Prince of Legend

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

With the conference concluded most of the princes, Toulouse excluded, returned to Antioch, with Tancred uncomfortable and making a poor fist of concealing it. If he looked to his uncle for a way to proceed he was sadly disappointed: Bohemund would not advise him, seeking to avoid the subject and only saying when forced to comment that his nephew should look to the dictates of his own conscience, that even more unsettled on the news that the Duke of Normandy, hitherto one of the most vocal in complaint against Raymond of Toulouse and his habit of bribery, had accepted his offer.

If that came as a real surprise, it had to be recalled that, in order to fund his personal Crusade and assure the adherence of his knights, Duke Robert had mortgaged his Normandy holdings, as well as the income thereof, to his brother the King of England for a hundred thousand crowns, a sum long ago consumed; Robert Curthose was a man with few options when it came to the revenues required to fulfil his vow and in his case plunder had been in short supply.

The news regarding Normandy was followed by an equally surprising defection: Robert of Flanders, who had supported Raymond at both the sieges of Albara and Ma’arrat an-Numan, arrived from Rugia having declined to follow the lead of his brother-in-law and flatly, even insultingly, refused the offer from his erstwhile ally.

‘How do you think he feels,’ Bohemund enquired, when his nephew questioned the Flanders decision, ‘when having given such faithful service and suffered the excess of Raymond’s pride for many a month, he is ranked as worth only a thousand solidi more than you?’

Tancred’s response was mordant. ‘I think, in truth, neither of us count for much.’

‘Your greater worth lies in your connection to me.’

‘Something I am being asked to sunder.’

‘Which is of the greater concern to you, nephew,’ Bohemund replied, with an enigmatic grin, ‘your soul or your bloodline?’

That was said in such a way as to preclude one question, but not another. ‘What of Duke Godfrey?’

The reply was emphatic. ‘He too will decline.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘To be paid to regain Jerusalem would, in his mind, sully the endeavour, and for Godfrey purity of motive is paramount. Besides, with his brother Baldwin to back him, and through that the revenues of Edessa, he does not want for silver or support.’

‘They are not close, Godfrey and Baldwin; indeed, I was of the opinion, more than once, they came close to loathing each other.’

‘What heir to a fiefdom loves his lord?’

That, a reference to the fact that Godfrey was childless and his brother next in line to the ducal title of Lower Lorraine, raised another question never addressed and one that would not be raised now: Bohemund, too, lacked an heir and many supposed that Tancred was close enough both in blood and friendship to the Count of Taranto to be next in line to succeed him in Apulia.

‘You think Baldwin will support him. If he does I am curious to understand why.’

That got a rousing laugh, loud enough to echo off the battlements of Antioch. ‘If you are waiting for me to say to you blood is thicker than water, Tancred, you will wait in vain.’

Raymond’s ambitions for Jerusalem did nothing to dent his desire to rein in the ambitions of his rival; he still intended to control the entire supply of food to Antioch from the south by holding an arc of land hinged on Ma’arrat, which abutted Turkish territory, through the Ruj Valley to the coast, with control of the roads to the nearby ports to complete his aim.

There were other ambitions too, based on possession. In Ma’arrat, as he had in Albara, he had installed one of his priests, the one-time archdeacon, Peter of Narbonne, as the bishop of that see. Both would adhere to the Latin rite, albeit they had needed to be consecrated by the only available high divine, the increasingly feeble Armenian Patriarch, John the Oxite, these designed to raise his standing among the pilgrims as well as to curry favour in Rome.

These manoeuvres, and he knew of every step his enemy took, were watched by Bohemund, though it would have been fruitless to seek to observe how much such moves concerned him. All an observer would see was a man going about his business, ensuring the walls of Antioch, where damaged, had been repaired, that his forage parties, albeit obliged to work to the north and east, were bringing in enough to fill more than just the storerooms of the citadel, over which he had total control.

If he had a major concern, it was one he did not spread abroad. When John the Oxite shrugged off his mortal coil, something that seemed increasingly imminent, Bohemund was determined, in the same manner as Raymond, that the person who replaced him should be a Latin bishop. This engendered much correspondence with Rome, a steady stream of letters, his aim to persuade the Pope to accede to his request and to send someone of stature to take the office, not forgetting to add that he, unlike Raymond of Toulouse, did not have the arrogance to assume that he could appoint someone from his own retinue of priests and of his own choosing.

In every communication lay several references to the loyalty to the Holy Church shown by his family, not least Count Roger of Sicily, which conveniently glossed over the several times a reigning pope had been humbled by a de Hauteville over the previous decades. Added to that lay a subtle undercurrent of doubt, in which Bohemund detailed the lack of support the Crusade had received from Alexius Comnenus, not omitting to add that an emperor who had so far taken as much as he could of the spoils of the Crusade without spilling the blood of his own men, would no doubt claim that Jerusalem, like Antioch, should be a fief of Constantinople.

How then, when Byzantium ruled in the birthplace of Christ as well as the mighty city of Antioch, the site of St Peter’s first church, could the Bishop of Rome lay claim to be the universal head of the faith? How then, with Byzantium in such a powerful position and entrenched, could His Holiness hope to persuade the Orthodox Church to heal the divisions of the forty-year schism?

When it came to the unity of the faith, a matter of vital concern to Rome and the future of the Christian mission, who was the true enemy, Byzantium or Islam?

‘I know a great deal of your grandsire’s family, Tancred,’ Robert of Normandy said. ‘They were much talked about when I was growing to manhood, he most of all.’

‘Not with much affection, I suppose.’

That was a remark that made both men smile, though it did not last long with the Duke. The de Hautevilles — if successful, they were at least distant — were typical of his own subjects, men whose loyalty was to their own success and well-being, not that of their liege lord. Norman knights were able to shift allegiances with an alacrity that made the task of ruling Normandy, indeed anywhere the heirs of the Vikings had planted their feet, near impossible, as the Guiscard too had found to his cost.

His own father, William, had taken years between his succession at seven years of age and the great Battle of Val-es-Dunes to exert control over his subjects and in that he had required the support of the King of France, his titular suzerain, who did not supply such aid to the nineteen-year-old Duke William without extracting a territorial price, one redeemed when the young man, a decade older and finally secure in his domains, turned on his one-time ally and defeated him in battle.

Robert himself, succeeding to Normandy on the death of William, now called the Conqueror, had been forced to fight his brother, who ruled England, to maintain the title bequeathed to him; in that contest the ability of his subjects to change sides, and to do so at the drop of a gage, made a successful defence near impossible.

The two men talked on — Robert had been kind and indulgent to Tancred ever since they had marched in company with Bohemund from Nicaea — each recalling the feats of their forbears. Robert was able to range with pride all the way back to Rollo, the Viking raider who, to keep him and his ferocious raiders quiet, had been given Normandy as a fief. If Tancred’s lineage was, in terms of nobility, a shorter one, their deeds were just as remarkable, so a happy period was passed in talk of Norman success.

‘You have accepted the offer made to you by Raymond of Toulouse?’ Tancred said, in what seemed an abrupt change of subject and one that fractured the pleasant mood.

‘I have,’ Robert replied, with a look indicating that any enquiry into motive would be unwelcome.

‘Who can doubt your faith?’ Tancred responded, neatly sidestepping the issue of Raymond’s silver. ‘For myself …’

The ploy, leaving any conclusion to his words hanging in the air, was obvious and intended to be. Robert was sharp enough to pick up on what was required.

‘You are here to seek my advice?’

‘Some would be welcome, My Lord, since I can extract none from my uncle.’

‘You have asked?’

A nod accompanied by a gloomy look. ‘And been told to follow the dictates of my own conscience. Were it anyone but Toulouse I would not hesitate, like you I am all committed to Jerusalem, but …’

Robert, with his saturnine complexion and dark eyes, gave Tancred a look that seemed to enquire if he was ever going to finish a sentence, yet he declined to be drawn once more and remained silent, forcing the younger man to continue.

‘If it were Godfrey de Bouillon seeking my sword arm I would not hesitate, yet if I join with Raymond, Bohemund will surely see it as a betrayal.’

‘That is not necessarily the case.’

There was an air of real artificiality in the way that Tancred brightened then, made more apparent by his eagerness to hear anything encouraging.

‘We have just been talking about our ancestors, have we not? Ask yourself, Tancred, what the Guiscard would do in the same circumstance, indeed what your uncle would do if matters were reversed? What is here for you in Antioch but continued service under his shadow? What waits for you if you do as I have done, and you follow the dictates of your crusading vow?’

‘Bohemund is fond of saying he cannot see into the future. I am no better than he.’

When Robert responded, it was with an emphatic tone and a sharp chop of his hand.

‘That was a vow taken by Bohemund too, to march on Jerusalem and bring it back to Christianity, yet you and I know he will not progress one step beyond Antioch, for he sees no advantage to himself in doing so. Think like your uncle and that will give you the answer you seek.’

‘I have spoken with the men we lead, both lances and the foot soldiers, as you said before that I could.’ That got a gesture from a seated Bohemund, a twitch on the enjoined hands under his chin; it implied such a thing was hardly a secret. ‘Fifty of our lances are set on Jerusalem, nearly all the milities.’

‘They are more pious, the milities.’

‘And I am determined on Jerusalem myself, but I will go without Raymond’s silver if acceptance of that offends you.’

‘Take his money, for not to do so would be foolish,’ Bohemund snapped, but it was not said in anger. ‘But this I advise, trust Raymond in nothing, stay close to Robert of Normandy and even more to Duke Godfrey when he decides to march.’

‘For someone who claims not to be a seer you seem to know a great deal of what de Bouillon will do.’

‘What he must do, proceed to Jerusalem, but it will not be under the banner of Toulouse.’

‘How fractured this effort has become.’

‘The miracle is that there was accord for so long. I doubt if even Ademar, had he lived, could have kept it in harmony.’

‘If I am to take Raymond’s silver that means I must join him at Rugia.’

‘Then do so with my blessing, Tancred.’

‘If you are keen to give it now, why has it been so withheld?’

Bohemund stood and approached his nephew, taking his shoulders in his hands, his smile that of an indulgent parent.

‘It is not my place to make such decisions for you, regardless of what feelings I have for you — and those you know, so I will not reprise them. The time has been long in coming when you must strike out on your own, and I esteem you for the considerations you demonstrated in not wishing to do so in the service of a man who is my enemy.’

‘It is still an uneasy choice to make.’

‘Enough that it is done,’ Bohemund insisted. ‘I know you will fight well when the time comes, as you have done with me and perhaps, when men talk of the fall of Jerusalem, it will be of Tancred they speak, not the Duke of Normandy or the Count of Toulouse.’

‘With your permission I will leave on the morrow and I ask for the supplies of food I need to get to Rugia, enough for two days’ march.’

The benign expression on Bohemund’s face disappeared and his tone matched the look that replaced it. ‘You are in Raymond’s service now. If you want food, ask his men holding the Bridge Gate to provide it for you.’

With Tancred and his men barely gone, the news that arrived from Ma’arrat shocked even those inured to brutality; as had been observed by Bohemund, the land close to the city had been ravaged by the passing of armies, the good red earth lying fallow till the spring planting. Even with the city in Crusader hands the feeding of the masses that waited there, wondering when the march on Jerusalem would finally take place, imposed a burden on the countryside that could not be met.

Each time a traveller or messenger arrived in Antioch, they spoke of the increasing dearth of supply in the territory of Jabal as-Summaq, a high plateau, in the grip of winter. Supplies sent from other places, to the Apulians by Bohemund, to the rest by Raymond from Rugia, did not even begin to meet the needs of such a mass of mouths, and with nothing in the fields — even the barely edible roots were gone — the people there, pilgrims especially, were bordering on starvation.

The likes of Bishop Peter of Narbonne and his attendant priests lacked for little, churchmen never did, while the soldiers, following the sack and distribution of the spoils, had coin enough to buy from the traders who ventured into the city and set up a market as soon as matters settled. Likewise those pilgrims who, in the plundering of Ma’arrat, had sought valuables rather than food, yet even they were getting hungry in a situation so perilous it was balanced on an edge.

News came that dearth was rapidly descending into crisis and predictions of an impending catastrophe. The tale arrived at both Antioch and to Raymond at Rugia and told of a riot in which the sparse market had been pillaged by hungry pilgrims, the traders, those who were not killed, being driven off in terror, yet so numerous were the needy that only a few gained enough sustenance to stave off hunger from their depredations.

It was what followed next that caused many to cross themselves, for with even the limited trade cut off by fear, no food was to be had in Ma’arrat at all and the entire polity, it seemed, had begun to resort to eating the human remains of the Turks so recently slaughtered when the city had fallen.

The bodies of the infidels had been dragged out of the streets to be dumped in a nearby swamp. Now, after weeks of both water and weather, their rotting cadavers were being dredged out for the softer parts to be cut up then cooked. If it had been only one or two at first, the last reports told of an entire mass of people engaged in the same heinous crime, which had those still at Antioch — there were vessels arriving daily bringing yet more pilgrims from Europe — loud in their lamentations.

With a quickly gathered oxen train, Raymond rushed food to the city, there, when he followed in person, to be received with less of the acclaim to which he had become so accustomed. The faithful were loud in their condemnation of the lack of crusading progress, and if Bohemund was equally damned he was not present to have it assail his ears. Holding aloft the Holy Lance no longer brought genuflection, more a furious growl and that turned to open dissent when he stated his intention to march only once the walls of Ma’arrat had been rebuilt.

That such an aim acted as a red rag to the already discontented pilgrims could not be foreseen; to them such an intention spoke of territorial ambition not zeal in the cause of Christ. Led by their angry preachers the lay folk attacked the walls of Ma’arrat intent on tearing them to the ground, for such a place was of no account against their devotion and, if such a task was beyond them, the message was plain to Raymond of Toulouse.

To regain his place in their hearts, it was he who ordered that the said walls be destroyed, the stones being smashed by hammers then thrown down to fill that dry moat, the news of which flew back to Antioch. That was sent by Tancred who had so recently joined Raymond and found his men required to aid the Provencals in Ma’arrat’s destruction — the remaining Apulians declined to do so, but were happy, on Tancred’s orders, to rejoin Bohemund.

The day came to depart, and so that their endeavour should be reconsecrated, it was decided that the whole host — clerical, military and pilgrim — in order that there should be no doubt as to their devotion to their Christian God, that no hint of pride should sully their enterprise, must march out of the city walking and barefoot. Raymond, shoeless like the meanest servant, was at the front holding aloft the Holy Lance, alongside Peter of Narbonne, his so recently appointed bishop, who with his priests, intoned prayers seeking the blessing of Christ and the intercession of the saints.

At the rear came Tancred and his Apulians, no less loud in their devotions but with torches in their hands, these used to set light to every structure they passed, be it the splendid residences of the one-time city merchants, a tradesman’s shop, hovels lived in by the poor, a sty or a stable. The Crusade marched south, vigour renewed, and behind them the city they had just left turned to a smoking inferno which would, very quickly, consume everything that could burn. Ma’arrat an-Numan would be no more.

From the citadel of Antioch, Bohemund observed the Occitan banners of the Count of Toulouse that still flew from the Governor’s Palace and the Bridge Gate, a sign that whatever else he was willing to surrender it was not these. Yet he was content: they were few and he was many, while their liege lord was marching further and further away.

Antioch was his to control, though not without concerns: Toulouse had left Albara strongly garrisoned, which meant he still held the strategic key to the plateau of Jabal as-Summaq and the harvest it would produce in the coming year. Then there was the Emperor, Alexius Comnenus, whose intentions were as yet a mystery.