by Jack Ludlow
SOLDIER OF CRUSADE
JACK LUDLOW
To Richard & Marguerite
friends through thick, thin and all the
bits in between
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
About the Author
By Jack Ludlow
Copyright
PROLOGUE
The defenders of Durazzo knew the Apulians were coming and, if they had eased the passage of the first forces that had landed on the Adriatic shore under the French nobleman, the Count of Vermandois, they were less inclined to welcome the next to arrive for the very sound reason that they entirely mistrusted their motives. The knights and nobles accompanying Vermandois had been seen as honest Crusaders, needing to traverse the lands of Romania with no prior aim other than to aid Byzantium in throwing back the infidel Seljuk Turks from the very borders of Constantinople, the ultimate aim to then move on and free Jerusalem and the Holy Places of Palestine from the grip of Islam.
The armies of Southern Italy were different; led by a member of the family of de Hauteville, whose collective military prowess had kicked Byzantium out of Italy, the mounted Norman lances they commanded counted as the most formidable warriors in Christendom. Many of the foot soldiers were Lombards who, if they marched for pay and plunder, would be fully trained to do battle and loathed the old Eastern Roman Empire for the hundreds of years of what they saw as the suppression of their right to rule themselves. Such a combination had breached the eastern boundary of Romania twice in the last fifteen years as invaders not friends and, even worse, they had enjoyed a high degree of success in both battle and conquest.
The walls on which the watchers of Byzantium now stood, as well as many other castles and towns, added to great swathes of the lands of ancient Illyria, had been taken from them, only wrested back after much blood and even more treasure had been expended. The Apulians, always inferior in numbers, had been commanded by men of genius and if the now dead father, Robert, Duke of Apulia, had been seen as the devil incarnate throughout Romania then he was not in present times to be outshone in black-heartedness as well as ability by the present leader, his natural, first-born son, Bohemund of Taranto.
‘I am told he is such a giant, this Bohemund, that he can pick up and consume a man whole, Father.’
‘Children’s tales,’ John Comnenus replied to his too impressionable son. ‘To demand the likes of you cease chattering and go to sleep, but it is true he is reputed to be a meaty fellow. Your great uncle the Emperor had a sight of him outside these very walls before you were born, and if you can mark one man for his size in the heat and confusion of a great battle, that tells you of his stature. It is said that he even made look human the giants of the Imperial Guard.’
‘What is it that they feed these Normans that they are so tall as a race?’
‘They are raised on a diet of arrogance and greed.’
‘Odd that,’ replied the ten-year-old Comnenus, his tone deadly serious, ‘I heard it was apples.’
The laughter that produced echoed off the formidable walls of the port city but the humour was not long-lasting; it was known the fleet bearing Bohemund and his army had departed Otranto and Brindisi three days previously, so given the distance and even sailing easy to allay seasickness, it should be in sight by now. Unlike the approach of Vermandois, the foppish brother of the King of France, who had come close to losing his life by drowning in stormy seas, the Adriatic was flat calm and those who knew how to read the weather, master mariners who had sailed these waters all their lives, pronounced that with the nature of the sky added to the direction of the wind such conditions would likely hold for days.
John Comnenus, topoterites of Durazzo, had been given a task to perform and it was one to be applied only to the host from Southern Italy, more specifically to Bohemund. Prior to landing he must swear an oath to the Emperor Alexius that would bind him to the aims of the papal crusade and, if possible, imperial service; in short, the Count of Taranto must make assurances that he had come to aid Byzantium and not under the guise of assistance to attempt that which had failed before: outright conquest.
The Norman leaders of Southern Italy had eyes on the imperial purple, hankering after it as an adornment for their own shoulders. As a race they were avaricious for land and plunder, no better than the Viking forbearers who had settled along the banks of the River Seine and so harried the Frankish king that he had been obliged to cede to them the whole peninsula from which they now took their name. That had not stilled their appetite; formidable warriors, they had become a permanent menace instead of an occasional one and had increased so much in numbers that they threatened not only France but also neighbouring Anjou and ultimately their own suzerain, the Duke of Normandy.
Those who first came south to Italy were the rebellious, the landless and the discontented, amongst who were the first two de Hautevilles, subsequently to be joined by five more brothers. Employed as mercenaries to fight for Lombard independence they had, in less than fifty years, cast aside their erstwhile paymasters, then wrested the centuries-held provinces of Langobardia and Calabria from imperial control, before invading and conquering Saracen Sicily. Despite the odd reverse, they had bested Byzantium in battle after battle to become, first, counts of Apulia, and then, after papal recognition – that body too had suffered more than one military defeat at the hands of the Normans – had become acknowledged in their ducal titles.
Never likely to be sated they had turned their gaze east, seeing the remains of the old Roman Empire as weak and ripe for a fall. If they had tried and failed, that had not dented their desire – what better way to introduce the force necessary to accomplish total conquest than under the guise of this religious endeavour called a crusade? So the man who commanded at Durazzo was not about to let such a puissant general as Bohemund ashore without that pledge of loyalty.
To aid his cause John had the ability to deny them a landing at the western end of the Via Egnatia, the road to Constantinople, added to the lure of a trouble-free passage with plentiful supplies provided en route that would obviate the need to forage or, more importantly, oblige the Norman leader to raid his own chests of gold to pay for the things necessary to keep his army fed. Given such advantages he was sure he could impose the imperial will on Count Bohemund as well as his senior captains. The man who spoilt this comfortable illusion of security came while the topoterites was eating in his own chamber.
CHAPTER ONE
‘One of the piquet boats approaches, Your Honour, and she is flying an alarm pennant.’
Comnenus was confused and it showed both on his face and in his reply to the messenger from the battlements. ‘If we are not overburdened with friends, I cannot think who would be an enemy so threatening as to cause a piquet boat to hoist an alarm pennant?’
‘The Norman devils?’
That answer had about it the air of, ‘Who in the nam
e of the Lord else, you fool?’
Comnenus carried the burden of having his place by family connection rather than experience and that showed in an occasional lack of due respect from those whom he commanded.
‘They are supposed to be coming in peace, fellow – and even if they are not, how would ill intent show while they are still afloat? I fear our sailor has overplayed what he might have seen. Still, we cannot ignore what it says. Send to the captain of the garrison to man the walls.’
‘It was he who sent me to you, Your Honour, and he has already ordered that done.’
The thought for the titular commander could not be avoided: such a precaution had been carried out without the courtesy of informing him, just as the message regarding the approaching piquet boat had first gone to his second in command. Was it that which induced a knot in his gut or the notion that there may well be an approaching threat? Durazzo was a prize after which many lusted and one any man who held it for the empire feared to lose.
Enemies outside of Apulians he could easily conjure up: the Venetians or the Genoese with their great fleets, Saracens from North Africa or any of those in alliance with Bohemund. For the nephew of the Emperor, Durazzo was an even heavier burden, so an impatient John Comnenus was at the quayside when the fast-sailing sandalion, having unseated its mast and laid it along the thwarts, slid through under the water gate portcullis, the man in the prow shouting his message.
‘The demons have landed at Avona.’
‘Have landed?’
‘The whole Apulian host is ashore, My Lord, and the first companies are already marching inland.’
‘Headed to where?’
‘I did not hang around to find out – some of their galleys came to seek me out and I ran.’
Aware that all eyes were upon him Comnenus was quick to respond. ‘Then that we must find out first.’
Horses were quickly saddled and a party of lances gathered to escort the topoterites as he rode out to locate what might be an army more intent on conquest and one which would find scant force to contest its passage. On a coast dotted with smaller ports, deep bays and open beaches there were many places to land but Bohemund had chosen well, for too many of those led nowhere but into a barren hinterland of impassable mountains. Comnenus did not know the topography as well as many of those he led; he was soon made aware that Avona provided a route, albeit a hard one, through the high coastal hills to a point where the Apulians could join the road to Constantinople at a point well inland.
As he rode he was cursing himself, even if he lacked sufficient force, for not providing the numerous places with the kind of protection that would have at least alerted him prior to them getting ashore, a landing he could have then rendered more of a risk, while being acutely aware that such an opinion probably existed among his subordinates. Now he was working to catch up with events, not, as he wanted to be, in control of them.
Forced to push their horses beyond what was wise it was a weary and dusty party of riders that overlooked the newly set up encampment, a mass of smoking campfires, tents, horses and fighting men that filled the well-watered plain and soon made any attempt to count their numbers futile. John Comnenus felt less than stately as he made his way, with only two attendants, one an interpreter, through the Apulian lines to approach the great pavilion above which flew the banner of the Count of Taranto.
Blood-red, it was crossed with the blue and white chequer of his de Hauteville family and there was no doubt, even if he had never clapped eyes on the man, who was waiting at the entrance to greet him; he had not, since he arrived to command at Durazzo, been left short of descriptions but, even so, the dimensions of the man shocked him and Bohemund was not alone in that.
Not himself small, Comnenus was aware of being in the presence of not one giant but two, though there was a small margin of difference between Bohemund and the very much younger fellow at his side, he being the shorter by three finger widths. If they overawed in size while he was astride his weary horse, that was made more manifest when Comnenus dismounted to find he had to tilt his head well back to engage the eye of either. Both were bareheaded, the youthful fellow’s skin a deep bronze from exposure to the sun, his hair blond above a handsome face.
The to easy-to-recognise Bohemund was fair too, but with the reddened countenance of his northern race. They were a match in style and dress, both in chain mail hauberks, wearing over that the white surplice dominated by a single red cross that Pope Urban had designated as the device to be worn by the men he had called to Crusade, this to underline that they were Christian warriors who, if they came from different locations, were dedicated to the same holy cause.
‘Does the topoterites of Durazzo address the Count of Taranto?’ the interpreter asked, in the Frankish tongue.
Bohemund looked at the speaker before lazily letting his eyes turn back to Comnenus, it being an act designed to underline his authority as well as his indifference. ‘You may speak in Greek if you wish, I was born and grew up among those who used to be your subjects.’ He turned to introduce his younger associate as the eyes of the topoterites flicked in that direction. ‘As was my nephew, Tancred, Lord of Lecce and Monteroni.’
That caused the Greek leader’s eyes to linger on the younger fellow, for he had heard of Tancred, son of the late Marquis of Monteroni, known as ‘the Good’, a Lombard loyal to the Norman cause who had married Bohemund’s sister, Emma. The tale told of Tancred spoke of a similar fidelity to his uncle, as well as a fighting ability and sharp mind that underlined his maternal bloodline.
‘Then you will know that when you land unannounced on the shores of Romania that I see it as a hostile act.’
Bohemund let a smile play about his lips. ‘Hostile or unfriendly?’
‘Is there a difference?’
‘There is, topoterites, for if I were hostile you would be still inside yours walls of Durazzo and I would be encamped without them.’
‘To no purpose but death and starvation.’
It was Tancred who replied, his tone a lot less civil. ‘My uncle has been inside those walls before, topoterites, and has slept many nights in the chamber you now occupy. Do not doubt he has the means to do so again.’
Comnenus looked around him at the men gathered to listen to what should be a private exchange, foot soldiers, not lances, and by their colouring Lombards, all of whom would speak Greek. ‘Am I to conduct a negotiation in public?’
‘What negotiation?’ Bohemund enquired.
‘Regarding the conventions you must obey if you are to cross Western Romania to meet up with your confrères in the capital.’
‘I have an army and a route, why do I need conventions?’
‘The Emperor commands it, just as he commands that you take an oath of allegiance to him before you can march.’
Bohemund made great play of looking around, and his men close by, knowing he was preparing a jest, began to chuckle. ‘I see no emperor, so where have you hidden him?’
‘You cannot expect such an eminent person to come to you.’
‘No, topoterites, I cannot and neither can he ask of me that I swear to anything when he is not present.’
‘Then I must forbid your passage.’
‘With what?’ Tancred snapped.
Comnenus felt safe enough to reply with open disdain. ‘I hold the key to the supplies you need to progress and they will not be released to you if I do not permit it to be so. It is a long way to Constantinople and you might find all that awaits you in the mountains is hunger.’
‘Supplies?’ Bohemund said, his hand going to the point of his chin. ‘I will tell you this, we come on the call of Pope Urban to aid your Emperor to push back the Turks, a request he sent to the synod held last year at Piacenca.’
‘The cross you wear on your breast speaks of another purpose.’
Bohemund responded with a distinct growl and short points accompanied by a fist slapping into a huge hand. ‘The infidels stand between us and Palestine. The Pope has t
asked us to aid the empire on the way to Jerusalem. If we respond to that it is only justice that in such an act Alexius Comnenus, your uncle, I know, should feed us. The supplies are there, so we will take what we need and I promise you we will take no more.’
‘And if I contest that?’
‘Then prepare to spill blood.’
There was silence then, for there was an unspoken truth known to all: Comnenus did not have the power to impede this Apulian host and Bohemund was as aware of the fact as he. Even to try to sting them he would have to denude Durazzo of any protection, which, given it must remain defended, would be a deep dereliction of his duty to his uncle. He had the option of making the progress of Bohemund and his host a difficult one, or as easy as such an inherently fraught enterprise could be.
‘Which would be a waste, topoterites,’ Bohemund added, ‘given we have come to coat the earth with the blood of your uncle’s enemies, not that of his own men and certainly not that of his family.’
‘I am minded to provide an escort.’
‘Something,’ Tancred replied, ‘given to those in need of succour, like pilgrims. We are not pilgrims.’
‘We move out on the morrow, topoterites,’ Bohemund pronounced, ‘our aim to join the Via Egnatia at Vedona, and be assured I know the terrain well. I will give no trouble to those who do not trouble me. Now, allow me to offer you some refreshment in my tent.’
After, Comnenus thought, you have humiliated me in front of your Greek-speaking army.
‘I must decline,’ he said, ‘for I have the command of Durazzo and that I must protect.’
‘No doubt you will send to Alexius to tell of our arrival.’
‘I shall.’
Bohemund could not keep the wry tone out of his voice. ‘News to delight him, I’m sure.’
The despatch John Comnenus sent off to his uncle that night was full of foreboding about the intentions of the Apulians and while he was careful in his recommendations – he did not ask for troops with which to contest their passage for the very sound reason they did not exist – he did ask for gold with which to bribe Bohemund’s half-brother and primary enemy, the reigning Duke of Apulia, Roger de Hauteville, known as Borsa.