The Templar

Part 2

Sclavonia: The Feast of St Lucy, 13 December 1096

Diesque mirabilium tonitruorum fortium.

(A day of marvels, of mighty thundering.)

The Dies Irae of St Columba

‘I will wash my hands among the innocent and encompass thy altar, oh Lord. I have loved, oh Lord, the beauty of thy house and the place where thy glory dwelleth.’

Eleanor de Payens murmured the verse from the psalm at the entrance to her goat-skin tent. She stared out at the bank of mist swirling round, muffling sound and blurring the glow of camp fire, candle and lantern horn. Somewhere in the camp, a child cried. Eleanor shivered; it sounded like the echo of her baby’s first and only cry as he slipped in blood from her womb. She could still feel his warmth, his little face shrivelled like a plum, the blinking eyes, the tip of that tongue hungry for her breast.

‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,’ Eleanor murmured. She crossed herself; the hard wood of the crucifix on her Ave beads knocked the tip of her nose, which was already cold and sore. ‘And the same for noses.’ She grinned to herself, always averse to self-pity, and went back to sit on the small chest that served as a stool. She extended her mittened fingers over the chafing dish, a mix of charcoal and dried twigs, and stared across at Imogene sitting on a leather pannier. The widow woman was dressed like a nun in black veil and robe, her olive-skinned features and raven-like hair almost hidden beneath a grimy wimple. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick and she sat with hands extended over the heat, eyes closed, lips moving soundlessly. Beside her, as always, was that carved wooden box, its lid sealed, the top embossed with three crosses and the IHS monogram representing Jesus’ Passion above the words ‘Deus vult’. Imogene, who shared Eleanor’s tent, had assured her that that casket contained the heart of her husband, which she hoped to bury in some holy place in Jerusalem. Eleanor was not convinced. Imogene had a great deal to hide, but there again, Eleanor conceded, so did many of their fellow pilgrims, including her own brother.

‘How long, sister?’ Imogene was now staring full at her, eyes watchful. Had she, Eleanor reflected, realised that she shared a tent with a light sleeper? As the poet said: ‘The truth always comes in dreams.’

‘How long what?’ Eleanor smiled.

Imogene shivered. Eleanor rose, went across and tightened the tent flap closer.

‘We have been journeying for weeks.’ Imogene pulled the threadbare shawl closer about her shoulders. ‘These mountains…’ Her voice trembled.

Eleanor nodded understandingly. As she had scribbled in her chronicle, they had left the grass-filled glades of the Auvergne and travelled north before turning east. Ahead of them the blue and gold banner of St Gilles flapped above the grizzled head of Raymond of Toulouse. Behind him, in the dark robes of a monk, rode the shaven-faced Adhémar, Bishop of Le Puy, the Pope’s legate in all matters of the cross-bearing. At first anyone would have thought they had reached Jerusalem as they marched joyously through the sun-warmed valleys. The trees still proclaimed the glories of summer, even though the silver and gold of autumn was beginning to appear. The Count rode his swift destrier ornamented with the gilded leather harness of Cordova, decorated with deep stitching and small gold and silver discs. The crowds surged out to greet such magnificence, scattering green leaves and scented petals along the dusty trackway. Garlands of flowers were looped over the weapons and harness of Christ’s warriors, bowls of fruit thrust into their hands together with red stone jugs filled with the rich wines of the south or honey mead so sweet on the tongue. Church steeples trembled with the booming of bells. People clamoured to join them, including wiry mountaineers who would act as their guides through the Alpine passes. Farmers, yeomen, tinkers and traders, ribalds and counterfeit men swelled the throng to somewhere between fifteen and twenty thousand souls. Count Raymond took them all in to form new companies. Eleanor soon noticed how the Count remembered Hugh and Godefroi’s participation in the chevauchées in Iberia: their company, now publicly known as the Poor Brethren of the Temple, was singled out for special favour, whilst its captains sat high in Raymond’s councils.

‘They say we should have marched south through Italy,’ Imogene murmured.

Eleanor broke from her reverie. The sounds of the camp had grown louder: the blowing of horns, the shouts of huntsmen returning with fresh meat.

‘My brother says no. Count Raymond believes the mountain passes down into the Lombard plain would not be passable, whilst a sea voyage from southern Italy to Greece always threatens danger.’

Imogene nodded understanding, though Eleanor suspected she had meagre knowledge of maps. Indeed, Eleanor herself had swiftly realised how little she knew of the world outside Compiègne or the Auvergne. Everything and everyone was strange and hostile until proved otherwise. The journey had only reinforced this. The Franks were taking their own ways with them, highly suspicious of everything new. If a stranger could bless themselves or intone the Ave Maria then that was better than any letter or writ. If they failed to, fingers crept to sword and dagger hilt. Distances and new kingdoms were only miles to travel on their way to Jerusalem, which lay at the centre of the world, however the maps portrayed it. Hugh and Godefroi had borrowed copies of such maps. They had shown Eleanor how Count Raymond had decided to march east across Italy, around the northern coastline of the Adriatic then south through Sclavonia to Dyrrachium in the kingdom of the Greeks. The journey was proving difficult enough, Eleanor decided to break the cold distance between herself and Imogene.

‘At night you talk in your sleep about Robert the Reeve.’

‘And what else?’ Imogene asked quickly.

A horn brayed. Eleanor heard Beltran calling the Poor Brethren of the Temple to a colloquium before their standard. She was glad to evade Imogene’s question, and quickly grabbed her hooded cloak. Imogene did likewise, and they left the tent. Eleanor summoned a boy, one of the mountaineers now attached to their company, to guard their possessions. Once satisfied, they hurried through the mist across the frost-hardened ground, trying to avoid the puddles of horse urine, the dirt of men, horses and dogs. On its perch at the mouth of a tent, a huge hawk screeched and stretched, claws moving to the jingle of its jesse-bells. Eleanor wondered how long such a creature could survive this cold. The frost stung her eyes, nose and mouth. The mist curled, a thick white vapour cutting off the light and obscuring all around them.

At last they reached the meeting place between the tents and the horse lines, a stretch of frozen grass now lit and warmed by scattered roaring fires, flames crackling greedily at the dry thorn and bracken. In the centre of this ring of fire stood a cart from which the Poor Brethren’s banner floated on a pole. Beltran, Hugh and Godefroi standing behind him, grasped the side rails of the cart and gestured at them to draw closer. They did, though Eleanor, like the rest, also tried to position herself to catch some warmth from the fires. Beltran blew on a hunting horn, stilling the clamour. He had a powerful voice and had quickly assumed the role of being their herald and news-bringer. He stood silently for a while, then delivered his message like an actor in a play or a troubadour reciting a poem. Hugh and Godefroi looked very grim; Eleanor caught her brother’s eye, but he simply shook his head and glanced away. At first, the news was good.

‘Other armies of cross-bearers,’ Beltran declared, ‘are moving east. Indeed, some are already approaching Constantinople. The Franks of the west are on the move accompanied by wondrous signs,’ he added. ‘Mysterious flocks of birds have been seen forming in the sky, pointing to the east, whilst some talk of a sacred goose that will lead them to Jerusalem.’ Beltran paused as the crowd laughed and shook their heads. He then pressed ahead with his other news. He described how the men of northern France and Germany had been eager for standards to tramp behind. Some of the great princes of Europe had emerged to lead them. Godfrey of Bouillon was such a man, a true warrior. He and his two brothers, Baldwin and Eustace of Boulogne, who owned swathes of estates across northern France and the Rhineland, would also join them in Constantinople. Philip I of France had been eager to go but could not because he had been excommunicated for his infatuation with another man’s wife. Instead Philip had sent his brother, Hugh of Paris, with two other warriors, Baldwin of Hainault and Stephen of Blois. These had been joined by the red-haired, green-eyed Robert of Normandy, nicknamed ‘Short-breeches’, brother of Rufus, the Red King of England, both sons of the Great Conqueror. These lords had collected as many men as they could and taken to the roads, escorted by their households, their greyhounds, lurchers and falconers running alongside them, a glorious cavalcade journeying to Jerusalem. More news was flowing in. How Bohemond of Taranto, the Norman adventurer from southern Italy, also intended to march with his warlike nephew Tancred. God was surely with them!

‘Nor is it just the lords,’ Beltran explained after a brief pause. ‘The People’s Army, under its leader Peter the Hermit and his lieutenant Walter, Lord of Boissy Sans-Avoir, nicknamed “Walter Sans-Avoir” — Walter Without Anything — have already clashed with the Turks — though with disastrous results. Peter’s message is simple,’ Beltran hastily explained. ‘We must take the road to the Holy Sepulchre, rescue Christ’s fief and rule over it ourselves. Such a land, flowing with milk and honey, was given by God to the children of Israel. Now we have inherited it ourselves, we must seize it from our enemies. We must take possession of their treasuries and either return home victorious or go to eternal glory blessed and purpled with our own blood…’

Beltran paused. People began shouting questions about Peter. Beltran replied that little was known about the hermit. Peter had possibly been born near Amiens. A poor man, he dressed only in a grey woollen robe with a hood pulled over his head. He rode a mule, his bare feet hanging down loose as he preached the taking of the cross. The hermit was dark of face, burnt black by the sun; he ate and drank nothing except a little fish, bread and some wine. According to Beltran, he was a passionate preacher whose tongue had been blistered by the Holy Spirit, a brilliant orator who, despite his shabby appearance, could persuade the most beautiful and noble women to lay their treasures at his feet. They even cut off hair from his donkey as sacred relics, and regarded Peter’s bath water as a holy elixir. Beltran paused to slurp noisily from a goblet of wine. Eleanor wondered if their herald was quietly mocking this common preacher who had stirred up so many to follow the cross. She glanced at Hugh; he stood, arms crossed, staring down at the wooden slats of the cart.

Beltran continued. According to one story, Peter had visited the Holy Sepulchre to witness first hand the violence of their enemies. Whilst in Jerusalem, he had also fallen into a trance and experienced a vision of the Lord Jesus, who had told him, ‘You will receive a letter for your mission from heaven bearing the seal of a cross.’ Peter claimed to hold such a heavenly letter, which was how he had swept through the Frankish kingdoms, exhorting all to follow the cross — not just the lords, but the forgotten and dispossessed. According to Beltran, orange-wigged whores, bejewelled pimps, catamites, counterfeits, cripples, vagabonds, adulterers, soul-killers, fornicators, perjurers and outlaws surged from the dank slums of the towns to mingle with his army of artisans, labourers, knights from Picardy, axe-men from Swabia and swordsmen from Cologne. Again Beltran paused to drink, smacking his lips in relish. Eleanor’s stomach clenched. Beltran was a cynical soul. He was openly scoffing at those poor cross-bearers, and she suspected the story he was telling would end not in triumph but disaster. Beltran, however, now had them all spellbound and they drew closer. The herald described how the great People’s Army, almost sixteen thousand souls, had surged across Germany threatening the Jews, extorting monies from these unfortunates before they assembled to hear Mass in hedge-Latin and chant their popular hymns. Peter’s horde had then left Germany, following the Danube through the kingdom of Hungary, watched from afar by the Hungarian king’s sheepskin-coated scouts on their swift ponies. The Hungarians, Beltran declared, were wise to be cautious. Coloman, their king, was wary of this long column of carts and horses and the unruly throng streaming across his kingdom beneath a host of crosses and tattered, brilliant banners.

The People’s Army had expected to travel safely and securely, but whilst crossing the Danube, they were attacked by Patzinacks, Turkish mercenaries, mounted archers from the steppes hired by Alexius Comnenus, Emperor of Constantinople, to serve as police along his borders. A bitter battle ensued, during which German knights on a fleet of rafts attacked a flotilla of Patzinacks and beat them off. They captured some of these mercenaries and brought them before Peter. He immediately ordered their decapitation along the banks of the Danube and left their severed heads tied to the branches of trees as a warning to the rest.

Peter and his army, Beltran explained, then crossed the Danube into Alexius’ territories and reached the city of Nish. Here the imperial governor promised them supplies and safe conduct to Constantinople. However, when some of the more fiery of Peter’s lieutenants discovered that their advance guard under Walter Sans-Avoir had been badly cut up in a forest fight, they turned back to burn and pillage the suburbs of Nish. Imperial police shadowing the People’s Army lost patience, and a furious woodland battle ensued. During this savage mêlée, thousands of Peter’s followers simply disappeared. Afterwards, the cross-bearers continued their march, escorted by fierce mounted archers, who shepherded them as dogs would sheep. However, if any of the marchers wandered off the beaten track, these dogs became wolves, taking heads and fastening the grisly trophies to their saddle horns.

At last, Beltran declared triumphantly, the People’s Army reached Constantinople. The cunning Emperor Alexius had them camped on the eastern side of the city near the Golden Gate and sent out carts heaped with supplies to feed them. Peter’s horde, relaxed and refreshed, immediately turned their attention to the wealth of Alexius’ city. The many thieves and vagabonds amongst them could not resist the temptation to loot; they even climbed on to church roofs stripping off the lead to sell to city merchants. The Emperor decided to move them across the straits known as the Arm of St George into Anatolia, the kingdom of the Sultan of Rhum, Kilij Arsan, who called himself ‘the Sword of the Spirit’. Here the People’s Army rejoined their advance guard under Walter Sans-Avoir who had taken up residence in a deserted fortress near Civetot.

Summer was ending in a golden glow, continued Beltran like a true troubadour; the harvest was ripening, fatbellied cattle and sheep grazed in the meadows. The People’s Army, bereft of Peter, who had stayed in Constantinople, began to have itchy feet and even itchier fingers. Foraging turned into plundering and reaping into rapine as they explored the paths through fertile valleys and well-stocked meadows. Although they did not know it — Beltran held a hand up — they were being closely watched by Seljuk scouts, who soon noticed how disorganised and ill-led the People’s Army had become. The Seljuks waited. The cross-bearers, hungry for plunder, planned a harrying chevauchée, a raid up to the walls of Nicea. They elected a mercenary, Rainald of Bruges, as their leader, and debouched on to the plains, unaware that they were being shadowed by the Seljuks on their nimble ponies, fierce warriors with their long plaited hair, necklaces and earrings; across their chests were lacquered armour plates, whilst from their saddle horns hung quivers and sturdy horn bows. These watched the cross-bearers and bided their time. Rainald led them to Xerigardon, a deserted fortress. Once they had fortified this, the rabble ruthlessly pillaged the surrounding countryside, unaware of how the Seljuks had now circled them.

In a flurry of fierce sorties, the Seljuks forced the People’s Army back into the fort, then cut off their water supply, a well close by the gate and a nearby fountain. According to Beltran, the People’s Army suffered hideous losses. They were now besieged, hunted, harassed and wounded, bereft of water and support and exposed to the late autumn heat. They grew so tormented by thirst they even drew blood from the veins of their horses and donkeys to drink. Some urinated into the hands of others, then supped it. Many dug into the moist ground and lay down, spreading the earth over them to allay the terrible heat. For eight days this agony continued. At last Rainald entered into a treasonable correspondence with the Turks and, in return for his life, agreed to hand over the others. The Turks placed some of their prisoners in a long line and used them for arrow practice; those they favoured were taken back to be sold in the slave markets.

Beltran now had his listeners spellbound. Meanwhile, he continued, back at Civetot, Walter Sans-Avoir and the other captains had heard about this disaster and hastened to help. The mob thronged along the road towards the deserted fortress without any order, although Walter and a handful of knights managed to keep a force of five hundred horsemen together. The Turks watched in astonishment, then trapped the entire army in a valley. Walter was killed in the first foray, seven arrows piercing his body. The Turks had won a great victory. The remnants of the People’s Army fled back along the road. The Turks followed in pursuit and captured their camp, cutting down the Christian sick and enslaving the women. News of the disaster reached Constantinople, but all the Emperor could do was send troops to help those who had fled and hidden in rocky gulleys or caves…

The Poor Brethren received all this news with loud groans, cries and lamentations. Eleanor, warming her hands near a fire, heard similar sounds from other parts of the camp and realised that heralds were spreading the dismal news elsewhere. Beltran had not yet finished; his litany of woes continued. Other crusading armies had emerged under the likes of Gottschalk, a German priest so cruel and predatory that the Hungarian king had ordered the total destruction of both him and his army…

Eleanor listened carefully. She had read vague rumours about such hideous events in the letters, memoranda and other missives dispatched to the chancery of Raymond of Toulouse. She and Hugh had been well educated by their widowed mother, a sharp martinet of a woman who’d mourned her husband at every waking moment; she had constantly reminded Eleanor and Hugh how God had taken her saintly man in the flower of his youth. She was also determined that both her children should rigorously study their horn books. They graduated on to Latin grammar and syntax, not to mention courtly French and even a few words of Greek. A harsh discipline! Eleanor often reflected on her bruised knuckles. She could still chant the Greek alphabet, as well as the more complex Latin tenses. Such a rigorous education had only drawn her and Hugh closer together, so that they had become like two peas in a pod. Even a drunken husband, the birth of a child who had died shortly afterwards, the upsetting of their world and the preaching of Urban could not shake that.

Once Beltran had finished, Eleanor accosted Hugh, demanding to know whether such terrible news could be true.

‘There is worse,’ he confessed, and took her to Raymond’s chancery tent, where Eleanor, as she later wrote in her chronicle, quickly realised that God was not always with the cross-bearers. Raymond of Toulouse’s clerks had also received dreadful news about Emicho, Count of Leiningen, who had used the call to Jerusalem to unleash a blizzard of hatred against the Rhineland Jews. Emicho truly believed he would be rewarded for his work with a diadem in Constantinople. He first tried his mischief at Speyer but then turned on Mainz and the Jews who hid in the shadows of that great city, locked in their own world, garbed in their grey and purple robes, treasuring their traditions, studying the Torah and celebrating their calendar of feasts. Once at Mainz, Emicho, who believed a red cross had miraculously appeared on his flesh — probably a flea bite — together with William the Carpenter, Vicomte of Melun, viciously attacked the Jews there. The vicomte, a killer to the bone, had acquired his sinister nickname in Iberia because of his passion for hammering spikes and nails into the foreheads of his victims. These two assassins and their cohorts took the trampled corpse of one of their company, buried thirty days previously, and carried it through the city saying, ‘Behold what the Jews have done to our comrade. They have taken a gentile and boiled him in water. They then poured the water into your wells to kill you.’ Violence erupted. Many Jews fled for safety to the bishop’s palace but were later betrayed. Emicho and William seized a leading Jew named Isaac. They put a rope around his neck and dragged him through the muddy streets to the place of execution, where they screamed at him to convert and be saved. Isaac signalled with his finger that he was unable to utter a word for his neck was choked off, yet when they released the rope, he said simply, ‘Cut off my head.’ They did so, then encouraged their followers to go on a bloody rampage. They killed about seven hundred Jews, who could not resist the attack of so many thousands. Various letters repeated the same horrors, a litany of hideous acts. Eventually Eleanor could read no more. She handed the documents back to the scribe and, followed by Hugh and Godefroi, left the chancery tent.

Later, Eleanor, Hugh, Godefroi, Alberic and Imogene gathered in a sombre mood for the evening meal of grilled rabbit meat and rastons. They met in the large shabby pavilion shared by Godefroi and Hugh; it reeked of scorched ox-hide, leather, sweat and charcoal. Father Alberic sang grace as Beltran pushed his way in and joined the circle just inside the pavilion’s entrance. Behind him echoed the noises of the camp settling for the night. They all paused at the sound of a wolf howling mournfully at the full moon.

‘A harsh day.’ Godefroi bit into the half-baked bread, made a face and thrust the wine goblet to his mouth.

‘Terrible news,’ Alberic murmured. ‘So many cross-bearers massacred. Peter the Hermit disgraced.’

‘A rabble,’ Hugh countered. ‘They and others murdered Jews, massacring women and children! What has that to do with God’s work?’

‘We will pay for that,’ said Alberic. ‘Innocent blood never goes unanswered.’

‘It’s the fault of our leaders,’ Hugh declared. ‘The bishops, counts and nobles. They should impose order; there must be stricter discipline in God’s Army.’

‘But they are God’s enemies,’ Imogene retorted.

‘Who are?’

‘The Jews. They crucified the Lord. They said His blood should be upon them and upon their children.’

‘But Christ’s blood is meant to cleanse and sanctify,’ declared Hugh.

‘Or punish,’ added Alberic, but his voice lacked any conviction. ‘In truth,’ he sighed, ‘are they any different from us?’

‘The Jews,’ Eleanor asked, ‘or the Turks?’

‘Both!’ Alberic muttered. ‘The Jews? Who are they but God’s children. Who are we? God’s children. Who are the Turks? God’s children, yet still we kill each other for the best possible reasons.’ He glanced round. ‘But are we God’s children? Or is there no God and we are what we are, killers to the heart?’

His companions stared in puzzlement.

‘Father,’ Godefroi asked, ‘do you regret coming?’

‘No.’ Alberic shrugged. ‘I do not regret; just wonder.’

‘But the Turks stole Christ’s fief, His Holy City.’ Beltran leaned forward, his unshaven, cold-pinched face bright in the firelight. ‘His Holiness the Pope says it’s our sacred duty to recover that fief, the Lord’s domain, now in enemy hands, and restore it to its rightful owners. Surely, Father, if someone came to seize my house or your church it would be our duty to regain possession.’

‘The devil rides a black steed,’ intoned Peter Bartholomew, sweeping into the tent and sitting down uninvited. He stared around, eyes all fearful. ‘I have heard the news,’ he continued. ‘The last days are upon us. Soon we shall see even more wondrous signs and listen to heaven-shaking news.’

‘But what is that to us, brother?’ Eleanor asked gently.

‘The Lord Satan sows dissension here where there should be none,’ Peter declared. ‘We have sworn to do God’s work. Is that not right, brothers and sisters?’ No one answered.

Eleanor watched Hugh closely. He had insisted that amongst the Poor Brethren, only the titles ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ should be used, and that each member must recite every day seven Paters, three Aves, two Glorias, the Dirige psalm and the Salve Regina. He had also compelled the Poor Brethren of the Temple to agree that money, plunder and the spoils of battle be shared equally. Discipline would be enforced, any violence against the innocent ruthlessly punished. Eleanor wondered about the Jews; those she herself had met seemed harmless enough, rather gentle, shy and frightened. True, she’d done them little good, but definitely no ill.

‘You know our rules.’ Hugh sipped at his wine. ‘We stand by them. One more thing! Listening to what happened to Rainald. If we are captured,’ he lowered his cup, ‘let us not be cowards, but go to God with pure hearts, yes?’

A murmur of approval greeted his words. Hugh paused as Norbert joined their circle and squatted down.

‘I heard you.’ The monk pushed back his cowl. ‘I was outside,’ he coughed and rubbed his stomach, ‘waiting for my belly to settle. I heard you mention the Jews, the Turks. Do you know what I think?’ He gestured round. ‘We are all killers. No…’ He lifted a hand against their protests. ‘Tell me, each of you, have you not lost your temper with a brother or sister and thought you could kill him or her? Have any of you said that?’ The Benedictine’s wrinkled face broke into a smile, lips parted to show blackening teeth. ‘Remember,’ he whispered, leaning forward, ‘the thought is the father of the word, which is the mother of the deed.’

‘But your answer,’ Hugh asked, ‘is that it? That we are all killers?’

‘It’s not an answer.’ Norbert chomped on his gums. ‘Just something I have learned. Killing is about the will — that is what the great Augustine said. I mean…’ Norbert’s rheumy eyes stared at Eleanor, and his long fingers went out as if he wished to catch the tendrils of her black hair. ‘If I planned to carry out an attack on your sister, to ravish her…’ he playfully thrust his balding head forward; in return, Eleanor pulled an expression of mock-fear, ‘then kill her, would you not have the right, Hugh, to defend her?’

‘I would kill you!’

‘No.’ The monk laughed sharply. ‘I said defend her. The two are quite different. Killing is about the will, what you intend to do.’

‘You are a scholar of Augustine,’ Alberic teased. ‘You hold to his thesis of a just war.’

‘Nonsense!’ Norbert cackled. ‘Oh, I’ve heard of Bonizo of Sutri’s arguments about that, and how the Pope confers titles on warriors such as our glorious Count Raymond to justify their wars.’

Eleanor caught the sarcasm in Norbert’s words.

‘Titles such as Fidelis Filius Sancti Petri — Faithful Son of Saint Peter. Nonsense! The phrase “just war” is a contradiction in terms! How can a war ever be just?’

‘So,’ Godefroi asked, ‘what is your reply? Why are you here?’

‘Why not?’ Norbert retorted. ‘Oh brothers, I do not mock you. None of us knows why we really do anything. Why am I a monk? Is it because I have a vocation to follow the rule of St Benedict? To serve Christ? Or was it to gain advancement and learning? Or because I sickened of listening to my mother couple with her lovers and wished to follow a more chaste life? Why have we come here? I tell you this.’ Norbert’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘There are as many reasons for our pilgrimage as there are pilgrims. We may be crucesignati — signed by the cross — but we are all different. Ask yourselves but don’t judge yourselves. Remember, our lives are taken up not by what we want to do but what we have to do!’

Eleanor pondered on Norbert’s words as she, Hugh and Godefroi walked out across the camp, the silence broken by the neighing of horses, the barking of dogs and the cries of children. Lantern horns gleamed from the poles outside the great lords’ tents. Camp fires flickered and crackled as they were banked down for the night. A cloud of smells greeted them: burnt oil, cooked food, wet straw and sweat, all mingling with the foul stenches drifting in from the latrines.

‘Why are you here, Eleanor?’ Godefroi abruptly asked as they stopped before her tent.

‘Because of you,’ she quipped, ‘and you because of me?’

Godefroi laughed self-consciously and shuffled his mud-caked boots.

‘Our life, as Brother Norbert said,’ broke in Hugh, eager to save any embarrassment, ‘is about what we have to do, or not do.’ He stood, hands on hips, staring up at the sky. ‘I know why I am not here,’ he continued quietly. ‘I am not here to kill innocent men, women and children. I am not here to plunder and pillage, ravage and rape.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I am here because I am here. True, I want to see the wonders on the other side of the world. I want to walk the streets of Jerusalem as Our Beloved Lord did, yet there’s something else…’ He shrugged, grasped Eleanor by the arms and kissed her gently on each cheek. Godefroi followed suit, though more awkwardly, then they were gone, their voices shouting farewells through the dark.

Eleanor undid the tent flaps. The lad guarding the tent was fast asleep beside the makeshift brazier. Eleanor roused him and gave him some slices of cheese in a linen rag. Once he was gone, she built up the brazier, tidied the tent and waited for Imogene to arrive. She’d glimpsed the widow woman deep in conversation with Norbert after the meeting had ended. Eleanor recalled Imogene’s words about the Jews. She sat down on a coffer and watched a wisp of mist curl into the tent, thinking about Godefroi’s question. Why was she here? To plead for pardon for the death of her drunken husband? To shake off the guilt of his death and that of her boy child, that glorious little spark of life, that flame that burnt so fiercely yet so briefly in her soul? For Hugh, the brother she adored, father and mother to her? Was it one of these or all of them? Was she part of something she would come to regret? The stories of Count Emicho, William the Carpenter and others revealed terrible savagery. She shuddered at the fate of those poor Jews, yet was she any different from the killers who had butchered them? Surely she was! Nevertheless, Hugh and Godefroi had assured her that once they crossed into the valleys of Sclavonia, fighting would break out, and they too would have to kill.

Eleanor stared at the tent flap. She felt deeply uneasy about Hugh and Godefroi’s reasons for taking the cross. True, they had been crucesignati in Iberia. They revelled in the legends of Roland. They sought absolution for past sins and were tired of the jousting and the tourneying between neighbours, but was there something else? The journey to Jerusalem could be understood, but since leaving the Auvergne, her suspicion had deepened that both knights nursed secrets. What date was it now? The middle of December in the Year of Our Lord 1096. Urban had delivered his sermon at Clermont over a year ago. Yes, that was right! She and Hugh had been in Compiègne when dusty messengers brought the news. She remembered one in particular, cowl thrust back, standing in their smoke-filled hall talking about an evil Turkish prince, Al-Hakim, who had razed the Holy Sepulchre church, inflicting indignities on his own people as well as Christians. Hugh had taken up the summons fervently, but when Norbert the monk had appeared, he began to change, becoming more sombre and reflective.

Eleanor chewed on her lip and quietly rebuked herself. She should have thought of this earlier. The seeds of her suspicions had been sown ten months ago, but she’d ignored them, taken up with the excitement, the frenetic preparations and the journey south to Auvergne. Godefroi’s warm friendship had been most welcome, but again, events had been veiled by a mêlée of preparations. Yes, and something else. Alberic had been a constant visitor, often meeting Hugh and Godefroi by themselves. She recalled what she knew of the parish priest. He was undoubtedly a mysterious man, much better educated than the priests who usually served the village churches. He and Norbert appeared to be old friends. The Benedictine seemed much travelled. Was he an excommunicate monk? Someone expelled by his monastery for making trouble? Jerusalem linked them all, but what bound Hugh, Godefroi, Norbert and Alberic so closely? She had been swept up in the preparations yet she had always sensed something amiss. Hugh had become more austere, praying more often, not so responsive to the laughing glances of the ladies and village girls. Moreover, since they had left the Auvergne, he had tightened the discipline of the Poor Brethren, publishing a divine office of hours, drawing up rules about meetings, dress and even diet. But why?

The march to the borders of Sclavonia had, despite the sheer glory of the mountains, been a tiresome trudge along muddy trackways. Eleanor had had plenty of time to reflect, to become more aware of the growing secrecy around her brother. In many ways Hugh reminded her of those knights from the great romances, who pursued some glorious, mystical vision. One thing she had discovered was Hugh and Godefroi’s absorption with one particular chivalric poem: ‘La Chanson de Voyage de Charlemagne à Jerusalem’. Hugh read this constantly. On several occasions Eleanor had asked to borrow his copy, and Hugh promised he would lend it to her, but he always found an excuse not to. This poem, together with a list of relics, seemed to absorb him whenever he was not busy with the Poor Brethren or conferring with Count Raymond. Eleanor had discovered the list of relics by sheer accident. A memorandum drawn up in Count Raymond’s hand was delivered by accident to her tent rather than Hugh’s. She had asked her brother about its importance but he had dismissed it, declaring that it was simply a list of sacred items he would like to see. So much mystery!

Eleanor shivered against the cold and pulled her wrap closer about her shoulders. She was tired, eager for her narrow cot bed on the far side of the tent, yet she was determined to wait for the widow woman and resolve at least one mystery. She packed a few belongings for tomorrow’s departure. She now regretted the few luxuries she had brought. She dressed the same every day: a linen shift under a brown serge gown with a leather strap around her waist; a deep cowl sheltering her head, whilst her legs and feet were warmed and protected by woollen stockings and ox-hide boots. She also carried a short stabbing sword in a sheath, Hugh had insisted on that. She was just finishing her preparations when Imogene, escorted by Beltran, reached the tent. They whispered their farewells and Imogene slipped in through the flap. As always she carried the battered leather bag containing her precious box. Eleanor smiled; Imogene nodded and crouched over the brazier. Eleanor shook off her tiredness.

‘You were harsh against the Jews.’

Imogene simply shrugged.

‘I mean,’ Eleanor continued, ‘you are, were, of the Jewish faith.’

Imogene’s head came up; her mouth opened and shut.

‘Oh, don’t worry.’ Eleanor smiled. ‘I do not mean to threaten; you just talk in your sleep! Most of it is the jabbering of dreams, but I’ve heard you pray the Shema. You mention the name Rachel, and sometimes you chatter in a patois I cannot understand.’ She came and knelt beside Imogene. ‘Please,’ she begged, ‘no pretence, not now. You are no longer with the rest; there is no need to chant the common hymn. I am not a threat to you. Does Norbert know?’

Imogene nodded, her dark eyes never leaving Eleanor’s face.

‘He knows so much, our wandering monk.’

‘He has been to Constantinople,’ Imogene replied. ‘He and Alberic are more than what they seem; they search for something.’

‘Yes, yes, I have realised that myself, but you…’

Imogene squatted on the floor and pushed back her hood, snatching off the coarse veil beneath. ‘My birth name is Rachel. I am from Iberia on the borders of Andalus. The usual story,’ she continued in a dry monotone. ‘Portents and signs, a bad harvest, loans that could not be repaid. Of course the Jews were to blame, the usual scapegoats. My father was a merchant. He and my mother were trapped in their own house. They were burned to death along with my brothers and two sisters. I was six.’ She smiled nervously. ‘Small for my age. I escaped through a window. Night had fallen. I fled to a neighbour’s house; they were kindly. My father had always told me to trust them. They took me in and sheltered me. I later found they were Jews who’d converted. I became one of them, given a new name and a new life. The couple were still Jewish and secretly continued to practise our religion. They kept the sacred vessels and their copy of the Torah hidden away. They secretly celebrated Yom Kippur, Passover, the Feast of the Tabernacles and the other festivals. They also returned to my parents’ house and gathered what they believed to be their ashes.’

‘The wooden box contains these?’

‘Yes. I hoped to bring them to Jerusalem, a righteous act for my parents. The Christian signs on the lid are part of the pretence.’

‘And who are… what are you now?’

‘Sister, I don’t know.’

In the poor light, Imogene’s face looked younger, paler.

‘Truly I believe in nothing. Yes, that is correct.’ She laughed sharply. ‘How can I be Jewish when I believe in nothing?’

‘And why have you decided to be honest now?’

‘As Norbert says, why not?’ Imogene pulled a face. ‘After tonight’s meeting of the Poor Brethren, I met Norbert and Alberic, and they assured me I’d be safe. We have so much in common. They are searching for something, something that is true in all this horror.’

‘You know Alberic and Norbert from before?’

‘Oh yes, they are constant travellers. They crossed into Andalus and visited my foster-parents’ home. They are keen students of all things Jewish, be it the Kabbalah or the legends of the Temple Mount, the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem.’

‘What are they searching for?’

‘God knows! Legends, relics, proof?’ Imogene shook her head. ‘They moved through the Jewish community asking questions, collecting information. I met them, and through them managed to meet my late husband Thomas, a wine merchant from St Nectaire.’ She shrugged. ‘The rest you know. I was a good wife, well respected. I settled in the area. My husband died. Urban preached his sermon at Clermont. By then, Alberic had taken the advowson of the local church. He’d been there for four years, exercising great influence over Lord Godefroi. Norbert seemed to have disappeared, then re-emerged as the Crusade was proclaimed. And then,’ her voice faltered, ‘came Anstritha, the wise woman, the one who was murdered by the mob.’

‘What about her?’

‘Nothing, mistress.’ Imogene’s voice turned weary. ‘I have told you the truth about myself. It’s wrong to tell you the truth about others.’ She smiled thinly. ‘I am not afraid of the truth. I suspect your brother and Godefroi already suspect who I am.’ She got to her feet. ‘Yet what threat do I pose, sister? Like you, I wish to journey to Jerusalem, but my reasons, like everyone else’s, are a matter of the heart. Perhaps I will find comfort in bringing home the ashes of my parents; forgiveness for living after they died; absolution for my deception.’ She undid her cloak. ‘Get rid of my burdens and find some peace.’