God's Warrior

by Hilary Green

  He turned to one of Alexios’s courtiers who was standing near. ‘Those men, the guards following the emperor – who are they?’

  The Byzantine raised an eyebrow.’Your countrymen surely. Do you not recognise them?’ Ranulph knew that, although he shaved his beard, his long golden hair still marked him out as a Saxon. The other man went on, ‘They are the Varangian Guard. Once it was composed largely of barbarians from the north, but in recent years so many English have joined that we sometimes refer to them as the Anglo-Varangians.’

  Cold fingers caressed Ranulph’s spine. The Varangians were the Emperor’s crack troops and their ferocity had become legendary. It was said that when possessed by the rage of battle they became impervious to pain and careless of wounds. He knew this from his own experience. Occasionally, in battle, the same red mist had clouded his vision and possessed him with a courage that was close to madness. Always it had left him afterwards sick with self-disgust.

  ‘I have heard of them,’ he said, as casually as he could. ‘But I am surprised to see them here so close to the emperor himself.’

  ‘They are his most trusted bodyguard,’ was the reply. ‘They are oath-sworn to protect him to the death.’

  Robert nudged his elbow and recalled his attention to the men around the table. ‘A goodly assembly, forsooth!’

  ‘Some of them I know,’ Ranulph responded, forcing his attention away from the fixed stare of Leofric, ‘but who is the man on Alexios’s right?’

  ‘Raymond of St Gilles, Count of Toulouse, one of the greatest lords in France. And beside him is Stephen of Blois, whose wife is the daughter of William of Normandy.’

  ‘William the bastard, you mean. The man who called himself King of England.’

  Robert cast him a quick glance. ‘I’m sorry. I had forgotten for the moment how you must feel towards that family.’

  ‘Who is the man in bishop’s robes?’

  ‘That is Adhemar of Le Puy. He is the Papal legate, and, I am told, a formidable warrior, despite his calling.’

  ‘My Lord Bohemond!’ It was the emperor’s voice. ‘Come! Sit here on my left.’

  There was a stir among the assembled company at this sign of favour and Ranulph, watching the faces of the other nobles, saw that it was not universally popular. The company sat down and Ranulph noticed with amusement, not unmixed with a degree of trepidation, that the table was laden with dishes cooked in the eastern style. He could only hope that Bohemond would not repeat his behaviour of the previous evening.

  ‘Look at this peculiar object,’ Robert said. ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘It’s a fork. The idea is that instead of sticking your fingers in the dish and getting them covered in sauce you spear a piece of meat, or whatever you are eating, and then shake the excess sauce of it before you take it off with your fingers to put in your mouth.’

  ‘How ridiculous! What’s wrong with licking your fingers to get the sauce off them?’

  Watching, Ranulph saw Alexios serve himself from a dish and then offer it to Bohemond and guessed that he had heard about his guest’s suspicions of the day before. Bohemond had no alternative but to take some of the food. Ranulph saw his brow contract, his nostrils twitching, and then his face relaxed. He smiled and reached for the dish to take a second helping. All round the table he saw similar reactions as the knights sampled one delicacy after another; but it was when the sweetmeats arrived that the real change occurred. Delicate cakes decorated with rose petals preserved in sugar; a kind of frumenty sweetened with honey and studded with raisins; candied fruits; marzipan formed into the shapes of flowers and leaves; it was a cornucopia of sweetness such as they had never known. Washed down with sweetened wine it produced at first outbursts of almost uncontrolled hilarity, and then a comfortable lethargy.

  When the meal was over the ladies of the royal court entered and took their places on the dais. Ranulph’s eyes were drawn to a slight girl with the aquiline features and the quick dark eyes of Alexios. Like the other ladies, she was elaborately dressed. Indeed, it seemed to Ranulph that she was almost weighed down by the jewels and gold embroidery on her costume. Over a long, close-fitting tunic she wore a stole which hung down at front and back and was then wrapped around and tucked into a belt. Above it was a collar deep enough to cover her almost to the breasts. Both garments were of cloth of gold, richly embroidered and studded with jewels and small enamel plaques depicting flowers and fantastical animals. Her black hair was curled into ringlets and covered with a transparent veil.

  ‘Is that the emperor’s daughter?’ he inquired of the man next to him.

  ‘Yes, that is Anna Comnena.’

  ‘She is a very striking young lady. Is she married?’

  ‘Not yet, but she is betrothed to Nikephoros Bryennios, one of the emperor’s most loyal supporters. And before you get any ideas, remember she is porphyrogenitos. Far above your station in life.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Ranulph murmured.

  He watched as the young woman’s eyes roved round the assembled company. She had no false modesty, he noted, but studied the faces of the strangers at her father’s court with a lively intelligence. He saw her gaze find Bohemond, move on and then return, dwelling on him with a kind of fascination. He guessed that the Count’s appearance had had the same effect on her as it had on him at first sight. Then abruptly he found her gaze directed at him, as if she had felt his eyes on her. He looked down quickly, but not before he had seen something of the same look she had bestowed on Bohemond. It crossed his mind that she found blonde men attractive.

  At the end of the evening Ranulph followed Bohemond out of the chamber. His head was heavy and his brain clouded with too much wine and food and he turned aside into a garden where the first spring flowers were scenting the air. It was a cool night and he lifted his face gratefully to the breeze and gazed up at the stars. It reminded him of his days at sea when, sailing home with a cargo of silks or spices, he had used them to guide him. And that, in turn, reminded him of his last voyage which had ended in his capture by the corsairs – and of all that had meant in terms of the loss of liberty and, what was almost harder to bear, of what he had left behind him in Antioch. He clamped his jaw, resolutely banishing the recollection, and turned to go indoors.

  A large figure stood in the doorway, barring his way. Starlight gleamed faintly on a polished cuirass and the head of an axe. Ranulph stood still, his hand going instinctively to the dagger in his belt, before he remembered that they had all been ordered to leave their weapons behind. He forced himself to relax his arms.

  ‘You!’ said Leofric. ‘What in the name of God are you doing here?’ He spoke in the tongue Ranulph had learned at his mother’s knee and had not used since he parted company with his mercenary companions.

  Ranulph lifted his chin and answered with more confidence than he felt. ‘I am here in the train of Count Bohemond.’

  ‘Why am I surprised?’ Leofric asked. ‘Once a traitor, always a traitor. An Englishman serving a Norman bastard. Are you not ashamed to betray your countrymen?’

  ‘I understand your anger,’ Ranulph said, keeping his voice even. ‘Once I would have shared it. But God has shown me a different way – a way that I must follow.’

  ‘God has shown you? How?’

  ‘It is not a short tale to tell, and one that will keep us standing here till both of us are chilled. Would you prefer to hear it over a cup of wine?’

  ‘You think I will drink with you, traitor? Never! But I will listen to your story. Come. This way.’

  He stepped aside and indicated that Ranulph should pass him into the corridor beyond. He did so, feeling the tremor along his spine that anticipated the thrust of a dagger. Leofric directed him along several passages and down a flight of steps and opened a door into a room full of lamplight and the sound of voices. Ranulph saw that he was in the Varangian’s mess room. A dozen or more of them were sitting around, some playing dice, others drinking. They looked up as his captor thrus
t him forward and the buzz of conversation turned to a growl of hostility. Ranulph wondered whether, if he could not convince them of his vision and its consequences, they would risk killing him and facing the wrath of Bohemond and possibly of the emperor, too. He thought they probably would.

  ‘Now,’ his captor said grimly, ‘you’ve got one chance to convince us you are not a traitor. So you’d better make it good.’

  Ranulph looked around him. He was the focus of a dozen hostile eyes and he heard someone mutter, ‘Why are we wasting our time? He doesn’t deserve even one chance.’

  Looking for the source, he found another familiar face. ‘Gladweine! I’m happy to see you still alive. And Selwyn, too.’

  ‘Forget the niceties,’ Leofric ordered. ‘Get on with your tale.’

  Ranulph drew a breath. His mind was still fuddled with wine but he knew that he must summon up all the eloquence he possessed if he was going to leave that room alive.

  ‘I am known to some of you. Perhaps Leofric has told you that I was once one of his company, when we fought for the German Emperor. It was Leofric who taught me to ride and to fight, something for which I have never properly thanked him.’ He looked at his erstwhile captain. ‘You call me traitor. I will admit that once I failed you at the crucial moment. But it was not treachery. Simply the foolishness of a boy dazzled by the attention of a man of high rank. When Count Alessandro took me into his service I saw an opportunity for advancement that I might never have again. He was good to me, so when he begged me to fight at his side rather than returning to you I felt I owed him that much. It was for one day only. He swore that after that he would release me to join you. I was not to know …’

  He faltered and Leofric cut in. ‘That I was right all the time. It was your arse he was after.’

  Ranulph felt himself flush. ‘I found that out, after the battle. But at the time, I saw it as my duty to protect him. His squires were raw lads, with no experience of war. He needed a shield man to ride at his side. The point is, we were all fighting the common enemy. It was the charge led by Count Alessandro that stopped the Guiscard’s cavalry from outflanking you when the battle began to go their way. Some of you may owe your lives to that.’

  Gladweine gave a snort of disbelief, but when Ranulph turned towards him he dropped his eyes. Ranulph returned his gaze to Leofric. ‘Believe me, if I had known the consequences – Hildred’s death, and Rosa’s – I would have acted differently. But how could I have done?’

  ‘This is all past history,’ Leofric said. ‘What I want to know now is how you come to be in the service of a Norman lord. You spoke of a message from God. What did you mean?’

  ‘I must tell you first that when I left your company I was taken on by a wealthy merchant as his secretary and bodyguard. We prospered, so much so that in a few years I had command of my own ship. I thought my fortune was assured – until I was taken prisoner by corsairs and sold to the emir of Malta as a galley slave.’

  He looked around him. He had them now. The eyes fixed on him were no longer hostile; the murmurs had died away. They were as enthralled by his story as if they were sitting around the fire in their own hall and he were a visiting bard.

  ‘I endured that life for near on two years, until Count Roger of Sicily, the Guiscard’s brother, attacked the island. I was in the leading galley. The captain and the steersman both fell to Norman arrows and I persuaded the overseer to free me, so I could take over. As we approached the other ships I could think of only one thing. In a moment I would have a chance to strike at one of my bitterest enemies. I would kill, or die in the attempt. The ships met and locked together, and I seized the sword the captain had let fall and prepared to give battle. A young knight opposed me, but as I raised my sword to strike him down I saw the cross on his shield; and suddenly that young knight vanished and there stood before me the Archangel Michael with his flaming sword, and a voice spoke to me. “What are you doing, Ranulph, slaughtering fellow Christians on behalf of the infidel? If you raise your sword against a fellow Christian, you raise it against me.”‘ He heard the sharp intake of breath from the men around him and knew that he had convinced them. ‘I knew then that God had a special purpose for me and I have been waiting for Him to show me what it is. When I heard that Bohemond was recruiting knights for the Holy War I knew my time had come.’

  ‘Even if it meant serving under a Norman?’ someone said.

  ‘I have not heard of an English army among the forces that are assembling.’

  ‘There is no English army,’ Leofric said. ‘All the fighting men are dead or dispersed like us to serve other lords. Any force coming from England would be Norman led, and William Rufus is not minded to fight in this war.’

  Ranulph spread his hands. ‘It is as you say. So what choice did I have?’

  The Varangian looked around at his companions and received nods and murmurs of acquiescence in response. ‘It seems your orders come from God, and who are we to quarrel with that?’ He held out his hand. ‘Perhaps I have judged you harshly. Shall we agree to bury the past?’

  Ranulph took the offered hand, gripping wrist to wrist in token of friendship. ‘Nothing would please me better. But now, will you tell me how you come to be here?’

  ‘When the Normans stormed the gates of Rome and the Emperor Henry withdrew there was no more work for us. We went back to Bruges, but no one else seemed to need our services. Then we heard rumours that men of our race were serving this emperor. We made our way through the land of the Poles and through Rus and eventually reached here. We have served the Emperor ever since.’

  Those who had not been among Leofric’s band all had similar stories to tell and as the wine jug circulated Ranulph found comfort in hearing the language of his childhood. It was late when he finally bade them goodnight and went, somewhat unsteadily, back to his own quarters.

  4.

  Next day a message arrived from Tancred, informing Bohemond that the army had been safely transported across the Hellespont and was encamped at Kibotos, where the rest of the Frankish forces were assembled. The camp was well supplied, he reported, but the men were getting restive, in spite of the generous distribution of money from Alexios, Some of them had been encamped there for months, waiting for the leaders to give the order to move.

  ‘What is Alexios waiting for?’ he wanted to know. ‘If he is going to be our supreme commander,why doesn’t he put his own forces in the field?’

  The answer to the question was simple, but not easily resolved. Alexios refused to move until all the leaders of the assembled forces had taken the oath of fealty, and some were still refusing. Bohemond set about convincing them to follow his example and many relented until only one remained. Raymond of Toulouse was the wealthiest and most powerful of all the nobles and commanded the largest army. He was a pious man who had been the first to take the cross and pledge himself to liberate Jerusalem, although at fifty years of age he was by far the oldest commander. He refused to swear, because he regarded it as unfitting for a man in his position to become the liege man of another.

  While the stalemate persisted Ranulph took the opportunity to do something he had longed to do since he arrived in the city. He had heard tales of the beauty of the Basilica of Hagia Sophia and the wonderful relics it contained, but until now he had been too occupied with his duties to visit it. He approached the building with a mixture of amazement, that such a huge edifice could be constructed by human wit and human hands, and an inward trembling at the thought that he would soon be in the presence of so many holy relics. But once he entered all these emotions were subsumed into a breathless wonder at the sheer beauty of the place. Duke Roger had begun to employ Arab craftsmen to beautify some of the churches in Palermo and Ranulph had seen what exquisite mosaics they could produce, but that only hinted at the glory he now beheld. He had his first intimation of what was to follow as he entered through the southwestern door and saw in the tympanum above it the representation of the Virgin Mary with the Christ Child on
her lap, flanked by the figures of the Constantine and Justinian, the two Roman emperors most responsible for the construction of the church. The gold background to the figures almost dazzled his eyes, but it was nothing compared to the impact of the interior of the building. Towering above him, supported by marble pillars and arched galleries, the dome seemed to float in the air and there, at its apex, the picture of Christ Pantocrator gazed down on the worshippers. He had expected the interior to be dark, but instead it was flooded with light; not the harsh light of full sun, but a golden glow that seemed to emanate from no identifiable source. Every wall, every arch, was decorated with geometric patterns or with flowers and leaves. The high altar was hidden behind a solid silver screen he had learned to call an iconostasis, engraved with pictures of the saints, but above it in the apse was another mosaic of the Virgin and Child against a background of bright gold. Ranulph wandered amongst the other worshippers in a daze and knelt before altars where relics of the saints were encased in golden monstrances, but always he murmured the same prayer. ‘Grant me the strength and courage to reach Jerusalem, that I may worship in the church of the Holy Sepulchre where You, Lord, lay after You had suffered and died for our salvation.’