God's Warrior

by Hilary Green

  Restless and unwilling to return to the inactivity of the last few days, Ranulph made his way to one of the staircases that led to the top of the walls. Looking down, he had his first view of the full extent of the besieging army and it struck him at once that this was not a unified force, but rather a loose alliance. There was not one camp, but several, spread over the plain. Above one he recognised the banner of Ridwan of Aleppo, whom they had driven off back in the early spring; and over another was the flag of Duqaq of Damascus, whose men they had encountered on that ill-fated foraging expedition. It gave Ranulph some comfort to think that these were men they had defeated once, and who had shown themselves ready to take flight at the first reversal.

  A sergeant of the guard strolled along the battlements towards him. ‘Not thinking of going over I hope, sir.’

  ‘Going over? Over the wall you mean? Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first, sir. There have been a number who have flung ropes over under cover of darkness and let themselves down.’

  ‘Deserters, you mean?’

  ‘Rope danglers, we call them. I hope they took the skin off their hands on the way down.’

  ‘Poor souls! They must be desperate to trust themselves to the mercy of the Turks rather than stay here’

  ‘Likely they thought better a quick death by decapitation than a slow one by starvation.’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ Ranulph said, with more emphasis than conviction.

  The days dragged past. Ranulph’s leg improved slowly, as did Marc’s shoulder; but neither of them healed as fast as they would once have done. Fernando scoured the city every day for food, and each time returned with less. Messages arrived from Bohemond demanding Ranulph’s attendance, but he continued to put him off with the excuse that he was not sufficiently recovered. The rumours about the holy relic seemed to have died down, but there was another surge of excitement when one of the men on guard during the night reported seeing a shooting star fall into the enemy camp. This must, men reasoned, be a sign from God, telling the Turks to pack up and go.

  Eventually, after several attempts, Ranulph succeeded in gaining admittance to Bishop Adhemar’s lodgings and lowered himself painfully to his knees in front of him.

  ‘My lord, I am much troubled in conscience and desirous of making confession.’

  ‘To me?’ Adhemar queried. ‘Are there not enough priests with the army who could hear you and give you absolution?’

  ‘My sin is so dire and weighs so heavily upon me that I feel that you alone can help me.’

  Adhemar sighed. ‘Very well. Speak.’

  ‘It was I who engineered the ruse by which the city was betrayed into our hands. The man who lowered the ladder was a friend, a man I knew when I came here years ago. Out of friendship and because he trusted me, he agreed to open the gates … and see how we have repaid him!’ Ranulph’s voice broke and he struggled to continue. ‘I promised him that the city would not be sacked; that his people would be safe … and now the streets are piled with bodies! I thought I was doing God’s work, and instead I have brought death and destruction to innocent men and women. I have sinned and there is no health in me.’

  He fell silent and waited for the bishop’s judgement. Instead Adhemar gave a brief cluck of his tongue. ‘Is this what weighs so heavily upon you? You have been God’s instrument. Through you this great army of His has prevailed over His enemies. If it were not for you, we should have been caught outside the walls by Kerbogha and slaughtered.’

  ‘But so many innocents have died. These people were not our enemies. What need was there to kill them?’

  ‘It was not our men who killed them. Do you not know that when the Christians in the city heard our forces breaking through the gates, they turned on the hated Turks who had oppressed them for so long? There is no need to reproach yourself over the death of infidels.’

  ‘But there are Christian dead, too. I saw what was happening. Men and women were cut down indiscriminately.’

  ‘It was dark. Who could distinguish Christian from infidel, man from woman?’ Adhemar laid his hand on Ranulph’s bowed head. ‘Be of good cheer, my son. You have done great work for the glory of God and you will have your reward in heaven. Te absolvo …’

  Ranulph heard the words of absolution pronounced over his head, but he could take no comfort from them. He told himself that he was committing further sins of pride and obstinacy in setting up his judgement against that of one of the princes of the church; but the spectre of the slaughter he had witnessed would not leave him and he could not bring himself to believe that it was part of God’s plan.

  That night he slept hardly at all. His memory replayed over and over again the scenes he had witnessed during the storming of the city, interspersed with Adhemar’s words. ‘You have done great work for the glory of God ….’ Repeatedly he returned to the question that had dogged him for months. Was the vision he had had, instructing him to join forces with his Norman enemies to fight the infidel, truly a message from God, or had it been a temptation from the devil?

  As soon as it was light he went out into the city streets. Most of the bodies had been removed, thrown into mass graves dug in what had once been orchards and gardens, but the stench of decay still hung in the air. Ranulph made his way to a point where the flank of Mount Silpius rose in a sheer cliff, just inside the walls. Here, facing him, was a doorway carved into the rock. He pushed it open and entered the cave church of St Peter, reputed to have been founded by the apostle himself at the beginning of his mission to spread the gospel. Ranulph had been here before, at a time when he had been in great need of comfort and advice. The old Armenian priest who had lifted his burden of guilt then must be long dead, but he hoped that the place itself might bring him some solace. Inside, he found himself in a high-vaulted cavern, the walls of which were decorated with frescoes depicting scenes from the life of Christ. The floor was covered in mosaics, faded and worn by the passage of feet over many centuries, and at the far end was a simple altar fashioned out of the very rock and above it a statue of the saint. Ranulph limped towards it and dropped to his knees a few feet away. Here, if anywhere, he was convinced, he would hear the true voice of God.

  He folded his hands and began to pray, repeating the Latin words he had learned so long ago as a child in the monastery. He murmured the pater noster and ave Maria, but they no longer seemed to express the needs of his soul. ‘Give me a sign, Lord!’ he begged. ‘Let me know for certain whether I am doing Thy will or being tempted by the devil. A sign! Dear God, a sign!’ There was no answer, but he continued to kneel and repeat the prayer. The stones were cold under his knees and his wounded leg ached. He had eaten nothing that day, and very little in the days before, and soon he began to shiver in the chill air of the cave. Fleeting images appeared behind his closed eyelids. He saw the figures from the painting of the Last Judgement, but now they seemed to move, writhing in agony as they were dragged down to hell. Then he saw the Archangel Michael, as he had appeared to him in the person of Marc during the fateful battle off Malta. The angel’s sword was upraised, but whether to defend him or pierce his heart he could not tell. Then a face swam before him, a face he thought he had forgotten, or never known, but which he recognised as the face of his mother. He reached his arms towards her, beseeching ‘Save me! Save me!’

  Behind him the door of the church crashed open. There were voices and the sound of boots on the stones. Ranulph came to himself with a shock and staggered to his feet. A group of men were coming down the aisle towards him, led by Raymond of St. Gilles, the Count of Toulouse. Beside him was the emaciated figure of Peter Bartholomew and after him came a dozen men carrying picks and shovels.

  ‘Stand aside!’ Raymond commanded. ‘We are about the work of God here.’ Ranulph stepped back and Raymond turned to Peter. ‘Where?’

  The monk raised his eyes heavenwards for a moment, then he pointed to the floor where Ranulph had been kneeling moments earlier. ‘The
re!’

  At a gesture from the count the men who had followed him set about breaking up the mosaic and prising up the paving stones. Ranulph raised his hand to object, but then understanding dawned.

  ‘The lance? You think the Holy Lance is buried here?’

  ‘I had a vision of St Andrew,’ Bartholomew grasped Ranulph’s sleeve. His face was flushed and shiny with sweat and his eyes unnaturally bright. ‘He had come to me several times before, but I was afraid to speak of it. That was why I began to lose my sight. It was a punishment for my cowardice. But two nights ago he came again and told me that our army would never prevail unless we found the Lance. And last night he told me where to search.’

  The men had lifted the paving stones and began to dig feverishly.

  ‘Have a care!’ Raymond shouted. ‘The precious relic will be fragile after so long in the earth. The shaft will have rotted away long ago. We are looking for the spear point. I will hang any man who puts his spade through it!’

  They dug more slowly after that, sifting the soil through their hands. Ranulph approached the edge of the pit and stared down. His heart was pounding. If the lance was, indeed, buried here, and he was among the first to see it, what greater sign could there be that God had not abandoned him? The pit grew deeper, and the pace of the work slowed further. Even here in the cave it was hot work and the flames of the torches Raymond’s men had brought with them seemed to steal the air. Bartholomew dragged off his monk’s robe so that he was clad in nothing but his shirt. When the pit was so deep that even the tops of the heads of the men digging were not visible Raymond spoke again.

  ‘Enough!’ His voice rasped in his throat. ‘We have been deceived. It was not a true vision.’

  Ranulph looked at him. He was an old man, by far the oldest of the princes, and his hair and beard, grey when they had started out from Constaninople, were streaked with white, his face lined and sunken with hunger and fatigue. As he turned away, his sagging shoulders showed how much he had been depending on the discovery of the relic. Through his own bitter disappointment, Ranulph could understand and pity the older man’s.

  ‘Wait!’ They looked back to see that Bartholomew had jumped down into the pit. ‘Wait, my lord! See! See! God is gracious!’

  Ranulph hastened to the edge of the hole and peered down. Bartholomew was holding something up, something that gleamed dully in the light of the torches. It was a shard of metal, broken along one edge but pointed as if it had once formed part of a spear. As if his feet had suddenly sprouted wings, Ranulph leapt down, forgetful of the wound in his thigh. He cupped his hands reverently below Bartholomew’s and raised the object higher. The metal was stained with patches of dark red. The very blood of Christ! He bent his head and very delicately touched his lips to the metal. He was weeping, but it did not matter.

  Hands reached down and hauled them both out of the pit. Raymond had fallen on his knees, crying praises to the Almighty, his face like Ranulph’s streaming with tears. Behind him, the other men also knelt and then someone at the back of the cave began to sing the Te Deum.

  Te deum laudamus,

  Te Dominum confitemur,

  Te aeternum Patrem

  omnis terra veneratur.

  We praise thee, O God,

  We acknowledge thee to be the Lord,

  All the earth doth worship thee,

  The Father everlasting.

  A procession formed, with Bartholmew at its head carrying the Lance, followed by Raymond and his men, with Ranulph behind them. Rumour must have spread about the search, for out in the street there were already people waiting and at the sight of the relic they all dropped to their knees, crying out in praise of the God who had so favoured them. As the procession passed they fell in behind and joined in the singing; and as the throng moved through the streets others came out of houses and side streets, until it seemed everyone still alive and capable of walking was following the Lance. Clergy of all denominations left their churches, bringing with them crucifixes and censors, forming a ceremonial escort on either side, and the singing of psalms echoed back from the houses as they passed.

  They came at last to the house where Bishop Adhemar had taken up residence. He had been forewarned and met them in the outer courtyard, flanked by his own priests and his household knights. At some point a velvet cushion had been found and the Lance placed upon it. Raymond took it from Bartholomew and held it up triumphantly.

  ‘See, my lord bishop! The vision was true. This is the lance that shed the Holy Blood of Christ. With its blessing and protection, who can stand against us?’

  Ranulph expected Adhemar to sink to his knees, but instead he took the cushion into his own hands and stood silently scrutinising the object on it. With a sudden, almost visceral, stab of anguish Ranulph saw it through his eyes – a broken shard of metal, patched with dark reddish stains that could just as easily be rust as blood – but he thrust the thought aside. The discovery had come in answer to his prayers, at his moment of greatest need, and he could not let it be sullied by doubt.

  Adhemar raised his eyes to the count’s. ‘As you say, my lord. Who, indeed, can withstand so powerful an emblem. Shall we go inside?’

  The two princes and Bartholomew went into the house and the doors were shut. Ranulph felt himself suddenly drained of energy and his leg began to ache fiercely. There was a stir at the gate and Bohemond appeared, flanked by his knights. His eye fell at once on Ranulph.

  ‘Is it true?’

  Ranulph nodded, his head whirling. ‘I believe so, sire.’

  ‘Very well. Let us see this miracle.’

  Bohemond marched to the door and brushed aside the stewards who would have prevented his entry. Marc hurried to Ranulph’s side.

  ‘Were you there? Did you see it?’

  As briefly as he could Ranulph described what had happened. Marc frowned sceptically.

  ‘So Bartholomew produced what he says is the lance just when everyone had given up. Do you think he might have had it hidden about his person, in case nothing was found?’

  Ranulph forced himself to consider rationally. ‘No, I don’t think so. He was wearing nothing but his shirt. There was nowhere he could have hidden it.’

  ‘And you believe in it?’

  ‘Yes! I had been praying for a sign, Marc, kneeling on that very spot. Surely this must be my answer.’

  His friend looked at him for a moment and then he smiled wearily. ‘That’s good enough for me.’

  Bohemond came out soon after that and immediately fixed his gaze on Ranulph. ‘I need you with me. You have scanted your service long enough. Come!’

  It was impossible to use the excuse of his wound any longer and Ranulph obediently followed his lord back to the palace once occupied by Yaghi Siyan, which Bohemond had adopted as of right as his headquarters. There Bohemond dismissed all but his closest advisers and turned to Ranulph.

  ‘Well? You were there, I’m told. What happened?’

  Once more Ranulph related the events of the morning. When he finished Robert Fitzgerald said, ‘Sire, if this is true, there could be no greater sign of God’s favour.’

  ‘If …’ Bohemond’s eyes narrowed. ‘It matters little either way, as long as the men believe it. God knows we need something to put new heart into them and to stem the tide of desertions. I have even heard rumours that there are those who are plotting to open the gates and take their chances with the Turks. Men are dying by the day, and those that are left are too frightened to contemplate any action.’

  ‘By action,you mean an attack?’ Ranulph queried. ‘Do you believe we might stand any chance against that horde outside the walls?’

  Bohemond fixed him with a look. ‘Maybe. All I know for certain is that I prefer death on the end of a Turkish spear to death by slow starvation here. What other alternative is there?’ When his question was met with silence he went on, ‘What matters now is to convince the rest of the princes that the possession of the Lance gives us a certainty of victory. The cou
ncil must meet while hearts are still buoyed up by the discovery.’

  The council met, as he insisted, but there were still many who argued against any attempt to break out. Messengers had been sent to Stephen of Blois, who was still encamped at Tarsus, begging him to come to their aid and some wanted to wait for his arrival; but five days after the discovery of the Lance two men succeeded in slipping through the Turkish lines and getting back into the city. Their report was not what the council was hoping to hear.

  ‘My lords, when we reached Tarsus we found that the Count of Blois had packed his tents and embarked his men for Constantinople, intending to return from there to his home in France. He told the sailors that he had seen Kerbogha’s army and knew that there was no hope for the rest of the Christians, so the whole enterprise must be abandoned.’

  This news only served to deepen the despair into which many of the leaders had fallen and nothing Bohemond or Raymond could say roused them. Meanwhile, starvation tightened its grip on the city and all the gold in Ranulph’s purse could not extract what remaining food was hoarded in cellars and barns. One morning Fernando came home after a long search and all he had managed to find was a piece of animal hide, which he said had come from the carcass of a donkey.

  ‘What under the heavens can you do with that?’ Ranulph asked.