Candles illuminated a window, glimmering in the darkness, guiding them in. Bohemond was reminded of an evening in his youth. The lusty scion of Robert Guiscard had arranged a late-night assignation with a nobleman’s daughter. She had placed candles in her bedroom window, as a signal that it was safe for Bohemond to climb up to her chamber. Once inside her room he suspected that the girl was not as virginal as she claimed to be. A month later, after Bohemond begun to court another mistress, the nobleman’s daughter confessed to being with child. His response was to curse the girl for being stupid – and a whore. He accused her of trying to trap him into marrying her – and that he wasn’t the father. He would disown her and the child. Bohemond’s sigh of relief could be heard throughout Taranto however when he learned that the girl lost the baby.
The prize behind the window now was greater than any young woman, virginal or otherwise. Bohemond decided that others could be first to claim the prize and glory of entering the city, however. He would no longer lead his force of knights, who were charged with scaling the walls and opening the gates. Partly he wanted to command the bulk of his troops, in order secure the city and citadel. But partly he was scared, although he would never openly confess to such weakness. His soldiers were about to cross the Rubicon. Once inside the walls, should Siyan attack, they would be cornered. Slaughtered. The Army of God needed Bohemond alive, he conveniently told himself. The coming hour could decide the fate of the entire campaign. He could not enjoy the spoils of victory if he was dead.
Bohemond was understandably not the only soul to be frightened. Sixty soldiers were about to enter a city garrisoned with five thousand, who would take great pleasure in flaying and murdering them. Their heads would be removed from their mutilated bodies and tossed over the wall the next morning, like rotten vegetables, if they were captured. Even in the inky darkness Bohemond witnessed the trepidation, or barely suppressed terror, in the faces of some of his men. Even the bravest of combatants were not immune to fear. It poured through the world like a chill wind. Teeth chattered. Crosses were clutched. The prince thought it apt to say a few words, to put some steel into his men, as they observed the rope being lowered from the window.
So far, so good.
“Go on, strong in heart and fortunate in your comrades, and scale the ladder into Antioch, for by God’s will we shall have it in our possession in a trice… Songs will be sung about your courage and deeds tonight. God will reward you in Heaven and I will reward you in this life. Let no sword be unstained with the infidel’s blood. The enemy has jeered at us, resisted us, for the last time. The city will be ours. God wills it.”
Although the men didn’t understandably cheer, their sinews stiffened.
The ladder was brought up.
Whether suffering from the cold, or fear, Hugh’s hands trembled as he attached the rope to the siege ladder.
The ladder was pulled up and fixed into position.
Fulk of Chartres had approached his prince beforehand and volunteered to be the first to scale the walls. The stolidly built knight owned a flat, hard face – which only ever softened, slightly, after several measures of wine. Fulk was not given to frivolity. Bohemond once joked to Edward that he had only ever seen the stoical soldier smile three times:
“The first was when he killed a man in battle, the second was when he was told he would be exempted from paying tax for the year and the last time was when he heard the news that his mother-in-law had died.”
Fulk could sometimes be as stubborn as a mule, but he could fight like a lion. He ground his teeth in grim determination as he climbed. The pilgrim was keen to avenge the deaths of fellow Christians who had fallen throughout the siege.
Next to put a foot on a rung of the ladder, after fraternally clasping the hand of his commander and exchanging some words of encouragement, was Hugh. He prayed beneath his breath. The closer a soldier is to death, the closer he gets to God.
Next up was Edward. His heart was throbbing, like a bee sting. His expression wasn’t etched in fear, but the Englishman could have just been burying his feelings, as deep as a grave, like usual. His sigh got lost in the soughing wind. Before climbing, the soldier turned to Thomas, whose face was as pale as the anaemic moon. The scribe took a step back from the ladder - but looked like he wanted to take a hundred more. His bottom lip was quivering. Bohemond’s words seemed to have instilled fear rather than fearlessness in his heart.
“Follow me up, lad. Every journey starts with a first step. You won’t be able to save your Yeva this side of the walls,” Edward said, hoping that the girl could inspire him, if Bohemond had failed to do so. The knight wiped his sweaty palms one last time and clasped the ladder, offering up the semblance of a prayer too as he did so.
Let her live. Even if I have to die.
They climbed the ladder. It bowed but didn’t break – like the courage of the men who ascended. Into the belly of the beast. Thomas’ foot slipped on a rung a couple of times and he hugged the ladder for dear life – wrapping his arms around it like the way he used to embrace not a woman, but his Bible and other tomes. Owen offered words of encouragement or censure, as he followed the youth up the walls.
Firuz tapped his foot and pulled and twirled his beard. He licked his chapped lips and straightened the fringe of his increasingly greying hair. His build was slight – spindly, like a sapling in winter. The Armenian had aged more in the past two months than he had in the previous two years. Tonight would be the making of him – or end him. Firuz told himself again that he was doing the right thing - and reminded himself of Yaghi Siyan’s slight against him. He envisioned confronting Siyan after the city had been taken from him – and before the tyrant faced execution. Firuz was glad that Bohemond agreed he would spare civilians and only allow soldiers to perish – and only if they resisted. But both men knew they were lying to each other and themselves. They would have blood on their hands. Firuz raked his fingernails down his neck once more, as his nervous rash flared up again.
“I am Firuz,” the Armenian said, gulping as he did so. His voice was strained, as if someone had recently tried to strangle him. “We have so few Franks. Where is Bohemond?”
Edward, Owen, Hugh, Thomas and Fulk of Chartres stood before him. Thomas thought the armourer would be burlier. Or that the traitor would possess sharper, shadier features. His bulbous eyes were framed within feminine lashes. A couple of watchmen flanked Firuz, who appeared equally nervous. Perhaps they felt uneasy, guilty, about their treachery. Or perhaps they were worried that the Franks might slay them, or that Firuz might not pay the bribe he promised them.
The Armenian spoke Greek. Thomas translated.
“We have enough Franks,” Fulk replied, bluntly. Upbraiding. Slightly offended. The Christian believed himself superior to the infidel. “Bohemond will be leading our forces when we open the gates. We are bringing up your next instalment of gold, to answer his next question.”
Firuz proceeded to hastily explain how he had dismissed his company from their duties this evening, but that the adjacent watchtowers were still manned.
“There are only two men in each of the towers. Others are out celebrating. I have checked. They must be prevented from alerting others. They have a bell and lantern, which serve as a warning system,” the Armenian advised.
Hugh and Edward discussed how they would need to take the towers by guile rather than force. They would need to kill rather than wound. The two knights would take personal responsibility for leading the attacks on the nearby watchtowers. Edward would pair up with Owen, Hugh would recruit Fulk.
The room began to fill out with the western knights as they clambered through the window, either shaken by the climb or the prospect of the formidable fight ahead. Dust marks on the floor indicated how Firuz had emptied the chamber of furniture, to accommodate the swelling numbers of his allies.
As the armourer took himself away into a corner, opening-up his chest of gold and counting his fee, Edward and Owen peeled off out of the room
and walked up the stairs – to the battlements. The cold wind swirled and ululated, like a wolf. A few campfires pockmarked the plains, as stars pockmarked the night sky.
“Surprise will be on our side,” the Englishman said encouragingly, his breath misting up in front of his face.
“Aye, and surprise is a cheaper ally it seems than the Armenian downstairs,” the Welshman replied, as he drew a shaft from his cloth arrow bag, which hung over his shoulder, next to his waist.
It wouldn’t be too long until dawn, as opposed to darkness, would be their friend, Edward considered. Providing visibility to view the houses worth looting, the enemy worth slaying and the women worth tupping.
But at the moment darkness was still their friend – as the two crusaders walked, with the archer concealed behind the knight, along the ramparts towards the watchtower. Edward walked slowly, nonchalantly, as he closed in on the two Antiochene standing at the entrance to the guard tower. It was too dark - and he was too far away - for the guards to notice that it was a western face coming towards them. They were also blind to the archer advancing behind the figure. Owen had already nocked his arrow. He couldn’t afford to miss.
Kill, don’t wound.
It was almost time, Edward judged. They were close enough for the enemy to provide a sufficiently large target, but not so close where the guards might notice something amiss. The Englishman unassumingly moved his hand around his back, reaching for a dagger concealed there. As to their plan he launched his blade at the enemy on the right, as Owen appeared out behind him, like a thief or avenging angel. Pull. Loose. The recently sharpened arrowhead pierced through the guard’s leather jerkin – and burst his heart - as if it were made of gossamer. He was dead, not wounded. Thankfully the missile forced the guard backwards, as opposed to him staggering sideways and falling down from the battlements, onto the street below.
Edward’s knife hit its mark too. The target was the Turk’s upper chest – or unprotected throat. Blood flooded the guard’s lungs and drowned out any screams. As soon the knight launched his dagger however he was rushing towards the guard, whilst drawing a second blade, which hung from the front of his belt. No sooner had his opponent hit the ground than the knight was upon him, like a lion placing a paw on its prey’s flank and ripping open its neck. The guard only had time to offer up an expression of shock and terror, before Edward covered his mouth and slit his throat, hacking through his windpipe as if he were carving an overcooked piece of steak.
So far, so good.
14.
Shortly after Edward and Owen returned downstairs, Hugh and Fulk came back, having similarly completed their mission. Edward wasn’t the only soldier in the room who was taken aback by Fulk’s gruesome visage. His cheeks, mouth and chin glistened with blood and even tiny pieces of bone – like grains of rice in a stew. The Norman’s wolfish grin could still be discerned beneath the red mask. Edward mused how he could now inform Bohemond that there was another instance of Fulk smiling. If he lived to tell the tale. The chronicles would no doubt portray Fulk as a chivalric knight, who had fought bravely and honourably to capture the watchtower. Everything was all so fucking laughable for the Englishman.
The room hummed with the sound of whispered conversations and prayers. Hugh sensed that he wasn’t the only one whose skin was prickling with cold and apprehension. As Bohemond advised, the knight offered up a few words to focus their minds:
“Our brothers are waiting for us on the other side of the gates. Let us open the doors and welcome them in. This night may be blacker than a Moor’s arse, but the day is always darkest before the dawn. Come the morning our banners will hang over these walls. God wills it!”
Again, the knights suppressed any urge to cheer, keeping a lid of their bubbling pot. But their hearts were hardened - and gauntlets gripped pommels – as Hugh led the company out of the chamber. To give battle.
As Thomas, waiting at the rear of the group, was about to set-off as well he was approached by Edward. The knight placed a hand on the youth’s shoulder, either as a gesture of fraternity or to prevent him from moving.
“I want you to remain here, lad, where it’s safe. You’re here to act as a translator. But the time for talking is over. It’s about deeds, not words,” Edward argued.
“But what about our mission to save Yeva?”
“I promise to come back once we have opened the gates?” the knight replied, with little conviction.
Thomas was going to assert that he wanted to see deeds, not words.
Edward strode out of the room, telling himself that he couldn’t afford to be distracted from his task. His duty was towards Bohemond rather than God. Yet he was torn, like a traveller coming to a fork in the road. God was becoming a cancer, eating away at his selfishness. If he kept his word, honour, and saved Yeva - would God then protect Emma? Even when he considered that he was starting to behave like a holy fool, he couldn’t prevent himself from scratching the itch. Should the knight somehow survive the battle to open the gates, should he then risk everything again to save the girl? She might not even be at home by the time he got there. God and Thomas might never forgive him if he broke his promise, however. Edward felt damned if he did – and damned if he didn’t – in relation to saving Varhan’s niece.
The knights marched along a street, which ran parallel to the city walls, and advanced towards the Gate of St George. The air rippled with the rhythmic sound of chinking mail and armour, at a pace which balanced speed against exhausting themselves before they reached their destination.
Edward nodded to Owen and a few knights carrying crossbows. They peeled off from the phalanx-like group and began to take a position on the roof of a hut, at the foot of the wall. The Englishman knew that they needed to overwhelm the enemy and open the gates, before support arrived and they were overwhelmed themselves.
The initial response of the Turkish soldiers at the gate was to just squint and take in the vague silhouette of men coming towards them. Were they fellow soldiers from the garrison, here to relieve them? Were they late-night revellers, celebrating the start of the crusaders’ retreat?
But the truth soon dawned on them, like a hammer blow. The enemy had somehow infiltrated the city. A collective shudder of shock and disbelief infected the Antiochene. Shouts ripped through the night air, like flesh being torn from bone. Cups and plates of food were thrown down. Spears were grasped. Pieces of armour were reached for and half strapped on. Guards who were asleep woke-up. Those who were awake leapt to their feet. Orders were issued to form up, by the two officers leading contingents of soldiers charged with guarding the gate. One of the captains of the watch bellowed up to the men on the ramparts. They were told to sound the alarm. For so long their evenings had been uneventful. The Franks had been kept at arm’s length. But not tonight.
As when a horse breaks from a trot into the gallop, the knights, once they witnessed their enemy rousing themselves, charged. Swords were drawn. Edward heard the whistle of missiles over his head, as Owen and others unleashed their arrows and quarrels. A number hit their mark. First blood to the crusaders. The sound of individual steps slapping upon flagstones became one long din, like individual raindrops turning into a downpour.
The pilgrims broke into three groups. One, led by Fulk of Chartres, attacked the Turkish guards to the left of the gates. Edward was at the vanguard of the troops which engaged the soldiers on the right. Hugh commanded the remaining knights, tasking himself with opening the heavily barred entrance.
The force of armoured knights slammed into the lines of their wavering opponents, like a wave crashing against a rickety pier. War cries littered the air, like sparks flying off two great pieces of flint.
Fulk carried a large shield, with more than one dint and dent across its surface, and a gore-strewn mace. The brutal knight punched, kicked, barged, butted and swung his weapon against his foes. He would have been willing to bite ears and noses, given the chance. His nostrils were as flared as a charging bull. His wolfis
h grin had turned into a spittle-filled snarl. He put himself at the heart of the melee, goading or terrorising the enemy – and inspiring his fellow knights, whipping them into a similar violent frenzy.
Edward swatted away the tip of a Turkish spear and moved inside to plunge his sword into an enemy’s stomach. He stuck out an elbow to fend off another assailant, breaking his nose. Blood curdling screams embroidered the air in front of him. Screams slashed his ears too, from behind, as a couple of men on the walls above threw spears into a brace of knights behind the Englishman. The guards manning the walls remained there, either feeling too helpless or scared to join their comrades fighting below.
Hugh attempted to bring order to chaos, mustering his men to heave off the bar across the door with their shoulders. An iron bolt, as stubborn as a harridan, also secured the gates. But a trio of knights descended upon it and either prised off the lock or smashed it with their heavy axes.
Captains were targeted, to leave the enemy leaderless. Edward was happy to provide his opponents with an excuse to rout and retreat. A handful of guards tried to surrender, but they were cut down without pause or remorse. The crusaders’ blood was up, bubbling over. The knights, professional soldiers, could finally prove their quality against the citizen soldiers – made up of fishmongers, tailors, tanners and barbers.
Bells continued to clang overhead. Panicked shouts swirled around them, like leaves in a crosswind, as the Turks looked to call for reinforcements. But the knights would be reinforced first.
The gates were stiff, having been closed for so long. But they were not stiff enough.
As soon as Bohemond had heard the bells ring out from the watchtowers he ordered his men to advance, gambling that his company of knights would complete their mission.
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