The Templar

Part 9

Arqa: The Feast of St Godric, 21 May 1099

Fulget crucis mysterium.

(The mystery of the cross blazes forth.)

Venantius Fortunatus, ‘Hymn In Honour of the Cross’

‘I have loved O Lord the beauty of thy house and the place where thy glory dwelleth.’ The Army of God sang these verses as they poured down the hill past crumbling buildings towards the land of Christ’s birth. The Christians of the locality, stirred up by Syrian monks from their small monastery around the Church of the Virgin, snatched up crucifixes and Ave beads to greet them. The Franks camped in a village only a few miles from Arqa. The army, now about twenty thousand souls, were jubilant, none more so, Eleanor wrote in her chronicle, than Hugh and Godefroi, who, once again, had forced the great lords to act. The Portal of the Temple, the leaders of the Jerusalemites, were now a power in the land. Jerusalem had to be taken swiftly. The Holy City had recently been seized by a new force dispatched by the Caliph of Cairo, the leader of the Fatimid sect of the Turks. He had sent his troops across Sinai to occupy Jerusalem, but the Army of God did not care. The Turks, whatever their name or origin, would be defeated. Jerusalem would be taken. They had to march swiftly. Now was the season when they could snatch crops from the ground, grain from the fields before the sun grew too hot and the earth became parched. Now was the time to march. Thousands of them had left Marrat, following the coast road. They went on foot, spears and packs on their shoulders, without baggage or carts; behind them trailed loaded camels and ox carts, but such things were not important. Jerusalem was their prize.

The hope of a swift march on the Holy City had been cherished by all when they left Marrat in February. At first Count Raymond and the other leaders seemed to have learned their lesson. Heaven now smiled on their venture. They entered southern Syria, part of ancient Canaan so the wise ones claimed, a land flowing with milk and honey especially during springtime. A countryside of deep purple hills and rolling grasslands, cut by ochre-coloured ploughland. Squat whitewashed cottages, with canvas and matting across their doorways and windows, nestled amongst black basalt rocks covered with golden-brown lichen. A land richly endowed with the plump silver-grey olive, shady tamarisk, blooming oleander, juniper and wild myrtle. Flowers of vivid hue caught the eye. Cloud shadows raced across the countryside where lavender-coloured rocks gave way to beds of primroses. Cool, fresh breezes ruffled the lush grass and brought the fragrance of cedar groves and dark pine, which also provided good shelter against the sun. At night the moon shone the pure yellow of primrose. At daybreak the sky became a festival of fast-changing colours. A rich land where cattle, sheep and goat browsed as thick as bees. A strange land too, dotted with ghost cities, ruins from ancient times, their crumbling walls and vaulting gateways still guarded by evil-looking creatures carved out of stone. As they travelled further south, the Franks glimpsed the distant cap of the Mountain of Snow and stared wonderingly up at the lowering blue skies against which stretched the black stems of palm trees with their fan-like branches. Streams, springs and wells gushed in abundance. Water wheels clacked and the sweet smoke of cooking fires, rather than the acrid fumes of burning homes, teased nostrils and throats already pleased by the fragrance of acacia and azalea.

The inhabitants were friendly, eager to trade; many of them were Syrian Christians belonging to strange covens such as the Copts or Maronites. The news of the Army of God’s great victories, the deeds of these ferocious iron men had preceded them; word of the defeats of Ridwan, Yaghi Siyan and Khebogha swept before the Army of God like a herald. Hugh, now speaking as vox populi, urged Count Raymond to treat with local rulers and show benevolence to all. Such diplomacy worked: the Emir of Shazir greeted them amicably, as did the ruler of Homs. On the Feast of the Purification of Mary, the army occupied the deserted town of Raphania, with its gardens full of vegetables and houses crammed with provisions. They rested there and took council. They could journey inland and lay siege to the sprawling city of Damascus, or continue to strike south-west along the coast. Hugh persuaded Count Raymond to adopt the latter course, arguing that the coastal route was easier, and they would also be able to maintain closer communication with cogs bearing provisions, which would accompany them on their march. Where possible, Hugh insisted, they must avoid battle and hardship. Count Raymond agreed. The Army of God marched down the coast of the Middle Sea. They faced some opposition. Turkish patrols from various isolated fortresses attacked the stragglers until the Portal of the Temple took action. They withdrew from the order of march and hid, watching the stragglers of the army go limping by. The Turks attacked, only to be furiously ambushed by Hugh’s brotherhood, who circled them and utterly annihilated them.

Count Raymond continued his march. He seized certain hill forts and eventually decided to lay siege to the great fortress of Arqa. He hoped that if this fell it might attract back Bohemond, Godfrey of Bouillon and Robert of Flanders, who had not joined his march south. He believed Arqa could be taken easily. He was wrong. The Turkish defenders displayed superb bravery, engaging in ferocious forays against the Franks. Savage duels took place between the huge catapults of the city and those brought south by the Army of God. Pots of fire, bundles of flaming wood, pitch and brimstone were loosed to explode in a fiery blaze against the tents and huts of the besiegers. Raymond of Toulouse still believed the city could be taken and decided to teach the Turks of the area that he was to be feared. Hugh and Godefroi argued against this, but the count was adamant. He threatened the great ruler of nearby Tripoli by sending a raiding party to seize the neighbouring port of Tortosa. The ruler of Tripoli was suitably impressed and handed over a string of horses and ten thousand gold bezants. Godfrey of Bouillon and Robert of Flanders heard of this and hurried south to join Raymond, who had to use his new-found wealth not only to pay the warlike Tancred, who’d deserted his uncle Bohemond, but also to reward Godfrey and Robert.

One trouble followed another. Arqa refused to fall. News arrived that the Emperor Alexius had written instructing Count Raymond not to move any further south until he joined the army for the final march on Jerusalem. Peter Bartholomew, ever under Raymond’s wing, emerged with more decrees as to how the Army of God should purge itself anew. Deep resentment festered. Fierce discussion took place. Representations were made that they had left Marrat with one aim, to march directly on Jerusalem, yet once again were delaying. Hugh and Godefroi discussed all this when they gathered for a special council meeting in Theodore’s tent. Alberic and Norbert, gaunt-faced and zealous-eyed, later joined them, as did Beltran.

It was a balmy night, as Eleanor later reflected, one on which she and Theodore were accustomed to walk out of the camp to savour the thick, heavy smells of early summer away from the raw stench of camp fires, cooking pots, latrines, and the pervasive reek of filthy clothes on dirty bodies. Theodore was swiftly replacing Hugh as Eleanor’s confidant. He did not lecture but persuaded her to talk, and she did, more frankly and honestly than in any shriving pew. Theodore encouraged her to discuss the past. Eleanor realised how the haunting death of her drunken, violent husband had receded during her journey. Sometimes weeks passed without her thinking of it. Now, however, as Theodore paid court and they drew closer to Jerusalem after all the horrors of the campaign, Eleanor recalled the past. She spoke about the changes she’d undergone, the growing distance between herself and Hugh, the coolness of Godefroi, and how she had eventually found peace from her own scruples. She’d become firmly convinced that her husband had brought his own death on himself. If she was guilty in any way, then she had certainly purged such guilt. After all, how had she provoked her husband’s raging fury, his foul mouth and violent ways? Moreover, what was his death compared to the thousands of innocents massacred on either side in this so-called Holy War? In the end, the journey east had not been what Eleanor had even remotely expected. Yet she was here because she was here and there was no turning back. True, the journey’s end was in sight, but how would Jerusalem make her, or anybody else, more human or holy? If anything, she confessed to Theodore, the pilgrimage had purged her soul of so much rubbish. If they reached Jerusalem, if she survived, she would have no more part in the pursuit of visions; she would begin again, build her own world and shelter in it as securely as any nun would in her cell.

Theodore never disagreed. The pair of them took to riding away from the filth of the camp, the noise and rattle of the siege around Arqa. They’d gallop out into the countryside, searching for some whitewashed cottage with its animal pens, flower plots and vegetable gardens. Theodore would sit beside her on the grass and describe how his early life had been in such a place as this and how it had always been his dream to search it out again. Eleanor listened as the door to her past shut tight behind her. There would be no return to Compiègne. No more agonising over the death of her husband or sharing some heavenly vision with Hugh and Godefroi. Once Jerusalem was taken — if Jerusalem was taken — her vow would be fulfilled and a new path waited to be followed.

Eleanor recalled her promise to herself when Hugh convened his meeting: her brother was now a power to be heard, a recognised leader, and he delivered his proclamation in authoritative, blunt words: Godfrey of Bouillon and Robert of Flanders had rejoined the Army of God, which was now a force about twenty thousand strong, at the very most. The siege of Arqa was draining resources and should be abandoned, whilst the Caliph of Cairo’s great army was marching to Jerusalem’s defence.

‘How do you know that?’ Beltran asked, blustering uninvited into the tent, Imogene trailing dolefully behind him. Eleanor studied her closely. Imogene was gaunt and thin-faced, not due to any deprivation, just because she and Beltran were now quarrelling incessantly, though over what, Eleanor could not discover.

‘How do I know that?’ Hugh retorted. ‘By an act of God. One of my brothers went out hawking; his falcon attacked a pigeon and, wounded, it fell. My brother found the pigeon carried a message in a small cylinder attached just above one of its claws.’

‘Never!’ Beltran scoffed.

‘Its true. I’ve heard the same,’ Theodore intervened. ‘The Turks have trained pigeons to carry messages over long distances.’

‘And the news?’ Alberic asked.

‘What I’ve told you. The message came from one of the Caliph of Cairo’s fortresses in the south,’ Hugh replied. ‘The Egyptians are sending a great army to defend Jerusalem.’

Only the crackling of the fire and the drifting sounds of the camp broke the silence.

‘This nonsense must stop.’ Godefroi clambered to his feet, hands outstretched. Eleanor hid her smile. Hugh had arranged this, even though he stood face all pious as any novice in his choir stall.

‘Our allegiance is to Count Raymond,’ Alberic offered.

‘Only to take Jerusalem,’ Norbert murmured.

‘If he will not go,’ Godefroi continued fiercely, ‘then we’ll withdraw our love and loyalty from him.’

This was greeted by cries of approval.

‘But the lance,’ Norbert declared, ‘Count Raymond holds the Holy Lance and his prophet Peter Bartholomew sees that as a sign from heaven, direct approval by God of all Count Raymond does.’

‘But who said Peter Bartholomew is a prophet in Israel?’ Hugh asked menacingly. ‘Heaven can withdraw its favour and God His approval. Is that not true?’

Over the next few days Hugh’s question was answered as Peter Bartholomew made the situation much worse. He was now experiencing new visions of Christ, St Peter and St Andrew, and the story he proclaimed was chilling. The Lord had instructed him how too many sinners sheltered in the Army of God and that these must be ruthlessly rooted out. Count Raymond of Toulouse should summon the entire army and have them lined up as if in battle. Peter Bartholomew would then miraculously discover the Franks arrayed in five ranks: those in the first three ranks would be the devoted followers of Christ, but the last two would include those polluted by the sins of adultery, fornication, pride, avarice and cowardice. Peter announced that the Lord had instructed him to oversee the immediate execution of all such sinners. Of course this was viewed as a direct threat. Count Raymond was already unpopular. The siege at Arqa was dragging on, the message from Alexius asked them to delay even further, and now this.

Rumours emerged, spreading fast and furious like fire amongst stubble. How Peter Bartholomew was a charlatan and the so-called Holy Lance no more than a Turkish spear head; Peter Bartholomew himself, probably with the connivance of Count Raymond, had planted it to be found. The Franks were tired of Peter’s peering into the dark in the dead of night and relating his wondrous stories. It was time he was tested. Arnulf of Chocques, chaplain to the Duke of Normandy, led the opposition. He and others began to ask questions, and due to the influence of the Portal of the Temple, these questions were now chanted throughout the camp. Why was the Holy Lance discovered by Bartholomew himself, alone in a pit in the dark, instead of being revealed in the open light to many? Why did these visions come to Bartholomew, a former frequenter of taverns and possibly a deserter from the army? Moreover, how did the Holy Lance come to Antioch? When did Pontius Pilate and his soldiers ever visit that city? Why did no one except Peter Bartholomew experience these visions and know where the Holy Lance was buried? Not even Adhémar of Le Puy had made such claims. Indeed, the saintly Adhémar had been highly suspicious of the sacred relic.

So the argument ran. Many began to regard the Holy Lance as no more than a piece of treachery. Arnulf kept up the attack, growing more and more insistent, until eventually he provoked Peter Bartholomew, who rose in full council to defend himself.

‘Let a great fire be built!’ Bartholomew exclaimed. ‘And I will take the Holy Lance and pass safely through such a fire. If the lance be the Lord’s sending, I shall come through unhurt; if not, I shall burn to death!’

The ordeal by fire seemed to be the only just solution. The day was chosen: Good Friday 1099. Peter fasted and prayed. On the appointed day, a level stretch of land was prepared. Wood was piled loosely in the centre for a distance of about five paces. Soldiers crowded the slopes around to watch the ordeal, the army turning out en masse to witness God’s judgement. Near the centre of the cleared space stood a group of priests, the official witnesses; these were barefoot, clad only in their vestments. Eleanor and Theodore, mixing with Hugh’s comrades, went down to watch. Peter Bartholomew was led out and stripped of his outer garments. The dried olive tree branches were set alight. The pile of burning brushwood now stretched for about fourteen feet, divided into two heaps each about four feet high. Between these two piles a space of about a foot had been left. The fire roared up. Raymond of Aguilers, chaplain to Count Raymond of Toulouse, addressed the army, his powerful voice carrying.

‘If the Almighty God has spoken to this man face to face and the Blessed Andrew revealed the lance to him, he will pass through this fire without harm. If it is otherwise, however, then he is a liar! Let him burn and the lance that he carries in his hands.’ The entire army knelt and roared back, ‘Amen!’

The fire leapt higher, the heat spreading out. Peter Bartholomew genuflected, took the blessing of a priest then shouted in a loud, strident voice that God be his witness, he had not lied. He also asked the army to pray for him. The priest took the lance, wrapped in a linen cloth, and placed it into Peter Bartholomew’s hands. The prophet rose and went straight into the fire. A bird flew over the flames, the heat singed it and the bird plunged down. Peter, however, passed through the first pyre, paused for an instant and then continued through the second. The uproar that greeted his unscathed emergence rang to the skies. Peter held up the lance, still wrapped in linen; it too showed no sign of singeing. He ran towards the people, shouting how the Lord had proven he was no liar. Theodore withdrew Eleanor, as a riot now threatened. People crowded around Peter Bartholomew. Eleanor never really discovered the truth of what happened next. Whether it was adulation from the mob or the work of some enemy, Peter received more damage from his so-called supporters than from the fire: his legs were broken in two or three places, and serious damage was done to his back. In fact he would have been torn to pieces had not Count Raymond’s henchmen broken into the crowd, freed him and hurried him off to the hut of Raymond Aguilers. The mob, however, believing they had witnessed a great miracle, now turned on the fire, gathering up the coals and ashes as sacred relics.

Immediately various stories began to circulate about how Peter had escaped being burned by the fire, and witnesses called to inspect his face and body vouched for this. Others, however, said he had collapsed because of the heat. Whatever, the day after the test, Holy Saturday, Peter Bartholomew died of his injuries and was buried in the very spot where the ordeal had taken place. If Count Raymond of Toulouse hoped the miracle would silence opposition, he was wrong. The stories were still rife: Peter Bartholomew was a charlatan, the Holy Lance a fake. Desperately, Raymond tried to hold on to his authority, but already Godfrey of Bouillon, Robert of Normandy and Robert of Flanders were determined to take over the leadership, a task made easier by the likes of Hugh and Godefroi. The Army of God were tired of Arqa. Jerusalem waited. An Egyptian army was approaching. They should seize the Holy City immediately! As if guided by some invisible force, the army struck their tents, burned their huts and, chanting hymns and singing psalms, set their faces towards Jerusalem. Raymond of Toulouse still insisted on having the last word. His failure at Arqa had made the ruler of Tripoli think again: were the Franks so weak they couldn’t take a mere hill fort? He sent out raiding parties. Raymond retaliated ruthlessly. The raiding parties were ambushed and their corpses sent floating down an aqueduct back into Tripoli, decapitated cadavers and severed heads bubbling blood from their jagged wounds.