Siege

by Richard Foreman

  He was the first to do so. The first of many.

  4.

  Thomas made his way through the camp, following at the heels of the dutiful Hugh of Cerisy, who marched briskly. The stern-looking knight was not in a mood to tarry - or allow to Thomas tarry either. Bohemond had instructed him to fetch the Englishman. Campfires were sprouting up like shrubbery. Soldiers sat around, half-drunk or bored – darning clothes, sharpening blades or staring into the distance (remembering happier times or dreading the future). Night was oozing into the sky, like someone opening-up a vein. A dark purple was fading to black. Thomas could still observe the crowd, swelling in numbers, in a clearing on the plain. Their silhouettes flitted about like ghosts. Peter the Hermit had already commenced his sermon.

  “Faith that isn’t tested is no faith at all… We are about to be encircled by an army of heathens. Let them come and fall on our swords, as Joshua smote the Canaanites and Michael drove out Lucifer and his acolytes from Heaven. ‘Tis the foul infidel Kerbogha, not us, who is about to be ambushed. By a vengeful God!”

  Thomas’ expression became pinched, like he had just swallowed some sour wine, as he caught wind of the preacher’s words. The son of the wool merchant thought that the demagogue lacked the nobility and intellect of Bishop Adhemar, but the peasantry was still rapt by his siren song. After Clermont, Peter had travelled across France and Germany, calling people to join his pilgrimage. He talked of visions and prophecies. He claimed the Second Coming was nigh, with devilish relish. The Apocalypse was on the horizon. People should save themselves. Or there was little they could do to save themselves. “We’re all damned.” Thomas sensed that Peter would rather be proved right than wrong – even if, by being proved right, hordes of people would suffer. He urged his flock to repent, not through words but deeds. He was the leader of a cult, as opposed to congregation. Thomas even heard stories of pilgrims plucking hairs out of the Hermit’s donkey, as if they were holy relics. The preacher was one of the first to spread the word of Urban’s sermon at Clermont. Taking the cross would expatiate sins. It would be a “People’s Crusade,” formed of men, women and children. The ordinary could become extraordinary. By being closer to Jerusalem, men would be closer to God and Heaven. They gave up everything, not that they had much to begin with. The low-born were attracted to him, like iron filings attracted to a magnet, Thomas judged. The preacher pulled brigands and knights into his orbit too. Many of the pilgrims perished, being slaughtered by Greeks and Turks alike, before even reaching Constantinople. Their souls may have been willing, but their bodies were too weak to fight off the enemy and endure the hardships of the terrain. Yet still the preacher could cast a spell and the shepherd still led his flock. Thomas had overheard Bohemond call the preacher “an irritant, but a necessary one… His aspect gleams with the Holy Spirit, or too much wine… With food in such short supply, let the people swallow his false hope and lies.” The student had encountered the preacher on more than once occasion. The wizened “Hermit” tried to project an air of humility and piety. But his eyes were two slits. Serpentine. His mouth was as twisted as his logic. Thomas sometimes compared Adhemar to the unsavoury preacher. It was like comparing Hyperion to a satyr. Thomas recalled how his clothes were little better than rags and his breath reeked of fish or wine, or an unholy concoction of both. “I can’t believe how God could favour someone so ill-dressed and so foul-smelling,” Bohemond also commented. The self-proclaimed shepherd had shown his true colours recently, when he deserted the camp. Tancred rode out and tracked the caitiff down. Bohemond duly castigated the errant preacher in private, not wishing to diminish the popular figurehead in public.

  Thomas walked on, sometimes trotting to keep up with the Bohemond’s loyal lieutenant. Such an important messenger heralded an important message, the scribe reasoned. Night grabbed the sky by the throat even more, yet Thomas could still just about make out the walls of Antioch, looming large in the background, like a gigantic tombstone. The tombstone was blank. Was it waiting for all their names to be etched into it? It wasn’t just the fall in temperature which caused a chill to slither down his spine. The scribe wasn’t quite sure if he was more terrified of attacking the well-fortified town and being slaughtered in the breach – or getting caught between Kerbogha’s approaching army and soon to be bloodied walls. He gulped in fear and felt his gut tighten, like a garrotte. Yet still Thomas told himself that the call of Jerusalem was stronger than that of his homeland. There was no going back. The young, devout pilgrim had taken the cross. He was not about to forsake his duty. God would protect them. Save them. He could feel the Almighty with him, as sure as he could feel the cold wind against his skin, or the bone hard ground beneath his feet. Jerusalem. The philosophy student never wondered if he was becoming a victim of his own strain of false hope and lies.

  The silhouette of Bohemond’s banner, unfurled and fluttering in the breeze, hoisted upon a spear, could also been seen in the gloom. The prince’s billet was made up of an array of intersecting tents. Thomas noticed that an extra couple of guards had been posted at the entrance, although his attention was soon focussed on the potent smell of roasted meats which wafted out from the camp. It was as though Thomas’ stomach turned itself into the shape of a hand and reached out to the ambrosial aroma. He would feel slightly guilty should Bohemond invite him to take part in a feast, given the condition of some of his fellow emaciated pilgrims, but Thomas would accept. Or his stomach would accept on behalf of the rest of him. He would endeavour to smuggle some food out, at the end of the evening, and distribute to the more deserving, however.

  A number of knights gave the callow scribe scornful or suspicious looks as he made his way through the camp. Although they trusted and liked Edward, who had fought beside them and proved his mettle, the Normans had yet to embrace the other Englishman in Bohemond’s company, who had still to draw a weapon and stand in a shield line with them.

  The smell of body odour, ordure, ale and wine soon overpowered that of the suckling pig he nosed previously. The air was also littered with the sound of the odd belch, fart and cackle of laughter, in response to a ribald joke. Night gifted a tinge of threat and doom to everything. Drink could cause one of the Normans to lash out at the frightened Englishman at any moment. They often mocked him, sober or drunk. Thomas wished to be back in his own tent, reading by candlelight. Adhemar had kindly lent him his copy of The Consolations of Philosophy, by Boethius. He had imbibed the words each evening, like the soldiers had swallowed wine and ale.

  “All fortune is good fortune; for it either rewards, disciplines, amends, or punishes, and so is either useful or just.”

  His heart beat faster and his features turned pale as Thomas grew closer to Bohemond. His meeting with him might prove neither useful nor just. He thought it best not to ask for his money. Something more important, or ominous, was at stake. Butterflies flapped in his belly, as if he were a suitor about to meet his intended for the first time. He had never been summoned this late to a meeting before. Thomas, prone to feeling guilt, raced through various scenarios where he might have transgressed. The Norman had always been quicker to punish than forgive. He felt nauseous. But, as he hadn’t eaten, Thomas comforted himself that he wouldn’t be able to actually sick-up anything in his employer’s intimidating presence.

  Hugh led the youth into a tent, which contained all manner of weaponry (swords, lances, and maces) and pieces of polished armour. The iron and steel had been oiled and polished, but spots of rust and blood could still be discerned if one examined the items closely. The accoutrements of war all belonged to Bohemond. None of the weapons were ceremonial or merely there for decoration. All had been employed to wound or kill over the years.

  A couple of oil lamps, like giant fireflies, hung from the roof. Edward offered his fellow Englishman a reassuring nod, although it did little to quell the anxiety gnawing at his guts. His mouth was as dry as the cracked, leather belt clasped around his scrawny waist.

  Hugh stood to attent
ion next to Edward, his conical helmet under his arm. His other hand rested on the pommel of his broadsword. The faithful lieutenant, the bastard son of a Norman priest, was alert and ever ready to carry out his duty. A silver crucifix, hanging over his heart, glinted in the light. Service to God and Bohemond were all that mattered to the soldier, but not necessarily in that order.

  “Thank you, Hugh,” Bohemond said to his knight and friend, gratefully yet unsmilingly, as he rose to his feet. The military commander had been sitting behind a table, which was laden with various maps and pieces of correspondence. A bejewelled silver goblet of diluted wine was in easy reach on the sturdy oak table.

  Thomas shifted his feet and nervously chewed the skin on the inside of his mouth. His eyes flitted between Edward, Hugh and Bohemond – as they all stared at him. The air chilled the film of sweat forming on his brow. When he breathed out, it sounded like a sigh.

  Bohemond half-smiled. Partly he wished to put the scribe more at ease. Partly his fretfulness amused him. Bohemond stood in front of the youth, towering over him. Despite all that the adolescent had witnessed and endured on their pilgrimage so far, he still retained an air of naiveté and innocence, which Bohemond found mildly intriguing. The Norman prince was also aware however that, despite his age, the scribe was twice as learned as scholars and clergy double his age. The youth had a gift for languages, was well read and, although he could become tongue-tied when he spoke, possessed an eloquent turn of phrase when expressing himself in writing. The Englishman was an asset. Bohemond had invested some time in getting to know the youth. He now hoped that his investment would pay off.

  “There is no need to appear so worried,” Bohemond remarked, placing a firm but fraternal hand on the youth’s shoulder. “You have cause to be happy, rather than a feared. For more than any priest, Thomas, you are about to be given the opportunity to save everyone.”

  Save for a crown, Raymond of Toulouse appeared every inch a king, as he sat on a large lion-footed chair, on a raised platform, in the main chamber of his billet. Gold rings, studded with gems, decorated his fingers. Incense burned in the corner. The platform was flanked by braziers. A tapestry, depicting the Frank’s victory at, was mounted behind him.

  With a wave of his hand the nobleman had dismissed his retinue, except for Girard and the knight, Henri of Bayeux. Raymond had deliberately kept the former waiting after his arrival earlier, while the rest of his close circle and kinsmen feasted in the adjoining chamber. No matter how much his stomach groaned, or the nearby laughter stung his ears, Girard dared not defy his uncle and leave the camp. He had already displeased the powerful prince. He did not wish to anger him further.

  The count’s visage was a blend of nobility and brutality. His brow was corrugated in scorn, his nostrils flared in ire. His hands gripped the arms of his chair, like talons – his knuckles as white as coral. His size, wealth and bearing projected authority. The nobleman considered himself superior, in more ways than one. The veteran commander’s fame was legion – and not just because he commissioned scribes to write letters and books about his victories and achievements. Raymond had been the first knight to take up the cross and pledge himself – and his army – to the historic pilgrimage. Where Raymond led, others would follow. Such was the speed of his response that people rightly judged that Urban had forewarned the count about his sermon. Immediately Raymond demanded that, whilst his friend Adhemar be given the title of the spiritual leader of their company, Urban should grant him overall military command of the campaign. The politic pope refused, however. Urban had no desire to discourage other princes from pledging to join the cause, for fear of believing they would all be serving under the irascible Frank’s banner. Urban had offered his friend the title of “First Among Equals,” in order to satisfy the nobleman’s pride. Although Raymond still pledged his support, he balked at the meaningless title and was far from mollified. But now he would have embraced the small mark of authority and prestige, for fear of people bestowing the title on his rival. Bohemond.

  Raymond received word that Bohemond had made contact with someone inside Antioch, who was willing to betray the city. A recent council meeting between the great princes of the pilgrimage agreed to consider ceding Antioch to Bohemond, should he be able to lift the siege. He hoped the decision could be overturned, however.

  Girard stood before his uncle, head bowed, like a penitent awaiting a potentate’s judgement. Defeating Bohemond’s champion had been his chance to impress his commander, earn his trust and be rewarded. But he had failed.

  Raymond’s nephew was not the only person to disappoint him of late. Even his old friend, Adhemar, had sided with Bohemond. In the past few months there had been a sea-change in the campaign. People were turning to Bohemond to take command of the crusade (although, thankfully, Tancred had come out of his uncle’s shadow and was willing to follow his own ambitions, rather than merely serve Bohemond’s interests). Raymond’s authority had been eroded. To his shame, even some of his men deserted him. He vowed to turn back the tide and reassert his position. Like Caesar, the nobleman would rather be the first man in a village than the second man in Rome. Or Antioch. Or Jerusalem. He had right on his side, in thwarting Bohemond. The princes had given their word in Constantinople to give the city to the Emperor, rather than claim it as their own. Raymond needed to wrestle control back from Bohemond for the good of all the pilgrims. The upstart would not be able to lead the Armies of God to victory over Kerbogha. “I am a proven leader, rather than mere pretender. We have travelled too far, sacrificed too much, to surrender now. And surrender will mean death. The Turks will slaughter us like sheep, if we allow Bohemond to lead our forces,” Raymond had argued to Adhemar, but to little avail.

  It was time to take matters into his own hands, the veteran determined. He had received intelligence, from Tancred, that Hugh of Cerisy, along with the English knight Edward Kemp, were due to meet with a confederate of the Antiochene insider tomorrow night. The plan to take the city would be discussed. Hopefully he would be able to steal the plan - and utilise the information himself. If the Antiochene was willing to betray his city, he would doubtless be willing to betray Bohemond too.

  “I have received more than one report back about the contest. I am ashamed of you. You should be far more ashamed of yourself, of course,” Raymond proclaimed, sourly, as if he had just eaten an overly brackish olive. His voice was clear, deep – as hard and unyielding as iron. There was a slight rasp to his speech, however, like the scratching sound of a rusty blade being pulled out of a warped scabbard.

  Girard took an intake of breath and was about to explain himself, but his uncle quietened him by raising the palm of his hand.

  “I do not wish to hear paltry excuses. You were not unlucky. Rather you were lucky that the Englishman didn’t cause you serious injury. You are also fortunate now, that I do not thrash you like an errant child. Instead, I am going to offer you an opportunity to regain your honour. If you bear any resemblance to a Christian knight you will endeavour to redeem yourself. You suffered from the sin of pride,” Raymond declared, without irony. “You promised your men the fruits of victory. I suggest you compensate them out of your own purse. You told me that you possessed the skill and mettle to defeat the Englishman. God’s blood, an Englishman! He was probably half-drunk.”

  Raymond seethed, rather than breathed. He in part blamed himself. His nephew’s fencing teacher, back in France, had praised his student. He wanted to add to his family’s prestige, by championing his kinsman. Bohemond had defeated him, by proxy. The injury to his pride would smart, fester, for some time. The nobleman had also underestimated the lowly Englishman. He would not make the same mistake twice. Nor would he publicly admit any blame. Girard needed to feel culpable – and desire to atone for his shame.

  Finally, his nephew - and his small company of men - would be of some use, Raymond considered. He would charge Girard with following Hugh and the Englishman. Tancred mentioned that Bohemond would order the tw
o knights to rendezvous with the contact. Should Girard fail, and be apprehended, Raymond could employ the excuse that he had attacked the Englishman out of revenge for his recent, ignominious defeat. To ensure the mission proved successful he would task Henri with leading Girard’s men.

  The nobleman glanced at his lieutenant, who was staring at his nephew with thinly veiled contempt. The sneer on his face was even more pronounced than usual. Henri had nicknamed Girard “the whelp”. The knight was tempted to challenge Kemp to a contest, to regain his prince’s honour, but he preferred to stay in the shadows. The mercenary had killed plenty of men, English or otherwise, during his career. He had nothing to prove – and any fight which wasn’t a fight to the death was a mere mime show.

  Henri, who was approaching his fortieth year, was dressed in a black, leather jerkin and dark brown leather trousers. His muscular build could be discerned beneath the cut of his clothes. The Norman had a narrow, coffin-shaped head. Swollen, radish coloured gums housed a set of sharp yellow teeth. Dark, deep set eyes sat over a long, blade-like nose. His hawkish expression took in everything – and glowered at Girard as if he were imagining how he might murder him.

  Henri was the second son of a Norman soldier. He learned his trade as a man-at-arms and a sword for hire – serving in Spain, England and Italy. He was an accomplished swordsman, equestrian and archer. Raymond immediately recognised the mercenary’s talents and employed him as a knight in his company (who could also serve as an assassin and spy). The soldier put a high price on his services, but the expense was worth it.