by Tom Harper
Bohemond urged his horse forward into the church. Its hooves rang on the flagstones and echoed off the dome above. All the princes were on their feet, staring at the newcorner. He rode a little way into the sanctuary, then swung down from his saddle, thrust its bridle into the hands of a gaping bystander and strode through the throng. It opened before him like a well-oiled door. The mottled red skin on his face was livid, engorged by excitement and the attention of the crowd, while a wicked grin pinched the edges of his mouth. A blood-red cloak flowed from his shoulders, and where it parted over his chest a sliver of silvered armour gleamed through.
Count Raymond stood and faced Bohemond across the square, two bears in a ring. The old man’s chest rose and fell under his fur cloak, his face riven with anger.
‘Bohemond.’ Stark syllables spat out the name. ‘Are you so grand now that God Himself must wait for you?’
Bohemond shrugged. Rings of armour rippled beneath his cloak like serpent’s scales. ‘If I have offended the council, I am sorry. Truly. In my haste to be here I lamed my horse and had to find another.’
Count Raymond stared pointedly at the horse, which still stood obediently in the doorway. It was a battle charger, a white stallion that had carried Bohemond into every battle we had fought. In the snow and ice that covered the ground, he would not have ridden it more than a hundred yards.
Duke Godfrey rose, stretching out his arms so that he bridged the space between the two antagonists. ‘We are grateful you came. We will need our full strength if we are to confront the challenges God asks of us.’
Raymond looked as if he would happily have lifted Duke Godfrey and thrown him at Bohemond in fury. Instead, he swallowed his anger and sat back down on his bench. Godfrey and Bohemond did likewise, Bohemond taking his seat on the opposite side of the square to Raymond. When he had arranged the folds of his cloak behind him and smoothed them down, he turned to the bishop with a mocking gleam in his eye.
‘My apologies, Your Grace. I think perhaps my late arrival interrupted you.’
The bishop’s mouth flapped open; his head popped forward like a man trying to force a cough, but he made no sound.
‘The bishop was reminding us of our sacred obligation to march on Jerusalem,’ said Godfrey.
Bohemond looked puzzled. ‘Had any of us forgotten it?’ His gaze touched on Count Raymond, who sat up with indignation.
‘I have not forgotten my duty. I have not spent the last six months sitting in Antioch.’
‘Only because my men threw you out.’
The crowd around us bridled at Bohemond’s jibe, muttering their displeasure like spectators in the hippodrome. Though scattered among the jeers I heard laughter, and several men squawking like chickens. They could not have been Bohemond’s knights, for he had brought none.
‘Antioch does not belong to you,’ snapped Raymond, upset by the noise.
‘Come and claim it, if you want it. I will be ready for you.’ Bohemond tapped a fist against his waist, where his sword should have been. ‘But I did not come here to talk about Antioch. I thought our object was Jerusalem. Perhaps Count Raymond has forgotten that.’
‘Antioch and Jerusalem are inseparable.’ The Count of Flanders, one of the lesser princes, pronounced what everyone knew. ‘If we cannot agree how to leave Antioch, then there is little point discussing how we reach Jerusalem.’
The hapless bishop, all but forgotten, rose to his feet. Raymond was quicker.
‘Why dance around the truth? The Count of Flanders is right. Bohemond holds Antioch in defiance of our oaths to the emperor, and of all our claims. If he does not surrender it to us, we will stay here until he compels us.’
‘Do not speak too freely for other men,’ Godfrey cautioned him. ‘I besieged Antioch for eight months and led my men in the battle against Kerbogha. By rights of conquest, I have as much claim as any man to Antioch. But I renounce it. I would rather have ten minutes’ prayer in the Holy Sepulchre than a lifetime owning all the lands and riches of Antioch. Who else can say the same?’
For a moment, his challenge echoed in the silent church. Godfrey’s face shone with righteousness as he stared around at his colleagues, then looked down to his right where Tancred sat.
Tancred shrugged. ‘I have no claim to Antioch.’
One by one, the princes repeated the declaration — some with careless ease, others, mostly those who had fought hardest in the siege, with obvious reluctance. Eventually only Raymond and Bohemond had not spoken. Godfrey looked to Raymond.
‘We have all made our vow. For the cause of Christ and the unity of the Army of God, will you join us?’
Raymond stuck out his chin. ‘If Bohemond renounces his claim.’
All eyes turned to Bohemond. He sighed.
‘Nobody doubts Duke Godfrey’s piety. But it is easy for him to renounce what he does not have. I possess Antioch, by right of conquest and of fact. I will not give it up.’
‘Then I will stay here until you do.’
Three eyes — two hot with anger, one hard as iron — stared at each other. The lance’s reliquary glittered on its pedestal between them, while murmurs of disappointment swelled all around. Most of it seemed to me to be directed at Count Raymond. Bohemond evidently thought the same, for the sound brought a cruel smile to his lips as he sat down again. Raymond remained on his feet, trembling like an oak tree under the first touch of the forester’s axe.
‘There will be a reckoning for this,’ he warned. ‘You are a thief, Bohemond — even your cursed father knew it when he disowned you. But you will not enjoy the spoils of your crime.’
Bohemond’s face flushed crimson as his cloak, and though the smile remained fixed on his face I saw his curled fingers clenching involuntarily into fists. Even after rising from obscurity to become lord of Antioch and first among the princes, he could not forgive the father who had disowned him in preference to a younger half-brother from a second marriage. But he said nothing.
Godfrey rose. In the grey light of the church the princes’ faces were dark and distraught — all except Bohemond, who seemed to glow with a savage energy. ‘We came here to make peace: not to start a war. Have we grown so complacent since we defeated Kerbogha? We are beset by enemies on all sides. If you pursue this quarrel with Bohemond, Count Raymond, we will all die.’
‘Not all of you,’ said Bohemond. ‘Only those who fight against me.’
‘Jerusalem,’ squeaked the bishop. ‘Keep your hearts on Jerusalem. That is where we must go.’
‘When we have finished our business here.’
The bishop stamped his foot, though you could not hear it above the rising noise. He looked close to tears, as if he could not comprehend his impotence. ‘In the name of Christ, I implore you, mend your quarrel and-’
‘I will go to Jerusalem.’ Bohemond’s voice rose over the din and smothered it. ‘I took an oath to capture the holy city or die, and I will fulfil it.’
The bishop stared at him hopefully. Raymond’s face was dark with suspicion.
‘But no army marches in January. Look out there.’ He pointed through the church doors, which no one had thought to close since his entry. ‘Can an army march through that? Let us wait until March, until the spring of the new year. When the earth has thawed and we can feed off the land, then we will go up to Jerusalem. I will lead the army there myself.’
‘Hah!’ Raymond strode to the centre of the square of benches and spun around, looking at each man in turn. He lifted the reliquary from its pillar and hugged it to his chest. ‘It was a Provencal pope who preached this great pilgrimage, a Provencal bishop who guided us through our greatest perils, and a Provencal pilgrim who found this holy relic. It will be a Provencal who leads the army to Jerusalem, and it will be a Provencal who first stands atop its walls and looks down on the holy soil that Christ trod.’
He put the reliquary back down, hard, and leaned on its pedestal. His gaze bored into Bohemond, who did not quail but gave a short, dismissive laugh.
‘I will not follow any man to Jerusalem. But I will go there with the Army of God.’
The Duke of Normandy stood. The worried expression that had creased his face from the start now threatened to fold it in two. ‘I do not care who leads us to Jerusalem.’ Approving cheers sounded around the church, though he did not seem to draw comfort from them. ‘But I do not want to delay. In August we said we would wait until September. In September we delayed to November, in November we deferred to January and now Bohemond wishes us to wait again until March.’ He spread his palms, showing empty hands. ‘I mortgaged my dukedom to my dearest enemy, my brother the king of England, to pay for this pilgrimage. All I have earned by it are debt and suffering. If it brings me at last to Jerusalem, I will not begrudge one penny of it. But if our quest ends here, in pride and hatred, then my sacrifices and all our sacrifices will have been for nothing. Does any of us want that? I say we should march immediately, before I can no longer afford to keep my army.’
A wave of sympathetic murmurings echoed around the church. Embarrassed but grateful, the Duke of Normandy sat down and looked expectantly at Raymond.
Raymond hesitated. Without anger animating it, his face seemed old and haggard. ‘I swear before Christ that I would march through storms and fields of ice to reach Jerusalem, fasting all the way. But I cannot leave injustice and usurpation behind. However. .’ He raised his arm. At the back of the church, I heard a commotion, and the grating of heavy boxes being dragged forward. ‘If any man will follow me, then I will give him his reward.’
On cue, four knights appeared at the edge of the square of princes. Manoeuvring their way through a gap between benches, they manhandled two heavy strongboxes into the middle of the square. With fat keys they undid the locks that bound them, and pulled open the lids.
Every man in the church was standing, craning to see, as Count Raymond dug into one of the chests. A cascade of gold and silver coins fell from his hand as he lifted it.
‘Who will join me in the battles to come?’
Bohemond moved forward, stepping around the reliquary so that he stood almost touching the count. Both men were tall but Bohemond had the advantage: he stared down on Raymond, cold scorn written across his face.
‘It will take more than gold to buy you friends.’
‘I did not offer it to you.’
‘I would not have taken it.’ Bohemond glanced around at the princes, perhaps sensing that he was looking on some of them for the last time. ‘Take his money, if you like. Take it and make yourselves his servants. Feed his vanity and his envy. But when his gold runs out, or you tire of being an old man’s pawn, come to Antioch and join me. I will be waiting there.’
He spun on his heel and walked to the door. Every footstep echoed like a hammer blow. He led his horse outside, hoisted himself into the saddle, and cantered away. The last I saw of him was his cloak swirling behind him, a blood-red stain against the white snow.
A cold breeze swept through the doors, as if the entire congregation had drawn breath. I glanced back at Raymond, who stood still as a statue over his chests of treasure, his face vivid with triumph.
‘We are well rid of him,’ he declared, trying to force a jovial tone that did not suit the mood around him. ‘But surely you will not spurn my generous offer. There is no shame in it,’ he assured them.
The other princes glanced at each other uncertainly, refusing to meet his cajoling stare.
‘I cannot take your gold.’ All attention turned to Duke Godfrey. ‘I refused the emperor of the Greeks when he offered his treasure, and now I refuse yours. I am the Duke of Lorraine from the line of Charlemagne himself; I cannot be any man’s vassal.’
‘You need not be my vassal,’ Raymond pleaded. ‘I do not need any return for my charity. All I want is the unity of the Army of God, and the speedy conquest of Jerusalem.’
‘Then we want the same thing. But your gold will not make me want it more, and I can afford to pay my army myself. When you are ready to march to Jerusalem, and only then, I will join you — as a free man beholden to no one but God.’
Godfrey was not a natural orator: in public as in private, his manner felt brusque and detached. He had none of Bohemond’s showmanship, nor the ability to whip up crowds to his cause. But his restraint, which too often seemed the product of arrogance, did confer a certain dignity. He bowed to Count Raymond, nodded to his fellow princes, and walked stiffly to the church door. His knights followed him out, threading their way through the thinning crowd.
‘Duke Godfrey is right.’ Now it was the Count of Flanders who spoke. ‘I do not say that Bohemond is above reproach — but nor are you, Count Raymond. If you offer money to go to Jerusalem, then I am going there anyway; if you offer the money to fight Bohemond, then I reject it utterly.’ He pushed his way out of the square, followed by his knights.
The triumph drained from Raymond’s face though the smile remained fixed there, the skeleton of emotion. His hand trembled as he leaned on the reliquary’s column for support.
‘Is there any sensible man among you?’ Desperation flecked his voice. ‘Is there anyone whom Bohemond has not poisoned with his lies and malice?’ As if to remind them of his riches, or perhaps out of nervous instinct, he dug his hand into the chest of gold again and let the coins trickle through his fingers.
‘I will take your gold.’ Tancred sauntered forward, immune to the stares of surprise and suspicion he drew. ‘I am not too proud to accept aid if it will bring me closer to Jerusalem.’
He knelt before Raymond, putting his hands in the older man’s. ‘I swear-’
For the second time that day, the council was interrupted by the sound of hooves. Tancred broke off, while men looked back in fear lest Bohemond had returned with his knights to finish his feud. But there were no Norman hosts, only a single rider on a spent horse. Reining it in, he flung himself down and pushed his way into the church. He wore no hat or helmet: his hair was tangled and filthy, and matted with crusts of ice. He must have ridden through the night.
He dropped to his knees before Count Raymond. ‘Mercy, Lord,’ he gasped, crossing himself. ‘There is a mutiny among the pilgrims at Ma’arat. They have risen against your garrison and are tearing down the defences. They say they will not wait to proceed to Jerusalem, but must go immediately. God has willed it.’
21
The council ended in uproar. Count Raymond’s men rushed to their camp and began pulling it down, churning the snow to slush, while grooms saddled horses and squires stuffed their belongings into saddlebags. With nothing to pack, I stood by my horse with Nikephoros and Aelfric and watched as, one by one, the princes hurried out of the town. Whatever hopes had existed for the union of the Army of God died in the snows of Rugia. Some marched north towards Antioch, others west to the coast. A few followed Raymond south to Ma’arat.
For all our haste, it was well after noon before we set out, and the sky was already darkening. Even then, we could not travel quickly. The fresh snow cast a treacherous veil over the ruts and holes in the road, and we had not gone far when we found it blocked completely by a fallen fir tree. I clutched my reins tighter, fearing an ambush, but it was only the weight of snow that had toppled the old tree. A company of Norman knights had already dismounted and were hacking at it with axes, while their captain walked his horse around them and shouted angry orders. He wheeled around as he heard our approach, and trotted up the road to meet us. Unruly curls stuck out from beneath his fur hat, and his dark eyes were alive with malice — which only deepened as he recognised me.
‘Can it be Demetrios Askiates?’ A soft, dangerous laugh. ‘I saw you at the council. I had heard you were dead — or perhaps that you had gone to whore yourself to Ishmaelites.’
I fought back a wave of hatred and bile. I had not forgotten the vision of Tancred toying with Pakrad as he seared out his eyes at Ravendan. Nor was that the worst atrocity I had seen him inflict on captives during this campaign. I gestured to the tree. ‘Has Coun
t Raymond made you his forester, now that you have taken his gold and made yourself his servant?’
Tancred’s horse shivered. Behind him, his men had managed to chop the tree free of its splintered stump. With a heave, they lifted the trunk off the road and rolled it into a ditch.
‘You should be more careful when you address your betters,’ Tancred warned me. ‘Perhaps you do not know how much you have to lose.’ Again the dangerous laugh. ‘Have you had news of your family recently? They are not as safe as you suppose. If I were you, I would hurry to Ma’arat as quickly as I could.’
He had spurred his horse and was already moving, his last words almost drowned by wind and the beat of hooves. I kicked my own mount to follow, but she was a feeble creature compared with his. Before I had gone a hundred yards, he was lost from sight.
A chill dread held me in its grip for the rest of our ride. Night fell; further down the valley the snow had fallen as rain, turning the road to a bog, but Count Raymond insisted we press on through the darkness. Long before we reached Ma’arat, a writhing skein of flames in the sky ahead served as our beacon.
By midnight we had come close enough to see the individual fires burning ahead, and to make out the shadows of torn buildings around them. Soon, half a dozen fires seemed to break away from the main blaze like sparks, but they did not fly up and fade to cinders. Instead they drew nearer, growing larger and brighter until they resolved themselves into a troop of horsemen with torches in their hands. They halted before us and saluted.
‘What has happened to my city?’ Raymond demanded. ‘Is this Bohemond’s doing?’
The knight looked surprised. ‘Bohemond has not been here. I thought he was at the council. This is Peter Bartholomew’s work.’
Raymond pounded a fist on his saddle pommel, so hard that the horse below almost unseated him in its fright. ‘Peter Bartholomew was under my patronage and my protection,’ he raged. ‘I sponsored his vanity so that he would keep the pilgrims obedient. Has he lost his command of them entirely?’