by Judith Tarr
He never knew for certain what he would have done, for a student burst upon him crying, “Master Theo! It’s one of the women, the one who’s been so ill—she’s birthing too soon with too much blood and the child too large, and Master Dionysios says the law be damned, with Mistress Maria gone we need you.”
She pursued him with the last of it, finding herself entrusted with the care of the two children. Their rebellion gave her more than enough to think of; she gave up her effort to catch him and settled to the task he had left her.
o0o
Night had long since fallen when Alf straightened from his task. The woman was dead. Her daughter lay weak but alive in the arms of a wet-nurse.
The woman surrendered her when he asked, with some surprise; he cradled the small body tenderly, looking down into her clouded eyes. “Ah, child,” he murmured, “what a place and a time you chose to be born in—and no mother to ease your way for you.”
They were staring at him, all the women there, most in wonder, a few in disapproval. He regarded the last with weary amusement. “Our Lord healed women, did he not? and he himself neither woman nor eunuch. Then why not I?”
He left them to ponder that, walking slowly, weary to the bone. And battle tomorrow, with such darkness in the thought of it that his mind shied away. He had to sleep, or he could not endure what must be.
But there was no mercy in Heaven tonight. Thomas met him at the door of the sleeping-room, his face for once utterly serious. Over his head Alf could see empty beds, and Nikki huddled with Anna. They looked both miserable and furious, their eyes red with crying. There was no sign of Irene or of Corinna.
“Gone,” Thomas was saying. “Both of them gone. Irene first, and Corinna went after her.”
Anna stood up, breathing hard. “They went home. Irene swore she would. She said one of us should stay with Mother. It was going to be me. It was supposed to be me!”
“Corinna will bring her back,” said Thomas with confidence he did not feel.
“Corinna won’t! Corinna thought Irene was right. I could tell. Now they’re home and I’m here, and I’ll hit you if you try to keep me in.”
Alf breathed deep to calm himself, to gather what strength he had left. “I’ll go and get them. Anna, if you try to follow me, I’ll lock you up and set a guard over you.”
As he turned, he swayed. Thomas caught him. “You’re not going anywhere either, my young friend, except to bed.”
He shook his head, resisting. “I have to go. It’s deadly for them there.”
“It will be worse for you if you fall over before you get there. Now, lad. In with you. In the morning you can fetch them, if the Lady Sophia hasn’t already sent them packing.”
“Not tomorrow. No time. I must—” Darkness swooped close; he struggled to banish it. It retreated; he was lying down and Thomas bending over him, undressing him with plump deft hands. He resisted, but his body would not heed him.
“Thea,” he breathed. “Witch! Let me go. Let me...”
His voice faded. The darkness covered him.
28.
Once again Jehan beheld the dawn from a crowded deck. Yet it was a new dawn, and he had slept well and deeply, without fear or foreboding.
He yawned and stretched. The wide sleeves of his habit slid back to reveal the glint of mail beneath. He turned from his post and picked his way to the cabin.
Henry emerged from the reeking gloom, rumpled with sleep, stifling a yawn. “How goes the morning?”
“Bright and clear and a good wind blowing,” Jehan answered, bowing to Count Baudouin, who stepped past his brother to peer at the sky.
The Count turned his narrowed eyes on Jehan, taking him in in the pale light. “What, priest! You’re in the wrong uniform this morning.”
Jehan smiled. “No, my lord, it’s my proper one.”
“Mail under it,” said Henry, gripping his arm and finding it steel-hard. “No sword, man? What foolishness is this?”
“Not foolishness. A vow.”
“To die under the walls of Constantinople?”
Jehan shook his head, still smiling. “I’ll be with you in the battle. I promised you that. I didn’t promise to carry a weapon.”
‘*You’ve gone mad.” Henry looked a little wild himself, holding hard to Jehan’s arm, glaring at his brown habit.
“I’m wearing mail,” Jehan said. “I’ll carry my shield. I won’t burden any man with fear for my safety. But I’ll carry no weapon against a Christian in battle.”
Baudouin seized him and spun him about, tearing him from Henry’s grasp.
So like they were, those brothers, and so different. Baudouin was clever, Jehan decided, and ambitious, and reckless when it served his purposes. Henry was wise, which was a far rarer virtue.
The Count’s eyes on Jehan were both cold and burning. “Why?” he demanded. “Why now?”
“I’ll help you take the City, my lord,” Jehan said, “but I’ll kill no Greek doing it.”
Baudouin bared his teeth in a mirthless smile. “Ah,” he said. “So. What did he say to you, that white-faced witch, when he crept like a thief into our camp?”
“Witch, my lord?” Jehan asked. “Thief? I’ve had no dealings with any such creature.”
“Don’t lie to me, priest. What did he say? How much did he give you to betray us?”
In spite of Jehan’s control, his lips tightened and his eyes began to glitter. “My lord,” he said, cold and still, “I never gave you cause to insult me. If by your words you mean that you saw me with Master Alfred a fortnight past, neither he nor I made any secret of his presence here.”
“All the more clever of him to lull our suspicions while he spied on our army.”
“If you believe that of Alfred, my lord, nothing I say will make any difference to you.”
“My lord!” someone called. “My lord Baudouin!”
The Count paused for a long moment, eyes locked with Jehan’s. The priest did not falter. Abruptly Baudouin turned on his heel. “Take him with you,” he rapped over his shoulder to his brother, “and mind you watch him. At the first false move, kill him.”
Jehan stood still, face to face with Henry. The young lord was pale—with anger, Jehan realized. Even in battle he had never seen Henry angry.
“Pay him no heed,” Henry said after a moment, keeping his voice light with a visible effort. “He’s never in his best humor before a fight.”
Jehan shook his head. “No, my lord. He’s right, as far as he goes. It does look suspicious, Alf being where he is and what he is, and now this sudden whim of mine. There’ll be no duel of honor fought between us.”
Henry’s eyes upon him were dark with worry. “You aren’t ill, are you?”
Jehan laughed aloud. “Ill? I? Never! Here, the sun’s almost up and you’re hardly out of bed. Well; they said of Alexander that he slept like a baby before a battle, and had to be shaken awake to get to the field on time. That’s a reasonable precedent.”
“You’re well enough,” Henry said, reassured. “But, Jehan, that vow of yours—”
“Is between myself and God, and you’ll not trouble yourself with it. Now where’s your lazy lout of a squire? You don’t even have your surcoat, let alone your sword. Did you even remember to bring your helm?”
Henry laughed and let Jehan herd him into his squire’s waiting arms. Even as he moved, the trumpets rang, rousing the fleet to battle.
o0o
It was the same long line, each of the forty great rounders mounted with a tower. Yet in place of the singlefold assault that had failed so dismally, the Doge had bound the ships together in pairs, two towered ships for each tower of the City that defended the Golden Horn. Behind them on the freshening wind sailed the lesser vessels, bristling with armed men.
The City awaited them with its full might. Every inch of wall and tower seemed rimmed with steel, a wall of men above the walls of wood and stone.
A lone arrow traced its arching path over the water to fall
spent on the deck of the foremost ship. There was a breathless pause. The Latin archers fitted arrow to string and quarrel to crossbow.
As one, City and fleet let fly.
The City’s barrage was terrible, not arrows alone but stones too great for a single man to lift. But Saint Mark’s mariners had guarded against them with walls of timber woven with vines. The stones struck with unerring aim, bounded back from the limber shields, and fell into the sea.
Steadily the ships advanced. Close under the walls, in a hail of stones and arrows and a searing rain of Greek fire, they dropped anchor. All the shore, like the walls above it, was black with men, that same unyielding army which had driven the Franks already into the sea. They sang and they shouted; their words would have made Jehan’s ears burn if he had been a proper pious priest.
One after another the smaller ships beat toward the land. Greek hands and spears thrust them back. Men leaped from them, waist-deep in water. The Greeks surged to meet them.
Jehan kept to his ship. Henry had commanded it, holding his men back with hand and voice and sheer force of will. Yet, command or no command, and in spite of the vow he had sworn, Jehan yearned toward the struggle.
The Greeks fought like demons, yielding not an inch although the sun crawled up the sky and the water reddened with blood. Latin blood, most of it. The City was standing fast.
Again, thought Jehan. They were brave after all, those scheming Byzantines.
The sun touched the zenith. Jehan squinted at it. A breeze fingered his hair, freshening as he paused, blowing from the north. The ship bucked underfoot and tugged at its anchor.
Shouts and cries drew his eyes to the wall. One of the great ships lunged against its cable, the bridge swinging loose from its tower. To the very end of it clung a small desperate figure.
It struck the edge of the wall. The single Latin clung for his life, hands locked on the tower of the City, feet hooked through the bridge. Greek steel flashed down upon him.
Again wind and water surged, thrusting bridge and tower together. A second reckless warrior lunged across the narrowing space, over the hacked and bleeding body of his fellow into the Varangian axes. But he, well armored, sustained their blows and drew his sword. With a shrill yell he fell on the defenders.
They fell back before him. Latins swarmed behind, binding bridge to tower, overwhelming the Emperor’s forces. Full before his eyes they did it as he sat his white stallion on the Hill of the All-seer, raging at the craven weakness of his army.
The wind whipped attacker and defender alike and rocked the great ships on their moorings. The bridge, fast bound to the tower, groaned under the strain. The tower itself trembled; for it was Mourtzouphlos’ second and lesser rampart, built of timber on the solid stone of the wall.
Far below on the deck the captain bellowed upward, “Cast off! Cast off, you fools! You’ll pull the damned thing down on us!”
The last of the Latins whirled about, hacking at the ropes with their swords, while beneath their feet the tower swayed and groaned. With an audible snap the last line parted. The ship swung free.
But the tower was won. The last Varangian fell at its foot; on its summit the Franks raised a roar, brandishing their swords. “Holy Sepulcher!” they cried. “Holy Sepulcher!” A banner caught the wind above them, the proud blazon of their lord, the Bishop of Soissons.
o0o
“Trust a priest to take the first honors,” Henry said, standing beside Jehan.
“The laymen are following,” Jehan said. “There! Another’s fallen to us. Bracieux, that is, the old war hound. He never could bear to be outfought.”
“Come to think of it,” mused Henry, “neither can I.” His grin flashed around the circle of his knights. “Well, sirs? Is it time?”
“Aye!” they shouted back.
“Then what are you waiting for? Over the side with you!”
The wall of Greeks had broken under the tide from the West; great gaps lay open within it. Through one such Henry plunged with his men close behind and Jehan at his right hand.
The wall loomed above, poised surely to fall upon them. They stumbled over dead and groaning wounded, advancing in close company.
Jehan thrust an elbow into Henry’s mailed ribs and set his helm against the other’s. “Look. There. A gate!”
A postern, walled up but plainly visible. The company bolted toward it, unlimbering bars and pickaxes. Quarrels rained down upon them, and stones as huge as hogsheads, and a torrent of pitch searing all it touched.
“Shields!” Jehan roared. “Shield wall!” He flung up his own; others jostled with it, overlapping, shielding the heads of the men who tore at the wall.
It was dim under the laced shields, as clamorous as any smithy Jehan had ever heard, reeking with sweat and pitch and the sulfur stink of Greek fire. His arm rocked under the force of a falling stone; but he grinned within his helm and braced his shield arm with the other to ease the strain.
Mortar flew under the blows of the pickaxes; stones loosened and fell, pried out with daggers and even swords. Light stabbed through a chink. The men pounced on it, tearing at the stubborn stone, widening the gap.
A young knight tore off his helm and thrust his head into the opening, jerking it back with a cry. “Greeks! Bloody Greeks—thousands of them!”
Jehan laughed, short and sharp. “You laymen! Can’t you go anywhere without a priest to lead you?” He tossed down helm and shield and shouldered through the press, bending to thrust himself into the gap.
Henry cried out behind him. “You fool! They’ll kill you!”
A pickaxe lay close to his hand. Its haft was warm still from the hand of the man who had held it, a solid and satisfying weight. He crawled forward with it into a rough-hewn shallow tunnel with a mass of yelling faces beyond.
A strong hand seized his ankle; he kicked violently, striking something that yielded and groaned in Henry’s voice. The fingers snapped open. He scrambled forward, half falling into open air.
Stones hailed about him; Greeks closed in upon him. He roared like a cornered lion and charged, brandishing the pickaxe like a club. The Greeks shrieked and fled.
He stopped, breathing hard. No one menaced him. No one even dared to face him.
“It’s clear!” he bellowed through the gap. “All clear!”
Henry was the first to pull himself through with the others hard upon his heels, spreading along the wall in a wary line. One had brought Jehan’s shield; he settled it on his arm, letting the pickaxe fall.
Now, he thought, the enemy would come and sweep them all away. Now, truly; for as he looked up, he gazed full upon the Emperor’s hill rising before him, a long open slope, new green with spring. Near the summit a great force gathered with the Emperor at its head. Trumpets rang the charge; timbrels set its swift pace.
“Stand fast,” Henry said, low and clear. “For your honor, my friends, stand fast.”
Each man set himself, feet braced, shield raised, sword at the ready.
The Emperor charged.
The thin line held firm.
The white stallion slowed. The Greeks faltered. Mourtzouphlos wheeled about; the trumpets sounded the retreat.
The Latins stared, stunned.
Henry struck his sword on his shield, rousing them with a shock. “You—you—you. That gate yonder—open it. We’re going to take the City!”
They tore apart the iron bars with swords and axes and flung the great gates wide. The wind blew fresh and strong in their faces.
From the ships a shout went up. The sailors of Saint Mark drove their vessels to the land. Men and horses poured forth through the gate into Constantinople.
The Greeks had fled from a handful of men on foot within their city. Knights in full panoply, mounted on the massive chargers of the West, sent them flying in panic. The Emperor himself was swept into the tide of terror and borne away.
o0o
The sun hung low over the walls and turrets of the City, casting long shadows o
n the streets. In a great square under the cold eyes of old gods and emperors, the Latin army gathered. Weary though they were, spattered with blood, many limping with wounds, they counted scarce a handful of dead. All the blood was Greek blood.
Jehan sat his stallion in grim silence. No Frank within his reach had slain any but the Emperor’s soldiers, but his reach was no longer than one man’s could be. He had done little good. By far the greatest number of slain were unarmed citizens, old men, women and children.
The Latins drew together now, as the heat of their blood cooled and it sank in upon them that they had dared in their small numbers to violate the greatest of all cities. All about them the labyrinth of streets and passages glittered with hostile eyes. Surely at any moment the enemy would surround them and hew them down.
Their lords gathered in the center of the square, dismounting stiffly, greeting one another with weary courtesy. The Doge stood in the midst of them, erect and in full armor, with his sword in his hand.
Jehan nudged his stallion closer to halt beside Henry’s bay, exchanging a glance of recognition with the squire who held the bridle.
“We have won,” the Doge said in his strong old voice, “for the moment. All this quarter of the City is ours. But the rest holds still against us.”
“God save us all,” muttered one of the barons, crossing himself. “We’ll have to fight for every alley. It will take us a month at least of hard work before we can claim the victory.”
Count Baudouin spoke clearly and sharply. “What use to count the hours? We hold what we hold. I for one will not let go one inch of it.”
“Commendable,” said Marquis Boniface, “and better certainly than despair. But we can fight no more tonight.”
The Doge sheathed his sword with a firm practiced motion. “No; we cannot press the battle further before morning. Let us mount guards within the City to keep watch against attack. The bulk of the army shall camp by the sea walls to keep open the path of escape. And mark me well, my lords: Let no man of guard or army stray out of the sight of his fellows. Cowards the Greeks may be in open battle, but in the dark and on their own ground, they are deadly.”