Siege

by Richard Foreman

  “We will,” Thomas dutifully replied.

  “I must ask a favour of you too, on a personal matter. I have a niece, my late brother’s daughter, still residing in Antioch. Yeva is a fine young woman. She has just suffered the misfortune, along with lots of young women, of marrying a bad man. He is a vile dog. A tyrant. He sleeps with whores and beats her. I must ask you to save my dear Yeva, when you enter the city. We both know what will happen if your soldiers find her. I have a map, marking where her house is in Antioch. I can pay you, once Firuz pays me. This is why I choose to help you, so Yeva would be safe. If you take care of Yeva for a few days, until it will be safe for me to enter the city again. You must say yes. Please,” Varhan exclaimed, agitated, clasping Thomas’ forearm in supplication, before impatiently barking out another order to his sister, to clear away the empty plates in the room.

  “What’s he saying now?” Edward asked, witnessing how animated the Armenian had become.

  Thomas explained the situation. Edward rolled his eyes and then shook his head.

  “No. We shouldn’t get involved. Chivalry be damned. Tell him we cannot help,” Edward asserted, keen to return to camp.

  “If we can help, we should help. We both know what will happen if our soldiers sack the city. We already have enough blood on our hands. For once, we have a chance to deliver rather than damn someone. You are a knight, Edward. You have a sworn duty to defend the innocent.”

  “Don’t talk so much bollocks. And don’t tell me what my duties are as a knight. I can tell you that your duties as a translator don’t involve making fanciful promises,” the soldier replied.

  Edward glanced at the Armenian. His bulbous eyes were unblinking. Pleading. Although Varhan was unable to understand what the Englishmen were saying he could tell they were disagreeing. He dropped to his knees in front of the knight and spoke in the westerner’s native tongue.

  “Please, help. Please, help.”

  Tears began to well in the Armenian’s eyes as he gripped the knight’s trousers. Edward pursed his lips and appeared awkward, embarrassed. He sighed, or harrumphed. He tried to appear sympathetic, whilst also flashing a look of scorn at Thomas for putting him in such a situation. The seasoned veteran would have rather been facing down an enraged Saracen than dealing with the sobbing foreigner, given a choice, Thomas suspected.

  “God’s blood. If you tell him that we will try to help his niece,” Edward announced, but somewhat dismissively.

  “Thank you, you are a good man, he says,” Thomas conveyed, after exchanging a few words with the Armenian.

  “Ha! He must have not diluted his wine. Next, he’ll be saying that I have an honest face,” Edward joked – but failed to smile.

  Thomas said that they would endeavour to protect Yeva, although this did little to assuage Varhan’s anxiety.

  “Please, swear. Give me your word of honour. Both of you. Swear on your God. A knight’s honour means something, no? You are a man of honour. You wear a cross. You are a man of God. Once you give your word, you must keep it. Honour is honour. Without honour, a man is nothing. He is a beast, dressed in finery,” Varhan petitioned.

  A pregnant pause hung in the air, like the insects buzzing around the light, as Thomas translated and waited for Edward to give his word of honour. But the words got stuck in his throat. He thought for one moment that they might choke him. The non-believer had never given his word of honour, with God as his witness, before. His oath shouldn’t have meant anything to him. But somehow it did. He was conscious of the Armenian and Thomas gawping at him, in hope or expectation. Edward was reminded of a scene from his childhood. His mother’s voice chimed in his ears.

  “You should always keep a promise.”

  “Why?” Edward replied, curious.

  “Because God is watching you.”

  Surely the Englishman could easily dismiss such an oath, as if he were just brushing away a cobweb in front of him. What did he owe to the Armenian? Or his niece, who he had never met? Who he would probably never meet. Even if this Yeva were as comely as Cleopatra he had Emma. He realised, perhaps at that very moment, that she was more than enough for him.

  Edward finally, reluctantly, gave his word. He gasped for air afterwards, as if he were half-drowning. He felt like he had just made a pact with the devil. Or he had been marked with a branding iron. The knight was angry at Thomas, the Armenian and himself.

  “Enough of this nonsense,” Edward exclaimed, although Thomas diplomatically declined to translate this last sentiment. The knight did however thank Varhan for his service. He was tempted to say he would be rewarded in the next life for aiding the pilgrims, although Thomas suspected that the agent was more concerned with being rewarded in this one.

  8.

  Henri surveyed the scene, concealed behind a disused well. Girard was beside him. The nobleman swayed back and forth on the balls of his feet, as if he were standing on hot coals. Their men lay on the outskirts of the village, hidden in a trench, their faces daubed with dirt to further blend into the darkness. Some of them seemed understandably nervous, whilst others were champing at the bit. They wanted to get the fight over with and return to a campfire, wineskin and reward from Raymond of Toulouse.

  Bohemond’s soldiers were grouped outside a cottage, having recently been joined by Hugh of Cerisy. Edward Kemp, the translator and the contact they were meeting were inside. There were various angles of attack – but so too there were numerous escape routes for the enemy. Henri couldn’t afford to allow anyone inside, or outside, the cottage to live. But he could afford to be patient.

  Henri pictured the place where he intended to ambush Bohemond’s men. It was a bottle neck. The rocky trail narrowed, running in between two shrub-filled slopes, where he could conceal his soldiers. He would first instruct his crossbowmen to target the Englishman and Hugh at the head of the party. They would then attack from the flanks and rear. The enemy would be clumped together, unable to fight back or escape. Horses would panic and throw their riders. They would be fish in a barrel. Henri would ensure that the translator lived. The ambush, as opposed to any attack in the village, would minimise losses to the company too.

  The knight framed his thoughts. He would retreat up to the ridge, recover the horses and prepare his men for their surprise attack. The enemy would have no choice but to travel back through the pass. But at the same time that Henri settled on his plan Girard became increasingly unsettled. His blood boiled. The enemy were gathered together, ready to be slaughtered. Girard didn’t know what the knight was waiting for. He drew his sword, as if to act as a prompt for Henri to give the order attack. But the soldier ignored the petulant nobleman. The whelp. Instead, the knight moved from his position to confer with a couple of men he had posted as sentries at the eastern mouth of the village. He ordered them to ready the horses.

  “Are we not going to attack?”

  “No, not now.”

  But Girard had other ideas, in the knight’s absence. He briefed his company earlier that they should follow his orders, should there be a dispute between the two commanders. It was a sin against nature for the common soldier to try to supersede the nobleman’s authority. Henri needed to learn his place in the order of things. Girard was born to lead. It was in his blood. He had been schooled in military strategy and tactics. He had read Caesar’s The Gallic Wars and the first two chapters of On Roman Military Matters, by Vegetius. What had the illiterate Henri read? Girard mustered his men and ordered them out of the trench, guiding them through the village. The first wave of western soldiers forced the villagers inside. The second kept them inside.

  The young aristocrat puffed out his chest and rested a hand on the pommel of his sword when issuing his orders, consciously imitating the stance his uncle often took when addressing his men. Girard decided to selflessly deny himself a portion of glory by declining to join the attack. He needed to keep his distance to orchestrate the offensive effectively, he argued. Thanks to Henri’s caution, Girard would not
be able to deploy any mounted troops – but the aristocrat believed that his contingent of crossbowmen would deliver victory. He positioned two sets of four crossbowmen either side of Bohemond’s men. Another dozen or so members of his company were ready to advance from all sides, armed with swords and axes, within rushing distance of the enemy.

  During the wait for his soldiers to move into position Girard pictured a wave of crossbow quarrels slamming into his foes. Felling them. He also imagined the words of praise and rewards his uncle would levy on him, when he proved successful in his mission. Such was his fervent belief in victory that Girard was blinded to the diffidence in the eyes of some of his soldiers, who were fearful of thrusting themselves into the heat of battle. Due to Girard’s own reticence in testing himself against various enemies, many in his company were yet to be properly bloodied too.

  The nobleman witnessed the Englishman exit the cottage, along with the translator and the contact they were meeting. It was a sign to commence his attack. God was on their side. Girard gave the order, by raising and then lowering his arm. A quartet of crossbowmen broke cover from behind an outbuilding, next to a ramshackle dwelling, Quarrels rested on their weapons, ready to be unleashed. On observing their counterparts in the distance, a second group of crossbowmen lined-up on the other side of Bohemond’s men, appearing from out of nowhere like spirits from the underworld.

  A series of shrill whooshing sounds laced the air, succeeded by horses whinnying. But the would-be deadly volley of missiles failed to kill anyone. Quarrels thudded into a couple of horses, but also struck the ground and whistled overhead. Confusion reigned in the treacly darkness. Bohemond’s men were unsure who was attacking them, and how substantial a force it was. Could they be villagers? Turks? Shouts went up, but then dissipated like smoke. Raymond’s men were unaware how unsuccessful their opening salvo had been. Girard’s soldiers were now charging, on foot, a group of mounted troops.

  Edward was one of the first to react decisively. He led the Varhan and Thomas off around the side of the cottage, away from the crossfire, where he untethered his horse. The knight was met however by a couple of Girard’s soldiers, barring his way like a couple of locked doors. The figure on his left grinned or grimaced, revealing a gap in his teeth which one could have slotted a prayer book through. The face next to him was buried in a bushy, greasy beard. One carried a short sword, the other a large mace. The Englishman duly noted how they were being attacked by Franks rather than Turks. Edward couldn’t rely on Thomas or Varhan to enter the fray. But he wasn’t without help. The knight drew his sword, before slapping the rump of his horse. The creature took a few quick steps forward and acted as a battering ram to break open the barrier in front of him. Before his enemies could re-orientate, Edward was on the front foot. The soldier, brandishing the short sword, drew his weapon back to slash at the Englishman, but Edward jabbed his own blade forward, skewering it into his gullet, emitting the word “Bastard!” as he did so. The point beats the edge. The Englishman pivoted in time to avoid the bloodstained mace’s head staving in his skull. The weapon was powerful, but cumbersome. Before the bearded Frank could reset and swing the fearsome club again Edward swiped his broadsword upwards and sliced open his face, causing the gap between the soldier’s teeth to further widen. A scream cut through the air like a winter chill, but the noise was drowned out by the roar and clang of battle. Edward, assisted by the Armenian’s attendants, retrieved a number of horses – and he proceeded to lead Thomas and Varhan away from the skirmish. On more than one occasion the knight had to bellow instructions to the translator to spur him into action, from being frozen in fear. Edward didn’t feel entirely comfortable abandoning his company and showing his back to the enemy – but it was of paramount importance that the plan, in some form, reached Bohemond. The entire campaign depended on it. After hearing the Armenian’s strategy to capture the city, Thomas mentioned that their prayers could have been answered. Edward was more cautious, believing that there is many a slip between a cup and a lip.

  Rather than concentrating on whether their missiles had hit the mark the crossbowmen focussed on reloading their weapons, straining to pull the drawstring back. As they did so however a slightly different kind of “whoosh” filled the air, succeeded by the noise of multiple thuds as Owen and his trio of archers entered the fight. Edward had ordered his friend to track their party from Antioch. Should they be attacked by bandits on the road to the village, then Owen and his men would ambush the ambushers. As soon as the English knight entered the cottage Owen had positioned himself on the roof of the empty stables, across from the dwelling. The Welshman permitted himself a grin, as he shot off his third arrow. The enemy had no idea where the murderous missiles were coming from. They were out in the open, exposed like a head on a block, waiting for an axe to fall upon them. Nock. Pull. Loose… Nock. Pull. Loose. He could hear his father’s booming voice drill the three instructions into him. Owen had been a poacher since childhood. The prey had just changed. Killing was second nature. All manner of pandemonium was taking place around him but the archer methodically, murderously, went to work. The bowstring bit into his fingers, but not as stringently as the barbed arrowheads bit into flesh. Every one of his arrows hit its mark, even when the crossbowmen routed - and he aimed at moving targets.

  Hugh steeled himself and the soldiers around him. He mounted his horse and squinted in the darkness, assessing the scene. Crossbow quarrels were lodged in the ground, rather than in his men. The sound of his archers unleashing their arrows was as welcome as a choir of angels. The spectres in the distance were falling to the ground, being sent back down to hell. Hugh couldn’t entirely discern the strength of the enemy, but he judged that attack would be the best form of defence, as a wave of assailants closed in. He dug his heels into the flanks of his destrier and mowed down a brace of sword-wielding foes. Their ribs snapped and their heads split open like rotten fruit as they hit the ground. There were others who followed Hugh’s lead and duly counter-attacked their opponents.

  Henri heard the clash at arms at the heart of the village. Screams sliced through the stygian darkness. The knight let out more than one vociferous curse, suspecting that the whelp was at fault, as he rushed towards the fight. Perhaps he could help turn the tide of battle. But he soon dismissed such an idea. The battle was likely over, as Henri was confronted with a couple of familiar faces, retreating – being pursued an by enemy horseman. He cut Girard’s men down, slashing his sword across their backs. Easy kills. Henri was determined not to lose his life as cheaply, as the enemy eyed his new target and spurred his mount on. Bohemond’s man was surprised, but far from unhappy, that the foe was standing his ground. It would take less effort and energy to slaughter the brigand. The earth shook beneath him, as the horse closed in. Galloping. He noticed whirls of mist come out of its snorting nostrils, just before Henri feinted one way and dived the other. The horseman couldn’t adjust his sword stroke in time. Before he had an opportunity to wheel his mount around for a second charge Henri rose to his feet, drew his dagger and launched it into his enemy. The blade easily pierced his leather jerkin. It may have even pierced a mail hauberk, should he be wearing one, such was the power of the throw. The rider fell from his horse like a sack of flour. Before he could pull the knife from his stomach Henri plunged his sword into his opponent’s brain, through his eye socket.

  The knight exhaled, emitting ten sighs in one, whilst quickly taking stock. Henri hadn’t survived so many campaigns, without knowing when a battle was lost or won. He mounted the stray horse and rode for home. The soldier wanted to get back to camp. He looked forward to seeing his pet snakes again. He rightly trusted them over any man.

  Girard didn’t believe what he was seeing at first. Then he didn’t want to believe it. He told himself he had surprise on his side - and he had the superior numbers - multiple times, like a refrain in a song. The scene was chaotic and confusing, cloaked in gloom. But, ultimately, he knew that the attack was failing. Or had faile
d. The lives of his men were being snuffed out, like a priest pinching and extinguishing candles at the end of mass. His breathing became irregular and his jaw increasingly dropped, like a man staring on, helpless, as he watched his home burning down in front of him. All the time, whilst gummed in a state of disbelief, Girard started to slowly walk backwards, fading into the darkness. Such was the frequency and ferocity of the arrows raining down on his men that he thought he was being attacked by forty, instead of just four, archers. As he began to breathlessly run through the village, away from the fight, the nobleman’s next reaction to defeat was to curse the incompetence and cowardice of his men. They deserved to die, he concluded. Along with a trusted companion, Pierre, who he had whored and gambled with since his early adolescence, Girard put as much distance between the battle and himself as possible, disappearing into the wilderness. Eventually the bedraggled pair came across a farm, where they stole a couple of ponies. Thankfully Girard’s confederate had studied a map of the region and was able to lead them back towards Antioch. Rather than dwell on any guilt - or mourn the loss of his men under his command - Girard focussed his mind on composing a narrative which would exonerate him in the eyes of his uncle. He thought that it would prove favourable if only he and Pierre returned from the mission. Indeed, he even offered up a prayer that God might help facilitate such a favourable outcome.

  9.

  Edward returned to Antioch in the dead of night. The embers of campfires were fizzling out. The last of any slurred drinking songs no longer carried through the air. Edward was soon followed by Hugh and the rest of their company. Bohemond was awake and greeted his soldiers. He was pleased that there had been no loss of life among his men. But he was far more concerned – and happier – about the news that the meeting with the Armenian went well. Bohemond devoured the contents of the scroll, as if it were a letter from his wife – or mistress. He nodded, grunted and finally grinned in response to its contents. He occasionally asked a pointed question, but Bohemond was satisfied. Or as satisfied as Bohemond could be. The plan was secured, and workable. Their mission had been a success – and success should be rewarded, he believed. The prince arranged wine and roasted meats for his men and invited Edward, Hugh and Thomas into his tent.