He jumped up and shaved with care. In these days it was important to keep up appearances. Then he sent a servant to fetch William, who still lay bound, like a heap of rubbish, in the entry of the pavilion.
William was too wretched, and too frightened, to attempt any defence. He could only beg for mercy. Bohemond recalled that the scoundrel had once before deserted from an expedition against the infidel, one of the many raids on the Moors of Spain. He was not afraid of fighting; in fact he was a famous knight. He must be one of those unlucky men who cannot bear cold and hunger. It was easy to upbraid him as a disgrace to knighthood, and to the whole race of the Franks.
But he could not be punished. The lord of Apulia, indeed the whole council of leaders, had no right to punish a knight who owed allegiance only to the King of France. Bohemond began to feel anxious about what would happen after his copious flow of abuse had dried up. Once more Tancred came to the rescue.
Tancred introduced a deputation of eminent Frenchmen, who came to beg that their compatriot should be spared any greater punishment than open disgrace. The point, as Bohemond saw at once, was that these great men were asking the grandson of the petty lord of Hauteville to grant them a favour. He allowed himself to be persuaded. William of Melun promised that never again would he desert his comrades in the field. He was then graciously allowed to go free. As Bohemond, and indeed every other sensible man, had foreseen, a few days later he deserted again, this time with success. He was perjured and dishonoured; but he was a knight of the Franks, one of the few genuinely free men in the world. If he craved life on those terms no one had power to punish him.
About midday the leaders met in formal council. Duke Godfrey presided, and Bohemond took a lowly seat; but the north French, the most independent section of the council, remembered that earlier in the same day they had been asking him to do them a favour.
The first business was the reception of an embassy of infidels. This was most exciting, as proving that the infidels were divided; but the proposals of the ambassadors could have little bearing on the immediate progress of the campaign.
Everyone who had bothered to inquire knew that the religious head of the infidels was a kind of hereditary Pope called the Caliph. He lived beyond the furthest bounds of Christendom, within a town named Baghdad. The Turks and Arabs were his servants, though he had little temporal power. They were not always obedient servants, any more than the German Emperor always obeyed the Pope in every particular; but they would not deny that in theory they owed him obedience.
Now it appeared that there was a rival Caliph, in Egypt, far to the south. His envoys stated that he did not consider Turks to be the right kind of infidel. He would always be at war with the Turks, and with the false Caliph they supported; though the clerks among the pilgrims had discovered after cautious inquiry that he was not a Christian and did not intend to become one. All the same, he would like to help anyone who fought Turks, and he had sent this embassy to discuss an alliance.
That led to a long though wandering discussion. It would be splendid if a great army were to attack the Turks from the south while the pilgrims marched on Jerusalem from the north. Afterwards, though no one was so tactless as to say so, the pilgrims might go on and conquer this other breed of infidel.
Bohemond did not believe that such an alliance could ever come into effect. The distance between Antioch and Egypt was so great that military operations could not be concerted. The prospect fascinated some pilgrims; but they were the kind of men, there are altogether too many of them in the world, who thought that a war could be won without the hazards of actual fighting. Presently Bohemond grew bored with the endless and circular discussion. By putting a few direct questions to the interpreter he got an admission that the Egyptians claimed Jerusalem and would not return it to Christian rule; though of course Latin pilgrims would be welcome at Christian shrines. That could be dealt with later, thought the more warlike Counts. Bohemond next discovered that the Egyptians already had a treaty with the Greeks.
That produced an awkward silence. The pilgrims were all very hungry, and only Alexius could send them food; it would be rash to defy him while perhaps a convoy was on the road. But Greeks were not trusted, and neither were their allies. After a pause Duke Godfrey delivered a polite but empty speech. Envoys from such a great ruler were very welcome; but difficulties of religion must be discussed in private by the learned clerks who guided laymen in such matters. For the present the envoys might remain in the pilgrim camp, though they must feed themselves from their own stores; the lack of hospitality must be excused by the rigours of active service. Would they like to inspect the pile of Turkish heads preserved by Count Bohemond as a memento of his capture of Harenc? That would prove that Franks also made war on Turks.
The interpreter for the embassy spoke gracefully in reply, and the envoys withdrew. A few days later they went quietly home by sea, as had been expected.
It was unfortunate for Taticius that he was the next to speak. The Counts were all thinking of how Alexius had left them in the lurch, and they did not care to be reminded that they were still nominally his allies. What he said was in substance what he had already privately told Bohemond. As soon as he reached the Emperor he would arrange to send provisions. He had thought of one more bait. With the provisions the Emperor would also send horses.
He knew that his audience was unfriendly, and he spoke as tactfully as he could. But from sheer habit he referred to the imperial fortress of Antioch, and his too-faithful interpreter repeated the phrase. Every Frank was reminded that, according to the Greek version of their oaths, Antioch, as soon as it had been won by Frankish blood, must be restored to the Empire.
In reply Duke Godfrey hardly bothered to be polite. He said that Taticius might go as soon as he wished, with the goodwill of the whole pilgrimage. Since he proposed to take ship from St. Simeon the council of leaders would give him a safe-conduct, addressed to the Genoese and to Guynemer the pirate. Perhaps the sailors would respect the safe-conduct, perhaps they would not. But nothing more could be done, for neither fleet had formed part of the original pilgrimage.
Taticius, that brave warrior, put a good face on it. He said he would leave next day, by a Greek ship which would take him to the imperial army in Anatolia. He would come back as soon as possible, with everything the pilgrims lacked; and as proof that his absence was only temporary he would leave in the camp his tent, his servants, and all his gear. Then he said good-bye. Of course no one expected him to come back, and he did not.
Bohemond considered this a good time to clarify his own position, while everyone remembered the perfidy of the Greeks. He got up to make a personal statement.
“My lords, it seems that we must still capture Antioch, and then hand it over to the Greeks. As you know, Antioch was promised to me, as a fief, before we left the city. So I myself have been cheated twice, as you were all cheated once when the Greeks would not march with us. In these conditions it just isn’t worth while to go on with the war. Perhaps by a mighty effort we could take Antioch. But then we shall be too exhausted to continue to Jerusalem. The Holy City will never be liberated, and Alexius will be the only gainer. I for one will not persevere any longer. I shall go back to Italy and ask the Pope, a personal friend of mine, to release me from my vow. I advise the rest of you to do the same. But if some of you feel bound by the vows you made in France, at a time when we all thought the Greeks would help us, at least you ought to abandon this hopeless siege. Antioch is too strong to be taken. I suggest that the whole army withdraw to the mountains of Armenia, where you will find food and fresh horses. I say ‘you’ because I shall not come with you. It is possible that Alexius will join you in the mountains, and I do not wish to meet him. I doubt if my life would be safe. So this may be the last council I shall attend. I hope you will agree that while I was on the pilgrimage I did my duty as a good knight.”
Consternation kept the other leaders silent. It was hard to imagine the Holy War without Bohemond.
He never lost heart, he always knew what to do, under hardship he set a shining example, he got on with the local Christians, at Dorylaeum he had saved the whole army. Count Raymond alone was delighted. He rose to clinch the matter.
“We shall all be very sorry to part with Count Bohemond, but if those are his views he is right to leave us. I myself never heard the Emperor promise Antioch to Count Bohemond as his private fief, though since we left the city I have heard Count Bohemond often refer to that promise. I don’t suggest for a moment that he isn’t telling the truth as he sees it; but recollections of private conversations sometimes differ. As I see it Antioch ought to go to Alexius. You all promised to restore his old frontiers. As it happens I did not, but I promised to do him no harm while I was within his dominions, and I am now within his dominions. There it is. Antioch must be given to the Greeks, even if it means losing that splendid Apulian contingent.”
“This will never do,” said the Count of Flanders as soon as Raymond had finished. “You all know that I don’t want eastern fortresses. All I want is for the pilgrimage to succeed. If we are going to free Jerusalem we must compromise our private quarrels. I now beg Count Bohemond to compromise. Let him stay with the pilgrimage until midsummer, or until Antioch falls if that happens earlier. At this time of year it won’t be easy to get home anyway. As to what happens to Antioch once it is ours, here is what I suggest. If the Emperor comes with his army and helps to take it, let him keep it. If he doesn’t, and Count Bohemond wins the place by his own efforts, let him keep it. If the Emperor doesn’t come and Antioch falls to the whole pilgrim army we can decide who gets it. But fall it must if we keep our vows; for God is on our side.”
“That’s a good compromise,” Raymond said quickly. “If Bohemond gets us into Antioch it shall be his, and otherwise not. Will you all remember that?”
“I also accept it,” Bohemond answered. “I suppose if Antioch falls to Count Raymond it goes direct to the Greek Emperor, whom he has chosen for lord?”
“Private quarrels are in abeyance until the pilgrimage is finished,” said Duke Godfrey sternly. “No more of those remarks from either of you. You are both trying to make the other draw his sword first, so that you can fight him with a clear conscience. Now, Count Bohemond, will you stay with the pilgrimage and fulfil your vow?”
“I suppose so, if you really want me.”
The answer was a most satisfying roar of agreement from all except the south French.
The council was about to break up when a knight pushed his way into the semi-circle. He was covered with mud and sweat, and clamoured to be heard. Duke Godfrey vouched for him. “This is a knight of Boulogne who follows my brother Eustace. He has been watching the eastern road. Tell us your news, Sir Odo.”
“A huge Turkish army in Harenc, my lords. Thousands of them, all horsemen. I suppose they will reach here some time tomorrow evening.”
“Then we must retreat,” Godfrey said sadly. “There are more Turks in Antioch than there are pilgrims outside it, unless you count the non-combatant foot. If we march against Harenc they will come out and pillage our camp. If we stay we shall be attacked in the rear. We must pull back to the mountains, and beg help from the Emperor. There’s no time to waste. It means leaving all our tents and baggage. Count Bohemond, can you get all your men north of the river by sunset? If we march through the night we can take up a strong position at dawn, and perhaps fight a defensive battle. Very likely they won’t pursue. Once Antioch has been relieved they may go home without fighting.” He sighed. He knew that such a hurried retreat would be very hard to stop. This looked like the end of the pilgrimage.
“Wait a moment. Listen to me,” Bohemond shouted. “We can’t retreat and then fight. Many of our knights are dismounted. They can’t march on foot in their mail, and we have no baggage animals to carry it. Their mail will remain in camp, and those knights are out of the war. There must be a better plan. Let me see, Harenc to Antioch. The Turks must cross the river, I suppose by the Iron Bridge. But a few miles east of the Iron Bridge is a narrow pass, between a lake and the river. We could fight them there, if we can hold the camp behind us. I’ve got it, my lords. Listen to my plan. The dismounted knights, wjth the foot, hold our camp for a day or two. All those knights who still have horses ride east. I can’t promise success, but it may come off. If it does it will be a very pretty battle, something for our grandsons to boast about.”
In his mind he could picture the whole double action. As though from a great height he saw the lower Orontes, from Antioch up to the lake. Dismounted knights, with their mail and their great swords, could hold the palisaded camp against any Turkish charge; between the lake and the river the infidels must advance in column to fight at close quarters, instead of shooting arrows. How many fit horses had they in the pilgrimage? Not enough, but only the best knights had them. The Frankish charge must go exactly right; there would be no hope of a second. But if it went right the numbers of the infidel would not matter; nothing could withstand it.
As he blinked he saw another picture: thousands of pilgrims toiling on foot up the steep mountain road. They would have no bedding, no tents, no mail. Turkish arrows would pick off the horses of the mounted rearguard. When the order came to halt everyone would press on a little further, so as to leave plenty of other Christians between himself and the enemy. Many of them would run until their strength gave out. About midnight the Turks would ride in with their sabres. Hardly enough pilgrims would survive to carry the appalling news to the Armenians.
Count Raymond, naturally, disagreed. “I’ve got the flux. I can’t charge though perhaps I could sit a horse. If we retire in good order we can join the Greeks. Or we may be able to hold the camp.”
“We have to hold the camp anyway,” said the Count of Flanders. “It’s full of sick, helpless sick, suffering from something worse than a touch of the flux. If we retreat we must leave them to the infidels. Some of them are my own vassals, and I’ll be killed before I desert them. But if we just wait to defend the camp the combined Turkish armies will break in within a week. Bohemond’s plan is our only hope, and a slender one at that. But if all the mounted knights get themselves killed in this pass the men in the camp will be no worse off than before, and we shall have earned martyrdom. Even if you can’t ride, Raymond, I suppose you have a horse? Lend it to some other good knight, and while we are away you shall command the camp. I shall ride with Bohemond.”
“So shall I,” said Duke Godfrey.
All the great Counts had horses, and they approved of a plan which gave them such a noble and prominent part. It was agreed that all mounted knights should muster within the hour.
As they drew up in column on the north bank of the river Bohemond did his best to number them. He made the total about seven hundred men; which in Italy would have been an army but here in Syria seemed a pitiful little force to represent the fighting strength of the great pilgrimage. What was even more daunting, to Bohemond, was that they were all great men, many of them better born and more powerful than himself. Except for Count Raymond all the leaders were present; there were few below the rank of baron. Yet because he had devised the plan they all looked to him for orders.
Dusk was gathering as they set off eastwards; but catcalls and hoots of triumph showed that the garrison of Antioch had observed their withdrawal. Next morning would certainly bring an attack on the camp. It was an added difficulty of this terrible siege that infidel sentries on Mount Silpius could see all they did.
Tancred rode beside his uncle. Amid the jangling of bridles and the clanking of scabbards they could talk without being overheard. “Here are all the leaders of the pilgrimage,” said Bohemond abruptly. “Which is the greatest man among them?”
“Duke Godfrey, I suppose, unless it’s the Duke of Normandy,” Tancred answered. “They are both good knights, and they both lead splendid mesnies. But then there’s the Count of Flanders, and the Count of Blois who married the daughter of the mighty King of England. You see? I
can’t make up my mind. It’s impossible to choose.”
“They have splendid mesnies, but they have left them in camp. No one here has as many as fifty knights behind his banner. Forget their followers. Who is the greatest man in himself?”
“Duke Godfrey again, I imagine. Everyone admires him. It’s still very hard to choose. Of course Count Hugh, brother to the King of France, is the knight of highest birth. Is that what you mean?”
“I think that’s the answer I have been looking for. Count Hugh, brother to a King. Even a great lord would not feel slighted if he were asked to take orders from Count Hugh.”
“It wouldn’t be a slight. It might be the mortal sin of suicide,” said Tancred with a laugh. “He’s the man Alexius held hostage all winter, and Hugh never noticed it because his meals came regularly. He’s brave enough, but he’s got no sense. I’d have to be riding a much faster horse than this before I would follow his orders in battle.”
“Nevertheless, I shall ask him to take command of this very small force of very noble knights. I expect you to back me up.”
Tancred thought for a moment. Then he looked up smiling.
“You like a gamble, don’t you, Uncle? The Hauteville half of me agrees, while I hear my father whispering caution. Still, it may come off, and if it does we may beat the Turks. This is a crazy scheme anyway. You may count on me to make it even crazier.”
They reached the chosen position an hour before dawn, the most gloomy hour of the night when tired and hungry men feel most tired and hungry. The knights halted when Bohemond gave the word, and then stood about like a herd of cattle as their horses snatched at the dead winter grass.
“Gentlemen,” called Bohemond in a low but carrying voice, “it is time to array our line. I suggest that the Count of Vermandois, son and brother of Kings, allot us our places and later give us the word to charge.”
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