“Good God!” exclaimed Roger. “A Count, and a tenant-in-chief of the King of France, running away when we are in this fix! Did you Italians fetch him back?”
“We are not Italians, we are the Normans of Italy,” Robert reminded him. “And we couldn’t bring him back, unless we were prepared to start a civil war among the pilgrims. There is nothing so bloodthirsty as a really frightened man, and he was ready to organize the other fugitives and cut his way through, if we barred his escape.”
This was news to be discussed seriously. “Tell me about these desertions,” said Roger. “On this side of the river we are too near the enemy to hear the gossip of the camp. Are many good knights leaving us? The Count of Blois was in the council of leaders, wasn’t he? So he must know exactly what our chances are. Do you seriously think it is foolhardy to hold the city?”
“There are more deserters every day,” answered Robert with a sober face, “and some of them are brave and experienced knights. The Count of Blois is rather a special case. He is not a great warrior, but he has been in charge of food supplies since the beginning of last winter, and a job like that fills the whole of a man’s mind. Food is our weakest point at present, and I suppose the fear of hunger preyed on his mind more than the danger of a Turkish arrow. As to its being foolhardy to stay here, isn’t the whole pilgrimage a little crazy? But here we are, and we have taken Antioch, in spite of everything the infidels could do to hinder us. A fortnight ago I was much more ready to give up than I am now. God must be on our side, or we would not have come so far.”
“I never believed very much in miraculous help,” answered Roger dubiously. “I don’t think we deserve it, and it is always wrong to count on it, though Dorylaeum was rather like a miracle. But I have taken an oath to serve the Duke of Normandy as long as he is on the pilgrimage, and there are no signs of him giving up yet.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Robert heartily, “and I shall stay here while the Count of Taranto needs me to fight for him. After all, even if all these Frenchmen, Provençals, and Flemings run home to their own firesides, we Normans can conquer this country by ourselves. Do you know this is the last Turkish army we shall have to beat? Farther south the infidels hold from the King of Egypt, and the Greeks say they are not nearly such formidable warriors as the Turks. But what answer will you send to Domna Anne?”
Roger brought back his thoughts from the heroic regions of high policy to the sordid question of food and shelter for the wife he must support. He longed to see darling Anne as soon as the fighting was over, but he wished that in the meantime she could find herself a comfortable home, by her own efforts.
“I suppose she is right to stay at Saint Simeon,” he, said, after a minute’s hesitation. “When I wrote to send for her I thought we were in peaceful possession of Antioch, and I had forgotten about the relieving army. I had better tell her to use her own judgement. I don’t trust letters very much. In any case, though I know the alphabet, I doubt if a lady could read my writing. Can you write clearly and well, cousin?”
“Certainly not, it isn’t a knightly accomplishment,” said Robert firmly. “But if you will tell me what to say I can dictate it to one of the clerks in the city, and send the letter down with the next large detachment that goes to the port. Count Tancred is in charge of the road to Saint Simeon, and if I don’t go next time one of my friends will. But what about the money? You can’t leave her there penniless; if you are short at the moment, I could lend you a little, though I didn’t do as well in the sack as I had hoped.”
Roger was in a quandary; he did not trust his cousin where money was concerned, but he could not possibly say so to his face. “I have some money, as it happens,” he said slowly. “I was lucky in the sack and found an untouched house. But how am I to send it to Anne? It isn’t fair to send it by some knight I don’t know, in case some of it were lost on the way; then he would be suspected of having helped himself.”
Robert burst out laughing. “How very tactfully you put it! You are quite right not to trust a Norman of Italy with a bag of silver; we are all strong thieves, and proud of it. But there is a way of sending money in charge of the biggest rogue unhung, though you may not have heard of it in your remote and honest island. I will bring a Greek merchant here, and if you pay the coins over to him he will send a written bond to his Italian partner at the port, and the correct sum will be paid to Domna Anne. Do you agree? Then tell me what to say in the letter.”
Roger told him to explain that he himself was staying in Antioch as long as possible, and that he would welcome his wife if she thought it safe to come. Unless she had definite news that he was dead she was not to go farther than Saint Simeon, except to save her life or honour. He sent all the money he had, but it must last for a long time, for there was no more in prospect. Finally, he prayed every night for her safety, and asked her to pray for him. Robert repeated all this, and went back to the town, leaving Roger proud of the ingenuity he had shown in getting a message to his wife, two days’ march away, as efficiently as if he had been a royal clerk.
The next day passed as usual, standing on the fighting-stage of the flimsy wall, sweating as the hot sun glowed on the metal of his armout; the Turks rode up and down the river bank, and occasionally came close to shoot arrows at the wall, but mostly they confined themselves to shouting abuse in their strange language, and displaying the heads of a few deserters they had caught on the road to the port. They were not to be tempted into a general assault, the pilgrims were too short of horses to go out and charge them, and it seemed the blockade must go on until the town was starved out. At sundown he was relieved, and went down to the courtyard to find his supper. A Norman groom had brought a basket of twice-baked loaves from the town, of which each one was split with a cleaver, and half given to each knight or crossbowman. The defection of the Count of Blois, who had a good business head, had disorganized the supply of rations, and the first-line fighting men were not getting the extra food that was their due. However, on this occasion their grumbles were cut short by the exciting news the groom brought from the town. Roger only heard the last part of it, but that was stimulating enough.
“… and so the holy priest had men dig all through the night behind the high altar of the Church of Saint Peter. Twelve workmen had been tired out when he stepped into the hole himself; of course, no vision had promised to them that they should find the holy relic, but it was soon revealed to Father Peter himself. He wrapped it in a silken veil and gave it into the keeping of the Count of Toulouse. Soon we shall go into battle behind it, and of course we shall win easily.”
Roger inquired eagerly as he wolfed his biscuit, and soon heard the full story; how a Provençal priest, Father Peter Bartholomew, had seen a vision of Saint Andrew the Apostle, who had told him that the head of the very lance which had pierced Our Saviour as He hung on the Cross had been hidden under the altar of Saint Peter’s Church, to save it from profanation by the infidels; how that now Antioch was again in Christian hands the time had come for the Lance-head to be revealed by the agency of Peter Bartholomew, and that it would infallibly lead the pilgrim army to victory over all unbelievers. This was very good news indeed. Roger had never thought of Antioch as being part of the Holy Land, and Our Redeemer had never been in the city in His earthly life, but it reminded him that they were already in the cradle of Christianity, in fact in the place where that name was first given to the followers of Christ. Obviously the first step for any God-fearing man was to go and reverence the relic, with all adoration short of Latria. He heard that a detachment of the garrison from the castle would be allowed into the city next morning, when the relic would be displayed after High Mass in the church where it had been found, and he was lucky enough to be included in the party.
Next day, the Feast of Saint Vitus and the 15th of June, he washed as much of his face and hands as showed outside his armour in the muddy river-water, cleaned his shoes himself, and walked across the bridge with a dozen other knights of the gar
rison. They were fully armed, even to their shields, and had promised to come straight back if there was an alarm; but it was felt that the Turks would not dare to attack, now this holy relic was fighting for the pilgrims, and in any case it would be grossly unfair if its discovery made things more difficult. Roger had not been in the town since the day of the sack, and he found things sadly altered for the worse; many of the great stone houses had their doors and casements burst in, and walls had collapsed where men had been digging for hidden treasure. He wondered idly if Antioch would ever be a thriving town again, but what did that matter so long as it was Christian?
Certainly the Church of Saint Peter was gay enough, though the animated and gaily-dressed congregation that filled it was hungry and tired at a second glance. After High Mass the Count of Toulouse ascended the altar-steps, dressed in a gorgeous silk mantle over his mail shirt and mail breeches, and holding a small silk-wrapped object. The whole congregation sang Te Deum Laudamus, then knelt as the Holy Lance was unwrapped and displayed, much in the same manner as the Sacred Host at Benediction. This was a Relic indeed, at least as holy as the True Cross that the Greek Emperor guarded so carefully at Constantinople, and it had been revealed, by the direct miraculous intervention of the Blessed Apostle Saint Andrew, to help the pilgrim army in its utmost need. Roger knelt and prayed in ecstacy, as he had not prayed since the day he took his pilgrim’s vows in the Abbey Church at Battle, so many life-times ago.
Gradually the less devout and the busier of the congregation melted towards the doors of the church, and at last the Count of Toulouse, who had enjoyed himself in what was rather a queer position for a layman, placed the relic on the High Altar and withdrew. Roger came out into the sunlight with his mind at peace; there need be no more striving now, no more fears of defeat, no more petty planning to win some slight advantage against the infidels; God had intervened on their side, in spite of their many sins, and He would give them victory by a miracle if they only followed His standard.
All the same, he was still very hungry; was there a chance of buying a sausage or something like that from a Greek before he went back to his post? Down a little side-street he saw a green branch hanging over the door of a small but undamaged house. His companions had tired of praying before he had, and he was alone; it was not a good custom to enter a wine-shop by yourself, particularly with such a very empty stomach, but wine was cheaper than food in Antioch at that time, and he walked quickly down the alley and through the open door of the tavern.
Coming from the blinding June sunshine outside, at first he could make nothing of the room he had entered; there seemed to be a great deal of noise, and it sounded as though most of it was made by people speaking French. Then someone hallooed, like a huntsman sighting a deer, and Robert de Santa Fosca strode out of the gloom and embraced him. Robert was flushed and excited, like the rest of the party that occupied a long table at the back of the room, but he was still reasonably sober, and Roger, in spite of the religious feelings that filled his mind, allowed himself to be led up to the board.
“Here is my young cousin, Roger de Bodeham in England,” Robert called at the top of his voice. “He has come, like all true Normans and true knights, to drink the health of our noble Count, and celebrate the good news in a fitting manner. Find a cup, some one, and pass the jug. Inn-keeper, another wine-skin!”
The Italian sutler brought a great leather skin, and filled the jugs that stood scattered on the table; everyone cheered and drank Roger’s health, and there was such a din for a few minutes that he thought it useless to speak. He leant his shield in a corner, sat down, and swallowed a large cupful of the bitter and adulterated Greek wine. Presently the noise moderated, and he was able to make himself heard; the wine had quickly gone to his head, and it made him talkative.
“I see you are celebrating very thoroughly, cousin Robert, but this is not the usual way to give thanks to God for the finding of a relic.”
“We haven’t been worshipping that silly ox-goad, or venerating the Count of Toulouse in his armour, if that is what you mean, and I am surprised at a man like you doing such a childish thing. No, the really important news of to-day has nothing to do with crooked priests from Marseilles, or any of those horn-wearing Provençals. We are drinking the health of the Count of Taranto, Commander of the whole army of the pilgrimage, and soon to be King of Syria, please God. At last the council of the leaders has learnt a little sense, and they have agreed to appoint the wiliest leader in Christendom, and the bravest knight, to command us all, Normans, Flemings, Provençals, Lotharingians, and French. Here’s to Count Bohemund, and to Hell with the Count of Toulouse!”
“Well, cousin, that is certainly something to drink to,” answered Roger with a slight hiccup, “though I am not sure it is fitting for the Duke of Normandy to take orders from the grandson of his grandfather’s vassal. Do you take no interest in the Holy Lance, which has revealed itself to lead us to victory? Surely that is important also?”
“Oh, that be damned for a lying priest’s tale,” shouted Robert, very red in the face. “The whole thing is a put-up job by that lazy, shirking malingerer, Count Raymond. He thinks he has the Church in his sleeve since the Pope’s Legate is his vassal. Why should the Holy Lance be in Antioch, instead of in Jerusalem, and why should Saint Andrew appear to a double-faced Provençal when there are so many honest Normans in the army? These Provençals have no business here anyway. Everyone knows that Antioch was promised to us, the Normans of Italy. It won’t be long before we turn the silly cuckolds out, and their sanctimonious Count as well.”
Gradually his voice died away in a sulky mutter, but Roger had heard enough to be worried. The Provençal ladies were allowed more freedom than most others, and they certainly had love-affairs in plenty; but that made their lords all the more sensitive, and if they heard themselves called cuckolds a battle would start in the city. Luckily everyone in the tavern was a Norman, and he realized that by the time his friends left they would be in no condition to insult anybody. Meanwhile here was a chance of getting really drunk in a moderately good cause, and he had not had much enjoyment in the last few months.
Thanks to nearly two years service in the army of the pilgrimage, his legs carried him almost unconsciously back to his post when at length the party broke up, and someone had remembered to hang his shield round his neck.
Next day Roger sat at his look-out post, and thought back to the conversation in the tavern. On the whole the change of command was a good thing; any one leader would be better than a council, and the Count of Taranto was the best choice, if skill in warfare was what mattered. He was a bitter foe of the Greek Emperor, and that meant that the Greeks would not come to their help; but probably the leaders had known that they could expect no assistance from that quarter in any case.
The insults to the Holy Lance were more serious. He felt that he must clear up that question before the next battle. If they were going to be led by a miraculous relic, miraculously revealed, then he could concentrate on coming out of the fight with a whole skin, certain that the army would be victorious; but if the whole thing was a fraud, invented by the Count of Toulouse for some mysterious purpose of his own, then they must all fight their hardest. He worried about it so much that finally he sent the groom who brought their dinner to look for Father Yves, and ask him to visit Cemetery Castle that afternoon.
There were not many clerks left in the city, and those who remained took their turn in armour on the wall. Father Yves was not free until the evening, and he came after supper; with tood so short no one came uninvited to a meal. He listened with a grave and serious face to all that Roger said to him, but smiled before he answered.
“Oh, bless you logical Normans. So you want to know if we have the aid of a miracle, because then you won’t have to fight so hard? As to that, I don’t know what to say. Bishop Adhemar has given it his countenance, and he is Legate for the Pope; but he is not, after all, the final authority. I shall be happier when the Curia at Rome
has pronounced on it definitely, with all the facts before them. The whole thing strikes me as too lucky to be true. I had never heard of this Father Peter Bartholomew before, and he does not seem to be a man of very striking holiness. Still, God sometimes chooses very strange instruments. No one else saw the vision, and it may have been only an ordinary dream.”
“No, it couldn’t be that,” Roger pointed out quickly. “He was told where to dig for a lance-head, and he found it where he expected to. The lance was there, so it must have been a genuine vision, or else the whole thing was a deliberate lie from start to finish. Do you think Father Peter is wicked enough to do a thing like that?”
“Yes, that does make it harder,” admitted the priest. “I see him occasionally nowadays. He takes his elevation quite well, and is certainly not outstandingly wicked. I wish I was more sure of the Count of Toulouse; he gains by being keeper of the relic, and if there is a trick he must be at the back of it somehow. One thing puzzles me, if it is genuine. This city has been Christian since the time of Constantine, up to only fifteen years ago, and the lance must have been buried after Saint Peter’s Church was built; yet the Greeks have no tradition that it was in Antioch at all. That puts it in quite a different class from the other relics of the Passion, which were always known to be in Jerusalem until the Blessed Saint Helena found them.”
“This priest says that Saint Andrew told him it was buried here,” Roger pointed out, “and Antioch is not an impossible distance from Jerusalem. Longinus might have settled here after the Crucifixion, as we know that Saint Peter did. He might reasonably bury the relic in the ground, in time of persecution, and afterwards a church might be built over it. As to the Greeks knowing nothing about it, why should God reveal such a precious relic to a set of schismatics who disobey the Pope, and won’t even defend themselves properly against the infidel? They didn’t deserve it, but now this army of pilgrims does. It’s quite simple if you look at it like that.”
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