Siege

by Richard Foreman

  “Adhemar, you are in constant correspondence with the Byzantines,” Robert of Normandy remarked, filling the stale silence. “Can we trust our allies? Will the Emperor come to our aid?”

  The bishop furrowed his brow and appeared even more philosophical than usual. His stroked his chin and replied:

  “I believe that Alexios intends to honour his word. We should pray for his appearance – and our deliverance – but for pragmatic reasons we should plan as if the Byzantines will not arrive in time. Therefore, I endorse Bohemond’s proposition. We must attack the city tomorrow night. However, Raymond is also right. We should agree to grant stewardship, as opposed to ownership, of the city to Bohemond, should our allies prove true to their word,” Adhemar suggested, hoping that he had satisfied - or had at least half-satisfied - both rival princes. Euclid might disagree, the studious bishop wryly thought to himself, but occasionally in politics it was possible to square a circle.

  There was consensus in the council to concur with Adhemar. Bohemond nodded in assent - and donned an air of nobility and magnanimity, like he was laying a crown upon his head, in response to the bishop’s proposal.

  “I must insist that we continue with my contingency planning. Kerbogha will be with us in three days. I predict that he will mount his attack from the Iron Bridge. We should fortify the structures there. We will be able to bottleneck their forces and slow their momentum. You will forgive me, Bohemond, if I do not attach the same value to your plan and Armenian that you do,” Raymond stated, forcing a polite or politic smile, behind the gaol of his gritted teeth.

  “Someone values my plan it seems though, I warrant, as my men were attacked when they met with the Armenian’s agent yester night. The brigands could well have encountered my soldiers by accident, but I suspect that they were there to intercept the intelligence. But there isn’t any reason why you should know anything about that, is there?” Bohemond posed, with a telling look and inflexion in his voice.

  11.

  With every breath, or blink of an eye, Adhemar seemed to fluctuate between hope and despair as he collected his thoughts, after the meeting disbanded. The plan could work. But would it? There was one way in which the plan could prevail, but a thousand ways with which it could fall to wrack and ruin. The Armenian could be a gift from God – or a tool of Satan. The bishop had helped to patch-up the council again, but Adhemar knew the delicate stitching could fall apart at the seams at any juncture. All it would take was one misplaced word. Tensions were swelling, like the belly of a corpse left out in the sun, between Raymond and Bohemond. Bohemond could take the city, but then Raymond might endeavour to take it off his rival. Too much Christian blood had been spilled during this campaign already, but not by Christian hands. That might soon change, Adhemar lamented.

  The dry heat sapped his strength and spirit. As much as the bishop preached that there was a distinct separation between the body and soul, he wasn’t now so sure. But only faith can be shared. Never doubts. His head hurt, as if he were wearing a crown of thorns. Adhemar decided to distract himself by conducting his daily visit of the pilgrims’ camp. Unfortunately, the experience did little to elevate his mood, although he forced himself to put on a brave, kind expression. It was his job to give people hope, faith – even when he felt devoid of those virtues himself.

  “Sometimes it will feel that you are more of an actor, than a man of God,” Urban had explained, before setting off on the campaign. “You must be an inspiration to your flock, especially when you feel uninspired yourself, my friend. The princes and pilgrims will need you to be a rock. If gold should rust, what will lead do?”

  Gormless, god-fearing and goodly expressions greeted him as he walked through the dilapidated camp. He often swung a hand in front of his face to shoo away the throngs of insects. Many pilgrims he had encountered in the camp before approached him. Some courted him for a blessing, whilst clutching the hem of his robes. Adhemar regretted that his words could only provide consolation, as opposed to sustenance. Others asked him questions which he couldn’t answer. Or if he did know the answer, it would be best if he didn’t share his grim thoughts. When was the Emperor – and his army – coming? When would the next fleet of ships, laden with supplies, from Cyprus be arriving? Some revealed how they were fasting, in honour of God – but in truth they were starving. Some resembled walking skeletons. Skin stretched over protruding bones. Tears bled into sweat on moist, radish coloured cheeks. Emaciated children lay curled-up on the ground in what shade they could find, like dogs, to avoid the infernal sun.

  Antioch loomed in the background. The bishop permitted himself an indulgent prayer that, after the assault, the crusader banners would be hanging over the city. Adhemar immediately cringed however – because for that to happen, scores of Antiochene would be slaughtered. The banners would be bloodstained. How Christian could the crusaders claim to be after the campaign was over?

  If they survived the ordeal.

  As was his habit Adhemar visited Jean Mauger and his family in the camp. Their tent was housed on a slight slope. After hearing a sermon from his local bishop, calling for all men to take the cross, the former soldier turned fisherman decided to sell his boat and business. His wife and four children would accompany him. Jean wanted to see Jerusalem – and the Holy of Holies. God was calling him. Did he believe that God had called two of his children home, before they even reached the fringe of the Byzantine Empire? Yet Jean remained undaunted. There would be no turning back. Adhemar admired the humble Frank. He never complained or took his frustrations and privations out on his companions. Jean remained devoted to his wife - and doted on his children. The scarred and gnarled-faced soldier was unfailingly courteous and kind. Such was his size, strength and faith that many in the camp nicknamed him “Sampson”. Sometimes Adhemar thought his congregant might be a simpleton. Despite all he had endured, the pilgrim believed in God and goodness. Jean saw the best in people and still naively believed he would see Jerusalem.

  Godfrey of Bouillon was waiting for the bishop when he returned. Ostensibly the soldier desired for Adhemar to hear his confession, shrive his soul, before the assault tomorrow. The Christian prince was not beyond politicking too though. Godfrey, subtly or otherwise, petitioned Adhemar to nominate him as the steward of Jerusalem should they eventually capture the Holy City.

  “If you call upon me, I will do my duty,” Godfrey argued, placing his palm on the cross sewn into his tabard, just below his left shoulder, as he spoke.

  Adhemar politely replied that he would give due consideration to his petition. Not only did he force a smile, but the clergyman forced his eyes open, lest he fall asleep. His bed called out to him, like the voice of God.

  “I should inform you – albeit it will come as no great surprise to you I imagine - that I have received a number of other petitions, selflessly offering to take stewardship of Jerusalem. But you will appreciate how I cannot put the cart before the horse. Our thoughts must be focussed on Antioch, before they can turn towards the Holy City… Please forgive me Godfrey. It is now time for my daily prayers.”

  The prince had barely left the tent when Adhemar dismissed his attendant and took to his bed, curling up like the children he observed earlier. Even when asleep however the bishop scarce seemed at peace.

  Adhemar’s clerk, Rainald, passed on several messages when his master woke. Most concerned a variety of princes and clergymen inviting the bishop to dinner. A last supper, Adhemar wryly thought.

  “You are popular this evening,” Rainald remarked.

  “I know. Alas. I must make a note to pray for the contrary. It seems everyone wants a piece of me. I’m not sure there’s enough to go around. I do not quite possess the energy to be flattered, supplicated or interrogated throughout the night.”

  Adhemar wondered whether he had tried to court his superiors to further his career. Had he been fawning towards the likes of Urban and Raymond in the name of ambition? He couldn’t discount it. Churchmen could be even more ruth
less than soldiers or politicians even, when pursuing promotion. No doubt people believed that they could manipulate him, as Adhemar believed he could charm Urban and Raymond. The nobleman tried his best to remain uncorrupted over the years. Adhemar’s private wealth meant he was immune to bribes. The bishop had never been tempted by women, or young men, like many of his colleagues. Yet he couldn’t claim to be wholly free from pride and vanity. Had Urban not persuaded him to take the cross due to the prize of him writing his place in history? He had claimed to work for the glory of God. But had he not done so for the glory of his own name? Had he not sinned?

  Adhemar instructed Rainald to politely refuse the array of invitations. Instead, the bishop decided to ask Edward to his tent to share a jug of wine. The soldier would not spend the evening flattering him, or bidding for a remission of his sins. The thought of Edward trying to do so amused the bishop.

  As Rainald was about to take his leave Adhemar realised that he could tell his clerk to launder his ceremonial robes, in anticipation of the Emperor’s arrival or his staff could attend to his armour and weaponry. There wasn’t time for both in the morning. He chose the latter option.

  The two friends worked their way through a simple meal of warm flat bread, soft cheese and salted pork. Adhemar felt queasy and handed over his plate to the Edward, who needed the extra sustenance to keep up his strength. The soldier would have a long day, or night, tomorrow.

  “What did you think about the meeting earlier today?” the bishop asked, wishing to glean a different perspective on events.

  If we spent as much time and cunning fighting against the enemy than we do each other then we would be in Jerusalem already, I warrant,” the Englishman replied, before fishing a piece of pork out from in between his teeth and popping it back into his mouth.

  “Do you believe Bohemond’s plan will work?”

  “It will have to. It’s the only plan we have, unless a herd of winged horses arrive and we’re able to fly over the walls. If there’s one thing that you can have faith in, it’s that Bohemond likes to win. And he’s doubly determined. Taking the city will mean victory over both the Turks and Raymond. The key will be opening the gates. The enemy then won’t be able to then stem the tide. We’ll swallow up the bastards up like a leviathan. But be careful what you wish for. I’ve seen a city sacked before. It’s been more than six months of us snarling outside the walls. Six months of misery. Six months of rage. Mercy will be in shorter supply than wine. As much as you may be tempted to try and oversee or intervene in relation to the assault I would caution you in standing in between a soldier and his loot,” Edward remarked, internally shuddering as he imagined the scenes to come – scenes he had witnessed during previous sackings. He could still hear the ripping of dresses, the crackle of flames as homes were torched, the sluicing sound as blades scythed through flesh and the wailing screams of women and children, before being grimly silenced.

  “We men are wretched things,” Homer said,” echoing the soldier’s thoughts. Sighing. “There are some truths which even pre-date the Bible.”

  As the evening wore on Adhemar noticed that something was troubling his friend. The Englishman was only drinking half as much as usual (which was still twice as much as most men). The bishop naturally considered that Edward could be being haunted by the shadow of death hanging over him. Bohemond would doubtless volunteer him to take part in the initial force to enter the city and open the gates. Notwithstanding the issue of Firuz potentially betraying the crusaders, if the besiegers spotted the enemy then they would overwhelm them. Corner them. Torture them. Butcher them. Adhemar also suspected that his friend’s thoughts were turning towards Emma. Finally, he had something, or someone, to fight for. The bishop had observed the way he looked at the woman – and was amused by the tough soldier being vulnerable and enamoured. He joked to his companion that he may even feel compelled to compose some love poetry. Adhemar also asked if the Englishman ever felt like getting married.

  “I thought about it, once,” Edward had replied. “But the thought passed, like a bout of the shits.”

  Flames licked the air, writhing like lissom, limber dancers. Emma made sure to place a couple of braziers just outside and inside the tent. The warm, perfumed air was inviting. Enticing. But it wasn’t solely due to the hot air that Thomas stood, with his face flushed. Blushing. Part of him wanted to avert his gaze. But not enough of him, it seemed, as he continued to snatch glimpses of flesh, glowing in the candlelight, through slits in dresses and plunging necklines. In some instances, there was an absence of any neckline. Thomas’ eyes bulged. He stopped gawping upon the hearing the booming laughter of Owen inside, still happily spending his winnings from his wager.

  Thomas had come to the tent to seek out Edward. He wanted to discuss a plan with his friend to find and save Yeva, after infiltrating the city. Thomas declined an invitation to enter and look for his countryman. It would have been tantamount to a sin. Instead, he patiently waited outside as an attendant searched for Edward. Thomas found himself musing on the figure of Yeva, again. He pictured her with glossy black hair and smooth, olive skin. A heart-shaped face. She was beautiful – but also virginal. He pictured scenes of him teaching her English – and she would ask him about his homeland. Her husband was conveniently absent. Thomas’ heart swelled when he thought of the young woman. Of saving her, as if he were a knight errant. It was his fate, destiny, to protect her. God willed it. The student had even composed some verses, in his head, in honour of his muse. He found himself admiring her, even though he didn’t know her – and Yeva didn’t even know he existed.

  Herleva was usually attentive and responsive to her customers. She made a conscious effort to remember their names and feign interest in their lives (especially married men, who were apt to feign guilt). She knew how to play a part and could tantalise different types of customer like a harpist plucking strings. But she barely noticed as a bushy-bearded knight put his hand between her legs and wetly nuzzled her neck. He was aroused enough for the both of them. Her plan would be to extract a further payment and finish him off quickly. She would then have a cup of wine with Emma and move on to her next customer.

  The girl was distracted, from seeing Thomas outside through the crowd of people. Initially she thought he might finally succumb to temptation and enter. If he did so she would give her current customer her money back and rush over to him, before any of the girls pounced on him. Herleva didn’t know whether to be upset with Thomas or not when he declined to enter the tent. The den of iniquity, as the Christian once labelled it. She realised that he was probably looking for Edward. Thomas was unlike others, who tarried outside the brothel and peered inside, unable to afford to enter. They would ogle the girls from afar. Sometimes they even touched themselves, their eyes glazed over with unfiltered desire. She remembered one man who stood outside for so long, in the rain that he began to sink into the mud.

  Herleva stared at the Englishman with a blithe fondness. He looked so innocent, like he was in a world of his own. She wondered what he was thinking about. She imagined he might even be thinking about her. The uneducated whore remembered their last conversation. Thomas had offered to teach her to read and write.

  “I could only pay you back in one way,” she had replied, half-teasing the virginal Christian.

  Thomas crimsoned, from root to tip.

  “You wouldn’t have to pay me. A good deed is its own reward.”

  If anyone else would have uttered the line they would have sounded pompous. But Thomas was somehow incapable of being insincere.

  Herleva had countless admirers, but few true friends. Her sense of fondness faded, to be replaced by twinges of sadness. She wanted to be closer to Thomas. She liked him. She envied his faith. He was innocent enough for the both of them. On more than one occasion she fancied what it might be like to be married to him. Thomas would never cheat on her or abuse her. When Herleva first started in her profession she dreamed of a nobleman or knight falling in love with
her, whisking her away to live in a castle and showering her with silk dresses and gifts. But princes and knights were not what they seemed. They were fool’s gold. Thomas was something better – a good man, the kind of man who would make a good husband and father. Herleva had always been brazen and unapologetic about her profession – but she dared to dream about what life would be like in the Englishman’s homeland, far away from the damned crusade and her past life. He represented a new chapter in her life. Thomas made her want to be a better person, to be good enough for him.

  The bearded soldier let out a guttural hum or groan of pleasure. It had been an age since his grimy fingers had pawed such soft skin. He drank in her perfume. Herleva whispered a term of endearment into his wiry-haired ear, but then rolled her eyes afterwards. She would close her eyes and imagine being with Thomas when she was in bed with him.

  “Do you want to come out back? I want to be with you,” the Norman said, letting out a slight whistling noise through his bushy nostrils after he spoke.

  “I’m all yours, darling, for as long as you want me,” she replied, before standing up. The whore planted a kiss on his salivating mouth, avoiding wincing – or retching – and led him away. “Let me tell you about some of my extras. I like you. I can give you a discount.”

  She glanced back one last time at the Englishman, through the lascivious crowd, before disappearing with her customer. Herleva admired him, but it was as though she didn’t exist.

  “Have I got you drunk enough yet for you to submit to me hearing your confession, Edward?” Adhemar asked, only half-jokingly. The bishop was conscious of avoiding saying his “last” confession.

  “You’ll never get me that drunk, although I wouldn’t want to dissuade you from trying,” the knight replied, raising his cup in a mock toast. “We also both need our sleep. I’m concerned that I’d keep you up all night if I confessed my sins. But rather than worry about my soul, or a lack of one, we need to plan for the worse, in relation to yours. God knows what will happen over the next few days, if indeed God even cares. But I’d feel comfortable knowing that you will be safe. You have been our steadfast guide. We probably would not have reached this far without you, Adhemar. You have kept a pack of wolves together. As much as they may have howled and snarled it is due to your leadership that they haven’t turned on each other in earnest. Each of those preening princes owe you – so if any of them offer you safe passage back home you should accept. I’d also advise you to say yes to more than one offer, as who knows which of them will be alive to fulfil their promise. The Turks will see you as a prize worth seeking out and capturing, to be ransomed,” Edward argued, conscious of avoiding saying how it was more likely their foes would torture and kill the priest.