The Templar

Part 10

Jerusalem: The Feast of St Mary Magdalen,

24 July 1099

Tam sancta membra tangere.

(Then to touch the sacred limbs.)

Venantius Fortunatus, ‘Hymn In Honour of the Cross’

The Army of God advanced relentlessly on Jerusalem. The Franks sang hymns and chanted favourite lines from the psalms such as: ‘One day in your court is worth a thousand elsewhere.’ They certainly did not sing that about the land they were passing through. Summer in all its scorching, blasting heat hammered the army. Swirling dust clouds closed in as swarms of stinging gnats and flies tortured their skin. They kept to the coastal road, a narrow, perilous passage. Thankfully no enemy waited to ambush them, even when they had to pass round a rugged promontory that jutted out into the sea, a highly dangerous place the local inhabitants called ‘the Face of God’. They warned the Franks that they would have to go round this fearsome place in single file, and so they did, but safely. Similar narrow passes were forced. The Dog river was crossed, Beirut circled. The Army of God swarmed over the fallen marble of once great palaces and swept under the magnificent yet crumbling arches built by the Romans until they reached Sidon.

Here they rested and took sustenance near the watering places. They cut honey-sweet reeds known as sucra, greedily sucked the sweetness and moved on to gape at the former glories of Tyre. They were entertained and advised by the local Christian Maronites about the journey south: how the coastal roads had few water supplies and still more narrow perilous passes. The Army of God, however, kept to the coast road, all eyes turned inland, fearful of that flanking attack by Saracens and Turks that might drive them into the sea. Water was scarce, whilst the sandy rocks were infested with snakes and basilisks terrifying in their strikes. Men, women and children, delirious for water, grubbed greedily, Eleanor amongst them, only to be attacked by venomous snakes that turned their bodies into fiery, tormented tongues of pain. The bites, Eleanor wrote in her chronicle, made some so desperate for water that they plunged into the sea and gulped the salt-soaked waves, which only increased their thirst.

At last the Army of God broke free of the infested terrain and camped on the bed of a river that was nothing more than shallow pools along a shale-lined gulley. They followed the gulley inland on to a rocky, dirt-strewn plain dotted with fig trees and date palms. In the far distance they glimpsed the white-walled town of Ramleh, set in a forbidding dry landscape of hard-baked clay, jutting rock and wind-furrowed sand. Despite all the hardships and thirst, the army advanced cautiously, but the gates of Ramleh proved to be undefended. They passed within its walls and stared round the dingy, dirty town. Little greenery could be seen; nothing but arid dust clouds blowing through the streets and across desolate squares. The local Maronites crept cautiously out to greet them and showed the Franks the entrances to underground cisterns that fed the great bathhouses. The Franks crowded in, drank their fill and went on to the White Mosque. The cedar gates and heavy roof beams of the mosque were all black and charred, burned by the retreating Turks lest the Franks use the wood to build siege machinery. The Army of God knelt on the marble floor of the mosque as the townspeople whispered that beneath it lay the bones of one of their great patrons, the martyr St George. The Franks promptly turned the mosque into a church and elevated Robert of Rouen as its bishop. They would have dallied even longer, but Hugh, Godefroi and the Portal of the Temple continued their whispering campaign: this was not Jerusalem; they should move on.

Hugh and Godefroi had withdrawn from Raymond of Toulouse, being seen more and more in the company of the fiery Tancred. They also entertained their own visionary, a novice monk, Peter Desiderius, who constantly warned the Army of God to move towards its real destiny — Jerusalem. Tancred, however, needed little encouragement. He repeatedly voiced his demand that the army move quickly, and so, on 6 June, they reached the ancient town of Emmaus, only a few miles west of the Holy City, the very place where the Risen Christ had met two of his disciples journeying from Jerusalem. The Army of God, Peter Desiderius proclaimed, taking up the thread, must also meet the Risen Christ in Jerusalem. Tancred was determined to fulfil that vision.

In the middle of the night of 6 June, Theodore slipped into Eleanor’s tent and shook her awake. One hand across her mouth, he signalled with the other that she remain quiet. In the poor light Eleanor gazed across at Imogene, now fast asleep after returning to sob quietly to herself.

‘Listen,’ Theodore whispered, ‘Tancred has been approached by Maronites from Bethlehem. They fear the Turks might fire the town. He and a hundred knights, including Hugh, Godefroi and myself, are riding there. Do you wish to come?’

Eleanor pulled herself up.

‘We will see Jerusalem,’ Theodore added.

Eleanor needed no further urging. She quickly prepared herself and joined Theodore waiting outside. Darkness was beginning to fade, the sky lightening as they hastened towards the horse lines. Lantern horns glowed; wisps of smoke from the first fires drifted across. The yip, yip of a lonely jackal echoed, a strange contrast to the voices of the gathering men as they recited verses from the psalms.

Once they had finished their Matins, the knights donned their chain mail and helmets; girdles and belts were strapped on, long swords slipped into scabbards. Shields and lances were brought forward. No one objected to Eleanor’s presence. Some of the men nodded at her as they pulled on their loose linen robes, sure protection for their mail against the sun and dust. The war horses, all harnessed and ready, were trotted forward. The knights swung themselves into the saddle, leaning down to grasp lance and shield. Theodore positioned Eleanor, riding a small but sturdy palfrey, in the middle of the group. Tancred unfurled his scarlet and gold banner and the troop broke into a gallop, swiftly clearing the camp, leaving the lights of their picket lines winking behind them.

They thundered through the night, reaching Bethlehem in that murky twilight before dawn, riding past crumbling huts of stone, blank walls and dark alleyways. Dogs barked, the only sound as they reined in before the basalt-paved square stretching up to the Basilica of the Virgin Mary. The troop fanned out behind Tancred. The hooves of their horses clipped the stones, leather harness creaked, the jingle of mail echoed, followed by the ominous slither of swords being drawn from scabbards. Tancred, tall and dark in the saddle, cloak flapping around him, his gorgeous banner ruffled by the chill morning breeze, advanced across the square. He paused halfway and rose in his stirrups brandishing the banner.

‘Deus vult!’ he bellowed. ‘Deus vult!’ The cry was taken up by his escort, a triumphant chant of praise. As if in answer, the bells of the basilica began to peal their message. Lights appeared at windows. Doors were opened. People thronged into the square to view these dark angels on horseback who had brought deliverance to Christ’s birthplace. The double gates of the basilica were pulled back and the ancient patriarch of the town, flanked by Maronite monks carrying candles, crosses and lighted tapers, processed out to greet them even as the bells increased their clanging peals.

Tancred led his knights across the square. Eleanor dismounted and, with Theodore’s hand on her arm, followed the rest through the door into the cavernous cold nave smelling sweetly of incense and candle smoke. The Franks knelt as the dawn Mass was celebrated and then withdrew, though not before Tancred had hoisted his banner over the basilica. He also left ten knights to ensure it remained in place. Eleanor felt as if she was dreaming. The cold, hard ride and that long, gloomy nave with its tessellated floor, icons, mosaics and wall paintings. She had visited the town of Christ’s birth, and now they were riding through a narrow ravine that cut through the shadow-shrouded foothills leading to Jerusalem. They reached a plateau as the sky lightened, galloping past clumps of olive groves, stretches of pasture and ploughland. On the edge of the plateau the horsemen dismounted, holding the reins of their animals as they whispered, ‘Jerusalem! Jerusalem!’ to each other. The morning sun was rising fast behind them. Theodore and Eleanor walked to the edge. The hill below fell steeply. At the bottom lay a small church and beyond that stretched a deep, desolate gorge. On the far side of the gorge reared towering walls that seemed to have no gate. A dome gleamed above the walls, and further down from that, a squat white building caught the light of the rising sun.

‘Jerusalem!’ Theodore whispered.

Eleanor stared. No gold, silver or precious stones! No angel trumpet blast! No heavenly chorus! Nothing but a mass of masonry. A voice cried out, making her jump. She turned to look where others were pointing. In the far distance, along the broad thoroughfare leading to the city, she saw the glint of armour, the glitter of weaponry, the flashing colour of banners. The advance guard of the Army of God! Hugh gave a cry of triumph. No doubt the Portal of the Temple led the advance. The army was about to besiege Jerusalem.

The Franks camped before the Holy City on 7 June, the Year of Our Lord 1099. Tancred and the Portal of the Temple immediately scoured the surrounding hills, whilst the other leaders decided on what to do. Fierce debate raged for days. Hugh and Godefroi relayed the discussions to their own followers. Eleanor, escorted by Theodore and a group of mounted men-at-arms, inspected the Holy City, which, to all appearances, lay calm and watchful. Jerusalem’s Egyptian commander Iftikhar commanded a garrison of Turks and Saracens twenty thousand in number, with an elite corps of Ethiopian warriors and almost five hundred of Egypt’s best cavalry. The city, so the Franks learnt from spies, was well provisioned, with many underground water cisterns. The Franks were not so fortunate. Iftikhar had torched the land around Jerusalem, seizing or killing livestock and emptying granaries. Worse, he had also poisoned or broken all wells, cisterns and springs outside the city. Summer was at its height, the sun already scorching the bleak surrounding countryside. The only source of good water was the pool of Siloam to the south of the city, near the entrance to the Kedron valley at the foot of Mount Sion. A small lake, Siloam was only fed every three days by a spring and lay within an easy bowshot of skilful archers on the city walls.

Eleanor, even on her ride around the city walls, experienced a deep desperation. The sun was relentless, whilst along the battlements flashed the glint of armour and the shiny iron-weighted cups of the catapults and ballistae. Black smoke billowed from the many pots and cauldrons whilst the acrid stench of sulphur, brimstone and hot oil drifted on the dusty breeze. Gates and postern doors were bricked up, every battlement fortified. Jerusalem was no heavenly city but a mighty grim fortress ready for battle.

Hugh’s description, as Eleanor wrote in her chronicle, did nothing to reassure her. Once they had pitched tents, the Portal of the Temple gathered to the north of the city. They squatted under a makeshift awning facing a slab of sandstone; on this, using a piece of charcoal, Hugh scrawled a rough outline of the city defences.

‘The walls,’ he pushed back his cowl, ‘are about three miles long, fifty feet high and in places nine feet thick.’ He stilled their cries and exclamations. ‘Think of Jerusalem as a twisted rectangle almost a mile across from west to east and about the same north to south.’ He made a mark on the sandstone. ‘We are camped here to the north-west. We can only attack the city from the west or the north. The eastern side is protected by a deep gorge or valley called Josaphat.’ Hugh shook his head. ‘It would be impossible to launch an attack from there. The only gate, the Josaphat postern in the north-east section of the walls, is completely bricked up. On the south-east of the city stretches the Kedron valley. On the south-west stands Mount Sion; further along lies the valley of Hinnon.’

‘You must understand.’ Godefroi got to his feet, gesturing at the crude drawing. ‘Jerusalem’s walls are protected on its eastern, southern and south-western flank by hills that fall steeply into three valleys, the Kedron, Josaphat and Hinnon. Only the north and north-west provide flatter ground for attack: here the city defences are reinforced by an outer wall and a deep dry moat. This exposed part of the city is pierced by five gates, from Herod Gate in the north round the western wall to the Sion Gate in the south. Each of these five entrances, Herod, St Stephen, New Gate, Jaffa and Sion, is protected by a pair of soaring towers. Two fortified citadels offer further defence: in the north-west corner stands the Quadrangular Tower, and further down the western wall the Tower of David. Both,’ Godefroi’s voice grew stronger, ‘are built of solid masonry, large stones sealed with mortar and lead. Godfrey of Bouillon, Robert of Normandy, Robert of Flanders and Tancred will lay siege from St Stephen Gate to the Quadrangular Tower. Count Raymond of Toulouse will camp opposite the Tower of David, though some claim he will soon move to Sion Gate.’

‘It’s like Antioch!’ someone shouted. ‘We cannot lay siege to the entire city, and where are our engines of war? There’s no wood!’

‘And where do we go?’ Beltran asked jumping to his feet. ‘North, south, east or west?’ His question provoked guffaws of laughter.

‘We wait!’ Hugh shouted back.‘If these walls are breached, we as a company have one place to reach, the Dome of the Rock. No other…’

His words were drowned by the bray of horns, the shrill of trumpets, men shouting and running. Eleanor scrambled to her feet as a dust-covered herald brandishing a crudely fashioned crucifix, his symbol of office, came running up.

‘We attack tomorrow,’ he announced.

‘Nonsense!’ Hugh retorted. ‘There are no-’

‘Our leaders,’ the man gasped, ‘rode up to view the city from the Mount of Olives. A hermit sheltering in a cave came out to greet them. He prophesied that if they attack at first light tomorrow and fight to the ninth hour, victory will be ours.’

Hugh and Godefroi tried to restrain the enthusiasm of their own followers, pointing out that the leaders simply wished to test the city defences. Beltran agreed with them, shouting questions about the whereabouts of scaling ladders, battering rams and towers.

‘Only one ladder is needed,’ the herald gasped. ‘Deus providebit — God will provide.’

The rest of the day and subsequent night were taken up with searching for wood. Tancred claimed he’d miraculously found some in a nearby cave, though everyone knew he had suffered a painful attack of dysentery and gone into the cave to relieve himself. Whatever its source, the carpenters became busy, using the poor light of candles and lantern horns to piece together ladders out of palm stems, soft poplar, tamarisk and the twisted wood of olive trees. By dawn, Tancred’s men were ready, massing directly between New Gate and St Stephen. Hugh and Godefroi, however, decided not to commit the Portal of the Temple but stood on the brow of a hill and watched the attack unfold.

The sun had almost risen, its glare lifting, as Tancred’s men formed a testudo, shields locked above their heads, and advanced, going down into the moat and up to attack the outer wall. They were immediately met by a lashing storm of arrows and missiles from the battlements. Saracen and Turkish archers leaned over the ramparts, bows extended. Here and there one of these figures, hit by a Frankish missile, slipped and toppled over, arms and legs splayed, to bounce against the wall before crashing to the ground. Banners curled and flapped. Plumes of black smoke from cauldrons of oil, boiling water and sticky pitch hovered like dark wraiths across the battlements. The war cries of both Frank and Turk drifted on the air. Eleanor always found it strange that both sides could be so earnest in their beliefs, though Theodore had informed her that what united the various factions of Islam, Turk, Saracen and Egyptian was the firm belief among them all that Jerusalem was Al Kuds, the Holy Place. The defenders along the battlements were determined to fight just as passionately as the Franks in defence of their sacred sites.

The air became riven with the blood-chilling whoosh of catapults and mangonels. The testudo, however, was now close against the outer wall. Godefroi and Hugh were talking excitedly. The defenders, because of the huddle of buildings so close to the wall, were limited in moving their engines of war backwards and forwards. So cramped was the space that the engineers were unable to calculate the narrow distance between the attackers and themselves. Accordingly the rain of missiles did little damage to the Franks but smashed into the already crumbling outer wall. This was quickly breached, and an entire section collapsed, provoking a great roar of triumph from both the attackers and those watching from the camp. Eleanor and her companions now had a clear view of what was happening. Tancred’s testudo reached the great inner wall only to be met by a hail of rocks, arrows, pots of fire and flaming bundles of pitch, an avalanche of deadly missiles. Nevertheless the testudo held firm. The great ladder was produced. Figures swiftly scaled its rungs, swords drawn, heads and faces protected by their great oval shields. For a few heartbeats Eleanor thought the walls would be stormed and taken. Black clouds of smoke swirled across, then, very faintly, the lonely sound of a hunting horn sounded the retreat. The testudo reformed, climbing back through the breach in the outer wall, the rearguard struggling to bring back their ladder.

‘Heaven help them,’ Simeon whispered to Eleanor. ‘Look, mistress-sister, I know what that is!’ The defenders were now hoisting up what looked like two great water pots on to the battlements. Instead of being tipped, however, these were carefully lowered and pointed at the struggling Franks retreating towards the outer wall. Black trails of smoke curled around the pots, which immediately spat out an arc of fire, an orangey-red sheet of flame that engulfed the retreating Franks, turning some of them into living torches. The screams were horrendous. Men ran back to help, only to be engulfed in more gushes of fire and a hail of missiles. Eleanor watched in horror as these figures jerked and danced until they collapsed. The horrid view was mercifully cloaked as Tancred’s men, smoke and dust swirling about them, struggled back through the gap in the outer wall.

‘Greek fire,’ Simeon declared. ‘Water and dirt cannot smother it; only vinegar.’

‘What was that? What was that?’ Hugh and Godefroi came bustling across, faces mirroring their conflicting moods: despair at the failure of Tancred’s attack coupled with open relief that they had not committed their own company.

‘Vinegar,’ Simeon declared. ‘Use vinegar and Greek fire can be doused.’

Theodore, overhearing this, agreed and joined in the vigorous discussion that ensued until Imogene’s cry drew their gaze back to the battlements. She was pointing further down to the Quadrangular Tower, the turrets of which rose black against the light blue sky. Three figures, women, their grey hair streaming in the wind, stood between the crenellations, supported by people standing behind them. They had their arms raised, fingers splayed, and although they could not hear a word, Eleanor and her companions realised they were chanting incantations and shouting curses. The figures, stark images against the light, looked sinister and threatening. They were already attracting the attention of Frankish bowmen, who loosed shaft after shaft, but the height and distance were too great.

‘Witches!’ Beltran explained. ‘They always accompany the Ethiopians. I’m surprised Iftikhar has used them.’

Eleanor stared at those grim figures, oblivious to the exclamations around her. Simeon tugged at her sleeve and indicated Tancred’s men, now hurrying up the hill carrying their wounded. One of these, Raimbold Creton, had actually reached the wall only to have his hand severed; this now lay beside his body on a makeshift stretcher. Eleanor was to witness even more gruesome scenes as the Army of God settle down to its siege. No more assaults were to be launched until siege engines were built, yet there was little wood on that dry plain. The leaders eventually decided to send their cattle, horses and other livestock back thirteen miles to the wooded hills and pastures they’d journeyed through. Soldiers were dispatched to guard these as well as to fell timber for the Franks to build their assault weapons. Food also ran low, but the greatest hardship was the lack of water in those arid hills.

At Siloam, Eleanor, dirt-caked and thirsty, braved the whipping arrows of enemy archers above Sion Gate to fill their precious waterskins. Theodore went scouting through the Kedron valley, but the river bed was rock dry and the cisterns all smashed. As the availability of Siloam became known, a general panic to reach the pool ensued before the leaders could stop it. Men and livestock raced, desperate for water; others pressed in carrying their sick. These pushed the first arrivals into the water, churning up the mud, and throngs hastened after them, beating aside the half-maddened livestock. In a few moments the pool became the centre of an ever-increasing angry mob. Men struggled to enter the water, fighting those trying to leave. The banks caved in under the trampling and turned the pool into a muddy mire. The strongest men forced their way through to the pure water by the rocks at the mouth of the spring, whilst the sick and weak were only able to drink the polluted mess along its edges. Those unfortunate enough to gulp the muddy water swallowed leeches which, within a few hours, led to an agonising death. The leaders tried to intervene, imposing order and setting a guard as they furiously debated what to do next.

Eleanor could do nothing but shelter in her shabby tent, tongue swollen, lips cracked. Simeon relayed gossip about the growing desperation amongst the Army of God whilst continuing to insist that Eleanor write it all down in her chronicle. She was too exhausted to do anything but sprawl on her makeshift bed, one arm across her face, staring up at the stained goatskin covering. A hundred thousand had left the Frankish west; fewer than twenty thousand had reached this hideous plain before the grim, embattled walls of Jerusalem. Eleanor idly wondered about their first casualty, Robert the Reeve — what had truly happened there? And the Magus and the Fedawi? Had they all been swept away by the anger of God; were they, the remnant, to starve in full view of the Holy City or be crushed against its walls and massacred by the great host coming out of Egypt?

‘Great news.’ Theodore, covered in a fine sandy dust, wafting away the flies hovering in a black mass round his face, strode into the tent. He squatted down by the bed and grinned at her. Eleanor smiled back. Theodore, with his handsome face and persistent good humour whatever adversity threatened! Yet he’d also given Eleanor new fears, fresh terrors. She felt deeply for him and became highly anxious about news of any affray, ambush or sally. Would Theodore be hurt or, God forbid, even killed? And when those formidable city walls were stormed, would he survive the violent blood-letting? She often prayed that if Theodore were to die, she would die with him.

‘Good news,’ he repeated.

Eleanor apologised and drew herself up. Theodore cocked his head at the shouting and cheering that rang through the camp.

‘That’s the good news,’ he declared. ‘Twenty Genoese galleys put in at the ruined port of Jaffa and begged the Army of God for help. Of course our leaders were delighted. The fleet would provide a good supply of timber, perhaps more food and water. Two companies of knights and bowmen were dispatched down to the coast under Raymond Pilet. Enemy cavalry attacked them. Pilet and his men broke through and reached the ruined walls of Jaffa with enemy shields and cloaks draped over their saddles. The Genoese sailors greeted our men joyfully. They had been cruising up and down the coast for days, searching for any trace of the Army of God. Raymond told them about our hardships and the sailors immediately prepared a feast of bread, wine and cooked fish. Franks and Genoese sat down together to celebrate in the roofless hall of Jaffa Castle, lit by fires, candles and lantern horns. Platters were filled and emptied, goblets of wine passed round. They even brought in the watch from the ships to have their share of the feast.’ Theodore shrugged. ‘They celebrated too well. An Egyptian fleet far out at sea glimpsed the lights of their party and stole in to block the harbour mouth. When dawn broke, the Genoese hastened to their ships but found it futile to offer battle; all they could do was abandon their galleys and carry ashore a good part of their weapons and supplies. So that,’ Theodore gestured with his head, ‘is the good news. The Genoese have just entered the camp.’

At first Eleanor failed to see how it was good news. Matters continued to deteriorate. Each day when the sun rose the heat struck her tent, rousing her from a sweaty sleep after an uneasy night. Sharp winds gusted through the ravines and valleys, blowing clouds of dust from the deep hollows of the surrounding desert. Water continued to be scarce. Skins of foul water, brought in on camels, sold for high prices, whilst she and others had little release from the harsh grind of each day. Eyes were dust-reddened and throats silted, whilst the stench of dead animals hung heavy over the camp. Reports flowed in how the herds of livestock taken up into the hills were being attacked by Turks, who also hampered any efforts to find water. Men began to desert. They reached the river Jordan, bathed in it and gathered some reeds as a sign that they had completed their pilgrimage, yet where could they go? Turks roamed the countryside, and the port of Jaffa was firmly in their hands.

In the end Theodore’s assurances proved right. By the end of June the first timbers came down from the hills, dragged or wheeled on carts by mules and camels or carried on the backs of men. Godfrey of Bouillon marshalled the Genoese to help cut timbers and plait ropes for the catapults, keeping them busy with the mallets, spikes, nails and axes they’d brought from their ships. Godfrey’s engineer, Gaston de Béarn, was placed in overall command of the workmen, whilst the Genoese craftsman William Embriaco was assigned to Count Raymond of Toulouse. Everyone was given a task. Eleanor carried wood and prepared ropes. An array of dreadful siege weapons rose up in the camp like hideous creatures from the underworld. A massive battering ram with an iron head shielded by a wattle roof; huge catapults with twisting ropes and deep cups; numerous scaling ladders and a range of portable wattle screens behind which soldiers could approach the walls. Count Raymond moved his companies to the south opposite Sion Gate, and concentrated on filling the moat, announcing that if anyone brought three stones to cast into it they’d be given a penny. After three days and nights, a section of the moat was filled. More mantlets were organised. Each knight was to furnish two such screens and one ladder. The stone-throwers, powered by twisted ropes, were placed on wheels so they could be moved from point to point. Sows, or long sheds open at each end, were constructed so they could be pushed up to the wall to shield the sappers trying to break through.

The common consensus, however, was that the walls would have to be stormed rather than mined. The Franks placed their main hope in two fearsome siege towers built upon wheeled platforms that could be brought up against the walls. Each tower had three storeys. On the lowest were the men who pushed the tower forward; the middle storey, about as high as the level of the ramparts of Jerusalem, was for the armoured knights to cross to the wall; whilst on the upper level archers would cover the rush of the knights.

The defenders of Jerusalem watched intently and prepared their defences. They brought mangonels on to the walls to be in close firing range. They also took careful measures to protect those sections of the wall they thought would be threatened from bombardment by hanging over sacks of straw and ship ropes, thick and closely woven, to cushion the stone against attacks from the Frankish catapults. The Army of God, now fully intent on the capture of the city, demonstrated that no mercy would be shown. During one of their forays they captured a leading Muslim commander, treated him honourably but asked him to convert. When he refused, they took him out in front of the Tower of David, where he was decapitated by one of Godfrey’s knights. A few days later the Franks caught a spy coming up out of Egypt. They decided that if he wanted to enter the city then he should. Still alive, he was fastened to a catapult. He was too heavily weighted down and was not hurled far, but fell on sharp stones near the wall and broke his neck instantly.

The mood in the Frankish camp changed imperceptibly. The machines were ready, the formidable towers rising up; food and water was organised. Hopes rose, only to be dashed when Hugh and Godefroi brought news that the leaders were beginning to quarrel amongst themselves again. Objections had been raised against Tancred for hoisting his standard above Bethlehem, whilst the leaders were also debating about what was to be done when Jerusalem was taken. The clergy became involved, pointing out that Jerusalem was the Holy City and should have no king but Christ. Other titles were put forward: governor or regent. Hugh and Godefroi listened and took council with their own company. It was time for another vision. Peter Desiderius came forward. In a dream, he proclaimed before the council, his words spreading quickly through the camp, the saintly Adhémar of Le Puy had visited him and warned him that the Lord was not pleased. The army needed to purify itself. They must confess their sins, purge their guilt and bring themselves to a state of unity and grace before the assault was launched. Once again this vision was accepted. The common people thronged around the tents and pavilions of their leaders, urging that this be so. An order went out. On 8 July 1099, priests and monks armed with crosses and the relics of saints would lead a procession of knights and every able-bodied man and woman before the walls of Jerusalem. Trumpets would be blown, standards brandished. Eleanor, Theodore and the rest marched with the Frankish host as it processed barefoot, singing hymns and raising crosses around the city. From the battlements the defenders mocked them, loosing stones and arrows, but the procession was completed. A fast was ordered and everyone went to a priest to have their sins shriven; even the great leaders clasped hands and swore eternal amity.

The attack would soon commence. To the south of the city Raymond of Toulouse moved his tower closer to the dry moat. In the north, Godfrey of Bouillon tried to mislead the defenders, who had been busy raising the level of the wall opposite the second soaring siege tower. Tancred, Hugh and Godefroi were sent out to spy, and returned to report how that section of the fortifications was almost impregnable. A sharp discussion took place. Theodore was present and he later gave the information to Eleanor, who included it in her chronicle. Godfrey of Bouillon realised that their great attack must not fail, so when night fell, he gave secret orders for the tower to be dismantled timber by timber. The separate parts would be carried a mile further along the wall to where the fortifications were lower and the ground more level. The same applied to the mantlets and stone-throwers. Under the cloak of darkness the great siege tower was literally stripped, dismantled storey by storey, the beams passed down to waiting soldiers. Silence was ordered. No candles or lanterns were lit, nor did they make use of oxen-pulled sledges, as the garrison might hear these and sally out. Progress was slow, but by dawn, the defenders of the city realised that their preparations to protect that section of the wall had failed: Godfrey of Bouillon had moved his entire attack a mile further south. Nevertheless, the stone-throwers and tower had to be rebuilt. More days passed. On the evening of 13 July, however, everything was ready. The order was given. At dawn the following morning, the Army of God would launch its all-out assault on the city of Jerusalem.

‘Days of Anger, Days of Fire, Days of Vengeance!’ was the phrase Eleanor of Payens used in her chronicle to describe the furious final assault on the Holy City. A time of deep anguish, of bitter loss and sordid betrayal, yet she wanted to capture it all. She sent Simeon to collect stories and tales that she could then weave alongside her own about that season of blood, of ferocious courage on both sides, a savagery that must have made Satan and all his fallen angels weep. Everyone realised judgement was imminent. The bowl of God’s fury was to be tipped out, but whom would it consume? On the evening of 13 July, the Year of Our Lord’s Incarnation 1099, the Portal of the Temple gathered to break its last bread and share out wine. Norbert said grace. Alberic delivered a brief homily and Peter Desiderius provided one more rendering of his vision of Adhémar of Le Puy.

They had all gathered under a shabby awning to make their peace and prepare. Eleanor, sitting between Theodore and Simeon, did not care for visions. Simeon’s teeth were chattering, as every able-bodied man and woman had been summoned to join the general muster and array at dawn the following morning. Theodore, on her right, sat cradling his sword. He’d given Eleanor a ring, slipping it from his finger on to hers, then pressing her hand close.

‘A token,’ he whispered. ‘If I return, I will reclaim it. If I do not, remember me!’

Eleanor choked back the tears. Now was not the time for weeping. Across the camp fire sat Imogene, staring at her sadly as if regretting the distance that had grown up between them. Eleanor wanted to speak to Imogene one final time before the trumpet sounded and the battle began. Yet Imogene was still hand-fast to Beltran, who continued to act as Count Raymond’s envoy, moving between the two great Frankish divisions bearing letters and messages; Imogene would stay with him that evening. The bread and wine were finished. Hugh cleared his throat, then spoke softly, eyes gleaming, describing how they would muster behind Tancred’s new banner, a red cross on a white background. If Jerusalem was taken, they must avoid any general plundering but assemble around him and Godefroi and follow them, or Theodore if they fell, into the city. Only the chosen few knew what Hugh would be searching for, yet no one questioned him. All realised those walls had first to be stormed and taken.

The night was hot, the moon full, the stars low and intense. Tomorrow would be a different day, and how many of them would gather again? Reminiscences were voiced, memories evoked, stories retold. Eleanor gripped Theodore’s hand as she recalled that cold nave at St Nectaire. Whatever happened tomorrow, she knew she would never return there.

Once Hugh had finished and Godefroi had answered any questions, the meeting broke up. Eleanor and Theodore walked through the camp and sat down on a small dusty hillock, staring out at the lights of the city. Against the starlit sky reared the great siege tower and mangonels. All was ready. The cries of sentries, the blowing of horns, the neighing of horses and the creak of badly oiled wheels fractured the silence. Smoke from camp fires hung in a haze as the last meals were cooked. Here and there hymns and psalms were sung or chanted. People still lined up in dark clusters for their sins to be shriven. As Eleanor stared across, she could make out in the far distance the faint outline of the Herod Gate and, closer to her, that of St Stephen. The attack would be launched against the section of wall between. She lifted Theodore’s hand and kissed the back of it.

‘Swear to me, Theodore, if we survive tomorrow…’

He turned, tipping her face back, and kissed her full on the brow.

‘I swear,’ he murmured. ‘If we survive!’

As the first red light of dawn torched the sky, wood creaked and crashed, ropes wound and hissed as the long arms of the stone-throwers hurled their deadly missiles towards the sky. Great boulders soared to smash against the walls of Jerusalem. Crossbows snapped and clicked, their squat black bolts whirling up towards the ramparts. Beneath the horrid sound of battle came the crashing of the ram pounding against the foundations of the outer fortifications. Shouts and battle cries were drowned by the roar of falling masonry. Dust and lime hung in the air, drifting like some deadly snow over siege engines and men. Mailed figures, knights in full armour, clustered behind rows of mantlets and woven shields. Every so often they would edge closer, but progress was slow. Other men, helped by women and children, rolled boulders towards machines or carried quivers of arrows on their shoulders. Swabian axemen and German swordsmen thronged impatiently, shields on their arms, weapons at the ready. On a hill opposite the eastern wall of the city clustered the banners of the lords and their retinues, ladders ready on the ground beside them. Men brushed the sweat from their eyes, peered through the dust and lifted hands against the glare of the sun. They listened to the crash and thud of battle before the barbican, the outer wall, trying to discover what progress was being made. Distant horns clamoured, trumpets rang out, messengers came and went with news that Count Raymond had also begun his assault against the southern wall opposite Mount Sion.

Eleanor listened to Simeon’s gasping reports but she sensed the real battle would begin and end here between the Herod Gate and St Stephen’s. The attackers were still clawing at the barbican. Stonework had been cut, gaps forced, and through these Eleanor and the rest could see the dark, shadowy figures of their enemies. Above them along the battlements thronged others. Now and again arrows flashed down, hitting the earth or piercing men struggling with picks and ropes to clear the debris of the outer wall so that the great tower could trundle forward and seize the advantage created by the ram still pounding away.

Eleanor, Imogene and the other women hurried backwards and forwards bringing skins of precious water for the men to wet their lips or clean the dust from their eyes. A great roar went up just as Eleanor returned with a pannier of water. The siege tower was moving forward. Slowly, great wheels creaking, it edged towards the filled-in moat, crawling towards the barbican. Almost sixty feet high, the tower sloped inwards on three sides. On the fourth side, towards the city, it rose sheer from the ground towards the drawbridge, that precious piece of wood and metal that would give them entry to the city. The tower slowed down. Something had happened. Smoke swirled. The Turks and Saracens now used fire against both the tower and the great ram. Faggots of wood and straw, bound together with iron chains and soaked in oil, were hurled with great force. Balls of fire whirled through the air. Despite the scorching heat of the day, the Franks fought back with axes and wet hides, yet still the rain of missiles fell. Suddenly the tower stopped completely. A great sheet of fire was blazing around the barbican. Men came running back with the dreadful news that the great ram had been fired: drenched in sulphur, pitch and wax, it was now burning fiercely. It could not be pushed forward, but neither could it be pulled back to clear a path for the tower. Orders were issued. Eleanor was given a message and scrambled down towards the fighting line, where Theodore, Hugh, Godefroi and the rest were waiting behind mantlets ready for the wall to be stormed. She delivered her message, demanding that the captain of the ram leave the fighting to receive fresh instructions, then ran back up the hill to the safety of that line of banners.

A short while later a man blackened from head to toe came up beating at his charred clothes and shouting for water. He knelt at Godfrey of Bouillon’s feet and talked tersely in gasping sentences. Godfrey crouched down beside him, feeding him the pannier of water Eleanor had placed there. The man nodded and hurried back. The ram was to be burnt, the attack called off. To the south of the city, Count Raymond’s company had fared no better. They too had pushed their tower against the walls and a hellish battle had broken loose. Catapults on the battlements hurled an avalanche of stones. Arrows pelted down like rain. The closer the Franks approached, the worse it became: stones, arrows, flaming wood and straw followed by mallets of wood wrapped in ignited pitch, wax and sulphur. These mallets were fastened with nails so they stuck in whatever they hit and continued to flare. Despite the intense heat and the ferocious defence, Count Raymond tried to edge his tower closer to the wall, but he too failed. The light began to fade, so the horns and trumpets sounded the retreat.

Eleanor, exhausted, black with smoke, her gown saturated with sweat, her hair charred, returned to her tent. She wrapped a couple of blankets around her and waited for the Portal of the Temple to emerge from the horrors only a short distance away. The attack had failed. All around drifted the shrieks and screams of men, women and children gruesomely injured by the fire. Keening and mourning echoed like some blood-chilling chant. Simeon came in with a wineskin and forced her to take hurried sips before he squatted down beside her and drank greedily. At last the others returned: Hugh, Godefroi, Theodore, Alberic and Beltran, blackened faces furrowed by lines of sweat, hands hardly able to grasp a cup. They tore off their armour, belts, straps and jerkins tossed to the ground, then threw themselves down, desperate for water and wine, anything to prise their lips free from the sticky dust, unclog their throats and bathe their eyes.

Eleanor did her best to help. Theodore, half asleep, murmured where she could find more wine and water, a secret cache buried in his tent. She hurried away and brought it back. For a while they sat drinking and tending to their minor wounds. Eleanor went to the edge of the tent and peered into the gathering dark. Norbert and Imogene were missing. She went back and questioned the rest, but they shook their heads and wearily conceded that they didn’t know. Eleanor forgot her own exhaustion. She glimpsed the pinpricks of torchlight as others stole from the camp to look for their dead, or to plunder them. She tugged at Simeon’s sleeve.

‘Bring a crossbow, a sword and a dagger,’ she whispered.

The scribe looked as if he was about to refuse.

‘Imogene and Norbert,’ she hissed. ‘We cannot leave them out there.’

‘They are dead,’ he retorted.

‘They might be wounded,’ she whispered back. ‘At night, Simeon, the prowlers, two-legged and four, will range the battlefield. Norbert and Imogene have fallen,’ she continued, ‘we feel fortunate to be alive. It’s the least we can do. Anyway,’ she picked up her cloak, ‘I’ll go.’

Eleanor left the tent. She’d scarcely gone a few paces when she heard Simeon cursing and groaning behind her. She stopped, took the battered arbalest and scuffed leather case of bolts from him and went down towards the place of blood. It was a hot, dry night. Nevertheless, even the fierce battle that had raged that day could not silence the constant chant of the crickets and other insects. A night bird shrieked. A dog howled in reply. Eleanor and Simeon approached their own picket lines, where groups of soldiers huddled around fires guarding the precious siege machinery, the mangonels, small rams and that soaring battle tower still reeking of oil, sulphur and charred wood. In the distance a roll of drums echoed from the battlements. Eleanor glimpsed the flickering lights and tongues of flame shooting up above the cauldrons and pots along the ramparts, sure proof that the defenders were vigilant against a possible night attack. Their own picket guards let them pass. Other dark shapes were also sloping down towards the battleground. Eleanor recalled how both Imogene and Norbert had been helpers like herself, carrying water, arrows and messages to the fighters beyond the dry moat. She went back and begged a torch from a group of soldiers, who teased and jeered but handed one over, and she and Simeon entered that ghastly, gruesome field of the dead.

The stench was foul, reeking of blood, burning and that sickening sweet smell of corruption. Corpses littered the ground, sprawled in grotesque shapes. Some, with their eyes stark open, stared unseeingly up into the dark. Others crouched as if resting. Groans and cries shrilled into the night. A group of monks were already trying to drag the wounded away, disentangling them from the dead. The torchlight revealed grisly sights. A man squashed beneath a huge boulder. Corpses with heads, arms and legs severed. Faces with only the eyes intact. The parched earth was sticky with blood. The occasional bold jackal was already nosing at swollen stomachs; dark, dog-like shapes that fled swiftly at their approach. Eleanor stared despairingly around. The dead lay singly or in heaps. A monk came crawling over on all fours like some foulsome creature of the night, yet he proved friendly enough. A Frenchman, he gasped that he was searching for the wounded as well as those who wanted a priest. He murmured a prayer but shook his head at Eleanor’s descriptions of Imogene and Norbert.

Eleanor and Simeon continued their hunt. At times they had to cover both nose and mouth at the foul stench of dried blood, rotting entrails and the ever-pervasive reek of burning flesh. Charred corpses were common, nothing more than shrivelled black stumps of flesh. Simeon retched and vomited. Eleanor ignored his protests and moved on at a half-crouch. She tried to ignore the pallid faces, the eyes all caught in the shock of death. Only a few looked peaceful. They approached a cart burnt to cinders by an incendiary and found Norbert lying on his back, eyes staring glassily. At first Eleanor thought he was sleeping. She whispered to Simeon to bring the light closer, then covered her mouth at the horrid mess the sling shot had caused to the back of the monk’s head, a congealed mass of shattered bone, dried brain and blood. She knelt, head down, making the sign of the cross and whispering the Requiem. Then she glanced around. If Norbert had been killed here, then perhaps Imogene wasn’t far. She crawled across the ground.

‘Imogene, Imogene!’ she whispered hoarsely.

Nothing but silence. She was about to move away when she heard her name being called, a hoarse, dry whisper trailing out of the darkness in front of her. She crawled round the cart. Imogene lay by herself. She had turned on her side and was trying to drag herself forward. Eleanor caught her and cradled her carefully. Imogene sighed. Her hair was all dishevelled, her face sheet white, large dark eyes gazing up, blood spluttering between her lips. She was trembling, trying to keep the veil pressed close to staunch the deep wound in her side.

‘Eleanor,’ Imogene panted, ‘listen…’

‘No…’

‘No,’ she gasped. ‘Promise me, my parents’ ashes?’

Eleanor nodded.

‘You will bury them and say a prayer?’ Imogene pleaded. ‘Any prayer? If the city falls, do that, in sacred soil in the corner of some shaded garden. Do that, Eleanor, and my vow will be fulfilled. Promise?’

Eleanor tried to reassure her.

‘No,’ Imogene gasped, ‘I’m dying, I know that. I will be glad to be gone. Too much pain, too much hurt! This wound… Beltran.’ She spat the name out. ‘He did this. He is not what he claims to be, what he pretends to be. He seduced me, Eleanor, not because he loved me but because of a conversation I had with him oh so long, long ago.’ Imogene’s eyelids fluttered. ‘The night Robert the Reeve left the church and went into the dark, Beltran, I am sure, went after him. I kept silent about it then later teased him. He laughed it off even as he began to court me. You can’t disguise everything, Eleanor, not for two years. Beltran has travelled far and wide. He betrayed himself in small things: knowledge of customs, petty mistakes; he too chattered in his sleep. On occasion he’d go missing and I began to wonder. He changed. The closer we came to Jerusalem, the more he wanted to enter the Portal of the Temple, draw closer to your brother. He wanted to be rid of me, but without creating any suspicion.’ Imogene coughed on the blood seeping between her lips.

Eleanor just stared down at her, a cold, gripping fear curdling her stomach as she recalled Imogene’s questioning of her. Imogene had begun to suspect Beltran of imposture and falseness, and of course Beltran needed Imogene, who lodged with Eleanor. Imogene might learn so much about Hugh, Godefroi and their search for precious relics.

‘Is he the Magus?’ Eleanor asked.

Imogene shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I don’t know what you mean, but I am sure he was the horseman.’ She gasped. ‘I’m sure he was responsible for Anstritha’s death, and for that of Robert the Reeve, who also suspected the truth. So hard, Eleanor,’ she whispered, ‘so callous. He wanted me dead. He had no need of me any more. In the battle today I saw Norbert being struck, I went to help him. Beltran slipped beside me, so swiftly…’ She coughed violently, her body shook, her eyes fluttered, then she lay still. Eleanor let her go, placing her gently on the ground. Cries and shouts echoed from the walls. A bundle of fire, flames streaking, was launched from a catapult. It lighted the night sky then smashed into the ground in a burst of fiery sparks. Other sights and sounds came pressing in.

‘Mistress-sister, what shall we do?’

‘We must go back,’ Eleanor declared. ‘We must warn Hugh and Godefroi; we can collect the corpses tomorrow.’ She blessed herself and stumbled back across the battlefield, trying to shut out the hideous images. She felt sick and exhausted. Slowly the two of them crept back towards the sloping ridge leading up to their watch fires. A shape moved abruptly to her right, fast like that of a loping wolf. She ignored it, but then halfway up the sandy, pebble-strewn hill, a shadow moved from behind a gorse bush to block her way. Exhausted, Eleanor sat down, peering through the darkness. Beltran, cloaked and cowled, squatted before her, grasping a Brabantine arbalest. In the juddering light of Simeon’s torch, he looked sinister despite the smile, the casual way he kept the arbalest down, as if he was more surprised than suspicious.

‘Eleanor, where have you been?’

‘I found them,’ she gasped. ‘Norbert and Imogene.’

‘Both dead?’

‘Imogene was not!’ Eleanor closed her eyes and groaned at Simeon’s impulsive remark. ‘You killed her!’ the scribe continued hotly. Eleanor caught the passion in Simeon’s voice and wondered if he too had been taken by the pretty Jewess. Beltran simply clicked his tongue.

‘Miserere mei,’ he replied. ‘I thought the stupid bitch was dead. I suppose you shrived her, Eleanor, heard her last confession, but who’d care for a Jewess?’

‘I do.’ Eleanor let all pretence fall. ‘I do. I did. I shall. God curse you, Beltran. She loved you, yet you murdered her because you didn’t need her any more. The same callous way you murdered Anstritha and Robert the Reeve. Anstritha died because of a mysterious horseman: you. Robert the Reeve went stumbling out into the dark drunk, and you drowned him. You’re a serpent in hell and you’ve made that hell worse. Now let me by!’

‘I would love to,’ he replied mockingly, ‘but tomorrow we might all be in hell! Heaven forfend, the wheel does turn! You see, Eleanor, I need your priggish, murderous brother. I want to be with him if, or when, he finds that treasure hoard. True, I used Imogene like an eyelet into the chamber of your affairs. I thought she’d eventually tire of me but she stuck fast like a leech. She had to go.’

‘And Count Raymond?’

‘Oh, I joined his service easily enough. Men like the count always need men like me, obsequious, knowledgeable, ready to obey their every whim. Some serpents require little cunning. It’s so easy to worm your way in.’ He sighed noisily. ‘Everything was upset by Urban’s Deus vult.’ Beltran laughed. ‘All the Frankish west roused to march on Jerusalem! The treasures of the east would be seized. My commercial affairs would be harmed. First my stupid sister Anstritha went looking for protection, then your brother and his coven with their vision of this and that. Robert the Reeve suspected I was the horseman, that I was not what I claimed to be. He became curious about my affairs, so I killed him.’

‘You are the Magus? You pretended to be the Fedawi?’

‘I sell relics to those stupid enough to buy them, and yes, I had to protect my interests! Seize back my stupid sister’s map. I left it too late. Your brother had it.’ Beltran shrugged. ‘He’d have made copies.’

‘And a spy?’

‘I have no faith, no allegiance, no lord. I move among men. I bustle busily to earn a crust. I tell this person that, that person this. I’m just a merchant in a marketplace.’ He waved a hand. ‘Look at these fools. I am here for gold, the real possibility of making myself rich with a king’s ransom. Such business always carries risks. But the likes of your brother? Dreaming of marvels, myths and make-believe! No reward in this life, and after death? Not the light he or you hope for, just a darkness more profound, the darkness of nothingness.’

Eleanor heard a sound behind Beltran. She calmed herself. She must delay him, hold him whilst looking for any opportunity.

‘You’re a spy,’ she rasped. ‘You sell information, be it to the Byzantines or the Turks. So easy, certainly before Antioch, to ride out and meet enemy scouts, and give them information. Baldur, oh yes, you know him? He certainly knew of you! He played a game with your name. He tossed his belt on the ground and told Theodore to hang you with it. A belt for Beltran, a clever conceit but true! You will hang!’

‘I do not think so.’

‘You’re the horseman, the Magus, the Fedawi,’ Eleanor continued desperately. ‘You used the confusion of battle to slip here and there, disguised as this or that. You used your position with Count Raymond to hint that the spy was a member of my brother’s company.’ She laughed sharply. ‘For once you told the truth: there was a spy — you, though Count Raymond never suspected that!’

‘A merchant moves from one place to another…’

‘You’re a killer!’

‘Negotium auri, Eleanor, the business of gold.’

‘And now?’

‘I heard you leave. I did wonder if Imogene was dead. I could take no chances.’ Beltran knelt, bringing up the arbalest. ‘Your stupid scribe has brought your deaths on you.’

‘Beltran?’ The whisper hissed through the darkness.

Beltran turned. The whirr of a crossbow bolt cut the air and struck him deep in the face, its barbed shaft shredding skin and bone. A blood-spattered mess, gruesome in the poor light. A shadow sped forward. A knife glinted as it drove deep into the side of Beltran’s neck. Beltran gave a loud, gargling sigh and pitched forward on to his face. Theodore stepped into the pool of light. He knelt, grasped Beltran by the hair, pulled up his head then let it fall.

‘I heard you whispering in the tent.’ Theodore went down on one knee, staring at Eleanor. ‘Then you both left.’ He gave a lopsided grin. ‘Simeon, you grumble like an old sow. I thought of accompanying you, but I was exhausted. I was making myself comfortable for sleep when he…’ Theodore gestured at the corpse sprawled in an ever-spreading pool of blood, ‘moved too quickly for a supposedly tired man. I smelled mischief.’

‘Did you always suspect him?’ Eleanor rose clumsily to her feet.

‘Yes and no,’ Theodore murmured. ‘Beltran was an enigma. He made mistakes, small ones, inconsistencies. Like the other day he seemed to know more about the Governor of Jerusalem and Ethiopian troops than he should have done. He was so eager to join the Portal of the Temple, but Hugh and Godefroi objected to his relationship with Imogene. A spy?’ The Greek shrugged. ‘Perhaps! Until the Battle of Antioch, any one of us, as we know,’ he smiled, ‘could move from one army to another. Then there was the Fedawi.’ Theodore rested the arbalest against his shoulder. ‘I found it difficult to accept that they were amongst us, so far from their castle fastness, so close to us.’ He shook his head and extended a hand. ‘Come, leave the dead to bury the dead. Tomorrow, God knows, we might join them!’

At daybreak on 15 July, the Year of Our Lord 1099, Godfrey of Bouillon and Raymond of Toulouse flung their armies at the walls of Jerusalem. A beautiful dawn, as Eleanor de Payens wrote in her chronicle, its serenity soon shattered by the creak of twisted ropes, the curses of men, the screech of wheels and the blood-chilling whine of fiery missiles, stones, arrows and blazing bundles. Crashing and thudding swept the air as the terrifying din of battle increased. Godfrey of Bouillon, his gold cross standard openly displayed, ordered his great tower forward. The defenders of Jerusalem brought up their slings and mangonels, loosing firebrands dipped in oil and grease at the attackers. A deadly race ensued; that was how Eleanor de Payens described it in her chronicle: the Franks desperate to bring up their tower, the Turks and Saracens eager to burn it before the besiegers ever reached the walls. A thick pall of smoke ringed the tower, penetrated only by missiles. At one time Godfrey of Bouillon himself was nearly killed. A stone hurled randomly struck a squire standing close to him; the man’s skull was shattered, his neck broken, and he died instantly. Godfrey, having narrowly missed such sudden death, fought back fiercely using his crossbow to bring down defenders.

The tower crept forward through the breach of the outer wall, closer and closer to the main defences. The top of the tower threatened to overlook the battlements of Jerusalem. Frankish archers and slingers released a deadly storm of stones and arrows. Fire was hurled back, but the tower was protected by mantlets and wattle screens covered with slippery skins. The firebrands and burning coals struck these only to slip down to the ground. The defenders brought up tubes of Greek fire, which belched out greedily, but the outside of the tower had been doused in vinegar whilst wineskins hung in the tower held more. The tower inched its way forward. On either side of it thronged archers who loosed shafts wrapped in flaming cotton; these struck the wooden defences, the sacks of straw and oiled ropes the Saracens and Turks had arranged along the wall to protect it against the rams, and they burst into flame, forcing the defenders from the parapets. Scaling ladders were hurriedly brought forward, whilst Tancred took a force of knights to pound at St Stephen’s Gate.

The defenders were now confused by the fires billowing along the battlements; curling smoke and acrid fumes blocked their view and confused their actions. The Portal of the Temple put up its scaling ladder, and one of their company, Lethold of Touraine, clambered up over the walls, the first knight to enter Jerusalem. The tower edged closer. Godfrey of Bouillon glimpsed two great beams thrust out by the Turks to hold it off. He swiftly cut the ropes of one of the ox-hide-covered mantlets, which fell across the beams to provide a makeshift drawbridge. Godfrey hurried across, his men pouring after him, their long swords hissing and cutting, fighting like demons through the black smoke. The breach was stormed and held. The tower crept closer. Further along the wall the three witches and the slaves supporting them were deluged by a hail of stones that pulped them into a bloody mess. The tower now leaned over the walls of Jerusalem. Its drawbridge fell. Scores of knights ran across on to the battlements to join Godfrey. The defenders panicked and ran. The collapse spread. The garrisons at the Herod Gate, St Stephen’s and further along at Mount Sion simply fled. Entrances were forced and the Franks poured like a river of revenge through the city, spilling out along every thoroughfare, street and alleyway. No quarter! No mercy was to be offered, nothing but the sword for men, women and children.

The Franks fanned out like reapers gathering some bloody harvest. Groups of Turks and Saracens made one final stand, archers still loosed arrows from rooftops, but it was all over. The governor and remnants of his Egyptian cavalry fled to the Tower of David and locked themselves in. The Franks simply passed through, living incarnations of the Angel of Death, a black cloud of murderous fury. Streets, squares, houses and gardens became thickly strewn with the corpses of men, women and children. Axes and swords fell until the fountains splashed red and the white walls became drenched in blood. Some hoped to gain sanctuary in the mosques; none was given. The Franks reached the courtyard of the Holy Sepulchre, where more people were huddled. They advanced, sword and axe at the ready, but their intended victims hurriedly knelt, crossing themselves, and croaked the prayer of mercy from the Mass: ‘Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison’ — Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy. The Franks sheathed their weapons, touched the heads of these Armenian Christians and went searching for other prey. They burst into the great Temple enclosure where Turks and Saracens clustered to surrender. None was accepted. By the time the slaughter was ended, men waded through blood that lapped beneath their knees and stained the harness of their horses.

At sunset the Franks put an end to their killing. They had, like wolves snuffling through the scrub, glutted themselves on gore and blood; now they doffed their armour, put on gowns and walked barefoot to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to give thanks. They passed mounds of severed heads, arms and feet. They crossed a mat of corpses as they reverently chanted their psalms and hymns. They made their devotions and retired for the night.

Meanwhile the Portal of the Temple were hurrying down into the warren of gloomy passageways beneath the Dome of the Rock. Hugh de Payens and Godefroi of St Omer had survived and were zealous in their quest. The Fedawi had either fled or died in the massacre, so they hacked down doors and lifted rusting iron-plated traps until they found their treasures. They moved quickly and orderly all through that night and the next day, when the slaughter in the city began once again. No mercy was to be shown. This was God’s work, the Franks argued: their enemies had mocked, humiliated and used all manner of wickedness against them; this could only be purged by blood. Some survivors climbed on to the flat roof of the Aksa Mosque; Tancred offered them protection, even handing over his own standard, but the killers ignored this, storming on to the roof and massacring all three hundred survivors.

As smoke hung like a black cloud above a city stinking of slaughter, in the narrow passageways beneath the Dome of the Rock, Hugh and Godefroi ransacked the secret treasure hoards hidden away in chambers where the great Solomon had once stabled his horses. In the light of candles and lantern horns they rolled out the sacred cloth that once covered the Lord’s face. They knelt in adoration of it and repeated their solemn vows: kingdoms, princes and powers could trample through the streets of the Holy City. They would come and go, nothing more than a watch in the night, but the Portal of the Temple, the House of the Temple, the Templars would take root and grow as magnificent as the cedar of Lebanon…

Under the awning of her shabby tent on a hillside overlooking Jerusalem, Eleanor de Payens made herself comfortable on a faldstool, threading battered Ave beads through her filthy fingers. Theodore, blood-stained and smelling of fire and wood smoke, squatted before her. He had taken off his hauberk and leather leggings, and cradling a wineskin, he toasted Eleanor before taking a drink.

‘The City of Jerusalem has fallen.’ Theodore wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Your brother, using the maps he had gathered, has found his treasure trove. Relics, Eleanor, linen sheets containing imprints of our Saviour, documents, artefacts, precious stones, silver and gold. He and Godefroi-’

‘They are well?’

‘As strong as lions! They lost some of their company.’

‘Were they involved in the massacre?’

‘Mistress!’ Simeon, sitting behind Eleanor, leaned forward. ‘Mistress-sister,’ he whispered, ‘leave that.’

‘Oh yes, I will!’ she retorted harshly.

‘Will you go into the city?’ Theodore asked. ‘Hugh and Godefroi are waiting. They’ve given thanks to God, they…’ His voice trailed off at the look on Eleanor’s face. ‘I told them about Beltran.’

‘And?’

Theodore spread his hands. ‘They saw him as a troublesome wretch, nothing more. Eleanor, will you come?’

‘I have travelled thousands of miles,’ she murmured, closing her eyes then opening them. ‘I thought I would dance under the gateway of Jerusalem, but now I am here, I do not want to go into the Holy City. I do not want to see any more severed heads or blood-spotted walls.’ She stared out at the black plumes of smoke rising above the city. ‘Here, Theodore,’ she tapped her breast, ‘here is Jerusalem. Here,’ she leaned forward and caressed his cheek, ‘is the Face of Christ. Here,’ she pressed her hand against his chest, ‘is true religion. There,’ she gestured with her hand, ‘some whitewashed cottage, with the honeysuckle climbing up the walls, is paradise.’ She put away the Ave beads, wrapped her cloak tight about her and got to her feet. ‘And Alberic?’

‘He fought like a warrior, wounded but well.’

Eleanor smiled and extended her hand. ‘Come, let us search out Norbert and Imogene and give them honourable burial.’ She gestured at the finely carved box lying next to her stool, the one Imogene had so treasured. ‘For the love of God, Theodore, and for love of me, take this into the city. Bury it deep in the black soil beneath some cypress tree.’ She smiled. ‘Then come back to me, and we shall find our own Jerusalem.’