God's Warrior

by Hilary Green

  ‘I shall scrape off the hair, then cut it up and boil it along with what is left of the barley. It will make a soup that will fill bellies and have at least some nourishment.’

  As the days of indecision dragged on Ranulph passed much of his time, when he was not required to attend on Bohemond, at the hospital run by Ibn Butlan. He learned that the doctor had studied both in Constantinople and at the university of Salerno, and had returned to Antioch to establish his hospital as long ago as 1063. He was learned in both western and Islamic schools of medicine and Ranulph found solace in expanding his own interest in the subject. It helped to keep his mind off his hunger and, more importantly, kept him out of the house where there was always the chance of encountering Mariam.

  A week after the finding of the Lance rumours began to circulate that Peter Bartholomew had received another visitation from St Andrew. Summoned before the council he maintained that the saint had reprimanded him for the delay and told him that unless the Franks attacked soon God would punish them for their lack of faith. Their present suffering was a punishment for sin, and the whole army must undertake a penitential fast of three days, confess their sins and partake in the Eucharist to purify themselves. Then they must attack.

  ‘Fast for three days?’ Marc said wryly when he heard this. ‘That won’t be difficult. There’s nothing to eat anyway.’

  Ranulph’s reaction was equally sceptical. The vision played so conveniently into Bohemond’s desire to risk everything in an attempt to break out that he could not help wondering if the count had put the idea into Bartholomew’s head. Still the princes wavered. The second part of his command was, however, accepted. For three days the men of the army fasted and walked in barefoot procession from church to church, attending special Masses, bewailing their sins and begging the mercy of Christ.

  At the next council meeting Raymond said wearily, ‘It is greatly to be regretted that these Turks will not accept the true Christ. From what I have seen they are noble warriors. If only they could be brought to the truth, what allies they would make! Can we not make a last attempt to convert them to our cause?’

  Watching him, Ranulph realised that he was a sick man, struggling to stay in command of the situation.

  The council seized on this remote hope. Envoys were to be sent to speak with Kerbogha and ask him for safe passage out of the city. The man chosen to lead the delegation was called Peter the Hermit, a holy man who had led the ill-fated People’s Crusade, which had been annihilated outside the fortress of Xerigordos before the main army reached Constantinople. At Bohemond’s behest, Ranulph went with him as interpreter. They left through the Bridge Gate under a flag of truce and were met by a small band of armed Turks, who conducted them to where Kerbogha was encamped, some distance back from the rest of the besieging force. The Persian general received them in state, in a pavilion hung with silk, and offered them refreshment from a banquet spread out before him. Ranulph felt his stomach cramp and his bowels churn at the sight. ‘Eat!’said a voice within him. ‘Why not? You need to maintain your strength. Besides, it is discourteous to refuse.’ He glanced sideways at Peter, but the hermit was not looking at the food but staring at some distant vision apparent only to himself. Ranulph drew a deep breath and swallowed bile.

  ‘Thank you, my lord, but the priests of the true God whom I worship have ordained a fast and I will not break it.’

  Kerbogha’s expression changed from one of slightly contemptuous courtesy to one of sharpened interest, even of suppressed admiration.

  ‘You God is demanding, if he enjoins a fast on those already starving. I commend your obedience.’

  The leaders of the other factions were summoned to attend and when all were present Peter spoke.

  ‘My lords, the noble Franks, my masters, desire me to ask you why you have come here. This is Christian land, from the time when St Peter first converted the heathen. They make you this offer. If you will accept the true religion and worship the Triune God and the Virgin Mary, they will leave this place and relinquish to you all the lands and the people, with their cattle and their flocks. They do not wish to fight with you, but ask only to be allowed to return to their own country in peace.’

  At once there was a babble of outraged voices, as each leader strove to have his say. Some were demanding an immediate assault on the city, others seemed inclined to negotiate; but one thing was clear to Ranulph as he listened. None of them trusted the others and each was pressing his own advantage. At length Kerbogha rose to his feet and silenced the hubbub.

  ‘Tell this to your lords. We have no intention of adopting your Christianity. But if they will renounce your false God and bow their necks to Allah, they shall be rewarded with lands and riches. Let them come out and yield the city and accept the true religion and all they desire shall be theirs. If they will not, then they will be led in chains to be slaves in Corazon.’

  There was some further argument, but it was clear that nothing was to be gained and Ranulph and Peter returned to Antioch. Their report was greeted with despair by some of the princes but Bohemond drew Ranulph aside.

  ‘Well? What did you make of them? Are they committed to this war?’

  ‘Kerbogha is, up to a point, but he loves luxury and ease. I think he believes an easy victory is within his grasp. The other princes are looking for their own advantage. There is no unity of purpose.’

  There was a gleam of triumph in Bohemond’s eyes. He turned back to the council.

  ‘Very well, my lords,’ he said. ‘We are left with no other course. Is it not better to die nobly, confronting our enemies, rather than to starve here like rats in a trap? And we have the assurance of the Holy Lance. Let it be borne before us into battle and under that sign we will conquer!’

  Reluctantly the others agreed. Bohemond, accepted now as the chief tactician among the princes, laid his plans.

  ‘Our first priority is the horses. We may be fasting but they must be fed as well as possible. We need them as strong as we can make them. Every scrap of grain that can be found is to be given to them.’

  The citizens were forced to yield up their last carefully concealed reserves and Ranulph and Marc were given the task of distributing the results. It was distressing work. Some of the knights had slaughtered their own horses for food, others had bled them and drunk the blood. All the beasts were thin, heads drooping and once glossy coats dull and bald in patches. Brand was in better condition than most, thanks largely to Dino’s efforts in scouring the city for fodder. Ranulph, in addition, had been sharing his own sparse rations with his stallion, knowing that in the event of a fight his life might depend on the horse. It was good, at last, to be able to give him a proper meal.

  At the end of the three days Ranulph no longer felt hunger. On the contrary, he was buoyed up by a sudden access of energy and lightness of heart. He had banished all doubts about the authenticity of the Lance. Above all, the prospect of action after the days of waiting was exhilarating. The outcome of the battle seemed indisputable. There was no way their small force could out-fight the vast army facing them. A martyr’s death was all he could hope for – but it was enough.

  On the evening before the battle he spent some time writing in his room and then summoned up his resolve and asked to speak with Mariam. Instead of coming down to the courtyard, as before, she sent her maid to conduct him to her own room and then dismissed the girl. She offered him a chair and then seated herself, her eyes downcast.

  For a moment he sat in silence unable to begin. Then he said, ‘Tomorrow we go out to do battle with the Turks.’

  She glanced quickly up at him and then away. ‘Tomorrow? I knew it must come soon.’ A pause. ‘Tomorrow, then. Do you see any chance of victory?’

  He lifted his shoulders. ‘We have the Holy Lance as a sign of God’s favour. But it will need a greater miracle still if we are to prevail.’ She bit her lip and he saw her hands, folded in her lap, tighten. He went on, ‘If we fail, you will have nothing to fear from Kerbogha�
�s men. Your husband was a Turk and your children are of Turkish blood.’ She met his gaze briefly and he guessed she was remembering how unreliable the assurance he had given to Firouz had been. He forced himself to continue. ‘There is a letter on the table in my room. Once the siege is lifted it will be possible to communicate with the rest of the world again. I have entrusted it to Dino and have left what remains of my money with it. It is enough to get him back to Sicily if he is sensible, and will enable him to return to his family. I ask you to make sure that he gets safely on board a ship that will take him there. You know enough of the business of merchants to arrange that.’

  ‘Of course. It is good that you have thought to send him home.’

  ‘The letter is addressed to a friend of mine in Amalfi, a man of business. He has looked after my affairs for many years now and I trust him implicitly. I still have some property in Sicily and interests in several merchant ventures. I have ordered him to sell everything and to realise as much capital as he can – I cannot say how much that may be, but when I left the value was substantial. However much it is, he is instructed to convey it by the safest possible means to Antioch and to give it to you.’

  ‘To me?’

  ‘As I understand it, your husband spent all his wealth to buy food during the siege, and now all the silk in your storeroom is gone too. I will not see you left destitute.’

  ‘But you cannot … I cannot take your money!’

  ‘Why not? I shall have no further use for it.’

  ‘You must not say that.’

  ‘Mariam, I have a great debt to you. If I am to go to meet my Maker, at least relieve me of some of the burden of guilt I carry by accepting this gift.’

  She gazed at him and he saw her swallow convulsively. Then she closed her lips in a firm line. ‘We will speak of this tomorrow.’

  ‘I do not expect to survive, whatever happens tomorrow.’

  ‘And if you do?’

  ‘If by some chance I do, then we can talk further. But for now, I need you to promise that you will accept the money. You can do with it whatever you like. Give it as alms to the poor, if you will, or give it to Ibn Butlan for his hospital. But it would please me better if you used it for the benefit of your children. See that they are educated and given the best start in life. After all, if things had been different, they might have been mine. Do I have your promise?’

  She nodded, dumbly. He rose and she stood up too. They were less than an arm’s reach apart. She put out both her hands and he took them. She said, ‘I never blamed you, for not returning when you promised, or for anything that has happened since. You carry no guilt on my account.’

  Her large dark eyes were full of tears and her lips were trembling. Desire flamed in his loins. He closed his eyes for a moment and prayed for strength; then he bent his head and kissed her hands. ‘Thank you.’ He turned away. ‘God keep you, Mariam.’

  ‘And God go with you and fight at your side,’ she answered, and the tears in her voice echoed across ten years of loss and sorrow.

  The next day day the Frankish army assembled, under the orders of Bohemond. It was a pitiful sight. Some of the knights were mounted on scrawny donkeys. Only a few had horses that looked fit for battle. But Ranulph was surprised by the numbers and the apparent good spirits of the foot soldiers. For days it had seemed that the army had been reduced to a skeleton by deaths and desertion but now, with the discovery of the Holy Lance, men who had been lurking in cellars, terrified to show themselves, had taken new heart. Bohemond divided them into six batallions. The first was led by Hugh of Vermandois, with Robert of Flanders; the second by Godfrey of Bouillon; next came Robert of Normandy; behind them were the troops of Adhemar of le Puy and with him Raymond of Aguilers carrying the Holy Lance. The broken spear point had been carefully bound to a new shaft and from it fluttered a banner emblazoned with the cross. Tancred and Gaston of Bearn led the fifth division and Bohemond had kept his knights in the rear. Raymond of Toulouse had finally succumbed to the sickness that had plagued him for days and remained behind with a small force to guard the city against attack from the Turks still within the citadel.

  All the priests, those who had travelled with the army and those who still lived in Antioch, had assembled, bearing crucifixes and holy relics. Some of them mounted the walls, but others joined the lines of troops. Adhemar took the lance and held it up. ‘Behold, the Holy Lance blessed with the blood of Christ. In this sign we conquer!’ And the cheer that went up shook the city.

  Ranulph looked up at the sky. It was a day of uncertain weather, with a blustering wind that herded great masses of white cloud before it, so that they formed into fantastical shapes and then dissolved again.

  It was the archers who began the battle, firing volley after volley from the walls onto the men guarding the bridge over the Orontes to clear the way. Then the gate was opened and the first company marched out. Waiting in the rear with Bohemond’s knights Ranulph strained his ears for sounds of battle but he heard only the chanting of the priests as they blessed the advancing warriors. Company after company passed through the gate and at last Bohemond gave the signal to advance. Riding out onto the bridge Ranulph drew a sharp breath at the sight before him. As planned, the different groups had fanned out across the plain and now stood ready in battle array, line upon line of foot soldiers with the cavalry drawn up behind them.

  Beyond them, the Turkish camps were seething like an ants’ nest disturbed. Taken by surprise, men rushed to mount their horses, messengers galloped from one to the other, trumpets sounded. Ranulph saw the standards of Duqaq and Ridwan. Kerbogha’s, he noticed, was absent. Battle lines were formed but still they did not attack.

  ‘What are they waiting for?’ Marc demanded.

  ‘Perhaps to be sure we are all out of the city,’ Ranulph said. ‘Then, if they can surround us, there will be no way back behind the shelter of the walls.’

  It seemed he had guessed correctly. The ranks of the Turks divided, some heading towards the mountains, on the Christians’ left wing, others in the direction of the sea on the right. Bohemond had seen the danger and a messenger galloped out to the company commanded by Godfrey. Very quickly, a detachment moved away, aiming to cut off the Turks heading towards the sea and a fierce battle broke out. The forces of Adhemar advanced on the Turks who stood between them and the mountains. In the centre, Hugh ordered a cavalry charge but it was repelled by a rain of arrows. Then the infantry rushed forward. The Turkish foot soldiers met them and vicious hand-to-hand struggles began. Squadrons of mounted Turkish archers were harassing the Christian lines. It was clear to Ranulph that the outcome hung in the balance and he looked at Bohemond, willing him to order the charge. It was at that moment that Kerbogha’s army swept into view over the crest of the hill, a vast new horde bearing down on the embattled Franks.

  Suddenly a shout went up from the right. Smoke was rising into the air.

  ‘They’ve lit a fire,’ Marc exclaimed. ‘Is it a signal?’

  ‘If it is they’ve judged it badly,’ Ranulph replied. ‘The grass has caught and the wind is blowing the flames towards their own camp.’

  Chaos broke out among the Turks in the threatened area. Some ran to try to put out the flames, others rushed to the tents to save their belongings; and then a whole body of them broke away and headed for the safety of the mountains.

  ‘They’re deserting!’ Marc shouted. ‘Ridwan’s men! Look at them, running like rabbits!’

  As they watched, the fleeing forces of Ridwan charged straight into Kerbogha’s advancing troops. There was instant confusion. Some seemed to be under the impression that they were being attacked, others that the battle was lost and it was time to flee. Seeing the turmoil, Bohemond stood in his stirrups.

  ‘Now! This is our moment. Charge! Deus le veult!’

  Ranulph touched Brand with his heels and the destrier, in spite of having subsisted for weeks on a diet of dead leaves and scraps, flung up his head and neighed defiance and launched h
imself into a gallop. As they thundered across the plain, Ranulph found the weight of doubt and guilt stripped away by the wind of their passage. He exulted in their speed and the sense of the powerful animal beneath him. This was to live more completely than at any other time. His heart pounded and his blood surged through his veins and every sense was stretched to its ultimate point. Away to his left someone shouted and pointed upwards. Ranulph looked up and beheld a miraculous sight. In the heavens above them rode a celestial army, mounted on white chargers and led by saints in armour so bright it hurt the eyes to look at them – and at their head was an angel wielding a flaming sword. Ranulph knew him at once. It was the Archangel Michael, the very one who had appeared to him all those years ago in the seas off Malta. And Ranulph knew then that his vision had been a true one, and that he had indeed been called to do God’s work and his sins were forgiven. All that remained was a martyr’s death. Ahead of him was the broiling mass of Turkish soldiers, a wall of levelled pikes and flashing scimitars. An arrow whistled past his ear. He lifted his head and screamed the war cry. ‘Deus le veult! Then he couched his lance and hurled himself towards his inevitable reward.

  13.

  He was in darkness but far above him was a point of light and the light was singing. He knew he had to reach it, to ascend somehow into that brightness. He stretched his arms towards it, but they were held down by a heavy weight. He struggled to raise himself but found his limbs encumbered by something that wrapped itself around them. It came to him that his body was dead and wrapped for burial in a winding sheet, but his soul had not yet freed itself to find its way to heaven. He must somehow escape from these material bonds. He thrashed around, trying to loosen the folds that gripped him and felt them shift and then slide away so that he was able to sit up. He reached towards the light, but it was no closer.

  Slowly the realisation dawned that he was not dead; that the distant light was a star and the music he had heard was the singing in his own ears. Apart from that, all was darkness and silence.