“All the while, the enemy flies at us—always swarming, swarming like wasps, like hornets shaken from the nest to sting and sting again. We stand firm. The day passes, and still Raymond’s army does not appear. God have mercy! Where are they? Why have they deserted us?”
The question became an anguished cry as Ranulf, reliving the battle anew, felt again the hopelessness of that terrible day. He struggled upright, and the movement brought convulsions of pain and coughing. Murdo sitting rapt at his father’s side, brought up the waterskin and gave his father to drink. “Peace,” he said, trying to soothe. “It is done and over; there is nothing to fear.”
Ranulf took a long pull on the waterskin, then pushed it away. “I look down the line,” he said, falling back onto his sweat-soaked pallet. “The gaps in the ranks are larger now. The battleline is growing ragged. The men are clumping together, seeking shelter from the arrows under one another’s shields—the first sign of an army feeling its defeat, mark me.
“Bohemond is riding back and forth, shouting for the knights to reform the line, and all at once a great shout rises up. I see Bohemond turn in the saddle, and I turn, too. Duke Robert has broken from the line and is leading a charge into the nearest swarm of Turks. Lord Brusi and his sons have gone with them. We had vowed to stand together with the prince, and the fool has followed the Normandy knights into battle.
“But wait! They have caught the enemy by surprise. The Turks are thrown backward upon themselves—those coming up from behind are driven back by warriors fleeing the charge. All at once they are confounded. Turks scatter in all directions, and it seems the knights will make good the attack. Others are calling now to be released to join the charge.
“Bohemond is wary. He calls for us to stand our ground, but no one heeds him any more. They think they see the chance we have been waiting for, and are desperate to seize it and make an end of the slaughter.
“With a shout for God and glory, they put spurs to their mounts and charge into them. The Flemish and English troops join the attack, and they are quickly followed by Stephen and Tancred and their warriors. Even Bohemond’s knights strain after the others, but the prince holds us back. ‘Stand, men!’ he cries, racing back and forth along the line. ‘Hold your ground!’
“Those of us left behind cry out to be allowed to join the assault. It is all I can do to keep Torf and Skuli at my side—they are eager to take the battle to the infidel. Everyone is shouting to attack, but the stubborn prince refuses. He shouts us down with his big voice and forces us to obey on pain of death. ‘I will flay alive any man who defies me!’ he bellows, standing in his stirrups at the head of his troops.
“So, we have no choice but to stand and watch as our comrades pursue the enemy over the low hills.” Ranulf paused, swallowed hard, and then continued, his voice growing taut. “God save us, the knights passed from sight over the hilltops, riding hard, and we see them no more. For the space of four heartbeats we hear nothing…suddenly, the Seljuqs reappear. The treacherous dogs have circled around from behind. Oh, their horses are lighter and faster. The Turks are able to move like the wind over the hills, vanishing and appearing at will.
“It is but the blink of an eye, and already the attacking force is surrounded. The enemy presses in on all sides, rending the air with their war cry of ‘Allah akbar! Allah akbar! We stand and watch, but can offer no help. All the while, the short steel-tipped arrows fall upon our comrades like killing rain. We watch our kinsmen tumble from the saddle. God save us, their bodies cover the hillside, and still they fall!
“The knights try to rally. Duke Robert leads them and they drive again and again into the whirling enemy. A small gap appears in the Turkish line. The knights try to break through. I see the duke fighting his way to the place, only to see it close again before he can reach it. He drives on, regardless. Two Seljuq archers come before his face; they draw their bows and let fly. The first arrow strikes the rim of his shield and glances away; the second hits him in the chest, but he charges on.
“One of the archers has already darted away, but the duke catches the other squarely in the middle of the back as the fellow turns to flee. The force of the blow carries the slender Seljuq out of the saddle and he slams to the earth with the spear in his back. The duke’s sword is in his hand before the hapless Turk touches the ground, and fifty more knights charge into the breach their fearless commander has forced.
“A heartbeat later, the crusaders are streaming through and the enemy cannot prevent their escape. The knights gallop back to the line which Bohemond has succeeded in holding all alone. ‘Join us here,’ the prince commands. ‘Reform the line! For the sake of Christ, reform the lines!’
“‘They are very devils!’ shouts the duke as he pulls the arrow from his hauberk. Knights are thundering back to resume their places. There are far fewer than before. I look, but I cannot see Lord Brusi. The other sorties have fared less well than Robert’s Tancred and Stephen, having run aground at the top of the hill, are scarcely able to slash their way back to the line. Good men and horses fall around them every step of the way. Once a knight is unhorsed, the Seljuqs fall upon him and cut him to pieces with their thin swords—three and four of them, hacking like butchers, until the knight is dead.
“The Count of Flanders and a great number of knights have become surrounded, and only escape when the enemy archers run out of arrows and must break off the attack. Before the sultan’s troops enclose them again, the Flemish gather up their wounded and fly back to the line leaving a trail of bodies as they go. It is a slaughter, God knows, and we can do nothing but stand and watch it happen.
“The prince and lords are angry now, and desperate. ‘Where, for the love of Christ, is Raymond?’ bellows Duke Robert. You could have heard him all the way to the sultan’s camp.
“Maybe he is attacked, too,’ says Stephen, rubbing sweat and blood from his eyes. ‘Maybe he cannot reach us.’
“‘Get back to your troops!’ Bohemond roars—angry at the fools for breaking ranks. They have wasted good men in their folly, and the prince is in no humor to listen to them. ‘Regroup and reform the line.’
“But the lords are discouraged. ‘What is the use?’ demands Count Robert. ‘There is no line—we are surrounded on every side. There is nowhere to turn.’
“Bohemond is adamant. He is furious. ‘I say we will hold the line until the Devil himself comes to take us.’
“‘We will die!’ shouts the count, and the others agree.
“Then say your prayers,’ Bohemond roars, ‘and die as faithful knights of the cross.’
“They glower at him, and curse his name, but Bohemond will not be turned. ‘Get you back to your men. Dismount and put your horses behind you. Lock shields and stand behind your lances.’ Turning to Stephen, he cries, ‘Send men to the camp and tell the footmen and women to bring water to the line.’
“Well, it is over for us,” said Ranulf, after another drink from the drugged waterskin, “the sun moves across the sky, and the battle continues. The women and foot soldiers hurry back and forth to the line bearing jars and buckets of water. The Seljuq swoop and swirl, filling the burning air with arrows and their hateful, jeering cry, ‘Allah akbar! Allah akbar!’ God is great! God is great!
“Then, above the triumphant cries of the infidel and the thunder of their horses, I hear a wail arising from the marshy land behind us. We all turn to see the camp followers fleeing towards us. The Turks have at last overcome the foot soldiers guarding the camp and are plundering the tents and wagons, and slaughtering the defenseless women and children who are trying to escape into the reeds and mud of the marsh.
“I look and see two Turks ride down a young woman from behind—one of them splits her skull, and the other tramples her body under the hooves of his horse. They whoop in triumph as they murder her, and then turn their horses and ride back into the screaming mass to kill again.
“Bohemond is alight with rage. He is a very berserker! Look at him! Screaming in d
efiance, he springs to the saddle, bellowing for his troops to fall back and protect the camp. The other lords are to fill in behind us and hold the line. Before his orders can spread to the flanks, the prince is already racing back to camp. Alas! The other troops see the center of the line collapse, and they retreat.
“Oh, the fools! The fools! All at once, the whole army is in motion. War band after war band withdraws—falling away from the line by scores and hundreds. Since no one had been ordered to cover the mistaken withdrawal, the retreat swiftly becomes a rout. The Turks, seeing the line crumble at last, believe that the moment for the attack has come. They draw their swords and charge, riding us down from behind. Cutting us to pieces with their swords. The screams of the dying fill the air.
“The battle is lost. The end of the crusade is at hand.”
Lord Ranulf fell silent. He lay back sweating, his breath coming in gasps from the effort of telling his story. Murdo, kneeling at his side, leaned close and offered another drink. After a moment, he lowered the skin from his father’s lips and asked, his voice small against the horror of the battle, “What happened next?”
THIRTY - THREE
“The battle is lost,” said Ranulf after a time. The drug that kept the pain at bay began to make his voice thick. He spoke, and the words seemed to struggle up from the depths of torment, as from a deep well. “We stand on our feet and make the sign of the cross over ourselves. We prepare to die.
“But Bohemond is not defeated. He struggles forward through the onrushing tide of retreating troops, striving to turn them to battle. Duke Robert and Count Stephen follow his lead—they gather what is left of their armies and take their places either side of Bohemond.
“We can hardly stand. Our swords are heavy in our hands.
“The sultan sees the victory now.
“They come at us. By the thousands they come. For the first time all that long day, we have a solid force before us. We grip our spears and meet the charge, making good account of the weapons in our hands. We are fighting for our lives!
“The sound is deafening. I hear nothing but a growling roar like angry thunder. Faces swim before me out of a mist of sweat and blood. I grip my spear but the haft grows slippery in my grasp, and it is soon carried away. I fumble for my sword…God help me! I cannot find it! My sword!
“There! I have it! I make to pull it free from the scabbard and I feel a sharp pain in my arm. I look to see blood spurting from a gash above my wrist. The infidel’s sword is quick. It strikes again before I can defend myself. I see the curved blade flick out, and feel the sting again—it bites to the bone.
“My fingers will not close on the hilt. The blade spins from my grasp. I cover myself with my shield and await the final blow.
“But my attacker is gone! God in heaven, they are falling away. I look down the line to see the infidel fleeing the field. Why? What can this mean?
“There! Streaming down the hill! See them? They come! They come! Raymond and the other lords have found us at last. God be praised! We are saved!
“I see crusaders sweeping down the hillside. Who is it? Is it Duke Godfrey? It is! His column is first over the ridge. Riding at the head of his troops, he leads them into the unsuspecting Turks.
“The other lords ride fast behind. Count Raymond gains the ridge to the left of Godfrey, and Bishop Adhemar—the bishop himself leading a force of five hundred knights—appears in the valley by way of a narrow gap in the hills. Suddenly, I see them flying towards us from all sides.
“The startled Seljuqs turn as one to see a new army charging down upon them. One moment they are at our throats, bearing down for the kill—an instant later, the sultan’s entire war host is streaming away in wild retreat. Praise God, they are running over one another in their haste to get away!
“Bohemond seizes the chance. Oh, he is not slow. He lofts his sword and sounds the war cry. Then he is charging into the retreating enemy. Reaching for my sword once more, I slip my shield onto my right arm, and grasp the blade with my left. It is awkward, by God, but it will serve.
“Somehow we stir our feet, and rally once more. We wade into the maelstrom, hewing at the enemy horsemen as they pass by. We cut them from the saddle, and impale them on our spears. The blood runs down our upraised swordblades and the hilts became greasy in our hands. Yet, we stand to our work, slashing and chopping, until we can no longer grip our weapons.
“When there is no one else to kill, we look up. The enemy is gone from the field. Godfrey, who has begun the assault, gives charge of his troops to Baldwin. ‘Pursue them with a vengeance,’ he commands. ‘Whatever happens, do not let them regroup.’ And Baldwin, eager for blood, chases the fleeing enemy through the valley.”
Ranulf paused to swallow, tears in the corners of his eyes as he remembered the great tide of relief at their deliverance. Murdo looked at his father’s stump of an arm, feeling the dull horror of the unrelenting day.
“We see no more. The retreat carries the battle from our sight, and we slump down to the ground to catch our breath. Wheather wounded or hale, we all hug the earth and thank God we are still alive.
“Later, we are told that the chase led back to where Sultan Arslan had established his camp away over the hills to the east. So swift is the pursuit, the sultan had no time to dismount and change horses before the crusaders were upon him. The sultan’s bodyguard put up enough of a fight to cover their master’s retreat—then they too fled after him, leaving tents, horses, and all the sultan’s treasure behind.
“See, the Arabs are a wandering people. They trust not to palaces nor cities. That is their way, and that is how we get the plunder: we run them off and take it from them. God in heaven, the sultan had a very great treasure hoard, and we took it all.”
Ranulf fell to coughing again. Murdo watched helplessly as the convulsions racked his father’s wasted body. Ranulf paused; he touched his fingertips to his lips. Murdo raised the waterskin again, and gave his father to drink. “Rest a little,” he suggested. “I will stay with you. We can talk again later.”
But Ranulf seemed not to hear. “The treasure is vast,” he continued, his voice dry and hollow, “gold and silver beyond imagining. Baldwin seizes it at once. The battle is over…I look around. The cries and shouts still roar in my ears. I can hear nothing for the tumult of war yet raging in my head. I stumble out upon the battleground.
“The dead…the dead…Blessed Jesu there are more dead than living. I cannot walk for falling over the bodies…knights and footmen…women and children—their bodies are ripped and torn, their blood and inward parts spilled upon the ground…corpses with neither head nor limbs…I saw a priest disembowelled, and a baby with hoofprints on his back…”
“Father, please,” Murdo begged.
“Seventy thousand!” cried Ranulf, struggling up once more. “Seventy thousand in one day! That is what they said—add to that women and children, priests and old men—who knows how many more? Seventy thousand knights and footmen went down in death at Dorylaeum. More than twenty thousand were wounded, and many of these lingered in agony only to die in the next few days.
“I searched for Brusi and his sons,” he said, falling back once more. “I searched the night, but never saw them again. They fell at Dorylaeum with all the rest…with all the rest. I never found them.”
The air inside the tent was stifling and Murdo longed for a fresh breath, but dared not leave his father’s side. “Rest now,” Murdo begged, “you will regain your strength.”
“Nay, son.” Ranulf gave a slender shake of his head. “I am dying.”
Murdo blinked, trying to hold back the tears. “Father, I…” he began, and could say no more before the tears burst anew.
“Nay, nay,” Ranulf hushed. “I am shrift and ready. Take word to your mother—tell her how I died.”
“Of course,” answered Murdo. “I will tell her.”
“Wicked the waste! Wicked!” croaked Ranulf, growing agitated once more. “Arrogant fools! We paid t
he price for our folly, by God! We paid with our lives.”
“It is over now,” Murdo said, trying to soothe his father. “The fighting is finished. Jerusalem is taken.”
But Ranulf would not be calmed. Rising up from his bed, he clutched at Murdo. “Go home. Find your brothers and go home. This fight is not for us.” He gripped Murdo by the shoulder. “Tell them what happened here. Promise me, son.”
“I have already promised, remember?” said Murdo, dashing the tears away with the heels of his hands.
“So you have. Good,” said Ranulf. “Listen to me now. There is one thing more. I leave this to your care, and that of your brothers.” Releasing his hold on his son, Ranulf fumbled at the edge of the pallet with his remaining hand. Strength failing, he fell back, drawing the lumpy mat away from the crude wooden frame.
Murdo gaped in amazement. For there, heaped in a jumbled, gleaming mass beneath the dying man was a treasure trove of gold and silver objects, more valuable, more opulent, more wonderful than anything he could have dreamed.
THIRTY - FOUR
Even in the ochre half-light of the tent, the treasure dazzled. Murdo filled his gaze with the glimmering objects: cups and bowls, plates and platters, armbands and bracelets, bejewelled chests and chalices, caskets, and boxes, necklaces, diadem, and chains of all kinds in heavy gold and fine silver. Scattered in amongst the valuables, like shells or pebbles on the beach, were golden coins, bezants bearing the emperor’s image. Some of the surfaces gleamed with the quick bright fire of rubies, the rich green glow of emeralds, and the luxurious milky radiance of pearl. Unable to resist, Murdo reached into the heap and pulled out a gold-handled dagger in a sheath set with sapphires—the sheath alone was more valuable than anything he had ever touched.
Murdo cradled the knife as if it were the frail soul of his father to be snatched away from him at any instant. He held his breath, clutching the knife, trying to comprehend the meaning of such an immense amount of wealth: certainly it was more than Jarl Erlend ever possessed, and doubtless more than many a northern king would amass in a lifetime; probably more than King Magnus himself owned, including all his ships and lands.
The Iron Lance Page 36