Siege

by Richard Foreman

  12.

  The army, consisting of men-at-arms and knights, had massed and commenced to depart. Bohemond made sure that only a few people knew about his grand plan. The fewer the better. He couldn’t afford for anyone inside the city to know his intentions. The plan could only work if Siyan was convinced by their ruse.

  The confusion and crestfallen expressions on the faces of his soldiers were genuine. Mossy beards seemed more scraggly than usual. Figures were as thin and pale as silver birch trees. Misery infected their beings, as surely as crosses were worn on shoulders. The majority of the crusaders believed they were retreating. They trundled, instead of marched. Dragging their feet. Dust scuffed up as they slowly advanced towards the mountain passes. Their heads were bowed, like chastened children. Their stomachs grumbled. Water couldn’t wash away the bitter taste of defeat. Was God testing or punishing them? Or was the shame and agony a form of purgatory, before reaching Jerusalem? Sweat trickled down wan features, caked with dust and sand. Armour chinked. Joints ached. The sweltering heat rubbed salt into the wound, as did the taunts and cheers from the walls of the city. Some fainted.

  Let them jeer, Bohemond thought to himself.

  I’ll soon wipe the smile off their faces. With my mace.

  The military column lumbered, undulating, like a world-weary serpent. Fangless. Many of the soldiers could barely remember the moment they committed themselves (or Bohemond committed them) to the campaign. They had been captivated by the promise of riches and the remission of sins. Trying to remember life in Italy was like trying to remember the details of a disintegrating dream. Soldiering across Europe could be hard and bloody. But the crusade was tantamount to suicide. Saints and martyrs had suffered less.

  Raymond stood on the balcony, outside his bed chamber, and watched the procession of soldiers tamp away. His features and heart were conflicted. He duly wanted the army to succeed – but for the commander leading the assault to fail. To die in battle. He wondered if it would be suitable to pray to God for the Almighty to alter the course of a stray arrow and lodge it in his rival’s breast.

  The count wasn’t the only figure to stop and stare at the departing force. Adhemar gazed into the distance, as if he were trying to peer into the future. Divining it. The bishop could not claim to be a prophet or visionary. He thought how he was unlike Peter the Hermit. Thank God. Many of the men appeared doom-laden when they were issued with their orders earlier, to retreat. But the poor souls would soon realise that they were gifting everyone hope. Salvation. Bohemond was adamant that the army should initially be kept in the dark. Untrustworthy people are seldom given to trusting others, Adhemar judged. The clergyman watched as the final combatant passed out of view. He wished he could find out all the names in the army and issue a prayer for each one. Instead he uttered a solitary word as an all-encompassing benediction.

  “Godspeed.”

  Emma also observed the column snake towards the mountain passes, cursing herself for having missed Edward. For not saying goodbye properly – and letting him know how she felt about him. She had sensed that something had been wrong yesterday, after Edward met with Bohemond. The knight explained that a sizeable portion of the army was departing, to form a giant foraging party. But Emma was a woman attuned to knowing when a man was lying. She’d had plenty of practice over the years. Usually it was when a man moved his lips. Yet Edward had been largely honest with her. It was partly why she was so attracted to him.

  Was this the first stage of a retreat? Or were they finally advancing towards Jerusalem? Emma had more questions than answers, unfortunately. Edward had promised that he would return:

  “Sooner than you might think. If nothing else I’ll be back because I’ll miss my new horse too much,” he said with a half-smile.

  Emma stood beside Herleva. At best wistful at worst mournful. Tears moistened her lugubrious almond eyes. She half-smiled, as she pictured the Englishman, and clasped the hand of her friend, not quite knowing the reason why.

  Edward walked on, having decided to leave the mount Adhemar had lent him back at the camp. For Emma. He had missed her last night and earlier in the morning. She was well-versed in climbing in and out of bed without waking her sleeping partner. All that remained of her presence was the lingering scent of her perfume on the bedsheet. Edward had prepared a short speech for Emma, but he didn’t get the chance to air it. The soldier was not one for sentiment or flowery words, but he wanted to ask Emma if she would like to come back to England with him. He had some savings and planned to buy a cottage. He had drawn his sword enough. Too much. An old friend, a former sell-sword, had offered to sell him a share in his tavern. He wanted to settle and a place to call home. The word “home” had caused Edward disquiet before, as he remembered his childhood and what the company of Normans – the pack of wolves – had done to his village. But with Emma he was willing to make a home again, instead of just forget about his old one. Or if she invited him back to Taranto, he would accept. He wanted to tell Emma that he had woken up to lots of different women in the past, but in the future Edward only wanted to wake up to one for his remaining years in the world. The Englishman was a little fearful of scaring Emma away, however. She had revealed how several men had offered to marry her before. “They wanted me, partly because they didn’t want anyone else to have me,” the whore confessed. “They wanted to yoke me, like a prize bull. But I ran away, faster than a thoroughbred horse.”

  The Englishman yearned to say so much, to drink in her smile and hear her laughter for at least one last time. Instead, Edward had said nothing. It was another reason why he needed to see her again. For the first time, in a long time, the soldier put together a semblance of a prayer.

  I know we haven’t spoken in an age – and I’ve got more sins to atone for than a relic-selling priest or inbred nobleman – but I’m not petitioning you for me. I just want you to keep her safe. She’s worth ten, or a hundred, of me. Should I say an Our Father? I’ll be in your debt. How should I pay you back? I promise not to take your name in vain, for at least a month. If you prove that you can be merciful and benevolent – then I’ll prove myself to you in return.

  Thomas made his way along the column, his eyes darting about like a bee seeking honey, as he looked to locate Edward. Time was running out to form a plan to save Yeva. He barely slept during the night, as he played out various scenarios of meeting the young woman. When he did sleep though, he dreamed of her. Or someone he believed was her. Was God showing him a vision? A sign?

  As much as Thomas’ inward eye dwelled on the dusky, exotic beauty of Yeva, the Englishman couldn’t help but note the drear, emaciated figures in front of him. A few of the soldiers, from Bohemond’s company, Thomas knew Gaston. The infantryman’s mouth was downturned, in an inverted V-shape. The man-at-arms was clutching a small vial of holy water, hanging which hung around his neck. He believed the water made him invulnerable in battle. Next to him was Walter, a former tanner. His scalp shone in the late afternoon sun, from where the soldier rubbed vinegar and honey into his skin – due to an apothecary recommending the remedy as a cure for his baldness. Walter appeared even more grief-stricken than usual. The Italian had travelled east with his three brothers. He was the last one remaining. The soldiers had died six months apart, throughout the pilgrimage. With each death Walter had grown more embittered. Each death had been like the swing of an axe, Thomas mused, hacking away at his faith and good nature. And the tree was on the cusp of finally falling. The innkeeper’s son, who was fond of singing and brewing his own ale, was the shadow of the man he once was. His roseate cheeks had hollowed out. He no longer attended mass. His default expression was a choleric scowl.

  Thomas was at one point tempted to console some of the soldiers by confiding in them. Their ignominious retreat was merely a ruse. But Bohemond had threatened his inner circle with all manner of punishments should they become loose-lipped.

  His thighs burned. Beads of sweat wended their way across his downy cheeks. But T
homas was a man possessed. He needed to find his countryman before it grew too dark and they doubled-back towards the city. He had gulped in fear, more than once, at the prospect of trying to find Yeva without Edward’s help. But not even Charlemagne or Caesar could sway him from his duty. He believed it was fate, that he would save the woman. And so he continued to work his way along the bedraggled line, like a man possessed or a beggar scrabbling around for a few small coins buried in the mud.

  Alexios Komnenos didn’t need to hear too much to know that he had heard enough. He would abandon the crusaders to their fate, if they hadn’t already met their demise.

  Stephen of Blois stood before him. His features were drawn, as if they had been stretched out on a rack. He was anxious. Anxious to be on his way, back to Normandy. to know if he would receive a reward from the Emperor, to not thought to be a coward, no better than the lowliest deserter. Timidity and dishonour eked out of the pores of his skin like sweat, Tatikios mused, as he looked on with the sweat, Tatikios mused, as he looked on. Even before the campaign commenced in earnest, the Byzantine general had scant affection or admiration for the Norman prince. He was thin-bloodied. One would always find him at the rear of a cavalry charge. Alexios had employed one of his spies to intercept his correspondence with his wife, Adela, when the Norman stayed as his guest in Constantinople. She dominated him. He was a whipped cur. “She is the husband and he is the wife,” Tatikios had joked at the time.

  The prince had encountered a Byzantine scout during his trek to Alexandretta - and requested to seek an audience with the Emperor. He reported that the campaign was lost. Desertions, disease and starvation were rife within the legion. Antioch was no closer to surrendering. Kerbogha’s army was three times the strength of the western forces. Better armed. Better provisioned. Fresher. If the pilgrims remained, they would be attacked. If attacked, defeated.

  Alexios had hoped to arrive at Antioch with the crusaders and Turks having half mauled each other – and he would be in a position of strength to snatch the city away from both of them. But it wasn’t now worth advancing. His army would return to Constantinople. Consolidate. As deplorable as Stephen of Blois’ cowardice was, the Emperor would have deserted the doomed cause too in his position. Although he was fond of a few of the westerners, most notably Adhemar, he despised the pilgrims as a tribe. As a race they were vulgar, crapulent and brutish – and that was just their ruling class. The Emperor recalled his daughter’s judgement about the Normans. “They are like gangrene, for gangrene, once established in a body, never rests until it has invaded and corrupted the whole of it.” Alexios did not wish to fall out with Urban, however, as he may need the pope’s assistance again. Allies were better than enemies. He may be persuasive enough, or Urban may be gullible enough, to call for another crusade. Alexios would spare a thought for the doomed pilgrims and pray for them, although he would also offer up a prayer of thanks to Kerbogha for removing the irritant of Bohemond. The more his old enemy suffered in death, the better, he unchristianly thought. If they decapitated the infidel, he would bid to purchase the head as a trophy.

  The Byzantine Emperor was reclined on a large sofa. The Norman bowed his head slightly, awaiting his response. His eyes flitted about him, taking in the various attendants standing just outside the tent, ready to be called upon. To serve. There was a barber, cupbearer, surgeon, courtesans, a cook and even perfumer. A couple of brawny slaves stood either side of the tent and gently waved fans over the head their master. A quartet of Varangians stood pillar-like at each corner of the canopy. Red-haired. Freckled. Were they English? The famed, formidable soldiers looked like they wouldn’t piss on the Norman if he was on fire. The attendants were ready to unleash themselves and attend to their emperor’s every whim. He rewarded loyalty and exemplary service - but had few qualms about punishing anyone who displeased him.

  Alexios smoothed down his already oiled hair and straightened the sapphire ring on his middle finger. He paused before replying, before passing judgement. It often amused him to keep people waiting. He fought off the temptation to yawn.

  “We shall pray for your companions,” the Emperor piously stated, briefly creasing his fine features in a show of sympathy. But Alexios had little intention of offering any other form of assistance to his allies to support the war effort. The campaign was over. Constantinople would provision and allow sanctuary for any retreating crusaders, on the condition that they moved on quickly. One should never reward failure.

  Abrasive clouds scoured the sky in the distance. Edward imagined that the soldiers would welcome the rain. The fiercer the storm the better. They would raise their leathery faces to the heavens. Catch the water in their helmets. Lick their lips. They could even believe, for a few moments, that the rain might wash their sins away.

  Perhaps some of the soldiers were looking forward to marching into the tempest. Unfortunately, they would soon be turning back to advance into a different type of storm. The storm of war. And so they tamped on. Edward wondered which would wear thin first, the soles of his boots or his patience.

  Thomas had finally caught up with him – and acted like a fly in his ear. Pleading with him. Pestering him. The scribe could talk for England – and every other country represented in the campaign, Edward mused. He talked and gesticulated incessantly, like a religious zealot.

  “I am willing to defer to you, as to how we should proceed to find and save Yeva once we have entered the city. I have memorised a map of the area and more than one route from the walls to the house.”

  “You shouldn’t be getting your hopes up. The lass may even have perished in the past month.”

  “No! I know that she’s still alive. And I know that we will save her. God wills it,” Thomas shot back, frantically. His voice suddenly became shriller. The scrawny youth also gripped the knight’s arm as he spoke, and for once Edward considered that his friend might be stronger than he looked. He also considered that Thomas was obsessing over the girl. The holy fool was turning into a love-struck poet. The world-weary knight was tempted to tell the green youth how love, like life, would chew him up and spit him out.

  “Sometimes things do not always work out how we would like,” Edward cautioned. Sometimes spirits needed dampening. The soldier hoped that the trauma of battle would curtail his desire to rescue the girl.

  “I have faith that we will find her. I also have faith in you, Edward.”

  “People have been foolish enough to have faith in me before. I don’t have much faith in me, lad, so I’m not sure why you should,” Edward replied, a voice baked in regrets and soaked in wine.

  “You gave your word to Varhan though.”

  “It was just a word. Once said, it disappeared into the ether. No one else heard it.”

  “God did.”

  “I pity God then, if he has nothing worthier to do than eavesdrop on my conversations,” Edward cuttingly remarked.

  Thomas, for once, was silent. Edward had hoped earlier that his companion would cease speaking. But be careful what you wish for. The youth appeared hurt – worrying that the knight would break his promise and blood would be on their hands. For a moment the adolescent appeared like he might even cry. Edward felt a pang of guilt, as if someone had plunged a small blade in his back during a tavern brawl. The soldier told himself that he shouldn’t feel guilty. He told himself that, unless he broke his promise to Varhan, both he and Thomas would be killed on the streets of Antioch. Trying to “rescue a virtuous maiden,” as the would-be knight had naively explained it.

  But it wasn’t just Thomas’ voice Edward heard in his head as night began to fall. Again, he heard his mother’s words - touching what little remained of his hobbled heart.

  “You should always keep a promise.”

  “Why?”

  “Because God is watching you.”

  13.

  Darkness was their friend. The wind was also blustery, muffling out the noise they made. God was on their side. Sixty or so knights moved forward towards
the steep walls of Antioch and the Tower of Two Sisters. Carefully. Stealthily. Curses were whispered beneath breaths every time a rock was kicked out of place or a scabbard scraped against the ground. Any mail or metal was covered-up or smeared with mud so there was no danger of it being caught in any light.

  It appeared that the ramparts above them were free of watchers. So far, so good. Firuz has either dismissed the men from that part of the wall – or the ruse had worked and the Antiochene were elsewhere, celebrating their victory over the westerners.

  Bohemond led the elite troops. Many were from noble families. Many were devout Christians. More than one had studied to serve in the church. Some composed poetry. But most were cold-bloodied killers. Killing came as easily as breathing to the soldiers. More than chivalric knights, they were butchers. Thank God, Bohemond thought. Most wouldn’t hesitate to slice open a woman or child’s throat, if they stood in the way of the company opening the gates. Their blood would be up, but they would keep a clear head too. The mission was everything.