The distressed woman, Sophia, was crouched in a corner. Tears both fresh and drying, marked her quivering countenance. The front of her dress had been torn and she endeavoured to cover out her exposed breasts. Blood tricked down her chin, from her split bottom lip, from where Bruno had punched her, to stop the woman screaming. The small wound looked like a stem had been cut lengthways, below a flower. Edward later lamented that the woman had probably been a beauty before the siege – although there were no guarantees that she would be attractive again. Life had gotten its claws into her, carving worry lines into her smooth semblance. The Englishman’s heart went out to the poor woman, albeit his focus needed to turn towards her tormentors.
As bellicose as Edward was feeling he decided to sheath his sword, to ease the tension and air of threat and violence. As he did so the young Frank removed his blade from the boy’s neck.
“What do you want?” Bruno asked, or rather demanded. Tonight was their God-given reward, the soldier believed, for what they had endured these past months. The enemy deserved any and every punishment a prince or pilgrim could mete out. All would be lawful Just.
“I want you to leave this place,” Edward remarked, unequivocally. Unblinking. Obsidian-hard. He looked like he wanted to kill the bully and rapist. Because he did. Although the scenario was two against one, Edward didn’t remotely feel like he was outnumbered.
“Find your own woman and chattel. There are plenty of houses to choose from. The city is ours.”
A pregnant pause ensued, that was likely to give birth to conflict. Edward read his opponent. The Frank was calculating how he could kill the knight with impunity. There would be no witnesses. Bruno also eyed Edward up, surveying the quality of his boots and weaponry.
“Leave – and live,” the Englishman replied, his voice akin to a block of iron.
“Ha! You think you are in a position to threaten me or give me orders?” the man-at-arms countered, screwing up his face as if he were breathing in vapours from a sewer. You want to play the chivalrous knight? This is not the time or place to do so. Chivalry’s dead.”
“I’m not sure whether chivalry’s dead or not, but you will be if you don’t depart. You can keep the jewels.”
Bruno let out a burst of scornful laughter, turning to his companion as he did so. Whether Edward considered himself chivalrous or not, he knew how to fight in an unchivalrous way. Whilst the old soldier’s attention was diverted, Edward quickly drew the dagger from the back of his belt and threw it into the Frank’s chest. He retrieved his second knife and launched it into his torso too, for good measure. Bruno stumbled backwards, losing his footing on some of the furniture he had smashed, blacking out and eventually bleeding out.
Sophia screamed. The sound resembled a gauntlet scraping, screeching, down a pane of glass. She moved towards her child. The boy scrambled away from his captor and reached for her in return. The mother clutched the boy to her chest and turned her back to the soldiers, shielding him from the barbaric westerners.
Peter drew his slightly bent sword, having still not recovered from his friend’s sudden defeat. His head swivelled left and right, searching for an escape route which didn’t exist. Edward moved towards him, cornering the Frank like prey. Peter had killed a couple of Turks before, as they lay wounded after a skirmish. He had also murdered a young woman before, after he had raped her. But he had never defeated an opponent in combat before.
The petrified youth swung his weapon, with little conviction or skill. Edward’s attack was defter and more determined. The knight motioned to deliver an attack at a high angle. Peter held his sword aloft to block it, but as he did so Edward altered the direction of the stroke. The sharp tip of his blade sliced through his woollen shirt once, from right to left – and then left to right. Eviscerating the rapist. His intestines began to peek out of his shirt. Peter dropped his weapon, clanging like a death knell. Shortly afterwards the Frank fell to the ground too – after Edward had stabbed him in the throat.
The knight wiped his blade on the corpse and then sheathed the well-crafted blade. Edward raised his gloved palms, to convey to the woman and child that he meant them no harm. The mother understandably appeared anxious still, fearing that the knight might finish off what others began. But he soon appreciated that the crusader wasn’t any threat, as he retrieved her jewellery, placed it back into the box, left it next to her and took his leave.
Yeva was beautiful. Achingly so. As beautiful as Briseis, who Thomas pictured her as being like. Such beauty could inspire a man to believe in God. Her hair, as black and shiny as tar, hung down past her graceful shoulders. Her bronzed skin was as flawless as he had imagined it, during his frequent reveries. Her emerald eyes shone like the surface of the Orontes on a calm, summer’s day. Her saffron coloured silk dress clung to her hourglass figure. Yeva was beautiful. But dead. Such beauty, defiled, could cause a man to doubt God.
A red, lily-shaped stain just beneath her breasts marked where the woman had been stabbed. Broken furniture, smashed plates and feathers, from where someone had slashed open the nearby sofa in hope of locating valuables, surrounded the woman. A waif-like man, presumably her husband, was dangling from a beam above her. His eyes were bulging, fit to explode, and his tongue was lolling out of his mouth. His face was lacerated, bloated and purple – like a burst grape. The soldiers had beaten the man to within an inch of his life, before hanging him.
Lemony sunshine scythed through the room, highlighting motes of dust, which danced around like flies. Thomas dropped to his knees, as though grief were a stone around his neck, weighing him down. He was nauseous, to the pit of his stomach, but couldn’t quite be sick. His young face was creased up like an old man’s, as if he was about to weep, but somehow the tears didn’t fall. He was all cried out. Thomas felt both hollowed out and overstuffed with sorrow and rage. He wanted God to punish the guilty. He wanted to pray for vengeance, not mercy or forgiveness. He couldn’t quite bring himself to pray, however, as much as he was on his knees. Any prayer would be in vain, like others.
Thomas adjusted the ripped skirt on Yeva’s dress, to cover up her thighs and womanhood, as best as possible. Her skin was not quite as cold and pale as he imagined it would be, when he bent over and kissed her forehead. He had pictured himself kissing the young woman on her rosebud mouth beforehand, but he desisted from doing so now.
Could he have saved Yeva if he reached her earlier? He was too tired to blame himself or Edward. But he couldn’t exonerate himself or Edward either. Honour couldn’t be redeemed. He felt like his own life was, or should be, forfeit. If only he had remained in his village, instead of journeying to Cluny. If only he had stayed in Cluny, instead of travelling to Clermont. Thomas once believed that that day had been the making of him. But it had been his undoing.
The morning light initially hurt his eyes, but Edward was becoming accustomed to it. He would squint and scrutinise any figure resembling Thomas. It was bright enough to spot him. But he was nowhere to be seen. His friend could have perished from encountering fellow crusaders, caught up in their bloodlust, or he could have easily made the wrong turn and found himself on the end of a Turkish blade. If Thomas had died, Edward mused, then he would have ascended to Heaven.
He’s in a better place, better even than a tavern in London or brothel in Constantinople perhaps.
And what if the next life wasn’t Heaven, or Hell? What if there was nothing, darkness? His fate would still be worth envying, the soldier surmised. The world was an unpleasant place, filled with unpleasant people. Perhaps Thomas was too good, innocent, for this iniquitous world. Life is a cruel – or the cruellest - joke. The only way to endure was to laugh in the face of God’s prank.
Edward glimpsed a small fountain at the end of a narrow alley. He remembered Thomas mentioning that Yeva’s house was near to a small fountain. Perhaps he was close. Perhaps there was cause for hope.
The crossbow bolt struck him in the left buttock, as if an asp had leapt up and bitten the
knight. A couple of moments later a second quarrel sliced through his right shoulder. The force of the blows both spun Edward around and knocked him to the ground.
Disorientated. Weakened. The injury to his posterior prevented Edward from getting to his feet. The wound to his shoulder meant that his right arm was tantamount to being lame. He still instinctively drew his dagger with his left hand, but he was unused to using it. He attempted to throw the blade at his advancing assailant, but the mail-clad Frank easily swotted the missile away with his broad sword. The English knight managed to draw his sword, but his opponent closed in and forced the weapon out of his weaker hand.
The pitiless Frank stood over his quarry, ready to deliver a killing blow. Edward didn’t recognise the crusader. But he did recognise the figure standing next to him. Girard of Mortain.
The nobleman was marching through the city, buried in a crowd of soldiers that Raymond had ordered to surround the citadel. He wanted to help storm the fortress, to prove himself to his uncle – and hopefully smuggle out some riches concealed in the building. But when he observed his enemy from across a square, alone and vulnerable, he instructed Pierre to leave the group and accompany him. The two men, who had spent plenty of time together hunting, stalked a new prey. As much as Girard’s blood was up, he knew he needed to be patient. They might only have an opportunity to shoot their crossbows once. The nobleman re-lived the feelings of shame and dishonour after his bout with the Englishman, to stoke the fire in his belly. He blamed the knight too for his uncle denuding him of his company and assets. Girard had dreamed of standing over his enemy, of being able to torture and kill the ignoble Englishman. His prayers had been answered.
The Norman wanted to savour the moment. He wanted the Englishman to beg for his life. To humiliate himself, as much as Girard had been humiliated. No matter how much the knight pleaded though, he would execute him. Slowly. Painfully. He noticed a dirty rag in the corner, which he thought he could use to gag Edward and silence his screams, while he tortured him. He would mutilate his victim’s face, so the corpse couldn’t be recognised. He would stab him in the groin, feet and thighs, as an experiment to measure how much pain was elicited in each area.
“You’re going to die,” Girard remarked, with relish. His triumphant smile wrapped itself around his face, lizard-like.
“Ain’t we all?” Edward replied, wistfully, dribbling as he spoke. His eyes were half-closed. The lids were bruise-coloured. The knight was light-headed, like he was drunk. He was more weary than angry. Death was calling him. The light was growing dimmer. Rather than ask to be delivered himself, Edward prayed to God to keep Emma safe. He thought how, having saved the woman and child earlier in the evening, he was starting to be deserving of her love. He wondered if he might see his mother again, in the next life.
Edward recalled the words that Adhemar had marked in his Bible.
“Only the person who is put right with God through faith shall live.”
He started to understand and appreciate what he had read. But was it too late?
The blade sluiced through flesh, scraped against bone and burst his heart. His eyes were momentarily stapled wide in agony and surprise. Pierre emitted a gasp, before he died, like he had just heard a salacious piece of gossip. Thomas had aimed the tip of his sword at the gap between where the Norman’s mail shirt was strapped across his back. The scribe knew that he had to murder in cold blood, without any chivalric warning – else both Edward and himself would perish.
Whether through luck of God’s providence Thomas had been walking past the mouth of the alleyway when the soldiers put their crossbows on the ground and approached his wounded countryman, their swords drawn.
Time stood still for a few moments as Thomas kept his sword lodged in Pierre and Girard stood dumb, incredulous. The nobleman had taken the scribe for a coward. The smile fell from his face, as abruptly as Pierre slumped to the ground, as Thomas withdrew his weapon.
Self-preservation, as much as any skill, compelled Thomas to raise his sword in time as Girard swung his blade. Thomas parried several times. The song of swords. The alley reverberated with a primal roar from the Norman. From seeing his friend die. From being a disappointing second son. From never being loved. From being mocked after his defeat to Edward. From his uncle treating him like a child. Rage blunted his technique and focus.
Thomas was forced backwards. He observed Edward, still on the ground behind Girard, dragging himself towards his sword – in order to then crawl towards his enemy and engage him. But he moved slowly, feebly. Should Girard turn around he would easily be able to slay his friend. Thomas knew he needed to defeat his opponent, else they would both be murdered.
Thou shalt kill.
The student remembered one of his first lessons with Edward. The knight tried to drill into Thomas a move to turn defence into attack.
Deflect and then strike.
Thomas re-positioned his feet, so he could move backwards and forwards more effectively. He glowered at the Norman (it was perhaps the first time the pilgrim had ever glowered), challenging him. Goading him. He deserved to die. He may have even been involved in Yeva’s rape and murder - Thomas told himself.
The tips of their blades touched. Kissed.
Counterattack rather than attack.
Girard advanced, raising his sword, with the intention of bringing it down on the scribe’s collarbone. Thomas was quick to react - quicker than his opponent expected - catching him unawares. Using all the might he could muster the Englishman deflected the attack – and then lunged forward, to bury the point of his weapon into one of the areas which Edward always advised. His throat. Girard’s jaw moved up and down, spasming, as if he were chewing a tough piece of meat. He gurgled loudly, rather than roared, as he writhed on the floor. Blood gushed from the wound, as freely as the nearby fountain sprayed water from its chipped spout.
Thomas trembled from shock too, initially. Blood stained his brow, like the mark of Cain. The sword point wavered over its scabbard. He had to clasp the tip and feed it in, to sheathe the glistening weapon. Edward looked up at his friend – and was going to exclaim that he didn’t think that Thomas had it in him. But in some ways the holy fool was more of a knight - or what a knight should be - than anyone else he knew.
Both men offered each other a weak smile. But it was still a smile nonetheless.
“I couldn’t save her,” the scribe announced - as much to himself, as to the world or Edward. His voice croaked as he spoke. Thomas no longer appeared as innocent as he once did. Once a bone is broken, it can never be quite as strong again.
“You can’t save everyone, Thomas,” Edward replied, endeavouring to console his friend. “But take heart. You helped to save me.”
16. Epilogue.
A yellow, wafer-like sun hung in the sapphire-blue sky. Petals of light were strewn across the shimmering surface of the Orontes. Nature was at peace, even if the world wasn’t.
The fires were being extinguished, or they burned themselves out. The princes began to instil discipline again among their troops. There were also few houses left to loot, or women left alive to rape and slaughter.
Adhemar surveyed what had been a vibrant bazaar in the city. Instead of shoppers, the square was now populated by a mound of corpses. Bodies and limbs were tangled up with one another, like a fleshy briar patch. Ghoulish eyes upon ghoulish eyes, set above rictus after rictus, gazed out from the pyramid of the dead. The jelly from one woman’s eye dripped down her cheek, like tears. There were scores of children among the macabre edifice. One was too many, the bishop judged.
“What message will our actions here send out to the world?” Adhemar remarked to Raymond, as the two men had stood on the battlements and gazed out across the devasted city.
“It will send out a message that we are a force to be reckoned with,” the count replied, unapologetically. Proud.
Not everyone subscribed to Raymond’s view, however. Adhemar shared a telling look with Godfrey, which co
nveyed how the Christian prince believed that the army had covered itself in shame, rather than glory. The bishop often took Godfrey’s confession. Usually he would confess to various venial sins – and his penance would be to merely recite some prayers. But Adhemar wasn’t quite sure how he, or God, could absolve Godfrey and others of the sins they were responsible for yesternight. Every crusader should examine his conscience, although the clergyman suspected that every man was probably examining the loot or food they stole.
Adhemar continued to traverse through the city. Even when he walked down some of the sloping streets, he felt like he was marching uphill. Discarded garments, not fit for pilfering, along with cutlery, crockery, heirlooms and swaddling clothes littered the streets. The dead lay on flagstones, like pieces of dung. The city smelled like a burial pit.
Eventually the bishop arrived at the Cathedral of St Peter. He wanted to restore and reconsecrate the church. It was a start.
The pilgrims occupying the camps outside of Antioch began to move into the city. Many wept in joy, believing that they had been delivered. The worst was now over, they mistakenly thought. Edward waited by the Gate of St George, for Emma. Bohemond had instructed his personal surgeon, Charles of Anjou, to attend to the Englishman. He stitched up his wounds and provided the knight with a cane, to help alleviate his temporary limp. The surgeon wiped the blood and grime from his patient’s careworn countenance, to make him appear more presentable.
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