by Jean Gill
‘That is the most remarkable distraction I have ever been offered by a comrade but it has served its purpose now,’ Dragonetz told the shivering victim. ‘Wait with the boy. You can join Aliénor and the ladies,’ he queried ‘ladies’ with a glance at her and received a nod. ‘...later,’ he finished and left her.
This time he was more successful in making his way towards the king, his route made easier by diminishing numbers of men in his way. More Christian bodies than Turks, he noted, suspending all feelings until such time they would not hinder him.
His body thrummed with crazy energy, the sanguine humour unchecked. Heart hammering, he saw his king take a hit and rage flooded him. From that moment, he had no idea what happened in the battle but they told him afterwards that he drove back the last Seljuqs round the king and finished the work done by the coterie of knights dying beside their sovereign.
Noise from the east told of reinforcements, the vanguard returning, but the Seljuqs were already disappearing like dust, celebrating their victory. They didn’t know how close they had come to ending the crusade before it had begun.
Louis had battled on even when wounded, a king worth fighting for, and already a name was whispered around Dragonetz, carried on battle-breath, attaching itself where it belonged, as nicknames will. ‘Los Pros,’ men nodded to each other. ‘Dragonetz los Pros. Dragonetz the brave.’
Los Pros himself was stunned, sitting where he’d dropped to the ground, every joint catching up with the day’s blows, every thought clanging in despair at what should never have happened. When he saw Aliénor and de Rançon riding up to the King beside him, he flinched, knowing he’d have to pay for insubordination, as he’d expected.
‘Sire.’ De Rançon threw himself to the ground on his knees before his sovereign. Aliénor was deathly white and silent.
It was to her that Louis spoke, ignoring the grizzled head of her Commander. ‘You,’ he said, for once with all the authority given to him by holy ointment, ‘will choose a new Commander.’ He struggled to his feet, supported by two of his men, and withdrew to have his wound taken care of, without a backward look at the Queen or the man whose reputation was in the dust beside him.
Set-faced, Aliénor made her public declaration. ‘From this day on, Dragonetz los Pros is my Commander of the Guard. His orders are my orders.’ Then she too left, in the opposite direction from the king, to join her women.
Dragonetz stumbled towards an overturned wagon, where he used the last of his strength to send a woman and a boy on his horse to join Aliénor and her ladies. Then he slept where he fell, while stragglers from miles around discovered they were alive and rejoined the camp on the crest; while Seljuqs sang their victory to the winds that blew confidence north across Rum and east to Damascus; and while de Rançon and his son began the long and rueful ride back to Aquitaine.
Although milder than his native land, nights were cool enough for a blanket to be welcome, especially on the heights of Cadmus, and when Dragonetz woke in blackness and stars, he found someone had covered him, put a rolled cloak under his head and arranged his armour in a neat pile. Raoulf of course, ever the nursemaid.
The background noises of night camp were underscored with the anguish of the wounded. Dragonetz didn’t need to close his eyes to hear the song of aftermath, to re-live every beat of horse-hooves and heart. No man was ever more alive than the moment after he’d outfaced death, and the energy that stayed when its need had passed was more dangerous than swords. That energy raped, burned, stole, in the shape of men who crept back into their own souls, shamefaced, the next day.
A hundred times, Dragonetz had prevented his soldiers destroying the very citadel or village they’d just rescued from marauding bandits, and too often on this crusade he’d watched helpless while his Commanders unleashed the wolf in every man, with no chance of ordering it back to heel. Dragonetz knew what drove his men because he felt it too. A hundred times, he had unleashed his own inner wolf in battle and caged it after. He knew every discipline of mind and body, from punching sacks of grain to reciting all four hundred appalling verses of ‘She who goes a-wooing’, to tame the wolf.
The aftermath, lying under a blanket with every thrust of the day replaying in his mind, bloodying the wolf once more, was no time for a woman to glide like a hooded spirit to join him under the blanket. No man, certainly not Raoulf, would blame him for his animal response and rough selfishness. This was, however, no sack of grain, but the lady he worshipped who lay underneath him, and it was wrong.
The wild fury he emptied into her compliant body was replaced instantly with a flood of shame and disappointment. He disengaged as if afraid he’d killed her, and bit his lip to bleeding so as not to say the harsh words in his head. What was she thinking of?! What stupid, impulsive lack of thought had led to this?
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she whispered. ‘It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything. I want everything to be the way it was. Everyone makes mistakes.’ Nothing, was the kindest, most difficult response he could steel himself to give, desperate to be alone, desperate for the whole day and night to have never happened.
Aliénor wrapped herself once more in her mantle, hiding her face so even the darkness could not see her, and disappeared into her own world, wherever that might be. Dragonetz didn’t imagine any further than her presence and her absence. Once she was gone, it seemed more and more a delusion that she had ever come to him at all, and clinging to this hope, he finally slept again. In the morning, Queen Aliénor summoned her new Commander of the Guard, passed on the King’s orders for the day and everything was as it had been before. Only Dragonetz had changed.
Mount Cadmos hadn’t been the last skirmish with Seljuq Turks but the crusading army was learning fast. Dragonetz consulted the Templar Grand Master, Everard des Barres, who was leader of the hundred and thirty Templar knights in their company, and yet whose experience in the terrain had been previously ignored. Taking their advice, Dragonetz was soon drilling his men to make a stand, then withdraw instantly, to order. The lightning raids by the Turks were unlike the ponderous cavalry clashes the Frankish knights were used to and they had to adapt to an enemy that left as quickly as it came.
Refining their technique from hard experience, the Crusaders reached the port of Adalia, only to be barred entry. Three months after they’d left Byzantium, the tensions between Komnenos and the Crusaders left the Franks caught between ongoing Turkish attacks and the outrageous prices demanded by the Byzantine citizens of Adalia, whether for basic provisions or for the ships desperately needed to get to Antioch and on to Edessa.
Helpless, Dragonetz listened to his king pontificate about their oaths to two-faced Komnenos that they would do no harm to Byzantines, while daily reports told of starvation and illness among men and horses. Torn between evils, humiliated by his failure to follow in the glorious footsteps of the first crusade, Louis bought the ships, buying passage for half his army and condemning the poor and the volunteers to take the land route.
At least most of them would die in the footsteps of their glorious ancestors, or so Dragonetz had thought at the time. He later found out that the Seljuqs offered food and shelter to the young foot soldiers left behind, not even demanding that they change their religion. Word reached Jerusalem that the three thousand men who made that choice were well treated, unlike those who thought to re-home in Adalia, where the Byzantines used them as slaves. A few did indeed make it along the coast roads, to meet up with the combined armies of Germany, Jerusalem and their own Frankish brothers-in-arms.
Before the armies were re-united, Dragonetz had to suffer Antioch, where they were welcomed by the man sung of as ‘the most handsome and gallant knight of them all.’ Unfortunately, Prince Raymond of Antioch lived up to his reputation. When he walked into a room, everyone else became invisible. When he laughed, the world was happy. When he broke bread, everyone felt replete. When he said that they should storm Aleppo and Caesarea, King Louis looked at his wife’s flushed fa
ce and said that he would discuss strategy with his peers in Jerusalem. King Louis pretended he didn’t care when he saw Aliénor running along a passage with her laughing uncle, her bodice undone, or leaning over a parapet while Raymond pointed out the mountains with her hands in his.
Dragonetz didn’t have to pretend. Whatever romantic feelings he’d brought on the crusades with him had died on Mount Cadmus and he observed ‘the whore of Antioch’ as she was known in the streets, with dispassionate cynicism. That she could not take her pleasure in a less public way endangered them all. Otherwise, Dragonetz could not have cared less. When Louis finally gave up trying to persuade his wife to leave Antioch and had her carried on board ship to continue on the ill-fated route chosen by God’s holy warriors, Dragonetz was merely grateful to have heard of it after the event. He’d not broken his oath of fealty to Aliénor, nor made the worse choice of letting her stay in Antioch.
The merry band continued on their way to Jerusalem, Aliénor in silence or fits of rage, Louis talking constantly of his duty, and Dragonetz caring only about his troops. He drank and diced with Raoulf and Arnaut, talked tactics with the Templars and turned aside their invitations to join them. Love might be dead but chastity did not appeal. Raoulf’s practice of whoring when convenient seemed perfect. There was no shortage of willing baggage women.
When they reached Jerusalem, Louis found spiritual sustenance; Dragonetz found a woman for half an hour. Louis visited the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and glowed with his renewed faith; Dragonetz organised mass privies, grain and water, repairs to carts, armoury reviews. He gambled, trained and whored with his men. He laughed when he heard that Alphonse Jourdain had been poisoned in Caesarea, wondering coldly whether Aliénor was behind the death of her old enemy. If so, she had cost them the Occitan army that returned to Toulouse, and the sullen cousin in Tripoli who refused to join the crusading armies because someone had blamed him for the murder.
Dragonetz had a task to carry out, regardless of how difficult these rulers made it. He had no part in the Council at Acre on Midsummer Day, with its endless debates over what they should do next, so he simply waited orders. When they came, he laughed again, his mouth twisting, and told Raoulf, ‘We’re off on the road to Damascus,’ and the combined armies of Louis, Conrad and young Baudouin of Jerusalem marched towards the glory they had dreamed of a year earlier when they left Paris.
No matter that they’d left Edessa to its fate and instead were off to wage war against a Syrian trader-city, which was in a truce with Jerusalem’s Queen. No matter that Damascus was full of Christians living peaceably with Muslims and Jews; the Syrian Christians would surely be only too pleased to bring Damascus to the true faith. There was no argument against the true crimes of the city; it was too rich, too powerful and temptingly within the ‘natural’ boundaries of the state of Jerusalem. Its independence was an irritant to the Franks and their answer was to lay siege to the city in the name of Christianity.
Three years later, Dragonetz was finally inside the coveted city, walking its streets in his robes of invisibility, feasting his senses on the spice-sacks and dried fruits in the souqs, cinnamon-sweet and turmeric-yellow, frosted prunes and almond-candies. The sweet tooth of Oltra mar was evident everywhere, in sticky pastries and snacks dripping in golden honey or sugar-dusting. Multi-lingual haggling in the souqs vied with hammering by metal-workers and builders, softened by the work-songs of the women silk-spinners and weavers, interrupted by the clatter and crescendo of a camel train from the south, setting up market in the heart of the city.
The camel-traders sat cross-legged in the Souq el-Sarika, their goods around them, bartering Egyptian perfumes, pearls and paper for Damascene silk and steel. Dragonetz took a professional interest in the paper, but was no less keen to learn all he could about sword- and silk-making. While he listened to the city’s music, and shaped its singing for lute and tambour, he also interrogated all those willing to detail their craft to him. Most were very willing, given such a listener. Bar Philipos’ warning that Dragonetz should remain invisible could never have been heeded by a man whose deep curiosity was combined with a rare understanding of how things were made, and how they could be improved. More than one crafstman looked forward to conversations in oddly accented Syrian or Arabic with the tall newcomer to the city.
Even the roses drew his attention, those same Damask blooms that perfumed his prison, blowsy and full-bodied. Wherever a patch of earth allowed, these hardy shrubs grew to man’s height, sheltering against a wall or doorway, seeking the sun with their new-formed buds. Discussion with a flower-seller, who pestered him to buy a rose ‘for his lover’, revealed that blooms could be forced, in sun and shelter, to be enjoyed out of season.
Dragonetz thought of the cold stone of Ruffec, and wondered whether it would be possible to duplicate the Damascus method in Aquitaine. He asked for coin from his dogged guards, bought two roses in gratitude for the information, and presented them with a bow to Aakif and Shunnar. Their outraged expressions amid the laughter of the morning crowd kept Dragonetz smiling all day, though the poor flowers were kicked in the dust by their ungrateful recipients.
When Dragonetz rode out of the city with his guards, they went through the small southern postern of Bab ibn Ism’ail, past the irrigated orchards and gardens, into the empty lands where they could test each other’s strength and speed on horseback. They were quick to learn each other’s habits and punish the predictable, forcing and sharing new tactics in lance, bow and the games Dragonetz invented.
Sadeek’s strength could not be matched but the Syrian horses were more agile, both by breeding and training. Dragonetz was determined to work on this and one of his games was to stick the three lances in the soil, well apart, so he could ride Sadeek in and out the poles. Gradually, the men moved the lance-poles closer, until even the Syrians were concentrating in order to weave in and out. And then they increased the speed at which they approached the twist. And then they had to throw a scarf in the air on the first left turn and slice it in half before it landed, without missing the two turns more through the lances.
Somehow, the guards had found it within their duties to allow Dragonetz his arms, purely for training purposes of course. Aakif complained that it wasn’t Dragonetz paying for all the ruined scarves. Dragonetz complained that Damascene steel gave an unfair advantage over his own duller blade. They all agreed he needed a better sword. As a concession to the cost of scarves, Dragonetz invented a new game; holding their lances vertically, points uppermost, they competed to bat a leather purse between two rocks, yelling at each successful aim, ‘For the glory of Allah,’ or ‘For God and St Prosper of Aquitaine,’ depending on who scored. Allah was in the ascendant but Dragonetz cried foul for two playing together against one.
Chapter 8
Within weeks, Dragonetz had hardened his muscles and tempered his mind to match his new blade. The swordsmith had excelled himself, following the knight’s instructions for a straight, double-edged sword, just under a yard in length and with a crossguard wider than usual, allowing for both hands, or either one. Shimmering silver were the unique patterns of Damascene steel and the more Dragonetz practised for the display, the more he appreciated the edge such a sword gave him.
He would be ready, whenever the opportunity came to reclaim the book and ride on to Jerusalem. If an opportunity didn’t come soon, he would make one. He studied the city, every gate in its fortifications; all eight of its radial canals from Yazid in the north-east to Qulayt in the south; the Bustan al Quitt, or scented garden, watered by the Qulayt, where rose-growing was elevated to an art form that included other perfumed species, jasmine and oleander, and sun-loving herbs such as lavender and rosemary.
Dragonetz followed his ordained path, which led from inside knowledge of the city, through plum trees and roses, to the place where he had waited with an army, plotting to take Damascus by force of arms. The more he reconsidered the past, the more he could feel the wrong notes. It was more than t
he mess of his own mistakes but he had been too close, too damaged, to see beyond himself at the time. If he played the music of the crusade often enough, he knew he could re-write the song of memory and find out how to get the book back. He could choose where to go next, not be driven like a wayward goat.
Little by little, Dragonetz re-traced his steps during the ill-fated siege of July, in the second year of the crusade. He remembered the moment the three crusading armies first met opposition at Mizzah Jabal, on the south-west outskirts of Damascus. Morale was high at last, from finally combining forces, and from the prospect of a real battle instead of skirmishes with an enemy who attacked and vanished into dust before the Christians had even formed ranks. Warned by scouts of the welcome awaiting them at Mizzah Jabal, the three armies approached in battle formation.
Young Baudouin led the vanguard with Louis’ more disciplined troops a solid centre, and Conrad brought up the rear. Despite the awkwardness of the terrain, split up by the fruit trees, canal and irrigation channels, the allied cavalry beat the Damascans back to the river Barada, but there the enemy made a stand.
Peasants with pitchforks fought alongside the Saracens and only those Franks whom Dragonetz had trained, switched to fighting on foot. Baudouin’s Franks were as reluctant to leave horseback as most of Louis’ army and had it not been for Conrad’s Germans, the crusade would have ended that very day. Infantrymen by habit, the Germans broke through the ranks from the rear, and disrupted the defenders’ lines, sending them back to the Citadel in chaos.
While some celebrated, Dragonetz secured the allied position in the river valley at Rabwa, controlling any approach from the west. He organised the cutting down of trees as field fortifications; prepared for the diversion or destruction of the irrigation canals should they gain control of the city’s other water sources; and tried to control the wild raids by battle-energised soldiers.