Siege

by Richard Foreman

  “And I thought I had claim to being the most stubborn Englishman in the camp,” Edward complained, still smarting from the argument with Thomas earlier. “That lad won’t be the death of me, but I’m worried that he’ll be the death of himself. God’s blood, I swear I felt like picking him up and shaking some sense into him this morning - or shaking the damned conceit and nonsense out of him, as if I were exorcising a demon.”

  “I hope that you didn’t have too serious a falling out. You perfidious English need to stick together, now more than ever. You know how no one likes you. Aside from, perhaps, me,” Emma said, amused slightly by his irascible mood. Usually he was indifferent to what people thought of him – and Edward cared little for others. But, although Edward would rather have a tooth pulled by a blacksmith than admit it, the gruff knight cared about the youth.

  “Don’t worry too much. We’re still speaking to one another, unfortunately or not. I’ve known mules – and women – less stubborn. I suppose I even admire him, in a way. Although don’t bloody tell him that. At least Thomas believes in something. I may end up sacrificing my life for this damned pilgrim, without believing in our so-called cause. Who’s the more foolish then, between us?”

  “Thomas is a strange bird, or fledgling,” Emma said, fondly, platting part of her hair without even needing to look. Edward noted the dimples when she smiled fondly, and he thought how she appeared ten years younger. “I remember how Herleva once tried to catch his eye one evening. She was subtle at first, but bless him, Thomas was so innocent that he didn’t realise the girl’s intentions. He was uncommonly sweet and respectful, far more than she wanted him to be. But Herleva said that she liked him, which is more than she’ll say about most men. And quite rightly too. Thomas told the sinner that he wanted to save her. But she replied that she just wanted to be paid for the services she offered – and with the money she could hopefully save herself. I fear that we all need saving now, from this Kerbogha and his army.”

  Despite the balmy air Emma shivered and the fond smile disappeared into the ether.

  “Should Kerbogha attack, you must retreat immediately. You have your horse, although I am doing my best to get you a finer, faster mount. Ride in the opposite direction of the Turkish army. Don’t look back. I will try to rendezvous with you, where we discussed. But if I’m not there you must forget about me and find a way home,” Edward exclaimed. The gruff knight suddenly became affectionate, clasping the woman’s hand – and gazing at her, drinking in her visage, as if it might the last time he would see her.

  “Escaping may be tantamount to a death sentence, or slavery. You will need every man – and woman – pulling together if there is a battle. I know how to handle a blade, better than most men. Certainly better than Thomas, it seems. I know where to hurt a man. Rumour has it that Bohemond has a plan to take the city, before we have to give battle. Instead of God, some people are praying to our prince to deliver us. Do you have a similar faith in Bohemond? Do you think we can lift the siege?” Emma asked, suspecting that Edward knew more about the plan than he was revealing.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  7.

  The landscape was bone-dry, sucked clean of any beauty or nourishment. It was no longer the land of milk and honey, if indeed it ever had been. The silhouettes of the trees in the distance appeared like giant thorns. Thomas fancied that, should he reach out his hand, he would prick his fingers. If they were fruit trees, they would have lacked all fruit by now.

  The sky was darkening, into a deep, glossy purple. The colour reminded Thomas of a set of robes which he had once seen Pope Urban wear. Yet somehow there was an absence of majesty and the divine, in both the firmament and the clergyman’s garments.

  The party of a dozen pilgrims closed in on the impoverished village. The wooden and stone structures seemed uncommonly brittle, as if a strong wind might blow them away. Erase the settlement from both the map and history.

  Thomas wore his sword, to keep Edward happy. Whether out of guilt or not - or compelled by the fears the soldier had instilled in the non-combatant - Thomas spent part of the afternoon practising some of the sword strokes Edward and Owen had tried to teach him since the start of the siege. Thankfully the knight and scribe resumed their previous friendly relations, after their quarrel in the morning, when they met to disembark for their mission.

  “I’d rather swallow bat’s piss than swallow my pride and apologise, Thomas. I expect you feel the same. So, let’s just agree to disagree. We’ve got enough enemies out there to deal with, without us fighting amongst ourselves,” Edward remarked, taking the heat and awkwardness out of their encounter.

  Thomas was all too willing to put their quarrel behind them too. Although the young Christian blanched at some of the knight’s language and actions, he admired Edward. He was lowborn, but the soldier had made something of his life. He was also making surprisingly good progress learning his letters.

  Edward and Hugh led the group, keeping a hawkish eye out for the enemy. There was every chance they could be mistaken for a foraging party and attacked. Advance scouts, from Kerbogha’s army, could not be far away too. As well as keeping watch the two knights conferred with one another. Thomas occasionally caught snippets of their conversation. They joked about women and recalled drinking and roistering sessions.

  “I could barely walk the next day. Constantinople – and the charms of the Byzantine courtesans – seemed like a dream even then. They’re even more unreal now,” Hugh remarked, as the knights reminisced. “Bohemond warned me that she was an agent of the scheming she-wolf, or she-cub, Anna Komnenos. He said that she would look to seduce and take advantage of me. But I like to think I took advantage of her, twice, that night.”

  “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts. But never look a gift horse in the mouth too,” Edward replied. “Unfortunately, the courtesans in the Emperor’s close circle didn’t consider me important enough to bed and extract intelligence from. I had to head to the city’s brothels and pay for it each evening. But we all end of paying for it, in some ways, in the end. More so if you end up spending your nights with a wife, as opposed to whore.”

  A small burst of laughter rang out in the desolate valley.

  Thomas felt slightly jealous of the friendship between the two men. The young student had no one to share a joke with, not that he was in much of a mood to laugh. He enjoyed speaking with Bishop Adhemar, but their relationship was more akin to a teacher and student. Most of Bohemond’s retinue considered him odd and gave him a wide berth. Non-combatants were almost regarded as non-people in the Norman army. Thomas permitted himself the briefest of wry smiles – blink and you would miss it – as he thought how Antioch was a home from home. Back in England the villagers had judged him to be “bookish” and “aloof”. The scribe would translate that as being “strange”.

  The crossbow on Hugh’s back caught Thomas’ attention. He winced as he recalled the scene of a bolt slicing clean through a scrawny youth’s stomach, during the Battle of Dorylaeum. The new form of weapon always caused him to shudder. Thomas imagined that, eventually, every soldier would carry a crossbow. Edward had argued that the weapons were too cumbersome and too slow to reload. “I’ve seen more than one man scythed down whilst attempting to fix a fresh quarrel onto the weapon and work its mechanism. There’s the quick and the dead.”

  Thomas wasn’t the only one who took in the crossbow. The three figures, waiting on their mounts, at the north entrance to the village, eyed the strange weapon too. Varhan stood in between two armed, pugnacious-looking attendants. His pitted skin was nut-brown. His off-white linen shirt and trousers could have once been considered fine - but were now frayed. Spindly fingers nervously played with an amulet around his neck. The merchant licked his dry lips and wiped his perspiring palms as he surveyed the party of westerners, visibly worried that they might cut him down at any moment. He tried to catch a glimpse of their teeth. Varhan had heard rumours that, due to starvation, some of the soldi
ers had become cannibals. They drank blood, having run out of wine, and ate the dead.

  “Have you been sent by Bohemond?” Varhan said, gulping before speaking, addressing Hugh, who was dressed in the finest armour and riding the largest horse.

  “Yes. Have you been sent by Firuz?” Thomas asked.

  “Yes. I am Varhan. Please, follow me.”

  The Armenian wheeled his pony around and entered the village. He hadn’t died yet or been threatened to be mutilated - or eaten. It was a good sign.

  Thomas briefly found himself at the vanguard of his party. Edward soon put his horse into a trot and caught up with his countryman. The knight, whose first layer of armour was usually his indifference, was tense. He knew what was at stake. Failure did not bear thinking about. If they died on their mission, then so would the majority of the crusaders. Despite the waves of the desertions – and those who had perished through disease and starvation – the pilgrims still numbered in their thousands.

  “If anything happens, stay close to me,” Edward instructed Thomas. “Although what with all the bastards out there who want to kill me, remaining close to me may not prove the safest place. You could of course attempt to race away - but given that nag you’re riding a cripple could well overtake you.”

  Thomas was barely listening to his friend, however. He was distracted by the reaction of the village to the soldiers. The settlers ushered themselves inside. Suspicion, fear and resentment reigned, as pervasive as a morning mist. Some of the villagers would look to hide what few valuables and provisions they owned. More than one mother shielded the sight of their daughters from the westerners. Thomas tried to offer up a concordant, reassuring smile to one mother but it was met by such a sour look that he fancied the expression could’ve curdled milk.

  An emaciated dog padded past, followed by an elder crossing Thomas’ path. For a moment or two their eyes interlocked. He could have been aged fifty or seventy, the Englishman considered. The old man was hunched over, as though half the world were pressing down upon him. He moved tentatively, as if each step caused him pain, using a walking stick which at any moment might snap. His joints creaked like the unoiled axles on an ancient cart. A forked, wispy beard hung down from a weak chin. The lines in his brow were cut deep, like scars. The stoical elder, who had survived both his wife and children, had seen the Franks take everything from the village in the past year. He had seen the Turks take everything from the village during previous years. The Turks would do so again, once the Franks had been defeated or when they moved on. Although Thomas was filled with compassion for the decrepit villager, it was the old man who possessed the more piteous expression for the pilgrim. The crusader was reminded of a piece of scripture. It was as though the elder was thinking, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they are doing.”

  Thomas told himself that he would say a prayer for the infidel that night. Hugh didn’t notice the scarecrow-like figure. Edward told himself to feel nothing for the villager, although he fleetingly fancied how the village could well be the eastern equivalent of his childhood home, back in England.

  The sage, or demented old man, mouthed something to the young westerner. Thomas couldn’t decide whether it was a blessing or a curse.

  Varhan led the party to a crumbling stone cottage, with a thatched roof. The walls were strewn with vines, like varicose veins. Rags hung from a couple of over-burdened washing lines. A few weeds littered the space where there was once a vegetable patch and herb garden.

  Varhan and Thomas exchanged a few words, which the latter translated for Hugh and Edward. The Armenian invited Thomas and the two knights inside the cottage. The remaining soldiers were asked to wait outside.

  Their eyes were like two pairs of slits, set into a castle turret to shoot arrows out from. Henri and Girard peeked over the rocky ridge, which was set above the village. Their party, containing Girard’s company of two dozen soldiers, set out earlier in the day to reconnoitre the area, in preparation for the arrival of Bohemond’s men later in the day, in accordance with the intelligence Raymond received.

  Girard’s pulse had quickened when he spotted the English knight enter the village. His lips receded over his gums and his aspect was laced with malice.

  He was tired of being tortured by images of Edward assaulting and defeating him. Humiliating him. Instead, he started to imagine slitting the Englishman’s throat, as his men pinned his enemy down.

  “We should attack immediately,” Girard suggested, like a dog straining to be let off the leash. “We have the numbers. We have the element of surprise. Once we kill Bohemond’s men we can capture Bohemond’s contact. His plan can become our plan. Our gold will be as valuable as their gold.”

  Henri ground his teeth in reply. He had spent the day with the preening aristocrat – but it was enough for an entire lifetime. The knight bristled each time the nobleman opened his mouth. It was like having a fly buzzing next to his ear. His reedy, whining voice spewed out a litany of complaints throughout the afternoon. It was too hot. The wine was too diluted or not diluted enough. His armour had not been oiled and polished properly. Henri was also tired of the peacock’s boasting about his horsemanship, his prowess as a lover and skills with a lance and sword. Girard’s words ate away at the knight’s patience, like rust eating away at a cheap blade.

  The professional soldier ignored the man – whelp - next to him. He would order the attack when he was ready. The light may have been fading, but they needed to descend into the village under the cover of darkness. While there was some light, he would keep watch for any additional soldiers under Hugh’s command. The ambushers should be wary of being ambushed themselves. Henri also needed to brief Girard’s company. He hoped they were more accomplished soldiers than their leader. They needed to ensure they spared the Armenian and the young translator during the attack. Their strategy should also be to use the crossbowmen in their group to target Hugh and Kemp. They had the potential to turn the tide of a battle and rally their company. But they couldn’t do so if dead.

  Edward was pleased to take the weight off his feet. Such was his height, his head had been touching the low ceiling. His worry however was that the rickety wooden chair that he was sitting on might collapse beneath him. The knight’s nostrils tickled with a blend of smells. Cat’s piss, mould and fresh bread.

  The house belonged to Varhan’s sister, Nazani. The lissom woman may well have been pretty in her prime, Edward estimated. But that prime was a long time ago. Time and life had worn her down, like the sea and wind eroding a cliff face. Her once glossy hair was now straw-like. Her once silky skin was now more akin to sackcloth. Nazani had not been the same since a Turkish raiding party, five years ago. When she was raped. One soldier had broken a finger on each of her hands and threatened to pour hot candle wax in her eye, so his victim didn’t fight back. Nazani naturally felt apprehensive about inviting the western soldiers into her home. But her brother assured her all would be well. Firuz had promised his sister a significant bounty for helping to negotiate his deal with Bohemond – and Varhan had duly promised his sister a portion of his reward.

  Varhan barked out some instructions for the woman to fetch some refreshments for their guests. His tone was more emollient when he addressed Thomas.

  “You have something for me, yes?” the Armenian asked, following Firuz’s suggestion to ask to see the gold first before commencing discussions.

  “Yes,” Thomas replied.

  Hugh went outside and returned, carrying a small strongbox and heaving it on the table in front of Varhan. The gold coins shone as brightly as the surrounding flames on the candles in the room. And this was only part of the payment, he thought, resisting the urge to rub his hands together.

  “And you have something for me?” Thomas asked. Bohemond had advised his translator to be polite, but direct.

  “Yes, yes. This scroll contains a map and instructions for your commander to work with Firuz to take the city. I will also go through things now with
you and answer any questions you have,” the Armenian explained, before complaining to his sister that the flatbread she brought out wasn’t warm enough.

  Varhan worked his way through Firuz’s plan, pausing every now and then to allow Thomas to translate things to the attentive soldiers. The two knights occasionally posed a question or offered a comment. They also nodded appreciatively at one another, approving of what they were hearing. The ruse had its merits and could work, which is not to say that it definitely would work. Few plans survive contact with the enemy. They would need a certain amount of good fortune for things to succeed, but God was on their side was He not? The knights were also aware that the plan involved placing a great deal of trust in their new confederate. There was ample scope for Firuz to betray his allies and ambush the crusaders. They would have to trust the traitor, because they had no choice. Edward realised that they needed to make a leap of faith. But the whole crusade was based on a gigantic leap of faith, he thought – either amused or in despair.

  Hugh permitted himself a wry smile, after digesting the plan, along with his cold flatbread. Bohemond would approve of the clever ruse. The guileful and greedy Firuz may be a man after his own heart. After Thomas secured the scroll and started committing the details to memory Hugh stepped outside to check on his men. A few of his soldiers were sharing a wineskin or two. A couple carried oil lamps to illuminate the scene.

  Varhan continued to engage with his guests as the Norman left the room.

  “I want you to know that my friend is an honourable man. It is the despicable Yaghi Siyan who is a traitor to his people. He has stolen from them. He abuses them. Soldiers take wives and daughters from their homes and present them to the governor, like trophies, for his lascivious pleasure. Husbands and boys are forcibly recruited into the army. When you speak to your commander, the great and estimable Bohemond of Taranto, you must ask him to apportion some soldiers to protect my friend, Firuz.”