Knights of the Cross da-2

by Tom Harper

  ‘As much as you do unto the least of my people, you do unto me,’ I quoted. ‘He will be gone in the morning.’

  ‘Good.’

  Anna nestled back into me. Her long hair prickled against my nose and I shook my head to breathe freely again, unwilling to push her away even an inch. Warmth flowed between us – and with it, I fancied, some small measure of my cares.

  ‘What was it that struck you when you heard that the Norman’s servant had died?’ Anna asked at last. ‘I saw your eyes. You looked – guilty.’

  I paused, trying to order my thoughts. ‘I saw the knight, Quino, the day before Simon died. At the tower. I accused him of worshipping a pagan idol. I suggested that it might have been he who killed Drogo.’

  ‘Did you think so?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have not considered it in many weeks; there has been too much else to distract me. But now three of Quino’s companions are dead. Even when Bohemond wanted their murderer found, Quino gave no help. And when I challenged him he threatened to kill me.’

  ‘The Saracen said the boy was killed by Turks.’

  ‘He said the boy was found on the river bank, pierced with arrows. Three nights ago the Turks were pent up in Antioch. Any raiding party on the far bank would have had to pass the watchtower by the fortified bridge, the guards by the boat bridge and the rest of our picket line. And even the Turks might struggle to hit a boy in the dark from across the river.’

  ‘But why would the knight . . . ?’

  I remembered the snarl of Quino’s voice as we wrestled at the foot of the tower, the frenzy in his eyes. ‘It was the boy who told me that the knights had gone to Daphne, to the pagan cave. If Quino guessed that, what would he not have done to protect himself? The western princes do not bring heretics into their palaces to dispute theology with them, as the Emperor does. They burn them alive. And I – I revealed to Quino that I knew his secret. I gave him cause to suspect that the boy, Simon, had betrayed him. A day later Simon was dead.’

  I rolled away, setting my back to Anna’s. Almost immediately, she turned over so that our positions were reversed, and her arms squeezed around me.

  ‘You must not think of it,’ she said. ‘Perhaps Quino killed the boy, perhaps he did not. There are too many other concerns, more pressing, to trouble you now.’

  ‘No.’ I struggled free of her embrace as the images of a thousand slaughtered Turks clamoured in my mind. Whatever Mushid said, whatever blame the Franks held, it was my hand which had opened the gates of death to them. Against their deaths, Simon’s was nothing – a tear in a torrent. But their lives were beyond salvation now, while Simon’s I might still redeem.

  The few inches between me and Anna yawned like a chasm, and the silence lasted so long that I thought she must have fallen asleep. At length, though, I felt the touch of her hand on my shoulder as she pulled me back towards her. I did not resist.

  ‘The baby will be three months old by now,’ said Anna. ‘I hope Helena has kept him healthy.’

  I simply hoped that there was a baby to be healthy. We did not speak of the other possibility.

  ‘If you are worried, perhaps you should go back. It would be good for Helena to have a doctor and a mother to help.’ I spoke carefully, for any implication of weakness or cowardice would enrage Anna. ‘A starving, doomed city is no place for a woman.’

  To my relief, she did not pull away from me. Nor was there any anger in her voice, only weary sadness. ‘It is too late for that. It would be suicide, trying to evade Kerbogha’s army. Sigurd says that in two days we shall not even be able to leave the walls.’

  ‘There are still ships at Saint Simeon,’ I urged her. ‘You could take passage to Cyprus, and thence to Constantinople. With the summer seas, it would be as safe a journey as any.’

  For a long time she was still. From down in the city I could hear occasional shouted challenges from the Frankish patrols, sometimes the braying of animals. Otherwise Antioch seemed asleep. I doubted whether dreams would be any relief for its inhabitants.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It would be better—’ I began.

  ‘No. While I am here, I worry for Thomas and Helena, for Zoe and your grandchild, and for all who are dear to me. I fear for myself, and for what will become of me when Kerbogha comes. But if I left now, I would live every minute in fear for you. And that would be worse.’

  I closed my eyes. A wave of warm confusion swept through me, threatening to spill out in tears. I kissed Anna on the nape of her neck.

  ‘You are a fool.’ My voice was shaking. ‘You should never have come, and then you should not have stayed.’

  ‘Neither should you. But we are both here now.’

  κ γ

  Mushid had gone when I woke; he had slipped away just before dawn, the guard told me. He was probably wise to have done so, for the Frankish watchmen would have been most drowsy then – and we had nothing to offer him for breakfast. I longed for activity, for distraction from the cares that ravaged me like carrion-birds: I oiled my armour, polished my sword until I could have shaved in its reflection, worked the leather of my shield and even cut a new hole in my belt to fit my shrunken waist. After that, there was nothing to do save pace the walls and watch.

  During the night, more Turks had come up on the far bank of the Orontes. It seemed that the Franks had at last learned patience, for they did not ride out to attack. Nor, though, could they avoid battle, for at first light the Turks renewed their assault on the tower by the fortified bridge. I could see it from where I watched, the wooden palisade raised on its mound and the banner of the Duke of Normandy hanging limp from a spear above it. The Normans had packed it with defenders, and for now seemed able to withstand the constant Turkish siege, but still it was merely the advance parties of Kerbogha’s vanguard whom they faced.

  At noon Adhemar summoned us to another council. It was a relief to know that we were not forgotten, though I feared it was only the bishop – and perhaps Count Raymond – who cared anything for us. They brought us together in the great church of Saint Peter, where the customary four benches had been set in a square under the silver dome. After so many meetings in the confines of Adhemar’s tent or Raymond’s farmhouse it was strange to be placed in so cavernous a hall, where broad spaces stretched behind us and every word rebounded from the roof. The labourers had been cleared out for the council, but their work was far from finished: half-exposed icons stared out from splintered holes in the plaster; fragments of stone and rubble lay in heaps on the floor; and all was shrouded in dust.

  Adhemar began by invoking the Lord. ‘The city is ours, praise God. By His right hand, and to His glory, we have conquered.’

  All save the citadel, I thought grimly.

  ‘By His grace, may we still hold its walls in a month,’ Bohemond added. He sat beside Adhemar, with the east end of the church and the high altar at his back. Count Raymond, whose place it was by custom, had been pushed further down the bench almost into the corner.

  ‘We have earned a mighty victory, for which we must be duly grateful. But it will be for nothing if we do not now hold Antioch against the new threat which rushes to overthrow us. We are the army of light, but a storm rages, and a single breath may extinguish us for ever. Only the hands of the Lord will cup us in safety,’ said Adhemar.

  ‘And sharp swords, and swift arrows.’ I had not seen Bohemond since the assault on the walls, but he did not seem to have enjoyed the fruits of his conquest in the intervening days. His dark hair was matted with dirt and sweat; the beard he had so carefully shaved before the battle was already sprouting back, unchecked; his eyes were sunk deep in dark pits. I guessed he had not slept since entering the city. The tunic he wore under his armour was stained yellow, while a grimy bandage bound his right forearm.

  ‘Already, my lords, you have seen Kerbogha’s vanguard attacking the outer forts. Now he looks to bring the greater part of his army to bear on us. A rider came this morning from the Iron Bridge, to say that the garr
ison there is under heavy siege. Even with all Christ’s favour, they will not stand more than a day. That is all the time we have to organise our defences.’

  Count Raymond lifted his head. ‘The time you have to organise your defences, you mean. Antioch is your city, until the Emperor comes. Or had you forgotten it?’

  ‘Do you think that when Kerbogha comes he will confine his war to the Normans?’

  Adhemar thumped his staff on the stone floor, lifting a cloud of dust. ‘Enough! We will fight as the Army of God – as one people. There will be no Normans or Provençals on the walls to face Kerbogha – only Christians.’

  ‘If we fight as the Army of God, then under what title does Bohemond hold the city?’

  ‘Under the title of survival,’ said Bohemond angrily. ‘If not for me, we would all have met the same fate as Roger Barneville, hacked apart under the walls. Would you prefer that, Count Raymond?’

  ‘You would have allowed it, if we had not yielded to your ambition.’

  ‘The ambition of men is all that will aid us now.’

  ‘No!’ Adhemar lifted himself on his staff and stared first at Bohemond, then at Raymond. Looking at him, I saw with shock how the recent days had emptied him. His skin was pale, and shiny like a potter’s glaze; there was no longer any humour in his face. His hand trembled as he gripped the staff, and he seemed suddenly twenty years older.

  ‘The grace of God is all that will aid us now, and He is only ever served in unity. Put aside your quarrels. Every division between us opens the door to Satan’s works.’

  He sagged back onto his seat. The effort those few words had taken was plain. For a few moments there was silence.

  ‘We must divide the keeping of the walls among ourselves,’ said Bohemond at last. ‘Duke Godfrey will watch the northern flank, by the gate of Saint Paul. Count Hugh will take the north-western portion, Count Raymond the length south of the Duke Gate, and the Count of Flanders the area by the fortified bridge. I will fight on the mountain, for Kerbogha is sure to attack first at the citadel. The Duke of Normandy will aid me there.’

  ‘That is strange.’ All eyes turned to Count Raymond, though he himself seemed to be staring at a statue of Saint Justin half-excavated from an alcove. ‘I have just heard the lord Bohemond ordering the dispositions of the army, yet I believed we were the Army of God. Is the disinherited whelp of a Norman pirate not content with the throne of Antioch? Does he now presume to raise himself to the throne of Heaven? Because if he does, he may find he has very far to fall.’

  In an instant, Bohemond was on his feet. ‘If the Count of Saint-Gilles accuses me of blasphemy, I will answer his lie. He may be lord of thirteen counties, but in single combat I will strip him of them one by one.’

  Adhemar made to interrupt, but Raymond’s voice was stronger. ‘You will not do that – unless you would defend this city with none but a few hundred horseless Normans.’ He turned to the rest of the council. ‘For months, the lord Bohemond has begged us to make him warden of Antioch. At times, his grovelling has been almost an embarrassment. And now that he has had it for three days, he makes himself overlord of us all; he tells us where to place our armies, and how to fight.’

  ‘Enough. Will you still bicker here when the Lord comes in glory and judgement?’

  All turned to see Little Peter, the stunted, mulish man who rose from the bench to my left. He had the strange capacity to shrink from notice if he chose, but when he spoke it was as if his every word was life itself. He hobbled into the centre of the square, dragging his bare feet through the dust, and stared around. The short hermit’s cape twitched from his shoulders.

  ‘Why do the nations rage, and the peoples plot in vain? The kings of the Earth take counsel together, they conspire against the Lord’s anointed. But He who sits in Heaven laughs; He scorns them. He will break them with a rod of iron, and dash them into pieces like clay. Be wise, O kings, be warned. Serve the Lord with fear; tremble even as you kiss His feet, or He will be angry – and you will perish.’

  His words were like ice on the princes, freezing their tempers and chilling their thoughts. Several, I saw, made the sign of the cross. Even Adhemar looked discomfited.

  ‘You do well to rebuke us, Little Peter,’ the bishop said. ‘No man’s pride should blind him to the Lord’s will.’

  ‘Turn your eyes to the heavens – but turn them also to the ground on which you walk, lest among the grass you stir a serpent. When beasts contend among themselves, their shadows block the light from the humble creatures below, and their hooves trample them. But the pure are not deceived: they look up, and they see through you like water. We are small, meagre creatures, far beneath your power and might. But a thousand ants, if stirred to war, may strip a horse of all its flesh. With no thought but for your own desire, you have led your people into calamity, into torment, into death. How long will they suffer you to command them to ruin?’

  Bohemond rose in anger. ‘Who are these worms you speak of? For the past two days, it has been my knights who have defended the walls and besieged the citadel, while your pilgrims burrow themselves deep into the city. When they are brave enough to cease from cowering in their holes, and come out to fight, then perhaps I will hear their complaint.’

  For long moments the hermit’s jittering frame stopped moving. His head swivelled up, and his cold-eyed stare fixed on Bohemond’s. ‘Be warned, Norman. You sit on your pyre and speak words of fire: your doom will come. The Lord pulls down the mighty and shatters the proud, but He shall exalt the meek and raise the humble to His throne. The fires approach, and only the truest alloy will survive their purifying flames. For the rest, you will burn away to ash.’

  κ δ

  The watchtower by the fortified bridge fell the following day. The Turks had brought up siege engines, and at first light they began a bombardment of fire and stone that the dry timbers could not withstand. Even then, the Franks defended it to the last. From my vantage point on the walls, I saw a thin knot of them straggling down the slope, shields locked together as the tower burned behind them. They were a tiny number against the thousands of Turks who assailed them – though still not the tenth part of Kerbogha’s army. A few Franks managed to reach the safety of the city; many more did not. The Turks hacked their corpses apart and mounted their heads on a line of wooden palings before the gate. Of the tower, nothing survived: I watched as the beams reeled on their foundations, then crashed down in flames. Many of our men were crushed beneath it. A cloud of burning splinters rose in the air above, and smoke from the embers poured over the south-west quarter of the city, souring the light of the sun.

  The same day, a band of Provençals came from the north. The Iron Bridge, our last redoubt on the Orontes, had fallen to Kerbogha; the garrison was dead, captive or routed. There were others fleeing after them, they said: a sally by Duke Godfrey’s cavalry might yet bring them home before Kerbogha overtook them. The plea was refused, for we had no horses to spare. After that, no more Franks returned from the bridge.

  It was an unnatural time. Every waking minute we were assailed by the sounds and sights of war, reminders of our desperate plight, yet long hours passed sitting on the walls until our limbs grew stiff from disuse. I could see Turks flooding the plain before Antioch, planting their tents and standards in the fields that we had so recently occupied, but we did not fire so much as a single arrow towards them. We could not fight; we could not flee; we could not even forage, for there was not a crumb to be found in the city. We diced without stakes, lest jealousies fester, and told stories we all knew by heart. Every sword and axe was honed fine as a feather, but so long as the Turks kept us hemmed within our ramparts our weapons were mere ornaments. And still the tide of our enemies flowed in.

  On the Monday, the fifth day since we had taken the city, I resolved to seek out Odard. I needed some distraction to drive away the guilt which besieged me in the empty hours, and finding him would serve as well as anything. That much, at least, I owed to Simon. Whether o
r not he cared, in whichever corner of the afterlife he haunted, was of little importance.

  I began my search by seeking out a Norman gergeant. It was harder than I had expected, for most of Bohemond’s army was camped up on the mountain besieging the citadel, but at length I found a wounded knight standing guard by one of the western gates. He watched me with suspicion and though he seemed to recognise Odard’s name it provoked only a mocking leer.

  ‘Odard is no longer in our company,’ he told me. Perhaps he hoped the news would distress me. ‘He lost his horse, his sword, his armour, and finally his wits.’

  ‘And his life? Did he lose that too?’

  ‘Why should I care if he had? He was no use to our army.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’ I pressed.

  The Norman shrugged. ‘Perhaps among the peasants and pilgrims. Try the hermit, Little Peter: the lunatic and the feeble are his congregation.’

  I did not like to have dealings with the mule-faced mystic who had orphaned Thomas, but my desire to speak with Odard was stronger. I found Little Peter at the cathedral, standing on the steps with a great crowd of Franks in front of him. They looked to be pilgrims rather than knights, though the lines between the two were dissolving: their clothes were torn and their bodies gaunt, and in their hands they carried a brutish armoury of slings and farm tools. Their faces were little friendlier. One of their number, a tall man with a cloth tied over his head to ward off the sun, seemed to be shouting at the hermit.

  ‘If Christ is with us, why do we cower in this city? Is it the princes? If they are too timid, if their greed blinds them to their duty, then let them surrender their power to the faithful, the humble beloved of God. Our place is on the road to Jerusalem, not in this place of the heathen.’