Louis took it from her by his fingertips and without a word strode from her tent. She knew he would be unhappy with what she had given him, but hoped she had judged it well enough that it would not be worth his while making trouble. For now she had no choice but to endure, but the closer she came to Antioch, the stronger she felt.
27
Bulgaria, Summer 1147
Alienor turned her head aside as she rode past the rotting body of yet another horse at the roadside. A German one this time – a knight’s solid destrier, unable to cope with the burning August heat through which they journeyed towards Constantinople. She gagged at the stench rising from the maggot-riddled flesh and pressed her wimple across her face. Shallow graves of pilgrims and soldiers who had died along the route mounded the roadside. Some of the bodies had been dug up by scavengers and the dismembered remains scattered abroad. At first Alienor had been sickened but now she was mostly inured, except that sometimes the smell, heavy and fetid like the butchers’ quarter in Paris at the end of a sweltering summer’s day, made her queasy.
Her cob was flagging in the heat, sweat dripping from its belly, leaving a trail of droplets. For the moment there was water available to replenish that loss, but once across the Arm of Saint George and into Anatolia, that resource would become scarce and the horses would be many hundreds of miles further along the road and less robust than they were now.
Louis’s money had arrived from France on swift pack ponies, their speed not slowed by the non-combatant morass of pilgrims that so hampered the main army. The news from France was one of routine and steady government. Abbé Suger and Raoul of Vermandois were holding the country stable and any minor troubles were being easily resolved. Petronella had written a brief note to say that Marie was running around now and wearing proper little dresses instead of baby smocks. I tell her about you every day, Petronella had written. She will not forget her mama. Alienor had put the letter aside and not read it a second time. Whatever Petronella told Marie, the child’s notion of who her mama was would not be Alienor – would never be Alienor.
Other letters had arrived too, from the Empress Irene, consort of Emperor Manuel Komnenos, asking Alienor what she could do to provide comfort for her when she arrived in Constantinople, and welcoming her as one royal lady to another. Alienor was looking forward to meeting the Empress of the Greeks, who was of a similar age to herself and of German birth. Her real name was Bertha, but she had changed it to Irene on her marriage to Komnenos. Alienor was also interested in seeing Constantinople. The immense wealth of gold, mosaics and holy relics contained within the city was the stuff of legend.
Louis was less sanguine because of the many constraints being piled upon them by the Greeks, who controlled the route through Bulgaria and had rigid ideas about what the French and German armies were here to do. Louis was infuriated by the demand that he and his barons must do homage to Emperor Manuel for any former imperial lands they took from the infidel. Why should he give allegiance for such gains when they were won by his hand?
The governor of the town of Sofia, a cousin of Emperor Manuel’s, had joined the French army and was helping to supply it along the way, but he had a difficult task. Fights broke out over the exchange rate of five French silver pennies to a single coin of Greek copper. Frequently the Greeks closed up their towns when they saw the French approaching, and would only provide food by lowering it over the walls in baskets. There was never enough to go round and as a result, tempers frayed and skirmishes were commonplace. People broke ranks to go on foraging raids. Some returned with heavy sacks over their shoulders and blood on their hands. Others never returned at all.
As the heat of the day increased Alienor began to feel unwell. She had broken her fast on cold grains mixed with raisins and spices and the taste lingered at the back of her throat. Her stomach somersaulted and cramping pain gripped her lower back. She forced herself forwards. Another ten strides of her cob and another ten. Just as far as that bush. Just as far as that clump of trees. Just as far as … ‘Stop!’ she cried and gestured frantically to her women. They helped her down from her horse and one of her women, Mamile, hastily had the necessary private canvas screen lifted off the packhorse and directed the other ladies to form it around her mistress.
Alienor heaved and retched. Her bowels cramped. Dear God, dear God. What if she had contracted the bloody flux? They still had days to go until they reached Constantinople and decent physicians, rest and care. She had seen people die along the way, one moment robust, the next expiring in stench and agony.
When it was over, she felt limp and drained, and still desperately nauseous.
‘Madam, shall I find a cart for you to ride in?’
Alienor shook her head at Mamile. ‘I will be all right by and by. Do not make a fuss. Bring my horse.’
By the time they made camp, Alienor had been forced to retire behind the screen three more times. She refused food and took to her bed, but the vomiting and purging continued intermittently through the night.
Towards dawn, Alienor fell into a fitful doze only to be woken by shouts and yells outside the tent, some in French, some in a harsh, foreign tongue. Then the clash of weapons and sounds of hard fighting. She struggled out of the bedclothes and grabbed her cloak. Mamile hastened over to her, a lantern shaking in her hand and her eyes wide. ‘Madam, we are under attack.’
‘Who …?’
‘I don’t know …’ The women stared towards the tent flaps as the noise of battle intensified. Alienor’s other ladies clustered round, skittish as horses hearing the howl of wolves.
‘Help me to dress,’ Alienor commanded. She swallowed a heave as the women did her bidding. When they were finished, she picked up the sheathed hunting knife she kept at her bedside. Gisela whimpered. Outside someone screamed and screamed again until the sound abruptly choked and cut off. The sound of battle diminished and the shouts reverted to French.
Alienor approached the tent flaps.
‘Madam, no!’ Mamile cried, but Alienor stepped outside, her knife at the ready.
Dawn was flushing the eastern horizon and in the strengthening light the camp resembled a kicked ants’ nest. Soldiers were out of their shelters, many still in their undergarments, spears in hands and faces puffy with sleep. Men were throwing jugs of water over a burning tent. Nearby a serjeant wrenched a lance out of a corpse’s chest. There was a dead horse and a dead infidel warrior trapped under it, his scarlet turban winding away from his body like a ribbon of blood. Geoffrey was striding about issuing brisk orders.
Seeing Alienor standing at her tent entrance, he hastened over to her, slotting his sword back into his scabbard.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked faintly.
‘Nomad Cusman raiders.’ Geoffrey was breathing hard. ‘They were trying to steal our horses and supplies. They killed two sentries and torched some of our tents. Three of ours are dead and another has an arrow through his leg, but we gave them the worst of it.’ He grimaced. ‘They’re the same ones who have been attacking the German lines, so our guides say, in retaliation for pillaging and raids on their herds and livelihoods.’
‘You are unharmed?’ She looked him over quickly.
He gave a short nod. ‘They didn’t get near. We’ll have to be ever more vigilant because the raids will only worsen the further we go. Once we cross the Arm of Saint George, we’ll be subject to far greater hostility than this. I will double the guard, but I do not think they will be back for the moment.’ His gaze sharpened as he took in the knife in her hand. ‘It would not have come to that. I would have defended you with my life.’