The iron lance

THIRTY-THREE

'The battle is lost,' said Ranulf after a time. The drug that kept the pain at bay began to make his voice thick. He spoke, and the words seemed to struggle up from the depths of torment, as from a deep well. 'We stand on our feet and make the sign of the cross over ourselves. We prepare to die.

'But Bohemond is not defeated. He struggles forward through the onrushing tide of retreating troops, striving to turn them to battle. Duke Robert and Count Stephen follow his lead-they gather what is left of their armies and take their places either side of Bohemond.

'We can hardly stand. Our swords are heavy in our hands.

'The sultan sees the victory now.

'They come at us. By the thousands they come. For the first time all that long day, we have a solid force before us. We grip our spears and meet the charge, making good account of the weapons in our hands. We are fighting for our lives!

'The sound is deafening. I hear nothing but a growling roar like angry thunder. Faces swim before me out of a mist of sweat and blood. I grip my spear but the haft grows slippery in my grasp, and it is soon carried away. I fumble for my sword… God help me! I cannot find it! My sword!

'There! I have it! I make to pull it free from the scabbard and I feel a sharp pain in my arm. I look to see blood spurting from a gash above my wrist. The infidel's sword is quick. It strikes again before I can defend myself. I see the curved blade flick out, and feel the sting again-it bites to the bone.

'My fingers will not close on the hilt. The blade spins from my grasp. I cover myself with my shield and await the final blow.

'But my attacker is gone! God in heaven, they are falling away. I look down the line to see the infidel fleeing the field. Why? What can this mean?

'There! Streaming down the hill! See them? They come! They come! Raymond and the other lords have found us at last. God be praised! We are saved!

'I see crusaders sweeping down the hillside. Who is it? Is it Duke Godfrey? It is! His column is first over the ridge. Riding at the head of his troops, he leads them into the unsuspecting Turks.

'The other lords ride fast behind. Count Raymond gains the ridge to the left of Godfrey, and Bishop Adhemar-the bishop himself leading a force of five hundred knights-appears in the valley by way of a narrow gap in the hills. Suddenly, I see them flying towards us from all sides.

'The startled Seljuqs turn as one to see a new army charging down upon them. One moment they are at our throats, bearing down for the kill – an instant later, the sultan's entire war host is streaming away in wild retreat. Praise God, they are running over one another in their haste to get away!

'Bohemond seizes the chance. Oh, he is not slow. He lofts his sword and sounds the war cry. Then he is charging into the retreating enemy. Reaching for my sword once more, I slip my shield onto my right arm, and grasp the blade with my left. It is awkward, by God, but it will serve.

'Somehow we stir our feet, and rally once more. We wade into the maelstrom, hewing at the enemy horsemen as they pass by. We cut them from the saddle, and impale them on our spears. The blood runs down our upraised swordblades and the hilts became greasy in our hands. Yet, we stand to our work, slashing and chopping, until we can no longer grip our weapons.

'When there is no one else to kill, we look up. The enemy is gone from the field. Godfrey, who has begun the assault, gives charge of his troops to Baldwin. "Pursue them with a vengeance," he commands. "Whatever happens, do not let them regroup." And Baldwin, eager for blood, chases the fleeing enemy through the valley.'

Ranulf paused to swallow, tears in the corners of his eyes as he remembered the great tide of relief at their deliverance. Murdo looked at his father's stump of an arm, feeling the dull horror of the unrelenting day.

'We see no more. The retreat carries the battle from our sight, and we slump down to the ground to catch our breath. Whether wounded or hale, we all hug the earth and thank God we are still alive.

'Later, we are told that the chase led back to where Sultan Arslan had established his camp away over the hills to the east. So swift is the pursuit, the sultan had no time to dismount and change horses before the crusaders were upon him. The sultan's bodyguard put up enough of a fight to cover their master's retreat-then they too fled after him, leaving tents, horses, and all the sultan's treasure behind.

'See, the Arabs are a wandering people. They trust not to palaces nor cities. That is their way, and that is how we get the plunder: we run them off and take it from them. God in heaven, the sultan had a very great treasure hoard, and we took it all.'

Ranulf fell to coughing again. Murdo watched helplessly as the convulsions racked his father's wasted body. Ranulf paused; he touched his fingertips to his lips. Murdo raised the waterskin again, and gave his father to drink. 'Rest a little,' he suggested. 'I will stay with you. We can talk again later.'

But Ranulf seemed not to hear. 'The treasure is vast,' he continued, his voice dry and hollow, 'gold and silver beyond imagining. Baldwin seizes it at once. The battle is over… I look around. The cries and shouts still roar in my ears. I can hear nothing for the tumult of war yet raging in my head. I stumble out upon the battleground.

'The dead… the dead… Blessed Jesu there are more dead than living. I cannot walk for falling over the bodies… knights and footmen… women and children-their bodies are ripped and torn, their blood and inward parts spilled upon the ground… corpses with neither head nor limbs… I saw a priest disembowelled, and a baby with hoofprints on his back

'Father, please,' Murdo begged.

'Seventy thousand!' cried Ranulf, struggling up once more. 'Seventy thousand in one day! That is what they said-add to that women and children, priests and old men-who knows how many more? Seventy thousand knights and footmen went down in death at Dorylaeum. More than twenty thousand were wounded, and many of these lingered in agony only to die in the next few days.

'I searched for Brusi and his sons,' he said, falling back once more. 'I searched the night, but never saw them again. They fell at Dorylaeum with all the rest… with all the rest. I never found them.'

The air inside the tent was stifling and Murdo longed for a fresh breath, but dared not leave his father's side. 'Rest now,' Murdo begged, 'you will regain your strength.'

'Nay, son.' Ranulf gave a slender shake of his head. 'I am dying.'

Murdo blinked, trying to hold back the tears. 'Father, I…' he began, and could say no more before the tears burst anew.

'Nay, nay,' Ranulf hushed. 'I am shrift and ready. Take word to your mother – tell her how I died.'

'Of course,' answered Murdo. 'I will tell her.'

'Wicked the waste! Wicked!' croaked Ranulf, growing agitated once more. 'Arrogant fools! We paid the price for our folly, by God! We paid with our lives.'

'It is over now,' Murdo said, trying to soothe his father. 'The fighting is finished. Jerusalem is taken.'

But Ranulf would not be calmed. Rising up from his bed, he clutched at Murdo. 'Go home. Find your brothers and go home. This fight is not for us.' He gripped Murdo by the shoulder. 'Tell them what happened here. Promise me, son.'

'I have already promised, remember?' said Murdo, dashing the tears away with the heels of his hands.

'So you have. Good,' said Ranulf. 'Listen to me now. There is one thing more. I leave this to your care, and that of your brothers.' Releasing his hold on his son, Ranulf fumbled at the edge of the pallet with his remaining hand. Strength failing, he fell back, drawing the lumpy mat away from the crude wooden frame.

Murdo gaped in amazement. For there, heaped in a jumbled, gleaming mass beneath the dying man was a treasure trove of gold and silver objects, more valuable, more opulent, more wonderful than anything he could have dreamed.