by Tom Harper
‘Not at all. He preached this.’
All the men around Raymond edged back, anticipating another eruption of fury. Instead, he sat very still.
‘It was yesterday evening, at sundown,’ the knight continued. ‘He summoned all the pilgrims and recounted a vision, how Saint Peter had appeared to him and revealed God’s anger that His people suffered and delayed because of the avarice of princes.’ The knight shot Raymond a fearful look. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but that is what he said.’
‘Go on.’
‘He preached that a house built on error cannot stand. All at once a devilish madness seized the pilgrims and they spread through the town, grabbing mattocks and axes and firebrands — anything they could find that would destroy. They ran to the walls and began tearing them down, even with their bare hands.’
‘And you did nothing to stop it?’
The knight swallowed hard. ‘We tried, my lord. But the pilgrims were devious. Wherever we went they fled, only to reappear at another corner of the walls. We hanged any that we found but. .’ He shrugged. ‘It has been going on a day and a night now. They are too many and we are too few. And there was nobody with your authority here to command them.’
Raymond heard all this in silence. The light from the flickering torches did not reach his empty eye-socket, which loomed like a hole bored through his face.
‘Come,’ he said at last. ‘Let us see what disaster Peter Bartholomew has worked.’
We rode on into the ruins of Ma’arat. Perhaps, before the Franks arrived, it had been a middlingly prosperous place on this lonely plateau; now it was a ruin. A ghoulish amber light filled the air like dawn, and by its glow we could see the devastation the pilgrims had wrought. At first sight, the destruction seemed wild, indiscriminate: some sections of wall were all but intact; in other places gaping holes rent the stone like cloth. Wisps of smoke rose from beneath the rubble, as though the very earth burned, and long stretches of the moat had been filled in with the debris.
Aelfric, riding beside me, gestured to the ruined defences. ‘Frenzied peasants didn’t do this.’
‘No?’ I was paying little attention, for I had other concerns. Tancred’s taunt still echoed in my mind. What if Anna was somewhere in this smouldering chaos?
‘Not unless the devil possessed them with the spirits of siege engineers. It takes more than zeal and a hammer to collapse ten-foot-thick walls, and I never heard of a wild crowd taking it into their heads to dig sapping tunnels. Look.’ Aelfric pointed ahead of us, to where a felled gate now made a makeshift bridge over the moat. The towers that had flanked it were dissolved completely, and even the rubble had been carted away or used to fill in ditches.
‘They couldn’t have done that alone. Whatever the count’s steward protests, they had help from men who knew what they were doing.’
‘Bohemond’s agents, do you think?’
Aelfric shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’
A sense of dread began to build in me as we approached the centre of the town. The streets were eerily empty, but the sounds of ruination were all around us: long screams abruptly choked off, shouts of alarm, the crackle of fire and the crash of tumbling stone. Somewhere near by we could hear singing, a sad sound like a lament for the ruined town. We followed the noise, listening to it swell as we rode down deserted streets. Where was Anna? I scanned every alley, every window and every door, desperate for a glimpse of her, but the shadows were too deep.
We came around a corner into the main square of the town. Suddenly, all the life that had been hidden in the empty town was thrust before us. A host of pilgrims packed the square, singing the mournful song that now engulfed us, staring at the church on the eastern side where two bonfires burned brightly. The flames played over the stone like sunlight on water, while a tall figure dressed all in white stood on the roof and stared down at the congregation. His hands were folded into his sleeves and his head was turned to heaven, as if it were he whom the pilgrims hymned.
Not one of the pilgrims turned around as Raymond rode in, yet they parted before him like waves before a ship’s prow. Their song grew louder, almost deafening. I could not make out the words — perhaps it was a psalm, thought it might have been the tongue of angels for the fervour with which they sang it. On the dais at the front, Peter Bartholomew stood in a white robe.
Raymond had ridden to within about twenty yards of the church when suddenly he found the crowd would yield no further. He looked back, but that path had vanished. The pilgrim ranks had closed in, and he was marooned in their midst.
The man on the church stretched out his hands. For a moment it seemed that he did not have the mastery of the congregation I had expected, for they persisted with their song, rendering it louder still until the noise was almost deafening. And then, with a discipline so abrupt it left me breathless, they stopped, and there was nothing but an overwhelming silence.
A thousand pairs of eyes turned to Count Raymond.For a moment I feared he would buckle under the weight of their stares, but he recovered himself enough to call out in a ringing voice, ‘Peter Bartholomew, what have you done?’
The man on the church stared down at him as dispassionately as an icon — though not nearly as beautiful. He had let his hair and beard grow long; his nose was misshapen where it had once or twice been broken, and the erratic firelight could not soften the hard pox marks on his face. Even so, he had climbed a long way since he crawled out of the pit at Antioch clutching the fragment of the holy lance.
‘What I have done is God’s will,’ he declared. His voice was deeper than I remembered it, echoing off the surrounding walls. ‘For lo, I will send a man to make straight the way of the Lord …’
Raymond sat up straight. ‘That is blasphemy.’
A quiet sigh carried through the crowd, and they seemed to press closer around the count. He looked down uncertainly.
‘It is prophecy,’ Peter answered calmly. He seemed to be clutching something in his right hand: a tablet, or maybe a book. ‘Look around you. The Lord has sent these men out as sheep among wolves, and now their shepherd has abandoned them. You have tried to make your kingdom here, and forsaken the celestial kingdom that awaits us in Jerusalem.’
‘I have not forsaken Jerusalem,’ Raymond protested. His voice was brittle. ‘I have the unity of the Army of God to consider.’
‘Listen to your people. They are crying out to go to Jerusalem. You built your house here and they tore it down, stone from stone, because it was not built on the rock of faith. If you will not lead us to Zion then we will leave you here, abandoned and defenceless, for your enemies to pick over.’
‘The time is not right,’ Raymond murmured, almost to himself. ‘It is madness to campaign in winter. None of the other princes will support this folly.’
‘Then your glory will be all the greater.’ Peter’s voice was warm, the coaxing voice of a sympathetic friend. ‘But if you do not go, your name will be ignominy, and your reputation dust.’
His hold on the crowd was astonishing. When he spoke kindly they stood there as docile and comforting as sheep, but as soon as he uttered a threat you could almost feel the anger ignite. I began to wonder what would happen to me if Count Raymond provoked Peter Bartholomew to violence.
Raymond looked away from Peter, scanning the crowd in the desperate hope of allies. Among the peasants’ hoods and straw-brimmed hats I saw a good number of armoured helmets, but none of them showed the least impulse to help their lord.
‘You have disobeyed my laws and offended against my authority,’ he said, addressing the crowd directly. ‘But disperse now, remake what you have broken and yield up the wicked men who led you astray and I will show mercy.’
It was a brave gesture from an old warrior, but he had been lured into a battle he could not win. Peter Bartholomew did not even need to reply: the sea of impassive, upturned faces around Raymond was all the answer he needed. From somewhere near the back a voice whispered ‘Jerusalem’, and very quickly the word sp
read until it resounded through the host like the crash of waves.
Raymond pressed his hands together as if in prayer, and bowed his head. At a sign from Peter Bartholomew, the pilgrims fell silent.
‘Ready your arms and gather up what food you can find.’ His voice trembled, perhaps from piety, though it sounded more like the edge of tears. ‘In three days, we will march to Jerusalem.’
The chains of tension that had bound the crowd fell away, and all at once they erupted in a frenzied outburst of cheers, hymns and wild prayers. Banners waved in front of the fires, fanning the flames; Count Raymond was carried from his horse and lifted up to the church roof, where he stood beside Peter Bartholomew to receive the jubilant acclaim of the crowd. All memory of his reluctance was forgiven in an instant. Even those around me, at the very fringe of the gathering, had tears of joy glistening in their eyes as they prostrated themselves before Raymond and Peter.
I felt a tug on my stirrup and looked down to see Aelfric. I had not noticed him leave, but he must have gone somewhere and returned in haste, for he was breathing hard. His breath made clouds in the cold night air.
‘Come with me,’ he gasped. ‘I have found them.’
22
Aelfric led me to a door in a sandstone wall. I could not see the house above, but it seemed untouched by the mob — perhaps because of the two black crosses daubed in ashes on either side of the entrance. Aelfric thumped twice on the door. After a moment it cracked open, then swung in so fast I almost lost my balance. The room inside was dark; I could not make out the figure within, though I could see the gleam of armour and the familiar half-moon silhouette of a Varangian axe in his hands.
‘Sigurd?’ He looked slighter than I remembered, and I wondered how long it had taken him to recover from his wounds.
He stepped forward into the street. The glow from the fires that illuminated the night sky made his beard seem to copper, the same colour as Sigurd’s — but it was an illusion. Instead of Sigurd’s mane, his hair — which in daylight would be the colour of straw — hung in girlish curls to his shoulders. Instead of battle-scars, his smooth face was marked by nothing more than pimples and unpractised shaving.
It was a year and a half since I had seen him. Then he had been a boy, just starting to resemble the man he would become. Now he was almost unrecognisable.
‘Thomas?’ I stammered.
‘Petheros? Father-in-law?’
Wary disbelief shrouded his face. We were close enough that his armoured chest almost brushed mine, but we did not touch.
‘How. .?’
‘The emperor sent my company from Byzantium. We arrived two days after you left for Egypt.’
‘I wish you had not come.’ Belatedly, and somewhat awkwardly, I clasped his arm. ‘But it’s good to see you. Have you had news of Helena and Zoe? How were they when you left? What of the baby? Was it delivered safely?’ The questions poured out of me, a year’s worth of hopes and fears written in each one. But Thomas was shying away. His eyes flickered down to the ground, then looked up defiantly as I fell silent.
‘The baby is healthy, praise God. It was hard for Helena-especially the journey so soon afterwards — but she’s well now. She will be happy to see you safely returned from Egypt. When we heard where you had gone, she was almost inconsolable.’
In the flood of emotion, it was hard to keep hold of everything he said. But even so, I could tell there was something wrong in what he said. ‘How did she know where I had gone?’
I suddenly remembered Tancred’s taunt on the road from Rugia. Have you had news of your family recently? They are not as safe as you suppose. I had thought he meant Anna, who was not family but should have been. Instead. .
‘Where are my daughters?’
Thomas stepped back. While we spoke, someone had lit lamps inside the room, and the household had gathered to see who had called so late. They stood in the middle of the room, staring at me. Sigurd, as vast and imposing as I remembered him, dressed in his armour even at that hour of the night. Anna, her dark hair tumbling loose over her face, not hiding the tears. And beside them, two smaller figures with blankets around their shoulders. One clutched a perilously small baby to her breast, and both were staring at me like Mary and Martha at Lazarus. My daughters: Zoe and Helena.
It was eighteen months since I had seen my children. When I left Constantinople Helena had been a bride, barely out of the church. Though only three years separated them, Zoe had seemed so young she might equally have been Helena’s daughter as her sister. Now Helena was a mother: new cares had chiselled away the curves of her face, leaving it lean and serious, while a taut strength imbued the arms that cradled the baby. Zoe’s face too was creased with concern, but in her it had the perverse effect of making her look younger, more innocent.
‘What did you call the baby?’ I asked at last.
‘Everard. It was Thomas’s father’s name,’ said Helena.
‘Everard,’ I repeated, manipulating the foreign sounds around my mouth. Thomas’s father, the baby’s grandfather, had been a pilgrim in the vanguard of the Army of God, part of a rabble who fell under the spell of a charismatic holy-man and believed they were invincible because he told them so. The Turks had shattered that illusion as soon as they crossed into Asia Minor, and paved a road with their bones. Thomas had been one of the few to survive: he had escaped to Constantinople, where I had found him and he had found Helena.
‘Ever since I left home I’ve longed to see you,’ I said at last. ‘But not here. I was. . on my way back to you. You should not have come for me.’
I saw immediately that I had said something wrong. Zoe took a bunch of hair in her mouth and began chewing it, while Helena looked up defiantly.
‘We didn’t come for you.’
‘Then why. .?’
‘We came because of Thomas,’ Zoe blurted out. ‘He made us.’
I rounded on Thomas. ‘You? What have you done? My daughters-’
Thomas’s face darkened. ‘My wife — and my son. Their place is with me.’
‘Their place is in safety. At home.’
In my anger, I had spoken too loudly and disturbed the baby. He pulled away from Helena’s breast and began to squeal, while Helena dabbed at his mouth and rocked him in her arms.
‘I didn’t marry Helena to lift her on a pedestal and then carry her with me in my memories,’ said Thomas. ‘I have left enough family behind. I married her to live with her. And this is where we are.’
‘Only because you brought them here.’
‘I am a Varangian now. I go where the emperor commands. Like you. You should thank me,’ he added aggressively. ‘If I had not brought Helena and Zoe here, you might never have seen them again. Or your grandson.’
I put out my arm and leaned on the door frame to steady myself. Outside, I could hear excited shouts echoing off the square, and the crash and tumble of more walls being torn down. It sounded like the end of the world.
‘You should not have come,’ I said again. ‘In three days’ time, Raymond’s army will set out for Jerusalem. I will have to go with them — Nikephoros will not give me a choice. As for you. .’ I tried to think my way out of the dark labyrinth I had fallen into, but every way I turned, the way was blocked. The Normans controlled the ports and Antioch, while Duke Godfrey’s army sat camped on the road north. I could not send my family that way. Nor could I abandon them in the ruins of Ma’arat.
Sigurd laid his axe on the table and began unlacing his boots. ‘It looks as though we’ll all see Jerusalem.’
‘Or die in the attempt.’
23
The smoke still rose over Ma’arat when we left it three days later. Defeated by Bohemond and humbled by Peter Bartholomew, Raymond had indulged his pique by completing the work the pilgrims had begun. He razed the town, so that none should have it if he could not. A chill fog came down, mingling with hot smoke from the burning until you could not tell one from the other, but walked everywhere wrapped in clou
d.
Trumpets sounded, and after a few minutes a dim figure appeared as a shadow in the mist. He was on foot — barefoot, I saw as he drew closer — and the only sound he made was the slow staccato beat of his staff tapping the ground. He did not wear armour, nor any of his magnificent finery, but merely a grey pilgrim’s robe. His bare head was slumped low, either in contemplation or because he could not bear to see his army watching him thus. With smoke in the air and a warm breeze breathing out of Ma’arat, he might have been Lot fleeing fire and brimstone in the punished city of Sodom. He did not look back.
Next, seated on an emaciated donkey, came Peter Bartholomew, carrying the reliquary of the holy lance on a purple cushion. There was no humility in his bearing, forced or otherwise: he stared at the soldiers lining the road with aloof dignity, almost defying them to adore him. None of the Varangians indulged him, but many of the Provencals offered shouts of praise or threw stalks of grass- there were no flowers — at his feet. Some even sank to their knees as he passed and offered ostentatious prayers for his safety.
Nikephoros, mounted beside me, leaned across and murmured in my ear, ‘Count Raymond looks more like Peter’s groom than his lord.’
I nodded, nervous of speaking ill of Peter Bartholomew among that crowd. ‘At least he has done what we could not, and forced Count Raymond on to Jerusalem.’
‘Hah.’ Nikephoros broke off and inclined his head respectfully as the count came level with us. When he had passed, Nikephoros continued, ‘Raymond should be more careful. If he allows himself to be seen looking like Peter Bartholomew’s servant, soon people will start to believe it.’
‘I think Peter Bartholomew already does.’
‘All the more danger. And what do you suppose he intends next?’