Siege

by Richard Foreman

  A chill ran down his spine as Girard felt the knight’s cold glare upon him. Two rumours assaulted his thoughts. The first was that the mercenary kept two poisonous snakes, Adam and Eve, as pets – partly because he used the venom to bait the blades of his weapons. The second was that Henri had slit the throat of his own bastard son, when he caught him embezzling funds. If he could kill a fourteen-year-old boy, his own kin, then the soldier was capable of killing anyone, Girard reasoned.

  “I am going to grant you an opportunity to regain your honour - and damn the Englishman in the process,” Raymond added, picking a piece of pork out from between his teeth. “You will submit yourself and your company to the authority of Henri and follow his every order.”

  Girard nodded, with deference and enthusiasm – a confection of fear and vengeance. He felt light-headed – and not just because he was famished.

  The knight’s expression remained unmoved. Implacable. Should he cross swords with Hugh or Kemp tomorrow evening, then so be it. Whatever it took to complete the mission. Part of him wanted to test himself against the famed combatants. Should the whelp perish in any engagement, then so be it too.

  If God wills it…

  Bohemond. He could be as ferocious as a barbarian, or as charming as a diplomat, Thomas thought. His father was Robert Guiscard, the Norman conqueror. Robert the Wily. His son could be considered even wilier though. Like his father, Bohemond had employed military might, as well as political guile, to take control of huge swathes of the Italian peninsula. The Norman had spent half his life at war, whether battling his own brother or the might of the Byzantine Empire. Thomas had even heard a rumour circulate that Bohemond had compelled Pope Urban to call for his armed pilgrimage in order to secure a foothold in Greek and Turkish territories. “He’s as ambitious as Caesar,” Adhemar once remarked, his voice laced with anxiety rather than admiration. The bishop had seen Bohemond’s courage and martial prowess at first hand - and was grateful for having the Norman as an ally, instead of an enemy. The prince had displayed personal bravery and military genius on more than one occasion throughout the campaign.

  Constant campaigning meant that Bohemond was well conditioned. His brawny arms and broad chest made him resemble an archer. His waist was narrow, but not due to starvation. His skin was as smooth as marble, or his tongue. His short, light brown hair had grown fair in the sun. Bohemond had been clean shaven when he set out for Constantinople, all those months ago, but a neatly trimmed beard now lined his lantern jaw. Despite having disfigured many an enemy on the battlefield, Bohemond had remained unmarked. Handsome. His blue eyes could appear piercing, bright or cold – depending on the prince’s mood. His demeanour oozed confidence, or arrogance. He owned an air of knowing more than anyone else in the room - and knowing more than he was willing to impart. Unlike other princes, Bohemond seemed un-tempted by the sins of the flesh. As much as he might utilise high-risk strategies on the battlefield, Bohemond had no interest in gambling or other pastimes of his fellow noblemen. Instead, the Norman prince lusted after power – and he was content to wade knee-deep, or even waist-deep in blood, to reach its shores.

  “I have recently been in contact with an armourer, inside the city. His name is Firuz. Although an Armenian, he became a Muslim convert after settling in Antioch. It seems he is as capricious as a woman in his loyalties, but that it to our benefit. Firuz has been charged with guarding part of the city walls, close to the Gate of St George. He first made contact through passing a message to Tancred’s forces there. His initial inspiration, behind betraying his city, was that God compelled him to act. He claims to have received three visions from Christ, no less. I have faith in my doubts that the condition of his soul is not Firuz’s only motivation. If Christ has promised him heaven, I have promised him the earth, however, to help break the siege. I have received intelligence reports confirming his grievance against Yaghi Siyan. The governor has appropriated part of the Armenian’s wealth and he’s understandably not best pleased. I have faith in his greed and desire for revenge, rather than in his inclination to answer any divine calling. We still need to finalise the plans for Firuz to grant us access to the city. I will need you to meet with his kinsman, one Varhan, tomorrow night. I trust you are fluent in his language, Thomas? Edward and Hugh will accompany you. A price has already been agreed, for Firuz’s services. But if the treacherous cur tries to re-negotiate the deal then refer yourself to Hugh,” Bohemond remarked, no stranger to treachery.

  He had first opened a dialogue with Firuz, through an agent who could pass in and out the city, some weeks ago. Bohemond was willing to play a dangerous game and wait to accept the Armenian’s proposal. He would only take Antioch, if he could possess the city afterwards. At first the other princes refused his offer. They also saw through his threat to abandon the pilgrimage, in order to attend to the discord in his homeland. But Bohemond was prepared to wait, until his brothers-in-arms were desperate and doomed. He knew that his fellow noblemen didn’t much like him, but they would swallow their pride and enmity because they needed him. Kerbogha was coming, with an army that could grind them into dust. To survive, the pilgrims needed to be inside Antioch’s walls, as opposed to being locked out of them. Exposed. They would be target practise for hordes of Turkish archers, with the scent of blood in their nostrils. Some of the princes suspected Bohemond of behaving dishonourably, but they could only furnish people with rumour instead of proof. Even if he was of the devil’s party, the Norman was the only saviour they had. The council finally agreed to his terms. In return, Bohemond would answer their prayers. For those who protested that he was breaking his oath to the Emperor, the Norman asserted that Alexios broke his oath first, by abandoning the pilgrims. They had more chance of seeing a dragon, or washing the blackamoor white, than having Alexios and a Greek army join their cause. Their vow, contract, was annulled, Bohemond argued.

  “Tis as if we were man and wife, but the marriage was never consummated.”

  Bohemond pictured Alexios – the arch-treacherous bastard - now. The womanish Greek was draped in silk, dripping in gold, doused in perfume and spouting pious, obsequious phrases. He was fond of making war – by getting others to fight his battles for him. He wanted to be the emperor of the world, but he couldn’t even keep his own people safe. The empire was crumbling under his leadership. Alexios had taken his begging cup to Urban, mewling like a child. He didn’t deserve to rule Antioch, Bohemond judged. The Norman would not spill his own blood, and the blood of his men, in order to hand the city over to a coward and his court of whores and eunuchs. To the victor must go the spoils. Bohemond knew that Adhemar was not happy with his actions. He liked and respected the bishop, who knew how to wield a sword, as well as his pen. “But I was put on this world to make myself happy. Not Adhemar. Or Urban. Or Raymond of Toulouse. Or Alexios.”

  The prince had originally bowed his head to the Emperor, in order to keep his eyes on the prize. The two former adversaries realised they needed each other. Mutual cooperation overruled mutual distrust. The Emperor needed Bohemond’s leadership and army. Bohemond needed the Emperor’s provisions and supply chain. But the two leaders also realised that they would eventually betray one another. It was just a matter of which one of them would betray the other first.

  Thomas gulped and nodded his head in assent, torn between hope and dread. He would do his duty, like the chivalrous knights he had read about in the Song of Roland and chronicles of Charlemagne. He was resolved to venture to the village, to meet with Bohemond’s contact and attempt to save the crusade. Or he would die trying.

  5.

  A small lamp in the corner illuminated Edward’s tent. The light reflected off the film of perspiration on the woman’s breast. Both Edward and Emma were still a little breathless, after making love. The madam, who oversaw a number of whores linked to Bohemond’s camp, now spent most of her evenings with the English knight. Strands of black hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks. Occasionally he caught the sound of her bracel
ets and anklets clinking together. Edward promised himself that he would one day buy her a piece of jewellery, to remember him by, when the opportunity arose. If the opportunity arose. She rested her head on his scar-littered chest. Emma once asked about his wounds. But the soldier just shrugged his shoulders in reply.

  “I could offer you some tales of valour and chivalry. But I can’t rightly remember if the scars are from battles, tavern brawls or ex-lovers. Women know the weaknesses in a man’s armour, far more than any Turk.”

  Her olive complexion had bronzed in the summer sun. Her green eyes could often flash like Greek fire, if her temper was provoked. But at other times her aspect could prove uncommonly kind – and kindness was in short supply in and around Antioch, Edward judged. Her face was lean, hard – but a fading beauty could still be a beauty. Emma was past her prime, but who wasn’t? Experience owned plenty of advantages and virtues over youth too.

  Edward had seen Emma in the camp several times – and had spent the evening with an array of her girls – but he spoke to the madam in earnest a few months ago, at a feast to celebrate a victory over a Turkish army, led by Bohemond. He looked her up and down, appraising her figure as if he were about to purchase a horse. Emma scrutinised the knight, assessing how wealthy the pilgrim might or might not be.

  “I’ve never been with an Englishman before,” the veteran prostitute remarked, smiling and narrowing her almond eyes, as if purring. She was wearing a red, linen dress with a low neckline. Her black tresses were artfully pinned-up, showing off her elegant shoulders and neck.

  “You are about to experience one of the biggest anti-climaxes of your life then,” Edward grinningly replied, pouring the woman a cup of wine. “We English are such renowned drunkards. We couldn’t possibly be renowned lovers too. My money will be good though, even if my performance in bed won’t be. Unlike other knights, I’ll try not to tell you the story of my life and bore you to sleep.”

  Emma laughed – and laughter was in short supply in and around Antioch.

  Bohemond had invited the madam (who owned a brothel in Taranto) and her girls to join his company on their pilgrimage. His men would need entertaining during the campaign. The prostitutes would have a captive audience.

  “Just make sure that none of your whores are pox-ridden,” the prince warned – although he couldn’t give a similar assurance for his own men. “You will be a wealthy woman when you return.”

  Emma had at first declined the nobleman’s offer. But Bohemond was not accustomed to hearing the word no. He threatened to bow to pressure from a local priest to close the brothel or raise the taxes on the establishment. And so Emma and her girls joined the pilgrimage. Business was good. She had indeed become a wealthy woman. But what good would come of it, if she wouldn’t be able to return home? Emma had thought about abandoning the pilgrimage on more than one occasion, but the road west would prove even more perilous than remaining if she travelled alone.

  Perhaps Edward could encourage other knights to escort her – and her girls – back to Taranto, Emma considered. Although that was not why she was with him. After their first night together, she had provided him with a discount – and then hadn’t charged him at all.

  “It must be love,” Emma had half-joked to one of her whores, Herleva, the other day.

  The lamp began to flicker. Edward ran his fingertips along the woman’s back and squeezed her rump. They had barely shared a word with one another earlier, after he returned from his meeting with Bohemond, before making love. The knight wanted to drink kisses from her lips and feel the warmth of her body next to his. To find and lose himself with her.

  “Did you have a good night?” Edward asked.

  “It was good, as in mildly profitable. Although people are understandably spending more money to cover the rising price of food. Even noblemen are pleading poverty. I also had to work. I had one regular who wept unashamedly, crying out for his mother. He told me the story of his life, unfortunately. I had to keep pricking myself with a pin, to stay awake. How was your day?”

  Edward forced a smile. He felt uncomfortable of late, imagining Emma sleeping with other men. Even though he believed her, when she said it was a matter of business rather than pleasure. Needs must. He told himself that he wasn’t jealous, but that he was worried that he might catch the pox from her, should she sleep with the wrong client. Edward hadn’t survived countless encounters with bloodthirsty, scimitar-wielding Turks in order to die of a pox.

  “I’ve had worse days. I taught a lesson to some arrogant Norman peacock – and even got paid for the pleasure,” the Englishman said, declining to mention his summons and mission relating to Bohemond. Not only did he not want to earn Bohemond’s wrath by disclosing his plans, but more so he didn’t want to offer Emma too much hope that all would be well. Hope was worse than despair, Edward gloomily concluded. “I bought you a consignment of wine to share with the girls.”

  “You don’t have to buy me anything.”

  “I know I don’t have to. But I want to.”

  Edward refrained from saying that it was better to spend his money now, while he could. He wouldn’t be able to enjoy his gold when dead.

  Before having disembarked, to journey east, Adhemar had been called handsome and noble. He didn’t particularly feel handsome and noble right now, however. His robes were stained and frayed. His skin felt dry, cracked, like overused parchment. His heart felt heavy, as if he were wearing an orb around his neck. During his youth a friend had predicted that Adhemar, born into a wealthy aristocratic family, would become a philosopher. He knew how to win an argument, whether employing a blade or oratory. Utilising both his good looks and charm he could have juggled more mistresses than a poet. But instead Adhemar became wedded to God. The Church provided him with a home. The Bible was all the poetry he needed. God provided him with cast-iron purpose and meaning.

  Adhemar worked late into the night, partly because he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He finished off a letter to his friend and fellow bishop, William of Falaise, who was a trusted confidante. Increasingly, as Adhemar disclosed his sins and doubts, William was serving as his friend’s confessor.

  “I still believe that our cause is a noble one, despite witnessing a litany of ignoble acts. This is still a just war. As Aristotle argued, “War must be for the sake of peace.” Having observed the viciousness of the Turk, we must, now more than ever, aid our Christian brothers in the East and fight to keep their borders safe. Jerusalem must not be desecrated. The road to the Holy Land must be secured for pilgrims. For some time I believed that we could fulfil our mission. We showed unity and purpose at Nicaea. Princes came to each other’s aid in battle. We have strayed from our path, however. Perhaps Raymond was right, when he argued for an all-out assault on Antioch as soon as we arrived… My faith remains strong, but it isn’t strong enough for everyone. Desertions are increasing, we are losing men like water passing through a sieve. I have heard that some of the pilgrims are so desperate for nourishment that they have descended to eating boiled thistles, or the seeds of grain found in manure. As I walk through the camp each day I am approached by princes and paupers alike. They ask for my blessing and for me to pray for them. To my shame, I often forget their names. God’s representatives on earth are all too human too, as you know… I spoke to a young Englishman in our ranks, the other month. Thomas. He is a gifted linguist and scholar. In another life he could have copied, or created, great works of literature. He could have been a leader in his village, served his church.

  “I was there at Clermont. I am here because of you,” he proclaimed, zealously and without rancour.

  How much blood do I have on my hands? I scoured the land, preaching. Recruiting. I promised that sins would be forgiven, that pilgrims would find salvation. I also hinted at riches and rewards. My purpose was to inspire knights and soldiers. Urban and I never envisaged so many women and children joining our campaign… Peter the Hermit and his flock could soon be lambs to the slaughter. We w
ill soon be caught between Kerbogha’s vast army and Yaghi Siyan’s garrison, five thousand strong, in Antioch. We will be caught in a vice, butchered. Muslims do not have a Christian bone in their bodies. Those who are not tortured and killed will be enslaved. They would be spoils of war… People still say that they believe in me. But I’m not sure how much I believe in myself.”

  Adhemar diluted his wine. He wanted to keep a clear head and make the vintage last longer. After reading over his letter the bishop was tempted to spend the evening writing his will, but he drew himself back, like a hand withdrawing from a flame, believing that by doing so he would be admitting defeat.

  The careworn clergyman emitted a mournful sigh and wanted to bury his head in his hands, but he was worried that an attendant might enter and see him in despair. He needed to be strong, or at the very least appear strong. He rose to his feet but soon fell to his knees and commenced his nightly prayers.

  He prayed for Tatikios, the Byzantine general who had accompanied the pilgrimage since Constantinople. Despite deserting the campaign, under the excuse of departing to send for reinforcements, Adhemar asked God to keep Tatikios safe. He liked the clever, urbane general. The glint in his eye had matched the glint of the golden plate which covered his mutilated nose. The Emperor had attached his envoy to the pilgrimage to provide assistance to his allies, although it was also clear Tatikios was a spy – whose mission was to ensure that Antioch was delivered up to Alexios. Bohemond openly accused the Greek of treachery and even threatened his life, realising the threat he posed to his own ambitions.

  Adhemar missed his company. They would discuss literature and theology, over a jug of wine, late into the night. He missed his subtle wit. With just one jibe or barb the agent could send the likes of Raymond and Baldwin into a fit of rage. The Byzantine was a shrewd judge of people. Adhemar recalled his candid character assessment, or assassination, of Bohemond.