Roger did not know, and looked eagerly over his shoulder to see for himself. He could make out a large body coming up behind, and one of the banners he recognized as that of the Legate. “I don’t know who those men are,” he said, “but they seem to be under the Bishop of Puy, so there must be Provençals among them. Yes, look. The Flemings are kneeling as they go by; that thing on the pole must be the Holy Lance. Surely we need all its help. Yet it will lead us to victory to-day if we all do our utmost. We must kneel, too, when it passes us.”
He had quite forgotten his doubts of the relic, and a surge of love for the menaced and oppressed Church of Christ filled his heart; he saw it battling to hold its little homeland in Western Europe, ravaged by Moors and Lithuanians, and he burned to attack the infidels who defiled its holiest shrine. He flung himself on his knees as the Legate passed, then sprang to his feet and joined in the mighty shout of Deus Vult that ran along the line. As he brandished his sword, and filled his lungs to shout again, all his weariness seemed to drop from him; his feet no longer ached, his empty stomach no longer gaped deep inside him, even the stiffness left his shoulder; the whole tired and hungry army was filled with a miraculous confidence and longing for battle. With many others, Roger turned his back on the foe, and watched to see whether the Bishop’s men would be able to fight their way into line. He saw all the mounted knights of the left flank draw into one body, and prayed aloud as they charged the Turks at the base of the hills. The infidels made little attempt to meet the charge with their swords, but retired, shooting over their horses’ tails; then, more quickly than he had expected, the Legate’s foot were in position, and the Christian army, its flanks secure, filled the plain from riverbank to mountain. A large force of Turks was cut off from their main body, and remained in rear of the pilgrims, but the Normans of Italy, who formed the rear-battle, faced west to keep them off. The Count of Taranto had a larger proportion of mounted knights than any of the other commanders, thanks to Count Tancred and the ponies he had captured in his dominions to the north, and he could safely be left to deal with the threat from the rear.
The morning had not quite lost its early freshness, though the sun was now getting high, when at last the Duke’s trumpets sounded for the general advance. All the long line of men, stretching for more than two miles, marched forward with another shout of Deus Vult. It was impossible for such a large formation of undrilled men to keep their dressing, and Roger could see bulges coming forward and going back on both sides of him, while the inevitable but exasperating loss of the correct intervals between the files made the front continually expand and contract, so that he could seldom walk straight forward. But everyone was in high spirits, everyone felt the uplifting presence of the Holy Lance behind them, everyone hoped for good plunder from the Turkish camp that lay ahead, and the great wall of men, dotted with clumps of mounted knights as with towers, surged irresistibly forward.
When they came within range the crossbowmen discharged their weapons, but did not stop to wind them, and soon all were pressing forward together into a cloud of Turkish arrows. Roger kept his shield up and his head down, and stumbled over the uneven ground as fast as the weight of his armour would let him. The unarmed footmen could have gone faster, but they were kept in line by their natural desire to let the mailed knights reach the enemy first, and the whole force reached the Turkish van-battle in surprisingly good order. He saw a bulky-looking Turk, all bundled up in sheepskins, leaning forward on his pony’s neck and fitting an arrow to his bowstring; he must knock that man over before the arrow struck him in the face, and he swung up his sword; but the infidel turned his pony with his knees, and trotted away, looking back and drawing his bow in the general direction of the pilgrims. The whole Turkish line had flinched at the last minute, and ridden out of reach just before the impact.
The pilgrims were in an ecstasy; the enemy fled before the Holy Lance without waiting for avenging sword-strokes; men on foot were chasing men ahorse, and all the Host of Heaven must be fighting on their side. The cry went up that Saint George and Saint Demetrius were leading the army, mounted on white horses and riding through the sky. There were white clouds passing overhead, driven before a west wind and seeming to beckon the pilgrims onward; Roger thought he saw a horseman clothed in white at the edge of one cloud, but he could not be quite sure.
They pressed on until they reached the Turkish camp. Here the infidels had arrayed themselves a second time, and stood to defend the tents that were their homes. The Christians paused, and the crossbowmen took the opportunity to reload. Roger gasped for breath, and wondered if he could do anything about his scabbard, which had skinned his left ankle already, and might trip him up at a critical moment; but if he threw it away he would never get another, for the Turkish swords were curved, so he resigned himself to the nuisance. He bent over and leaned on his shield to get his second wind. The pause did not last long. Soon the trumpets were sounding again, and the mounted knights were shouting to the foot to advance or get out of the way; the whole line moved forward at a brisk walking-pace. All the crowd of grooms and horseboys that mounted men need to wait on their horses had come out of the infidel camp with such weapons as they could find, and for the first time Roger saw Turkish foot; they were not very formidable, but they increased the solidity of the enemy’s line, and some of them carried more powerful bows than a horseman could use. This time the Turks stood to await the shock, and he chose out a well-dressed, well-mounted infidel in the front rank as a worthy antagonist.
The two armies crashed together all down the line, with a final blast of Christian trumpets and a clatter of kettle-drums from the Turks; he swung his heavy sword down at his opponent’s left thigh, the most vulnerable place on an unshielded horseman, and felt the jar as it cut through to the saddle-tree. Before he could recover an infidel footman jumped in on his right side, clutched at his knees, and began to fumble with the skirt of his mail, striving to stab him in the big artery of the crutch. But a crossbowman in the second rank leaned over and drove his knife into the infidel’s back. Roger stepped over the body and swung his sword again. Facing him was the Turkish knight he had just wounded, who sat bowed in the saddle, weaponless, with both his hands on his pony’s withers and blood pulsing out of his shattered leg; another blow at the man’s elbows toppled him out of the saddle, and he pushed the end of his sword through the looped reins of the excited pony, and struggled to control it. The Turks were yielding ground, and for the moment there was no enemy within reach, but with shield on one arm and sword in the other hand, it was impossible for him to mount. Tom beside him had his foot in the stirrup of his crossbow, and was straining with both hands to bend it the quick way, by a direct pull on the cord, instead of using the winch. He straightened up with a grunt as the cord slid over the notch in the stock, and saw Roger with the pony rearing and backing away at the full stretch of the reins.
“Hold on, messer knight,” he cried. “Let me have a share in the pony, and I will see you mounted. My name is Tom de Oustrehem in the Duke’s own following.”
He dropped his crossbow, and held the pony still while Roger hoisted himself into the blood-stained saddle. The pony was quite maddened with fear and rage, but he was able to turn it toward the enemy ranks, and was at once carried forward at full gallop. All the mounted knights were working their way through the mass of foot, to deliver the final charge on the demoralized foe. The Turks were not making a good fight of it; some of their barbarian allies from the interior of Asia were quite unused to combat hand-to-hand, and retreated constantly to get into position to shoot their arrows; the better sort among them stood to defend their gear in the camp, and the foot were prepared to die fighting since they had no hope of escape. But already the horse-tail standards were withdrawing to the rear, and the bravest men only made front for a little longer to give their lords a good start in the retreat. Roger was the first Norman to ride into the dissolving mass; it was safer than it looked, for none of the desperate grooms and camp fol
lowers had spears or pikes to keep off cavalry, and all were unarmoured. His pony knocked over a kneeling archer, and when it came to a halt he exchanged blows with a well-mounted man who wore some armour. Neither did the other any harm, and soon the last mounted Turks were flying.
The pursuit was pressed as far as the defile by the lake, the scene of their earlier victory; here the infidels were jammed together, and many of the rearmost were slain; but the majority made their escape unharmed, for their ponies were fresh and well-fed, and could easily outdistance the starved chargers of the Christians. The pursuers halted at the lakeside, and rode slowly back to the eastern end of the Turkish camp.
They found that the crossbowmen had made an end of the infidel camp followers; now the sack of the rich tents and pavilions was just beginning. Roger dismounted and sheathed his sword, but he kept his pony’s reins over his arm, for it was the most valuable plunder he could hope to win. The beast was used to living in a camp, and followed him quietly into the pavilions without tripping over the guyropes. Many of the Turkish army had been nomads, who kept all their wealth in these moving houses, and their families also; now their families were dead, but there was a mass of domestic gear for the victors to choose from. Roger did not want cooking-pots, or dirty flea-ridden Turkish clothing; as a landless man with a wife to support, what he wanted was money or jewels, and they were not easy to find. The few locked coffers that lay in the furthest recesses of the tents had already been burst open, and in any case this particular Turkish army was poorer than their opponents at Dorylaeum, who had been robbing Asia Minor for twenty years. He remembered the advice his cousin had given him a year ago; these infidels kept their money in belts round their waists. He went back to the place where the dead lay who had fallen in the final defence before the camp, and looked for the richly-dressed man whose thigh he had laid open, and whose pony followed him. It was difficult to find the exact spot; nothing looked the same as the scene engraved on his mind, when the Turk had been spouting blood, and he had been grabbing at the pony. As he picked his way over the littered ground the beast whinneyed, and he saw that it recognized its dead master; hastily he turned over the bloody mess on the ground, and felt for the waist-cloth on the stiffening body. He was in luck; the corpse was so hacked about, and so stained with blood, that no one else had noticed its rich clothes, or bothered to search it; from the waist-cloth he drew out a long narrow leather purse, ornamented with embroidery in scarlet thread. It was divided into two compartments; one contained a necklace of large pearls, the other a good handful of silver coins, and five gold pieces. He bestowed these in his wallet, and decided he had taken enough plunder for one battle; his feet were beginning to hurt again as his blood chilled, and a ravenous hunger had taken possession of his whole body.
Some of the foot had already got a fire going, and were boiling great joints of horse and camel in the cooking-pots of the infidels. The main captured food supplies were guarded by armed sergeants pending their removal to the city, but this would serve his turn until he got back. A comrade disarmed him; how good it felt to get all his armour off after these long weeks! Soon he was sitting by a fire, gnawing at a joint.
In the evening the whole Christian army straggled back into Antioch in twos and threes, leading captured animals laden with their plunder. It was the most marvellous victory in the memory of man; weak with hunger, debilitated by sickness, nearly all on foot or at least very badly mounted, they had attacked an enormously superior enemy, had overthrown him in two separate charges, taken his camp, and sent him flying back to his homeland in Central Asia. Everyone agreed that this could only have been done by a miracle, and all talked of the wonderful virtues of the Holy Lance.
The infidels still held the citadel, but there was no hope of relief for them now, and they must surrender as soon as they could arrange terms; there was no other hostile force within miles, and the pilgrims might relax and enjoy themselves. The only cloud in this fair sky was that the Provençals and the Italians were still full of mutual mistrust. Different sections of the wall had been allotted to each contingent, and Count Bohemund’s men had closed the doors of their towers, and threatened to attack the Provençal position, while the latter stood on their defence. But everyone was too joyful, too tired, and too full of food, to come to blows that night. Roger sought out Tom de Oustrehem, gave him three gold pieces as his share in the capture of the pony, and engaged him as groom at a wage of a silver piece a week. Organization was breaking up in the army, as it always did after a victory, and Tom said he would be able to leave his company of cross bowmen without asking anyone’s permission.
Sleeping for the last time in the courtyard of Cemetery Castle, wrapped in his smelly old blankets, Roger felt more cheerful about the future; to-morrow he would have a hot bath and wash his linen, then he would look for a comfortable house in the town; he could send for Anne to join him at once; he was rich and well-fed, and in no immediate danger; best of all, he was once again a mounted knight, the equal of anyone except a count or great lord.
Next day he fetched Tom, and together they inspected the city, looking for a convenient house. The lower town had been the poorer quarter, and also the first to be sacked when the Bridge Gate was taken; nearly all the houses had been destroyed, and the rest were already occupied, chiefly by the sick who could not man the defences or march out to fight. Farther up the hillside the destruction was less, but the leaders had sent their servants that morning to take over the large stone-built palaces of the rich merchants, and they were in process of moving in. There was no room here for a simple landless knight. At length, tired of wandering up and down the steep cobbled streets, he decided to take a chance; the infidels still held the citadel at the very summit of the climbing town, and the houses within reach of their arrows and catapults, though excellent in every way, had been left deserted; he installed himself in a stone-built house, only a hundred yards from the gate of the fortress; there was a small family of Syrian Christians sheltering in the kitchen, and he promised to leave them undisturbed if they would do the housework; then he made up a bed on the tiled floor of the principal room, and sent Tom down to the camp to fetch his pony.
That afternoon he lay in a patch of sunlight in the courtyard, surrounded by plundered cushions, and thought seriously about the future. They had won a victory, and the land was theirs, but it seemed there were not enough castles to go round. What was the best thing he could do for Anne and himself? The obvious scheme, if he had no land of his own, was to take service with Count Bohemund or one of the other leaders who intended to settle in the East, once the Duke had gone home and left him his own master. It would not be like soldiering in England, there was no one to fight but infidels, or the schismatic Greeks who deserved anything they got for not supporting the pilgrimage. On the other hand the Count of Taranto was just as unscrupulous and unreliable as the King of England, and if he served him for a wage he might be ordered to take part in some very dirty business. Anne would not like her position; it was shameful to the daughter of a baron, even a robber-baron, to be the wife of a soldier. The alternative was to be a burgess of Antioch. It was not degrading for a Norman knight to go into trade, though he knew some of the southerners felt differently; he occupied a large house, in a good quarter of the city, and if his title to it was dubious no one else had a better; he had quite a large sum of money, and would probably get more if there was further fighting. On the whole, that seemed the best idea; but he did not trust his own judgement very far, and decided to look for cousin Robert to learn his advice. There was also the matter of sending a message to Anne; she ought to have the sense to come of her own accord as soon as she heard news of the battle, but she would not know where to look for him, and might even believe him dead. He strolled out in the late afternoon sun.
It was very pleasant to walk comfortably in his tunic, after all these weeks of wearing mail, and cheering to the spirit to see over the northern wall the deserted river-plain without a single Turkish scou
t. All the pilgrims were rich and well-fed, and even the local Christians, though they had been robbed of everything, were at least no longer in danger of death by starvation or the sword. He went to the Legate’s lodging, near the Cathedral, where an idle clerk wrote a short letter for him in return for a few copper coins; he noted that the Cathedral was thronged with a crowd of worshippers, come to thank the Holy Lance for its victory, but he felt too restless and unsettled to go in and pray himself. The next thing was to find Robert de Santa Fosca, and get his advice about the future, but here he received a shock; it was easy to discover what part of the walls was held by the Normans of Italy, but when he approached a tower he found the door at the bottom bolted from the inside; a cross-bowman speaking from a loophole above warned him that no foreigners were allowed in, and backed this up by putting his weapon to his shoulder.
Roger wandered about the lower town, depressed and at a loose end; he had counted on seeing his cousin, and realized how much he depended on his counsel; but worst of all was the knowledge that the pilgrims had now broken up into mutually hostile groups. The lower section of walls, on the north, was held by Provençals and various other bands; but all warned him away, though he was unarmed and on foot. It did not seem that Antioch would be a good place to start a business in for some time to come.
He strolled back to his new home, and was disturbed to see knights in full armour watching from just out of arrow-range the towers held by the Italians. The miraculous victory had brought as many problems as it had solved. Before he got home his feet began to ache again, and he shed tears as he rolled his blankets round him, lonely, disappointed and bored. Had his father felt like this on the day after Hastings? It seemed that the pilgrimage had done as much as it could accomplish, and that the feeble central direction of this army of volunteers from many nations had finally withered away.
Knight with Armour Page 24