account of what would be left when they were sated.

  It was hardly surprising that Manuel Komnenos, the Emperor of Byzantium, encouraged Conrad to take his troops onwards as soon as possible. No doubt Komnenos would have preferred all of the crusading troops to leave Byzantium as soon as possible. What was surprising was that Komnenos should have told Conrad how easy the route would be. The all-powerful ruler of Byzantium was apparently totally unaware of the danger that Seljuq Turks would waylay Conrad’s army, as they in fact did, destroying it. Someone less trusting than Conrad and Louis might have thought that the Byzantine Emperor preferred a truce with his Turkish neighbours to new negotiations with German ones.

  Meanwhile, Aliénor and Louis enjoyed the sophistications of the Byzantine palaces, hot spring water running under chambers to warm them, hanging gardens to delight the eye and birdsong in closed courtyards for the pleasure of the ear. After four months’ trek, to sleep in a bed, to eat at table and to drink good wine, were riches more valuable than the gold leaf dripping from cornices and tableware alike but Dragonetz was uneasy. Beneath the hospitality lay only questions and disagreements.

  Louis was lulled by lavish hospitality and devious arguments into forgetting that he had expected a Byzantine army to fight alongside his own. He would now be grateful for a promise of future appearance by some Byzantine troops as soon as they could be released from their duties. If Louis stayed in Byzantium much longer he’d be grateful if Komnenos sent as much as a basket of fruit to the Holy Land with his ‘allies’!

  When the remnant of Conrad’s troops limped back to Byzantium with their Emperor, the catalyst was only just enough to stir Louis out of his torpor, with or without Komnenos’ men. Weather was no excuse as even in January the routes were clear, so onwards marched the joint armies, or rather what was left of them. From the hostile lands of their allies to the lethal territories of their foes they marched, informed by the German survivors of what they could expect from the Seljuq Turks ahead of them, blocking the route to their next haven, Antioch. It was more practical to split the huge force into three, with baggage and supplies in the middle contingent.

  Aliénor argued her way into the vanguard, as liege lord of the Aquitaine cohort, which was probably the most disciplined and cohesive force in the combined armies. Her red hair flying, she wore breeches for riding astride and was glowing with excitement, the one Crusader whose fire could not be dampened.

  When Aliénor had taken the cross, a strip of fabric from Bernard de Clairvaux’s own robe, Dragonetz saw her face light up at the prospect of action. Louis’ face changed too but what was religious duty for him was sanctified freedom for his wife. Dragonetz knew his lady well and he was not the only man to worship her. As seasoned in what was called love as in battle, Dragonetz never found any other word for his feelings about Aliénor when he was twenty-one. He’d worshipped her. Had worshipped her from the moment she dubbed him knight, when he was still dizzy from sleepless vigil and looked up to eyes that claimed him as hers, even as her mouth stated the fact.

  Every song he’d written was for her, his Patron. Four years older than he was, already Queen of France and versed in her role, her hands shook while she took his oath. She was human and he was her knight. And troubadour.

  Whenever Aliénor came to Poitiers or another of her Aquitaine estates, Dragonetz was part of her entourage; composing, singing, and playing in the Great Hall or serving with the Guard. He watched her sparkling in her Duchy with her people, and dull with her Paris courtiers around her, like a buried diamond. The dalliance between Aliénor and her troubadour flashed repartee in Occitan and died into stilted foreign platitudes in the king’s Frankish language, dullest of all in the presence of the king himself.

  Dragonetz had sworn no oath to Louis and would have resented the kingdom of France anyway, whoever represented this greedy little region. Louis of France had only become Aquitaine’s overlord by marrying Aliénor, and the nature of that marriage made it even harder for Dragonetz to stomach the king. Aliénor deserved the respect due to Aquitaine and the way she was treated by Louis, barred from councils and ignored in public debate, insulted both lady and land.

  The king bleated his instructions from Archbishop Suger, his advisor, a shield against his Queen’s pleas to be consulted and to take part in decisions. Louis made puppy-dog eyes at his headstrong wife, wanting to please her, but too scared to disobey his political nurse-maid, Suger. Small wonder that Aliénor saw the call to arms as a heaven-sent opportunity to free herself of old advisors, who were fit only for tottering round palaces and abbeys. She would be a warrior queen, reclaiming Edessa from the heathen, inspiring a Christian host to work miracles.

  If Dragonetz had misgivings about his lady’s view of her role, it was not his place to say so. When she summoned him to private recital, and was moved to tears by his songs of courage and loss, love and loyalty, was he going to speak to her of wagon wheels and water barrels? Of horseshoes and harness? Would it have made her any more realistic about what she might face? Later events suggested not, but Dragonetz would always wonder. If someone, any of them, had been able to prick that bubble of naive idealism in which Aliénor existed, with herself the heroine of every story, would she have been less dangerous?

  Instead, she was the heroine of his every story. Every languishing lover in Dragonetz’ songs yearned for her and well he might. Tall, fiery-haired and fierce-tempered, with pale skin that flared red in passion, Aliénor was quick-tongued and daring, challenging all around her to keep up, hating it when they couldn’t, hating it even more when she was confined by king and prelate to the women’s quarters. She showed to advantage on horseback, threading through the soldiers, spreading golden words of encouragement, a goddess. It wou
ld have been churlish to reflect that she risked not so much as worn boots, protected as she was.

  Dragonetz had made no such reflections at the time and had seen no clash between his unquestioning love for Aliénor, and his practical scepticism about his leaders’ choices as the army progressed. The further they went from Paris, the stronger grew Aliénor’s influence on her husband and it was typical of her to insist on being in the vanguard as they moved into Turkish Seljuq territory.

  Riding with her Guard, Dragonetz knew she sizzled with excitement, like any raw recruit wanting battle to begin, convinced that her loosed arrow, her rallying call, or the mere sight of her brave example in the lead, would secure victory. That she had never killed, went without saying. That there were strict instructions to bundle her into a covered wagon at the first sign of danger, was also a given. Neverthess, she was lord of Aquitaine, and was treated as such by de Rançon, if not by de Maurienne, uncle to the French king and placed in the vanguard to represent Frankish interest.

  Dragonetz was at Aliénor’s side when these two nobles cantered up to her. Although they were well into Seljuq territory, the day’s journey had gone without incident so far, and, at barely mid-day, they were already approaching the crest of Mount Cadmus, chosen for the night’s halt.

  ‘We pitch camp here for the night, my Lady.’ De Rançon steadied his grey beside her, snorts of steam showing the horses’ efforts on the climb.

  Two sullen frown lines wrinkled Aliénor’s forehead. ‘That would be a waste of the time we’ve gained. Our scouts have reported a plateau but a few hours ahead, flat and fair, perfect for our camp. We should profit from our speed and continue. The heathens will never expect us to be upon them so soon and the element of surprise is worth ten thousand men.’

  Before de Rançon could respond, de Maurienne pulled a face that would sour milk and abort sheep. ‘My King expressly instructed that we camp on Mount Cadmus for the night, where the goods-train and his own army will join us. Remember that the Germans were ambushed in this pass and we need to regroup as soon as we can.’

  Twin points of hectic colour flared in Aliénor’s cheeks. ‘My husband,’ she emphasised the title, ‘has not seen the terrain here. Nor heard from scouts that all is clear. If he had, he would order this army to continue. The fact there was an ambush here three months ago means nothing! As the vanguard is under my orders, I command you, de Rançon, to continue with the day’s march!’

  Dragonetz held his breath, in no position to intervene. The silence stretched.

  ‘Are you the Commander of my Guard or are you not, de Rançon?’ The ice in her tone was cutting, the threat clear.

  ‘At your service, my Lady,’ came the unequivocal reply. He was going to order them to march onwards.

  ‘No,’ shouted Dragonetz, jumping off his horse, clutching Aliénor’s bridle and stopping them all in their tracks. She glared at him.

  ‘You overstep yourself, my Lord Dragonetz. Be careful what you say next lest I find I have a traitor in my Guard.’

  ‘Dragonetz,’ warned de Rançon.

  There was no going back and Dragonetz hoped wholeheartedly that there would be no going forward. ‘No,’ he repeated, more quietly, but the words still tumbled over themselves. Months of hearing bad advice leading to bad decisions welled up and poured out into this one attempt to stop lunacy. ‘My lady, if we continue, we are opening up the baggage train to attack. We cannot abandon them like this! The Seljuqs could be anywhere in these mountains. Those behind us will be slower, losing more and more distance from us, splitting up our army and making each section more vulnerable. Our horses need rest and our men must rally their strength in case they are called upon to fight. Our gains will show if we need to act in our defence.’

  De Rançon leant down from the saddle and struck Dragonetz across the cheek with his glove, drawing blood. ‘You weren’t asked to speak.’

  Aliénor held up her hand, stopping de Rançon from striking again. ‘He means well,’ she observed dispassionately. ‘We need men who care enough to speak out.’ Dragonetz’ hopes rose. ‘Even when they’re wrong. There has been no sign of these Seljuqs who are supposed to be everywhere. Our scouts have reported the terrain clear. Louis will catch up to the others for a night here. And we can ride a few hours more to be better rested and in full possession of a perfect campsite. You should be thinking of attack not defence!’

  Dragonetz dropped to his knees in the dust, still holding the reins of Aliénor’s mount. He unsheathed his sword and held the hilt out towards her. ‘By my oath to you, by all that’s sacred, I swear I would rather you kill me with the same sword by which you made me knight, than make this wrong choice.’

  Her eyes flashed at him, impatient. ‘Enough histrionics, Dragonetz. I am not so easily swayed.’ She lashed out at him with a boot, kicking his hands off her reins and dropping his sword in the dust. ‘Leave me. I want only loyal men beside me. Give the orders, de Rançon, then ride with me. Let those who see bog-sprites and night-mares go back to Paris where they belong!’ As she spurred her horse into a canter, Dragonetz picked his sword out of the dust. His father’s men were with him in seconds, bear-like Raoulf and his golden son Arnaut, ready to kill or die for him, as he was for Aliénor.

  ‘You heard our orders,’ he told them curtly. ‘Tell the men.’ They’d been with him long enough to say nothing, but do exactly what they’d been told. Dragonetz ignored de Maurienne’s impotent clucking, mounted his horse and rode on along the Kazik Beli Pass, down the other side of the mountains until they reached an inviting plateau. There had been no attacks, not even one sighting of a Seljuq. The surroundings were clearly visible from the campsite and Aliénor was protected by de Rançon and her Guard, including Dragonetz’ men. Raoulf would rage at being given the slip but then if Dragonetz was to suffer Raoulf’s anger, they would both still be alive. He would take no-one with him and then he could take no-one down with him if he were wrong, for there would be a reckoning with Aliénor in either case.

  Dragonetz apologised to his horse, left the army setting up camp and galloped like a raised ghost back along the route they’d just travelled, back to Mount Cadmus.

  Chapter 7

  He heard the fighting before he saw the Turks controlling the crest, their backs towards him, concentrated on the battle below them and completely unaware of the lone horseman approaching from the east. Silent as a quick death, Dragonetz spurred through the Seljuqs, scything them aside with a wild sword. On foot and taken by surprise, the Turks barely had time to call the alarm before the knight was through and past them, galloping on to the source of screaming men and horses. Carving his way to a Frankish standard, Dragonetz dismounted and clasped the shaking hands of the bearer, a lad standing by an overturned and smoking wagon, while his friends protected their knights’ mounts in the little shelter offered.

  ‘Tell me,’ he ordered.

  ‘They jumped us when we reached the pass. Word went round that the vanguard must all be dead or they’d be here but no-one’s seen bodies.’ His eyes widened and he started shaking again. ‘They’re demons, Sire. They’ve murdered and eaten our brothers. That’s why there’s no bodies.’ Dragonetz slapped his face, shocking the boy out of his hysteria.

  ‘The vanguard is safe and well,’ Dragonetz told him bitterly. ‘I’m here to prove it.’ He looked around the mass, distinguishing the spiked helmets of the Seljuqs from the flat plate of his own side, estimating numbers and progress as best he could in the chaos. Then his breath caught as he saw the king’s standard in the thick of the fighting.

  ‘King Louis is here?’ he demanded urgently.

  ‘Lord Odo went back to fetch them, sire, and they came but they’re too late.’

  ‘No they’re not!’ The boy needed something to do, not standing still with his fears creeping up like sabres in the mist. ‘Boy, you and your friends will do something this day that will be talked of in every great kitchen in every Frankish hall. You will have any kitchen-maid yours at just t
he mention of your name.’ He lifted the lad’s head and met the spark of hope with a steady gaze. ‘There is no fame without danger but, thanks to you, our army will live to see the morrow.’

  He surveyed the white faces and chose the steadiest. ‘You, stay here. Guard the standard and the remaining horses. The rest of you, mount, and ride like the wind, up the pass. Stop for nothing and no-one, not for the heathens, not for each other. If you’re wounded, ride on; if you’re killed, then your spirit carries on! Go to my Lord de Rançon and my Lady Aliénor where they camp down the mountain and bring them here. A thousand times you’ve dreamed of racing these horses, ducking past the enemy. Now! Sooner than now! Do it!’

  The prospect of action galvanised the boys and they knew horses well enough to do exactly what was asked of them. Throwing themselves onto animals already restless with the scent and sound of blood and steel, the lads disappeared in a storm of dust.

  ‘God speed,’ Dragonetz murmured. This was no terrain for cavalry and he left his own horse with the others. The battle showed Louis and his elite knights winning a route for the baggage train to reach the crest, but at terrible cost. Dragonetz took his customary minute to prepare mentally, then hurled defiance at the world as his life narrowed to killing or being killed.

  All close fighting in battles was brute and blind. Although aiming for King Louis, each path towards him was indirect and through bodies, so survival instinct led Dragonetz in circles back to the wagon where he’d left his horses.

  A woman’s scream broke through his concentration and he saw a knight, backed against the wagon, defending someone behind him against five scimitars. Dragonetz pushed harder and was near enough to hear the crude sexual jibes from the Seljuqs, unmistakable even in thick Turkish. He was near enough to see the anguish in the knight’s eyes as he succumbed to the inevitable, but too slow to prevent a curved blade ripping the woman’s gown from top to toe even as she sobbed for her husband. What happened next shocked Dragonetz as much as the Turks, who turned and fled, gibbering. The semi-naked woman displayed an unmistakably male set of genitals beneath her female clothing and after a moment to recover his sang-froid, Dragonetz threw ‘her’ a blanket grabbed from his horse.