There Will Be Wolves (15 page)

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They didn’t stir from their hiding place until dawn broke the next morning and the birds
began to call sleepily in the trees around them. Ursula winced as she stood up. She was cold—the damp seemed to have seeped right through her and into her bones. She ached in every joint and muscle. As she looked anxiously toward her father, he, too, roused himself and began to cough. The coughing shook his frail frame so much that he could not speak.

“We must get back to where we left the horse and wagon,” she said to Bruno.

He didn’t answer.

“It might still be there,” she insisted. “It’s possible that they’ve left it.” Bruno’s face told her how unlikely he thought this to be.

They wakened Verity and started back through the trees. Samson trotted at their heels. Even he seemed subdued. Aside from the birds now singing lustily in the forest around them, there was only that same ominous silence. As they drew near the edge of the forest and began to tread more cautiously, they stopped speaking and listened intently, but there was nothing to be heard. None of the usual noise of the awakening of a camp of thousands that had filled the air every morning since they had left Cologne, no sounds of priests saying masses. They emerged from the woods and looked around cautiously. At first there was nothing to be seen. Then Ursula gasped. Their wagon was almost where they had left it, but it lay on its side, the wheels smashed beyond
repair. Ursula ran toward it, forgetting all caution, but came to an abrupt halt with a cry of despair. The horse lay on the ground in front of the wagon, still in his traces, dead.

“Why kill him?” she burst out. “Why would they kill a horse?”

“They couldn’t take him, I suppose, and they didn’t want us to have him,” Bruno answered. His voice was bitter. He rummaged through the ruination in and around the fallen wagon. “They’ve spoiled all our supplies. Didn’t even take them—just made them unfit for us. I don’t know if we’ll be able to salvage anything.”

Ursula turned away from the dead animal and went back to help Bruno. She couldn’t talk. There were no words to express what she felt.

Together, with Verity hindering more than helping, they searched through the mess for something that would still be edible. Their sack of grain had been slit open and was spilled over the ground. Ursula found a small pouch and gathered up as much as she could. At first she tried to avoid picking up dirt as well; soon she gave up and just dumped everything in together. Sticks, lumps of earth—she’d separate it later.

Master William rummaged around in what was left of their clothing.

“They’ve slashed everything,” he said. The note of confusion was back in his voice, his face was blank and hopeless again. After his brief burst of
energy the day before, his body now sagged with weariness. He gave up his search and slumped to the ground, his back against the ruin of the wagon. “There’s nothing left.” He shook his head slowly from side to side. “Nothing left! And we were so close…. So close…. I thought I would see Constantinople … and Jerusalem—am I never to pray in our holiest of cities now?”

Ursula wanted with all her heart to reassure him, to vow that his dreams would come true, but how could she? This, surely, was the end. She and Bruno rescued what they could and piled it in a heap. It was pitifully small.

“Dare we make a fire?” she asked Bruno. Then another fear hit her. “The flints! The tinder!”

“It’s all right,” Bruno answered. “I made certain to take them with me when we fled.”

They collected twigs, wood—even bits of the demolished wagon, and soon had a small blaze going. It didn’t offer much warmth, but just the sight of it was comforting. Ursula sat her father down beside it and then retrieved a piece of blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. He hardly seemed to notice what she was doing.

“We must find water,” she said.

“First we had better see what has happened,” Bruno said grimly. “See where all the others are.”

The road itself from which they had escaped the day before lay hidden behind the slight rise
they had bumped over so desperately. Ursula looked toward it.

“I’ll go with you,” she said, but she was filled with dread. The silence … What would they find? “Do you think it’s safe now?”

“I think so,” Bruno answered. “There would be no reason for Nicetas’s men to stay around. They’ve had their revenge.”

Leaving Verity with Master William, and Samson tied to the wagon with a bit of cord that Bruno had salvaged, they climbed over the rise. Ursula took one look at what lay before them and her heart seemed to stop. As far as she could see, bodies littered the road. Men, women, children—all scattered as if carelessly flung by some giant hand. Wagons were overturned and demolished. The bodies of horses, donkeys, and cows lay among the bodies of the people. Blood was everywhere. And now Ursula became aware of the smell. A smell like the stench of the butchers’ alley in Cologne.

“It’s not possible!” She couldn’t look away. “Isn’t there anyone left alive at all?” Her voice rose, close to hysteria. Beside her, Bruno stood as if frozen.

As if in answer to Ursula, there was movement on the other side of the road. The ground sloped steeply up into the mountains there. A small knot of people was emerging timidly from the shelter of the trees. They, too, stopped when they saw the
carnage in front of them. Then they looked across at Bruno and Ursula, but in silence. No shouts or greetings were exchanged, no one spoke.

G
radually, more and more figures came forth. Some searched among the bodies, others just wandered aimlessly, stunned. Priests made their way from body to body, giving what blessings, what absolutions, they could. There was a large clearing on the side where Bruno and Ursula stood. The people began to collect there. For the most part they had nothing but the clothing on their backs, but some of them carried bundles and hastily wrapped parcels. Many of them were wounded and bleeding.

A figure emerged from the trees farther down the road. It was a man, riding a donkey, and Ursula recognized Peter the Hermit. No arrogant guard surrounded him now, although a few men followed him. Next, a group of horsemen emerged from around a bend in the road. Count Emil was in the lead. He slumped in the saddle, and his normally proud face was pale and haggard. He caught
sight of Ursula and Bruno and rode up to them.

“Ah,” he said to Ursula, “so you survived, did you? That is well for me. Do you still have your medicines?”

Ursula nodded. She could not trust her voice.

“We will make camp here for this day,” he went on, a trace of the old authority returning. “I doubt Nicetas’s soldiers will return. There is no more sport for them here now. Later, when we are settled, you will come to me. I need your care.” There was a long gash in one cheek and blood seeped from the shoulder of his tunic. Ursula nodded again. The count moved away from her, toward the Hermit.

Ursula turned back to Bruno. He reached out a hand to her. Together, they returned over the rise to the wreck of their wagon.

The fire had gone out, though Master William, sitting beside it, seemed not to realize it. He didn’t answer when Ursula called out to him.

“He must have food and something hot to drink,” Ursula said to Bruno. “So must the child. Can you light the fire for us again?”

Bruno just nodded. He still seemed incapable of speech.

Her father did not ask what they had found; Ursula did not tell him.

This time they made a larger fire. Together, Bruno and Ursula unhitched the body of the horse and dragged it as far as possible into the
woods. Ursula saved two battered pots from the wagon. “What shall we do for water?” she asked. She was suddenly aware of a raging thirst.

“There’s a stream a ways back. I noticed it before,” Bruno said finally. His voice was wooden. “Give me one of those pots and I’ll fetch some.” He took the pot and disappeared with it. When he returned, Ursula gave some to Verity and her father, and then drank deeply of it herself. The cold sweetness of it was a shock. Then she set the pot on the fire to boil. She began to clean the grain as best she could. There were no vegetables left and no meat. They would have to make do with gruel. She measured the kernels out carefully, trying to gauge how long the amount left would last. There was no telling when they would be able to get more.

After she had fed her father and Verity, and made up a soothing tea for Master William, she allowed herself to start thinking about what they were going to do. They couldn’t stay here—they couldn’t go back. They would have to go forward, but without the wagon they would have to walk. Her father was too weak for that, she knew. Perhaps some of the wagons had been saved. Perhaps she could arrange with Count Emil to see that her father was allowed to ride. The count owed him that, surely. She picked up her medicine bag.

“I must go to Count Emil,” she said. “I’ll see if he will help us.”

Bruno just nodded. Like Ursula, he had not eaten.

Ursula had to brace herself to go back over the rise between them and the road. She hurried toward the place where Count Emil and the Hermit had set up their camp, trying as much as possible not to see the bodies strewn along the way. It was impossible, however, and at some points she even had to pick her way among them. By the time she reached Count Emil’s fire, her chest was burning with the effort of holding in her grief. Campfires had sprung up at the edges of the woods and people huddled around them, binding their wounds and eating what food they had managed to salvage, but everywhere there was still that same, eerie silence.

The count glared at her as she stepped into the circle of his fire. “What took you so long, witch?” he snarled, obviously in pain. Ursula didn’t react to the epithet. It was meaningless now. Without being asked, she prepared an infusion of the count’s medicine for him to drink first, even though it was only midday. He snatched it and gulped the liquid down thirstily, not seeming to notice or care about the heat of it. She had found some butterbur in a stream they had crossed only a few days earlier and had collected the leaves and roots. It was just as well, she thought, as the supply of herbs was dwindling rapidly. Butterbur was especially good for skin wounds. She applied
a poultice to the wound in the count’s shoulder, then showed him how to apply more of the cure to the gash on his face. The count submitted to her ministrations impatiently.

Ursula held her tongue as long as she worked, but when she had finished and the count was resting more comfortably, she could keep silent no longer.

“My lord,” she began tentatively.

“Yes?” He glanced at her sharply. “Are you not done now?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord,” she answered. “But there is something … something I would ask of you.”

“What?” he barked.

“My father, my lord. He is very ill, as you know, and our wagon has been destroyed. If we are to go on, he cannot walk. Is there a wagon in which he might ride?”

The count snorted.
“If
we are to go on? Of course we are to go on! We are not to be conquered this easily. But there are no wagons for your father to ride in. None. They are all destroyed, most of the horses killed or stolen. What horses there are left will be for the soldiers and those of us who lead you, witch, as is altogether fitting. Your father will walk. Like all the rest of you rabble, your father will walk. And if he continues to be too ill to come to me, then you will continue to do so. I have paid for his services, I intend to receive them, one way or another.”

“But everything you gave us, my lord … Everything is gone!”

“That is hardly my fault. I’ve lost my own wagon as well. The Hermit has lost his….” His face darkened.

Ursula had been about to remind the count of the silver coins he still owed her father, but she was abruptly silenced. If it were true that the count had lost his own wagon, this would not be the time to beg for the money. And if Peter the Hermit had lost his wagon—Ursula remembered the rumors of the chest of money that he carried in it to buy supplies for the Crusade. If that was gone, too …

“Begone, witch. We will march tomorrow for Constantinople, and I expect you to report to me after the evening meal as usual.”

Ursula started back to Bruno and her father without another word. Once she would have flared back in anger at the count’s words. Once she would have burned with fury to be spoken to so. She stepped carefully around the body of a young man. Once…. How long ago had that been, she wondered dully. Surely it had been years ago. Surely it had been a lifetime ago.

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They left with dawn the next morning. With the rise of the sun came the warning of just how
terrible the stench of the aftermath of this battle would be in a few hours. There was no way possible to bury so many, although here and there some were trying to do so.

They had just started out, Bruno carrying Verity and Ursula supporting her father, when they came upon a woman sitting, keening by the roadside. The body of a man lay beside her.

“They’ve killed him,” she moaned. “They’ve killed my husband and taken my children.” She rocked back and forth in her agony.

Ursula stopped beside her. She leaned down and rested a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Come with us,” she said softly. “We have a little food left. Come with us. We will help you.”

“How can I leave? I cannot leave!”

Try as she might, Ursula could not convince her. Finally she took off her cloak and wrapped it around the woman. “God be with you,” she whispered. “The true God—not the God of these wolves we travel with.”

And wolves the Crusaders seemed as they marched down the road through Sophia to Constantinople. Of the more than twenty thousand that had left Cologne, fewer than seven thousand remained, and like a pack of hungry animals closing in on any prey they could find, they attacked everything and everyone that came within reach. It was every person for himself or herself—no one shared their plunder. Those who
would not plunder, such as Ursula and Bruno, went without. In the evenings when she tended to the count, he would sometimes give Ursula a handful of grain or a few spoiled vegetables, and that was what they subsisted on. When she begged for more, telling him that her father was dying, his face turned cold and closed.