Faith & Blood

By Henry Auger

Maysa is a young woman and goatherd living in a desert. Taught by her long dead father, she knows how to defend herself yet, though her life is pitiful, she longs for love. With her brother they risk all by seeking out a better life in Jerusalem. Neither of them knows that a Holy Crusade is on the march intent on eradicating Islam and conquering that Holy city.

For Serge Lescot, a master builder in France, his skills are commandeered by Crusader warlords so becomes embroiled in the conflict by building a Trebuchet. On route to Constantinople, genocide in Germany, massacre in Hungary then the intrigues of the court of Alexius the Emperor seem commonplace until he meets the murderous Godfrey Burel.

While the Peoples Crusade march toward their destiny and as Maysa is cajoled into spying for the Saracens, Serge Lescot finds himself in the wrong place and at the wrong time on that fateful day of massacre.....and then the chase began.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Henry Auger
• Release date: Jan 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465876324

Henry Auger

For me, writing historical fiction is fascinating because of the amount of research one has to do - the background story must be historically and factually impeccable. I am an Englishman abroad and living in Chiang Mai.

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FAITH & BLOOD

By

HENRY AUGER

Published by Henry Auger at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Henry Auger

Cover Copyright 2012 Henry Auger

Map Copyright 2012 Henry Auger

Please note: I have used (English) English spelling in the preparation of this novel

(Historical notes appear after the last chapter)

Smashwords Edition, License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Manzikert,

Anatolia.

August 19, 1071.

You best get under ‘ere, laddie. A huge fist grabbed the young recruit’s neck and pulled him under his shelter; a shield held aloft, and facing a sky that suddenly darkened.

What is it? Why is the— Noise like thunder rendered speech useless. Arrows — harmless little sticks with deadly steel tips — rained down by the thousand, thudding into the flimsy mantle of shields. Terror-stricken, the young novice was surrounded by a phalanx of grown men whose screams and howls heightened his fear and hastened his bowels to loosen.

Stay close to me, boy. Yet the boy was already clutching the man’s chest as if cuddling up to his mother’s breast. More to come and soon, bastard Saracens, they won’t stand and fight like proper men. Where you from, laddie?

Bulgar.

So, ye be Petcheneg then, good lads they are, tough little buggers, He said, trying to calm the boy’s nerve, but all the while listening for shouted orders — attack or retreat — that never came, then darkness descended again There be no glory in cowering under shield. he grumbled.

Men next to them were hit, two or three fell, a hole appeared in the canopy and the arrows poured in, piercing skulls and eyeballs, flaying flesh from faces and the ground became boggy with blood. Scuffling to stay upright, the old soldier winced as a missile skewered his foot and sandal.

Damn and blast. Get under me, boy, He grimaced as he plucked his pierced foot from the ground. Snap that arrow shaft and pull it out.

The inexperienced hands trembled and fumbled but he succeeded just as the arrows ceased. By then, dozens of shafts were lodged in the splintered shield.

Who gives the bloody orders around ‘ere? The bearded veteran shouted, looking for leadership but seeing the whole formation in disarray. He also saw the next wave of mounted Saracens charging in along their flank, with quivers bristling. Close ranks. Shields up. he bellowed. He was determined to attack after the next deluge, orders or no orders, but so heavy the downpour and so tense the grip holding the weighted shield aloft it fell to pieces. Man and boy dropped to the ground. Battle hardened soldiers collapsed also, writhing in death throes.

Keep your arms in and your legs straight, there’s a good lad. He said, while covering the boy with his own body against the unceasing storm of arrows, and through this impervious blanket the youngster felt spasms of impact.

I have a son about your age. The dying one croaked. How old are you, laddie? Crushed beneath the protective burden the lad could hardly breathe, let alone speak. Well ye not shaving yet so—

Squashing him into the bloodied soil, the weight seemed to double as life sagged out of the old trooper. Warm blood ceased flowing and the pool he lay in turned cold and sticky yet he remained still, shrouded under the lifeless corpse.

With limited vision he saw survivors running, many limping, but all retreating in panic. Then sounds of horse’s hooves, marching footsteps and victorious chanting grew louder as he watched the enemy pass by in pursuit. Even in death the old warrior comforted him, cloaking him in obscurity.

Much later the night brought dark silence and his stiff limbs struggled to wriggle out from beneath the dead man for whom he wept.

How can I honour you? A thin moon had risen in the east and he knew he must go before being seen. How can I redeem myself? The tearful young Petcheneg begged.

It was a crescent moon, symbol of Saracen power, and rising over Anatolia. Soon it would rise against the Byzantine Empire, menacing with pointed horns.

He ran and escaped, though not from remorse; it haunted his life unceasingly.

Medina,

Arabia.

November, 1095.

From impenetrable darkness the earliest morning light identified shapes on the landscape; nearby goats grazing quietly.

Gradually the land appeared. A land of sand, bleak and endless while the distant horizon remained cloaked in a haze rising up to the darkest blue of a sky that began to hide the myriad of twinkling stars above.

A solitary human figure became visible draped head to foot in black robes. The sinister shape of a short, curving dagger scabbard dangled from her belt as she walked and the only sounds, amid silence, were her footsteps in the sand.

The full extent of her desert home exposed itself when a jagged line of hilltops in the east etched its way across the sky forming a silhouette against a backdrop of increasingly menacing brightness. Inevitably, the Sun burst out and a wave of heat, thrusting like a sword, invaded her world.

Another day, said Maysa, though nobody heard. Allah, be merciful.

Utter desolation surrounded her apart from the goats. Near and far she counted them up: eighteen. Wild dogs had had a busy night as there were two less than yesterday’s count and at this rate there will be none by the next moon. Of the survivors she was relieved to see a buck that woke with an appetite and promptly mounted one of his harem. Always amused by this sight, Maysa bided her time watching and smiling at the contented doe with a strange feeling akin to envy.

Stick of wood in hand, she began herding them toward the sunrise in search of grazing grass. They were a long way from the tent. Soon it would be time to uproot and move again for where the goats lead the Bedouin must follow.

The Sun had reached its zenith. Burdened by the weight of heat, the goats lay down while Maysa sat cross-legged arranging her Jilbab clothing so her body could benefit from what little air moved across her skin then closed her eyes against the glaring sand.

In this state, somewhere between sleep and consciousness, she allowed her mind to daydream. Her imagination, filled with vivid imagery, had created a sequence of stories with role playing characters, herself included, and living an idyllic life. She would frequent each fantasy often to embellish scenery, elaborate on words spoken, and all to enhance the main character: a husband.

*

Move, come on, get moving. It was late afternoon, the Sun’s heat dissipating, and the bleating goats needed no encouragement. Maysa followed them back to the tent where she, with her Mother’s help, reaped the rewards of goat herding. Such was her life. It had always been this way, before and since her Father died.

Fathers regarded female offspring as disappointments in life but, being the first born, he welcomed Maysa into the world then set about producing what every Arab man could proudly present to the all seeing Allah; a son and heir, who finally arrived but proved equally disappointing.

The sickly child grew ineptly, showing little interest in animal husbandry, though Mother was proud of him nonetheless. While Maysa, now the favourite and enjoying the timeless bond that only a father and daughter can know, quickly and eagerly learned to manage the family business, how to protect it from thieving nomadic tribesmen and from marauding wild animals emboldened by hunger. She was taught to defend herself, against foes four-legged or two, with the knife.

At the tender age of fourteen it all ended as she watched her Father fall to the ground writhing then lay still forevermore. That love, now lost, left a longing within her, growing over the years into that mysterious yet instinctive desire of womanhood and a deprived yearning coursed through her body causing irascible moodiness that baffled her brother.

She is woman. Their mother had explained to him. Such is the way of women. Allah, the benevolent, was kind to you, bringing forth a boy child.

Nasseem’s birth occurred three years after his sister and now, at nineteen, he thought himself fortunate to be working in the great city of Medina, sacred place of Islam, as a maker of jewellery. Though still a lowly apprentice he felt gold and silver running through his veins and considered himself a craftsman, unlike tending goat or chicken as work fit for only women. Seeking a better future he had walked out of the Bedouin life and now worked in the gold souk the jewellery market where the Prophet Mohammed himself had once worked.

Six days a week he toiled. Jewel studded belts or dagger scabbards and knives with ornate handles and sharp, double-edged, curving blades he made for his master who sold the fine pieces in the souk.

My gift to you, Maysa. He had said with genuine affection when offering it on her recent birthday. She withdrew the gem studded, bone handled dagger from its scabbard and gasped.

This is beautiful, Nasseem. Where did you get it?

I made it, of course, for you.

But the cost, the jewels, how could you afford such—

Let’s just say that some were borrowed, some were misplaced. It took months to make.

I shall treasure it always. And she did, honing it daily.

Sister and brother were Arab but having pale skin, the colour of sand, not black as many Arab tribes were. Both had huge dark brown eyes, a straight nose like a roman sculpture and jet—black hair. Arab women in the souk would stare at Nasseem from the inner sanctum of their veils. Maysa, apart from her longer flowing hair, naturally long eyelashes, fuller lips and a flawless skin had that indefinable look of a woman that no man other than her brother had yet seen.

Though happy at his craft, the growing realisation of his status in life caused concern for he had learned two things during his time in Medina; he could never be master of his own shop as he was from a lowly tribe so frowned upon and, frustratingly, ambition surged within him.

Every week he would walk the four hours it took from Medina to be with his family on Fridays for prayer. Home with his loving mother who milked the animals, prepared cheese and dried their hides, and his sister who would squat down in the sand, slit the throat of a goat then bleed it, skin it and butcher it, all in a day’s work then have its brains served up for dinner that same night.

Yet these long treks across the desert waste allowed his mind to wander, sharpening his ambition and hardening his resolve until now, determined, he would tell his family this very night.

Bloodied again as her moon was due, Maysa had just finished her ablutions by piling a mound of sand over the hole and burying the smell so wild dogs would not come barking in the night when Nasseem arrived. As they ate supper, a tangible tension sat between them until later, outside the tent, Nasseem pulled his sister to one side.

Maysa, I’ve decided. The dreams I’ve spoken of so often, of Jerusalem where my fortune awaits. Soon, God willing, the dreams shall come true. I plan to leave.

Never believing he was serious, she thought his adolescent imagination a mere fantasy. Now she saw the staunch self-confidant look in his eyes.

Adulthood awaits you, Nasseem. Must you maintain such childlike foolishness?

Think what you will, I plan to leave. He spoke calmly but clearly intent. Maysa was shocked. This was the wrong moment on the wrong day and her temper flared.

"And what of me, my brother? What sort of life can I expect after you leave? Must I spend all my days herding goats, without a husband, and no one to vouch for my integrity even if a suitor were to pass by this desolate place?"

Quiet, mother will hear you.

I will not be quiet. I am woman, Nasseem. Allah in all his wisdom should know this and grant me what all women want. Maysa’s tongue tore into him like a lash.

You mustn’t speak such words, Maysa. As Allah decreed — you must live as all women have lived, according to His will.

I forbid you to leave. I’ll disown you as if I’d never had a brother. I forbid it do you hear, forbid it. She knew it was useless. As tears rolled down her cheeks, she ran back into the torch lit tent.

The following day was Friday and the day of rest but not for goats. Maysa watched another sunrise with tired eyes reddened by constant weeping. Far from the tent she dropped to her knees, tore off her hijab exposing her face to the heavens, and screamed.

Why? O Merciful God, why do you inflict such misery upon me? How have I wronged you? Give me the strength and guidance I crave to be whole.

No one heard. Not even an echo replied. The screams, the anguish and the tears sank into the sand, swallowed up by the monstrous living thing that was the desert.

*

Returning to the tent she saw mother pacing side to side and wailing.

‘So, he has told her.’ She thought. ‘He must be leaving soon.’ Ignoring mother, she stepped inside the tent. A large embroidered carpet lay across levelled sand surrounded by canvas walls completely bare of decoration. Cushions and blankets on the floor formed their bedding. The kitchen area was outside and moved twice daily into the shade of the tent. At any moment they would have to dismantle all, roll up the canvases, and move on. Such was the life of a goat herder.

‘Is there life for me beyond this?’ Maysa wondered then turned to her brother, sat cross-legged in the front of the small rug they sat around at mealtimes.

So when will it be, Nasseem, soon?

One week from today. I’ll return from Medina with a camel for my journey. He muttered without looking up.

And what of our mother? She demanded to know. Listen to her — she’s heartbroken.

It saddens my heart also, and I’ll miss her, but a man’s destiny cannot be held back. You must look after each other from now on.

What of my life, Nasseem, what—?

Stop this! I’ll not speak of it again. He said. Mother is distraught. You must prepare our food tonight. Nothing more was said. The following morning he was gone, not to return until Friday next when he would say goodbye and be gone forever.

Maysa had never known such despair. With dwindling enthusiasm she continued tending to the goats for three more days when she found only sixteen remaining. Without these, and the little money that Nasseem gave them to buy more, they would starve.

*

The harsh sandscape, withering under the Sun’s glare, had absorbed heat all day. Now, as the intensity relented toward sunset, the sand gave back what it had taken to the cooling air causing Maysa’s world, and the distant tent, to shimmer. She thought nothing unusual until the shocking screams carried on the breeze alarmed her.

Mama! She cried out and ran. Oh no. She yelled when seeing the dogs. O God in heaven no. She pleaded when seeing mother lying on the ground. Maysa shouted and howled and the animals scattered. Mother was bloodied badly as her daughter slumped into the sand at her side. From the appalling wounds, too many to staunch, the elixir of life pooled red onto the ground for chunks of flesh had been torn off her body and carried away to be gorged upon by the scourge of desert life.

Don’t leave me here, Mama. Don’t leave me. Maysa cradled her head but remained helpless as her death crept closer yet slowly, agonisingly, she spoke.

You are the strong one, Maysa. Nasseem will need you now. Then she died. Crying uncontrollably, and with mounting anger, Maysa looked heavenward.

Is this how you answer my plea? Allah, the uncaring, looks down with indifference while my mother suffers a horrible death? Is this how you reward my prayers? Is this the will of Allah? She raged with seething vitriolic yet she knew it was blasphemous.

*

Night descended upon the deceased and a distraught daughter, her rage receding into regret then remorse; was it God’s will she should die? What am I to do? What will become of me?

Eventually she realised that her mother needed tending too. In the torch lit tent she rolled back the carpet to expose the desert sand which she attacked with a spade ferociously. When deep enough she covered the now cold body in a shroud of bedding and dragged it into the grave that she quickly filled until a mound arose then, kneeling before it, she prayed silently while time passed.

In a moment of sudden awareness it came to her like a revelation. A vision of the future appeared, a solution to her quandary, and deliverance beckoned.

Stepping outside she saw them, still there and grouped together, all sixteen. Miraculously, the un-tethered goats that Maysa had ignored since the tragedy had not wandered off to get lost in the night, nor had been dragged off by scavenging dogs. "Is this the will of Allah?"

Though all the night had passed sleeplessly, she gathered what she needed into a shoulder bag then gathered up her herd, inspired. And when sunlight shone again the only movement for miles around were long shadows cast across the sand of Maysa with her goats.

Some hours later, like a mirage, she saw the tops of trees poking out of the desert sand and a sure sign of a Wadi; dry riverbeds that gouge the landscape during the season of rain. Under merciful shade she fed water to the goats, as if feeding babies, from the goatskin bottles they themselves carried strapped to their backs but there was no time for daydreaming on this day.

Move, come on, get moving. She drove them sluggishly onward through the heat until daylight turned to twilight then night forced them to camp.

Much later, quiet and cautious bleating from the goats alerted Maysa and she heard the reason why, howling in the distance and down-wind of the scent. She had hoped to be spared this ordeal but such a concentration of food proved irresistible in this, kill or be killed, world. With only starlight to guide her, she tightened the tethers around her animals then stood beside them with stick in one hand and the deadly blade in the other.

The movements and positions of the vicious hunters, indicated by their growling, sounded ominously as if they were discussing tactics. The whites of their eyes appeared, flitting around in the darkness, agitating the goats into a frenzy of fear. The wild desert dogs were cautious. Maysa detected five. Thank God there are not more. She thought, and hoped they were the same vermin that killed her mother.

Scraggy and filthy, they looked more like walking skeletons as the little meat beneath their flesh hardly concealed their rib bones yet their skin, stretched tight across their skulls, made their jaws seem huge with saliva dripping from rows of hungry sharp teeth.

If they all attacked the goats, Maysa would lose too many; if not killed outright then savaged and left to bleed to death. If they attacked her instead she had a better chance of defending them. She waved the stick with a whoosh through the air to draw their attention but they circled slowly, waiting for the moment.

Two of them made an attack at the animals. Maysa beat one on the head and it backed away whimpering but the other had its jaws locked around a goat’s rump. She had to make this a quick kill so the remaining dogs would know the danger they faced. She lunged with the dagger, over the goat to the right of the dog and, hitting the ground, turned on her shoulder and stabbed the dog’s underbelly. Locked in this death struggle with Maysa lying prone, the other dogs sensed her weakness and came forward. She forced all her strength through the steel and slashed the dogs belly open so wide its guts and entrails poured out onto the sand while its jaws still clung to the goats hindmost.

She just got to her feet as two more dogs molested the animals while a third leapt into the air directly at her. With unerring precision and astonishing speed she waved her left arm in an outward circle to distract the jaws of the beast while slicing through the animal’s neck with the vicious blade. Blood sprayed everywhere, drenching Maysa yet quenching her grief with revenge, and the hound howled causing more blood to issue from its mouth as it slumped into the sand dying.

She was not new to this nasty work; her Father had taught her well. She turned to face the remaining scavengers, fearlessly taking two paces forward. This was her world. She knew how to live in it and how to survive it.

Sensing a deadly opponent, the wild animals backed off retreating over a hill. One of them must have bitten cleanly through a rope tether and dragged a goat away though it was obviously dead. Normally she would have let them go, thinking herself lucky to survive uninjured, but not this time, not these dogs.

Peeping over the crest of a dune she saw all three busily devouring their trophy. Rolling onto her back she slithered toward them, whimpering as if hurt. They saw her but she kept the shiny steel beneath the sandy surface out of sight for if all three crept up at once, she faced real danger.

Usually, the first to become curious comes up alone and so it did. Cautiously sniffing then backing away a little, the dog came closer again until, just within reach, Maysa thrust the dagger upward. The blade pierced the soft under part of the dogs jawbone, went straight through its tongue and lodged its point in the upper jaw as Maysa let go. The wild dog, now wild with fury, jumped around in the sand shaking its head side to side violently trying to dislodge the dagger and panicking the other two who ran off. Eventually the knife freed itself and only then did the dog run away with a terrible wound that Maysa hoped would prevent it from eating so would die of starvation.

Now she could not waste a single moment. She butchered the dead goat for its liver which she stuffed into her bag then, unleashing the remaining goats, she herded them off in a tight group higher up into the hills. She did not want to be in that place with all that dead meat on the ground when another pack, perhaps larger, would soon be attracted to the smell.

One more goat lost with two others severely mauled though not bleeding badly. Allah, be praised. We survived but you goats will be the death of me. She told them.

Come the morning they were all perilously low on water. Two of the goats had lost their water skins and those remaining were almost empty. She fed each of them a little and drank a mouthful herself then, sparingly, cleaned the dried blood off her face and hair.

Though she hadn’t seen a single living person the whole journey, Maysa looked around modestly then climbed into a rocky seclusion before stripping off the bloodied rag that was her jilbab. Embarrassed by her own nudity, contrasting sharply with the hard, angular and barren surroundings, she donned a clean jilbab quickly. They moved south again as she chewed on the tough meat of the goats raw liver for nourishment.

When the sun was at its highest they stopped. Trying to squeeze the last drops of milk from the tired goats, a mouthful was all she got. Then she felt it, tingling in her nose. There had been no wind apart from the early morning breeze yet there was dust in the air and the only explanation was camels, wagons and people. A caravan must be passing and close by. She said aloud, and that meant water.

Maysa thwacked the hind legs of the animals, hurrying them onward. A half mile later she saw it, a thin line of movement on a featureless landscape. The goats began bleating louder, and walking faster as if they could smell the precious liquid ahead of them, though another hour passed before they caught up. Salvation; they had come upon the trade route running from the sea port of Yanbu and this caravan would be laden with silks or cottons and, that most precious of human needs that no Arab would deny them, water.

Two more hours passed as they trailed in the dust of the caravan until the Sun, hung low in the western sky, cast its fading light upon a glorious sight: the Minaret of the Mosque of Medina.

*

Salah Malaicum, and welcome to Hassan Trading. The voice said; a fat man flicking flies off his face.

Malaicum Salaam. You are Hassan? I was told not to deal with you, Maysa lied. It was morning of the next day. She was in the animal souk of Medina where all manner of filthy smelly beasts grunted, farted and worse in the small fenced in enclosures. I was told that your animals were sickly and old, you’ll not have my fine herd.

That is a lie spread by traders of ill repute. Hassan exclaimed feeling almost insulted. If she were a man he would have been, but a woman’s words were worthless. Let me examine them. And so the bargaining began, concluded an hour later.

Of the many generations she had reared and butchered, a tear of nostalgia welled up in Maysa’s eyes for the goats she now walked away from — for she vowed they would be the last — and the cash in her purse consoled her.

Now she had to find her brother before it was too late. On her way to the gold souk she pondered on how to tell him of the tragedy and how would he react. The narrow alleys of hard-packed earth bustled with people shopping or selling while diseased and deformed went begging. Then all activity ceased when the summoning prayer sang out from atop the minaret and everyone’s thoughts turned to Allah.

Not so for Maysa, not this day, her mind was in turmoil. Would he still leave the last of his family and travel north? Could she persuade him