The Templar

Part 5

Dorylaeum: The Feast of St James the Apostle, 25 July 1097

Hominumque contentio mundi hujus et cupido.

(A day when strife amongst men and the lusts of this world are over.)

The Dies Irae of St Columba

Deus Vult! God wills it! The hoarse battle cry rang through the valley, echoing up to the pine-edged hilltops, scattering the birds from the cypress trees. Yes, Deus vult, Eleanor reflected, as she sat on a pile of cushions in the looted tent close to the battlefield of Dorylaeum. Dust devils swirled through the flaps of the gorgeous but fire-singed pavilion of expensive cloth with its ornate gold fringes. To the right of the flap stretched a great splash of dried blood; Eleanor tried to ignore this as she dictated to Simeon the Scribe, the man of a thousand faiths, as he described himself. A Copt, a prisoner whom Eleanor had rescued from the blood-spattered mace of Babewyn, Simeon sat waiting patiently for his ‘mistress-sister’ to collect her thoughts. He had everything ready: the writing tray, the sharpened quills, ink horns, pumice stone, a little sand, as well as rolls of looted parchment. Simeon, whose Coptic name Eleanor found difficult to pronounce, stared adoringly at his saviour whilst quietly congratulating himself on his innate skill at surviving. A trained scribe, knowledgeable in Greek and Frankish, not to mention Latin and the lingua franca of the ports, he had served Fatimid, Seljuk, Greek and Frank as well as Armenian, Syrian and Jewish masters. He was a skilled scholar, and could prepare manuscripts, write in cipher, and worship God in any way his masters wanted him to. On the morning of 19 July 1097, Simeon awoke a devout Muslim; by the time he succumbed to a fitful, nightmare-ridden sleep that same day, he was, according to the subtle tale he told Eleanor, a devout Christian captured by the Sultan of Rhum outside Nicomedea. Nevertheless, Simeon, as he now called himself — after Simeon Stylites, the hermit who lived for years on top of a pillar — truly liked Eleanor. He admired her solemn pale face, framed by its veil of black hair, and those lively smiling eyes. If she wanted to recall the stupendous events, as she described them, that accompanied the Franks and their foolish journey to Jerusalem, then he was her man, though he fully intended not to share her fate. If the Turks attacked and were victorious, Simeon quietly promised himself that he would hide as he had done last time, survive the axe, sword or lance and declare himself the most devout of Muslims.

In her turn, Eleanor studied Simeon out of the corner of her eye: his dark face, the neatly clipped and oiled beard and moustache, his bony body, long arms and slender fingers. Quite an elegant man, with his bracelets, the earring in the left earlobe and the loose dark green robes he wore with a white cord around the waist. Simeon was a born story-teller, Eleanor reflected, and that was what she needed. Others were writing chronicles, accounts and letters about what was happening, so why shouldn’t she continue hers with a little skilled help?

‘Write it down as I describe it,’ she said to Simeon.

He brought both hands together and bowed.

‘As you say, mistress-sister, so shall it be done!’ His liquid dark eyes were full of amusement, his face composed in a mask of mock servitude.

Ah well, Deus vult, and so it was, Eleanor reflected. They had left Constantinople, ferried across the Arm of St George in barges to begin their journey through Anatolia, the Sultanate of Rhum. From the start they had been shadowed by Turkish scouts. The Army of God were following the same path as Peter the Hermit’s horde, and the Turks had deliberately left the remains of the thousands they had slaughtered at Civetot and elsewhere as a grisly warning. Bits of rotting skeletons, decapitated heads, skulls on a row of poles, in spiked bushes, on rocky outcrops or around wells and waterholes glared ominously at them. The signs of such a great massacre dampened the ardour of some, though others grew fervent for revenge. The Army of God moved slowly in phalanxes, long lines of carts, horses, donkeys and camels. Alongside these trudged columns of men, women and children, baking under the strengthening sun. Their destination was the Turkish-held city of Nicea with its forbidding towers, huge gates and flaking yellow walls. An impregnable fortress, Nicea was defended on three sides by impressive fortifications and on the fourth by the Askanian lake. The Army of God, however, were in good spirits. They were well supplied with corn, wine, wheat and barley, whilst the route to Nicea was clearly marked along the rutted, tangled path by scouts who nailed up wooden or metal crosses.

In the main it was a pleasant journey. Eleanor had ridden in one of the carts, reflecting more on what she had learnt in Constantinople than what awaited them at Nicea. Norbert and Alberic had become friendlier, welcoming her as a true sister as if some invisible barrier had been miraculously removed; even Imogene, who tended to keep to herself, commented on that. For the rest, Eleanor wondered about the Fedawi and their threats. How could they be so close to Constantinople? Had they disguised themselves, blending in with the merchants or Turcopole mercenaries who swarmed everywhere? Theodore, in recognition of what they had told her, rather shyly gave Eleanor a small icon painted on wood, very similar to those images she had seen in Hagia Sophia, a reminder of the bond between them.

Eleanor could now understand Hugh’s enthusiasm, as well as the strict discipline imposed on the Poor Brethren of the Temple. They were marching to Jerusalem not just to recover the Holy Sepulchre but to discover proof of Christ’s Passion and Resurrection. According to Hugh, they must be victorious and purify themselves, in order to be worthy to receive such holy relics. Little wonder too about the secrecy. Relic-hunters like the Magus, whoever he might be, would murder for such religious objects, whilst the Fedawi would never allow entry to a place they had chosen as their own.

Eleanor, seated on the cart jolting along the trackway, wondered if the Beggars’ Company, marching a little ahead of them, could be a refuge for such outlaws. Beltran distrusted Jehan deeply and had warned her to be wary of that rogue and his coven. Indeed, since leaving Constantinople, Beltran had attached himself to Eleanor and Imogene, paying particular attention to the pretty widow. Like Theodore, he proved to be a genial companion who, by his own confession, had hardly left Provence, being steeped, as he put it, in all its wonders, particularly the poetry and songs of the south. He was not a knight but a serjeant, a nuncius or envoy, well placed to learn all the gossip of the camp and the bickering between its leaders.

After the long march they eventually reached Nicea. The Turks had withdrawn into the city to await any attack. Hugh took Eleanor to view the massive fortifications, the lofty yellow brick walls with more than a hundred towers all protected by a double ditch. Eleanor had scarcely returned to her tent when the cry ‘Au secours! Au secours!’ was raised. Warning horns and trumpets blared. She and Imogene hurried down the narrow gulleys between the pavilions leading to the centre of the camp. Here stood a huge cart, poles on each corner displaying the battle standards, containing a great wooden altar surmounted by a stark black cross. Two men, dressed like monks in long grey robes, stood with their backs to the cart wheels, swords and daggers drawn. They faced a threatening line of Frankish foot armed with lowered spears and pikes.

‘Spies! spies!’ a voice accused. ‘We caught them trying to leave camp with drawings and numbers.’ One of the trapped men raced forward, whirling sword and dagger, only to be stopped by a surge of pike thrusts that almost lifted him off the ground. He struggled like a landed fish, legs kicking, gargling on the blood spilling out of his mouth. The other immediately threw down his weapons and knelt, hands extended in a sign of surrender. He was swiftly seized, bound and dragged away. A short while later Hugh came hurrying back, even as the alarm was raised again: a blare of horns and trumpets, men shouting battle cries, war horses being quickly led out. He grasped Eleanor and pushed her inside the tent.

‘They were spies,’ he announced breathlessly, pausing as Beltran, Theodore and Godefroi thrust into the tent behind him. ‘The captured one has confessed. Kilij Arslan, Sultan of Rhum, is marching straight towards us with thousands of horsemen!’

‘Where, when will they attack?’

‘Bohemond besieges the northern side of Nicea, Godfrey of Bouillon the east and we the south, the same direction as Arslan. We will bear the brunt of the first attack.’

He had hardly finished when there was a surge of noise from outside, a renewed blowing of trumpets followed by screams and cries. They hastened out to see people pointing. Eleanor stared in horror at the hills behind the camp where the pine trees clustered close together like a green-black wall. Everyone was staring at them: boys and women collecting water in jars; a cluster of monks, Ave beads wrapped round their hands, gathering for the midday prayer; a cook, all bloodied to his elbows, a dead chicken dangling from his left hand; a young boy with a mongrel puppy in his hands; knights in linen undergarments, all gazing at the horror coming from the hills. Eleanor’s throat felt dry and narrow. She blinked and stared again. Hundreds if not thousands of horsemen, in flowing white robes, sunlight dancing off their helmets, were moving out of the trees like a flood of ants towards them. Already a dust haze was rising. The distant thunder of hooves shook the earth; coloured banners snapped in the breeze. Some children playing amongst the decaying stones of a cemetery laughed and shrieked, pointing their fingers.

‘They say they’ve brought ropes,’ Beltran murmured. ‘To bind us and lead us into captivity.’

The crowd could only stare. A monk began to chant a psalm: ‘Domine libera nos — Lord deliver us.’

‘You pray,’ Hugh shouted. ‘The rest to arms, to arms!’ The menacing spell was broken. Jars were dropped, cloaks doffed, baskets placed on the ground, camp equipment pushed aside. Knights, serjeants, monks and priests, every able-bodied man, hurried to arm against that river of horsemen sweeping down to engulf them. For a short while the enemy disappeared into the tree-covered slopes, only to surge out again. The Turkish battle cries, a piercing, ululating screech, echoed shrilly above the drumming of hooves. The enemy’s coloured banners could now be clearly seen. The Turks reached the foot of the slope just as the Frankish line, knights in half-armour, on clumsily strapped saddles, burst out of the camp. The Frankish mounts were fresh, much heavier and moving at full charge. The Turks, bloodied on the pathetically armed mob of Peter the Hermit, were taken completely by surprise at the sheer fury of the Frankish attack. This only deepened as the phalanx of armour and heavy horse crashed into them like a fast-moving river hurtling up against some makeshift bridge. The Turks, on smaller, lighter mounts, were simply engulfed, then cut up into small groups, which had to face further Frankish attacks. The air rang with the horrid crash of battle, screams and yells. Banners floated down. The ground became strewn with white-garbed corpses. The Turks, not used to such violent hand-to-hand combat, simply broke, retreating up the slopes pursued by the exultant Franks. By now the news of this first skirmish was spreading through the Army of God. Normans, Rhinelanders, Flemings, French and Greeks flooded into Count Raymond’s camp. Eleanor watched them prepare, donning body armour, strapping on helmets. The mounted knights gathered, masked by a screen of dust and smoke deliberately created to blind the Turks already massing again on the tree-lined heights.

Hugh, Godefroi, Beltran and Theodore, now properly armoured, collected their oval shields and maces. Norbert and Alberic, faces flushed, joined the foot gathering behind the horse. Fresh fires, deliberately started, poured out more black smoke, concealing what was happening in the Army of God. The Turkish cavalry gathered again for the charge. Their stratagem was simple: to attack, pin the Franks against the walls of Nicea, destroy them and relieve the city. As Eleanor wrote later in her chronicle, the Turks made two mistakes. They believed that Count Raymond’s host was the entire Frankish army, and that its fighting qualities would be no better than those of Peter the Hermit’s ragged followers. They were soon proved wrong. In the early afternoon, the white-robed horsemen again poured like a waterfall down the slopes. The Franks, behind their screen of black smoke, watched, waited, then charged. The swift, heavy iron wall of mounted knights shattered the enemy and the Turkish line crumbled. The Franks swept through, cutting and slicing, drenching the ground in so much blood it poured in rivulets down the slopes, then turned and charged again. The Turks broke and fled. For a while the Franks hotly pursued them before returning in triumph to the camp, spears and lances displaying grisly trophies, herding lines of prisoners, the decapitated heads of their comrades tied around their necks.

The captives were paraded, taunted and humiliated. One of the catapults Alexius had provided was pushed down to the edge of the great moat around Nicea. As the sun set, the severed heads, gathered in fishing nets, were catapulted into the city. Some smashed in a gruesome pulp against the parapets. Others cleared the battlements, and even from where she stood, Eleanor could hear the groans of the population imprisoned behind the walls. Kilij Arslan had failed! The Army of God now turned on the prisoners. They were herded into the centre of the camp and forced to kneel so they could be decapitated. Simeon the scribe was amongst those captured in the baggage train. Desperately he pleaded for his life. The executioners ignored him. Eventually he broke free and fled through the camp, pursued by Gargoyle and Babewyn, the lieutenants of Jehan the Wolf. He ran screaming down the narrow lanes mocked and pushed by drunken spectators. Eleanor, who had retreated to her tent, heard the uproar and went outside. Simeon almost ran into her and collapsed at her feet. Babewyn and Gargoyle grasped him.

‘I did not beg, mistress.’ Simeon paused in his writing.

‘No, Simeon, you did not. You simply said you didn’t want to die. You claimed you were a Catholic captured by the Turks. If I remember correctly,’ Eleanor added drily, ‘you even quoted canon law, though that made little difference to those two grotesques.’

‘Camel turds,’ Simeon whispered. ‘But thanks to you, mistress-sister…’ He leaned forward. ‘Oh, by the way, can I take the oath as a Poor Brother of the Temple? I know things.’

‘Do you, Simeon?’ Eleanor narrowed her eyes.

‘I know secrets about the hidden things. I have heard the whispers.’

Eleanor glanced quickly at Imogene stretched out sleeping on a pile of cushions.

‘Simeon, I am always amazed at your skill for listening.’ She smiled. ‘But let us return to our chronicle.’

‘Of course, mistress-sister, though I must add my thanks to you and your noble brother for saving my life. I am so grateful…’

‘The chronicle, Simeon…’

‘Yes, mistress-sister…’

Babewyn had seized Simeon by the throat, struggling to keep him in position so that Gargoyle could swing his mace. Eleanor had screamed at them to stop, but only the arrival of Hugh and Godefroi, their swords drawn, forced the two killers to retreat. Drunk and mouthing filthy curses, they staggered away. Eleanor took Simeon into her entourage as the Army of God turned from celebrating its victory to the grim business of besieging Nicea. The city baffled them. No such fortifications had faced a Frankish army in the west. They also had no boats, so attack from the lake was impossible. The moat in front of the walls stretched over two yards wide and the same deep. The first defensive wall beyond was at least six feet thick and nine yards high, with towers jutting out to defend the approaches. Even if this was breached, the towering curtain wall behind it, eighteen feet thick, was protected by a fresh range of towers from where archers and slingers, not to mention engines of war, could rake attackers with a blizzard of missiles. Frustration mounted amongst the Army of God. The jubilation over Arslan’s defeat soon evaporated as they tried desperately to take the city. The moat was filled in at a certain point and makeshift catapults and mangonels pushed across. They and the soldiers who manned them were swiftly engulfed in a flood of arrows, stones, javelins and sheets of roaring flame. Mantlets, screens of aspen and willow woven together, were built to protect the archers, but these too were ravaged by oily fire poured from the battlements.

One morning Count Raymond, escorted by Hugh, Godefroi, Eleanor and others from the Poor Brethren, rode out along the moat to search for any weakness. From the fortifications rose jeering insults and a rain of arrows, which fell short. It was a clear, warm day, the breeze sweet with the fragrance of pine, cypress and the fruits ripening in the nearby orchards. The count reined in.

‘We have plenty of wood,’ Raymond’s one good eye glared at Hugh and Godefroi as he gestured at the trees, ‘but what can we do with it?’

Hugh grasped the reins of the count’s horse. ‘Come, my lord, there is something.’ They galloped further along the evil-smelling moat.

Eleanor found the palfrey she had been given sluggish, reluctant to move, so Theodore reined in, moving between her and the Turks lining the battlements. He grasped the palfrey’s reins and winked at Eleanor.

‘Just in case,’ he murmured, ‘the Turks might glimpse your beauty and sally out.’

Eleanor blushed, and Theodore began to sing a troubadour song about a maid locked in a tower. Eventually Hugh led them to the most eastern part of the wall.

‘Look, my lord.’

Eleanor followed her brother’s direction.

‘Theodore told me about this,’ continued Hugh. ‘Stare hard at the base of the tower: the brickwork is crumbling, the legacy of a previous siege.’

Count Raymond stared, then clapped his hands in glee. Two days later a testudo, fashioned out of cypress, willow and aspen under a roof of holm oak, its leather covering saturated with wet sand, crossed the makeshift bridge to pound at what Eleanor had christened ‘the Leaning Tower’. Archers sheltered beneath the eaves of the testudo’s broad sloping roof and loosed at the enemy along the battlements. The engineers soon broke through the wall, shoring up the breach with beams as they picked feverishly at the crumbling masonry behind. Eleanor stood watching, safe behind a line of shielded carts. The tower collapsed just as darkness fell, but the following morning the camp was roused by trumpet cries. Eleanor, bleary-eyed, rushed out of her tent and joined the throng streaming down through the shifting mist to the eastern side of the moat. They stopped and stared in disbelief of the Leaning Tower. During the night, the defenders, working feverishly, had repaired the breach. Count Raymond’s anger knew no bounds, and like Achilles, he retreated to sulk in his tent while other leaders pressed on with the siege. Yet despite Kilij Arslan’s defeat, the Niceans were ferocious in the defence of their city. The enemy had desecrated their dead so they retaliated by lowering hooks on ropes to seize the corpses of Franks; these were pulled up, stripped and hung over the walls to rot. If the Army of God attacked, stone and arrow shattered head and neck; if the Franks broke through, they were swiftly deluged by flaming missiles.

For a week the siege became a desultory affair of two enemies watching each other like circling dogs, then, abruptly, the atmosphere changed. Count Raymond bustled about accompanied by Tacticius the Greek commander. Ballistae and mangonels from the arsenals of Constantinople appeared in the camp. These were wheeled down to the Leaning Tower to launch a scathing attack of missiles and rocks that drove the defenders from the walls. A new breach was opened, and when darkness fell, the night was illuminated by roaring fires and the light of flaming missiles hurled at the tower. This time the Turks had no opportunity to repair the damage. The star-lit sky was streaked with orange tongues, the silence shattered by the whoosh of missiles, the crash of wood and stones and the cries of both defenders and attackers. As soon as daylight broke, the Poor Brethren of the Temple, to shouts of ‘Deus vult!’ and ‘Toulouse!’, prepared to lead Count Raymond’s force across the makeshift bridge over the moat. Hugh and Godefroi kissed Eleanor before tightening the chain-mail bands across their faces, which left only their eyes exposed. Helmets were strapped on, shields fastened to arms and swords drawn.

Hugh and Godefroi led their company down to the bridge whilst archers, crossbowmen and engineers loosed volley after volley at the walls. The catapults edged even closer to intensify the barrage. Eleanor watched, heart in mouth, as Hugh and Godefroi crossed the rickety bridge. Smoke billowed about, screams and shouts echoed. The knights of Toulouse thronged all about her. Standards were unfurled, men-at-arms in full battle gear waited to reinforce the first assault on those formidable defences. The horror and din of battle whipped Eleanor’s senses as if some wandering demon had seized her soul, her mind, her imagination. She looked up at the empty blue sky bending over those soaring yellow-brick fortifications. Arrows, sling shots and other missiles scored the blue. Oaken bundles, smoking evilly, swept through the air, spouts of flame erupted from the battlements. Eleanor glanced again. Hugh and Godefroi, shields up, were halfway across the bridge when an earsplitting roar cut through the noise of war. Men were pointing at the battlements where scarlet and gold banners displaying the gorgeous eagle of Alexius Comnenus were being draped and hoisted. The city had fallen! Greek forces were inside. The Turks had surrendered! Trumpets called the retreat. Hugh and his company fell back even as more imperial banners fluttered from the ramparts above them. A loud screech cut the air. The great gates of Nicea swung open and Catephracti, blue-silver insignia fluttering from their spear points, came thundering out. Imogene cursed and immediately left, searching for Beltran. Eleanor, feeling weak, eager to escape the confusing storm of war, returned to her tent. She went to lie down on the ready-made palliasse but startled in horror at the two curved daggers, white bone-handles gleaming, pushed deep into the bolster, their blades tied together by a ribbon of blood-red cord…

‘Know ye,’ a voice whispered behind her, ‘what you possess shall escape you and, in the end, return to us.’

Eleanor turned slowly. At first she could see nothing, then she made out a shadow outlined by the slit in the tent through which the mysterious intruder must have entered. He sat cross-legged on the ground, garbed in a white robe, head and face swathed in a black turban exposing only the eyes.

‘The witch woman’s chart.’ The voice stumbled over the Norman French. ‘I know Fulcher gave it to you.’ He extended a gloved hand; the other tapped the hilt of the dagger in the red waistband.

Eleanor tried to speak but couldn’t.

‘The chart!’ the man insisted.

‘My brother,’ Eleanor stammered. The sounds from outside grew stronger, followed by shouts of someone approaching the tent. Eleanor glanced at the main flap then back, but her mysterious visitor had vanished.

Simeon the scribe, talking as ever — God had given him a tongue as nimble as his pen — burst into the tent gabbling the news. How the Emperor had brought ships in ox-drawn carts to the Askanian lake and sent them up against Nicea. How these ships had even captured the wife and family of the Governor of Nicea as they tried to escape. The Turks soon realised that if the Army of God manned those ships, their city would certainly fall and be devastated by fire and sword. They had immediately entered into secret negotiations with Alexius, promising to surrender to him if they and their possessions were spared from the Army of God. Alexius had agreed, sending a high-ranking envoy named Boutoumites into the city to accept the surrender. The leaders of the Army of God had had some inkling of this, but when the news became public, the Franks immediately accused Alexius of duplicity and treachery.

Rumours were rife that Boutoumites had encouraged Tacticius to persuade Count Raymond to attack, writing a note: ‘We have the game in our hand, assault the walls. Do not let the Franks know the true situation but, after sunrise, let them attack the city.’ The leaders of the Army of God knew about the ships and the pressure these would place on the Turks, but they never expected such a swift surrender. The Emperor had kept them in the dark and by nightfall his deceit was common talk around the camp. Tempers rose, especially amongst the Normans from southern Italy led by Bohemond and Tancred, so Alexius moved quickly to mollify them. Cartloads of fresh provisions and wine, baskets, coffers and chests full of precious stones, gold and silver, stacks of weapons, piles of embroidered cloths and lines of sleek, plump horses were dispatched into the camp. The Poor Brethren of the Temple drew their share, ten gold bezants, which went into the common coffer under Godefroi’s care. Later that same night, Eleanor, Hugh, Godefroi, Alberic, Norbert, Theodore and Simeon gathered to meet. The scribe had been taken on to their council because of his clerical skills as well as his knowledge of the shrines of Jerusalem, particularly the Dome of the Rock. Theodore hosted the meeting, welcoming their new recruit, and pointing out that Simeon’s only protection against the rancour of the camp was Hugh and Eleanor, so it was little wonder the scribe had enthusiastically taken their secret oath. On that night, as all the gates of Nicea were opened and the heralds proclaimed how the Army of God would soon march for Antioch, Eleanor told them about her own mysterious visitor.

‘But who could it be?’ Alberic asked. ‘Every one of the Poor Brethren was mustering before the Leaning Tower.’

‘It must be someone in the Army of God,’ Eleanor insisted. ‘The same thing happened in Constantinople.’

‘The Fedawi,’ Theodore explained. ‘Perhaps their assassins lurk hidden amongst us? It is foolish to speculate, but at least we know the importance of Anstritha’s map. Lord Hugh, you have it safe, yes?’

‘Yes,’ Hugh replied absent-mindedly. ‘You have all seen it, but come…’

They turned to fresh news. Bohemond’s phalanx was to leave immediately the following morning. Count Raymond wanted the Poor Brethren of the Temple to join these and act as a link with the rest of the army. No one disagreed, eager for what Hugh called the ‘proper pilgrimage’ to begin in earnest.

Eleanor would never forget their departure. They left Nicea just before the sun rose swiftly in sheets of red-gold flame against the light blue sky. A fitting start for what proved to be a time of wrath, of anger, the beginning of the horrors. Yet, as Eleanor wrote in her chronicle, it started ordinarily enough. She sat perched on one of the carts, Imogene squatting next to her as Bohemond’s column trudged down the old Roman road stretching to the valleys and dusty plateaus leading down to Antioch. They crossed stone bridges built by the ancients over streams and rivulets, and passed the occasional decaying Byzantine guard tower. On either side rolled wild meadows sprinkled with hardy summer flowers; now and again, long strips of ochre-tinted ploughland; here and there a solitary farmstead usually built around the shell of a ruined villa. Clumps of sycamore, holm oak, grey ash, willow and cypress broke the undulating landscape. They passed lonely villages with their dusty trackways, wandering goats, domed wells, silent vineyards and wine presses. The morning air rang with the clatter and rumble of carts, the jingle of harness, the clink of weapons, shouts and cries from the trudging men-at-arms. Dust clouds swirled, staining the black robes of the monks. Spear and lance tips caught the sunlight and flashed it brilliantly back. Faces, white, red and brown, became laced with sweaty dust. Children played or fought with each other. Hymns were chanted. A group of nobles in gorgeously coloured robes left the column escorted by their grooms clad in green and brown; hawks fluttered on their wrists, or strained against the perches, making the jesse-bells tinkle. Young men, leggings pulled up, stood in the streams, busy with string or net to catch fresh fish. Eleanor considered it was more like a day out in the country, visiting friends or enjoying the good weather, than marching to war. Scouts came galloping back: they had glimpsed Turkish patrols but nothing happened that day.

By evening they reached a crossroads near the yawning mouths of two lonely valleys, apparently empty except for the boulders, rocks, shrubs and trees dotting their sides. In between the valley mouths stretched a large, reed-ringed marsh. Bohemond, alarmed by increased sightings of Turkish patrols as well as rumours that the valleys on either side might house more, used the marsh to protect the rear of his camp. Nothing happened that night; it passed quiet and peaceful under the stars. At sunrise the priests gathered the people around the altar carts. Candles glowed in lantern horns and incense circled up into the heavy morning mist as Tancred led a comitatus of knights to scour the valley to the east.

As Mass finished, Tancred came hastening back with alarming news: Turkish horsemen were emerging out of the mist further down the valley. The Franks, still jubilant over what they considered their victory at Nicea and lulled by the calm morning, became excited and curious. Horsemen galloped off to catch sight of the enemy. Women and children mingled with the leaders at the front of the column; eventually these were forced back, becoming an unruly mob. Eleanor glimpsed Bohemond in full chain mail, a towering figure on his powerful black war charger. Riders, casting up clouds of dust, came galloping towards him, turning in the saddle and gesturing back. Eleanor recognised Hugh, Godefroi and Theodore. What they announced must have been truly alarming. Bohemond turned to face the people, ordering them to move back. Hugh, Godefroi and the rest forced their way through, jumping from their saddles, screaming for their harness and weapons.

‘Eleanor, Eleanor!’ Theodore pushed her back towards the tent. He snatched up a wet rag from just inside and wiped the dust from his face. ‘Arm yourselves,’ he gasped. ‘They aren’t Turkish patrols. Kilij Arslan’s entire army is coming out of that valley, thousands and thousands of horsemen. They’ll sweep us away!’ He gestured at Imogene, who stood horror-struck. ‘Arm!’ he yelled, then he snatched at the reins of his horse and clambered into the saddle. ‘Lord Bohemond is sending me back to hasten on the rest. Eleanor…’ He meant to say more, but shrugged, turned his horse and galloped off.

Terror and panic swept the camp as more scouts rode in. The Turkish battle lines were fast approaching. Bohemond forced his way through the gathering troops, imposing order. Carts were pulled into position. Oxen and donkeys were swiftly unhitched, their pack saddles and baggage used to defend gaps. Bohemond ordered all horsemen to the front. The rear of the camp would be protected by the marsh whilst a semicircle of foot and archers would guard its flanks. Battle instructions were shouted, armour and harness quickly donned and clasped, swords and daggers loosened in their sheaths. The anxiety spread, apprehension deepened. Men knelt praying, sobbing for help.

‘Here they come!’ shouted a voice.

Eleanor, standing on a cart, watched the haze swirl out of the mouth of the valley. It ebbed and flowed to reveal flashes of colour and the glitter of armour. A rumbling thunder shook the earth. The cloud of dust billowed then broke. Eleanor caught her breath at the power of the enemy. Hordes of horsemen armed with round shields, their bows already strung, arrows notched. They came on in a thunder of hooves, a pounding of drums and a clash of cymbals. They broke into a trot, a dense throng hurling itself towards the now silent Frankish lines. Screams pierced the air. Green banners flowed and rippled in the morning breeze. The Franks, standards now unfurled, answered with their own battle cries then, like lurchers in a hunt, burst into a furious, galloping charge. They should have smashed into the enemy like a battering ram, but the Turks divided abruptly to the left and right. As they did so, their mounted archers loosed shaft after shaft at the Frankish lines before closing in on the flanks with axe and scimitar, grappling hooks being thrown to drag the mailed knights from the saddle. Steel, flint and rock bit into head and stomach, smashing blows that severed hands, arms and legs. A second phalanx of Frankish knights prepared to charge but the Turkish horse, light and swift, came round the embattled first line and raced past the waiting ranks, loosing a deadly hail of arrows. Horses collapsed; others were panicked into galloping, only to be surrounded by Turks who closed to bring both horse and rider crashing to the ground. Bohemond could take no further provocation. The battle standards of Normandy unfurled, the air ringing with his war cry, his knights broke into a full charge against their tormentors.

Eleanor, drenched in a sweaty dust, the strengthening sun beating down on her, could see the Turkish tactics of attack and faked withdrawal. More enemy forces appeared. Eleanor glanced around. The camp was in chaos. Men, women and children now realised that if Bohemond’s men broke, the Turks would sweep through and massacre them. The air became a hellish din of horns, drums, cymbals and trumpets, all mingling with the shrieks, yells and crash of battle. Vultures appeared in the blue skies, forbidding black shadows hovering over that place of blood. The wounded were being dragged back to receive the attention of leeches or shaven-pated priests. One knight, bruised and battered, came clutching his side and collapsed by the cart. Eleanor, startled out of her shock, jumped down and ripped off his mail hauberk and jerkin. Beneath these, his shirt was sticky with blood. She went to staunch the wound, blackish red with the flies already hovering close.

‘No, leave me to a leech,’ the man gasped. He grasped Eleanor’s arm and gestured to the front. ‘They need water.’

Eleanor called to a leech kneeling beside another man, his limbs jerking, the death rattle noisy in his throat. The leech shrugged, pushed a wine-soaked rag into the dying soldier’s mouth and hurried across. Eleanor rose, calling Imogene and a cluster of women and children to bring waterskins, jugs, anything that would hold water. Some of the priests were already organising this as well as putting on white vestments and hurrying to the battle line to offer absolution and the Eucharist. Eleanor reached the rear rank of horsemen, a host of stinking, wounded knights, blood seeping through their chain mail, faces masked red. They sheltered and rested against the corpses of their horses, the bellies of which were already swelling. Some knights seemed to have swam in blood, swords red to the hilt, maces and axes smeared with gore. Angry eyes, glazed with the fury of battle, glared at her. She offered water, which was snatched and drunk greedily. Flies buzzed in dark clouds. Ahead of her echoed the raucous noise of battle. Bohemond had changed his tactics. The army was losing too many horses, so the Franks now stood in a curving arc of steel against the Turks, who attacked them then swiftly sheered off as they delivered shower after shower of barbed arrows. Men cursed and prayed as they rose to rejoin the battle. A few joked how, when they seized the Turkish camp, they’d bathe in water gushing from crystals, wear garlands of flowery spiken mixed with roses and sprinkle cinnamon in their hair. Others stayed nursing hideous wounds, cuts, slashes and bruises.

Eleanor glimpsed Hugh sitting exhausted on his horse, Godefroi beside him. She called their names but the ground shook with the thunder of a fresh charge and the ear-piercing whistle of the Turkish war cry. Arrows whipped through the air; a horse whinnied in agony. Men screamed for respite. Eleanor wanted to reach Hugh, but a heart-chilling shout sent her racing back to the camp. She stopped by a cart and stared in disbelief. A troop of Turkish horse had found its way across the marsh and was racing into the far side of the camp. Here and there men-at-arms and archers tried to hold them back, but the Turks spread out like angry hornets, shooting arrows before drawing their curved swords to cut to the left and the right. Women, children and priests were slashed and hacked. The Turks were dismounting in groups of twos and threes, seizing fleeing women, stripping them and throwing them down on to the ground. Eleanor felt as if she was carved from stone, with no life in her legs. She felt imprisoned by what she saw, as if asleep, suffering a nightmare that had to be endured. A line of foot was forming to protect the rest of the camp, but beyond these sprouted scenes from hell. A priest, still in his vestments, was fleeing for his life only to have his head sliced open with one swift cut. A monk was staggering backwards, facing the pursuing horseman, who paused, then leaned slightly to one side so his sword neatly severed the monk’s head. A soldier stood trying to free a shaft embedded deep in his chest. A Turk was getting up from raping a woman even as the knife in his right hand gashed her from groin to neck. Others were pillaging a tent, running out with jugs and basins and what looked like severed heads.

The line of Frankish foot between Eleanor and the Turks moved forward. From behind, archers loosed arrows that hit friend as well as foe. A further shout. The Frankish line surged more swiftly as a conroy of horse dispatched by Bohemond charged into the camp, attacking the Turks now trapped amongst the tents and carts. Eleanor felt the tension ebb, though her stomach clenched and spasms of pain coursed up her legs and across her back. She couldn’t open her mouth. Frankish knights now hacked at white-robed horsemen whilst on the breeze shouts of ‘Toulouse, Toulouse! Deus vult! Deus vult!’ grew stronger. Theodore had been successful! The rest of the Frankish army had debouched on to the battlefield, flinging themselves at the Turkish flanks, whilst Adhémar’s company, armed with maces to shatter bone rather than swords to slice flesh, assaulted the Turks from the rear. Hoarse voices shouted further news, Bohemond was leading his line forward; the battle had turned.

Eleanor joined Imogene beneath the cart to drink watered wine and chew on dry bread before crawling out to help the wounded, console the survivors and assist with laying out the dead. Late in the afternoon Frankish horse appeared, the riders sporting the ghastly trophies of their great victory on the end of their lances or tied by the hair to their saddle horns. They brought splendid news: the near defeat had turned into a great victory! Angels in gleaming armour had been seen fighting on the side of the Army of God. The Turks had been completely routed, their camp taken and ransacked. The riders brought orders: the rest of the army must move down to occupy the Turkish camp. Jubilant, singing hymns, the entire army swept up the valley to seize, as Peter Bartholomew proclaimed, ‘the tents and possessions of their enemies’.

On that night a great banquet was held, the darkness lit by hundreds of camp fires and pitch torches. Freshly slaughtered meat was roasted on makeshift grills and spits. Songs, hymns and drunken shouts resounded up to the surrounding hills. ‘Deus vult! Deus vult!’ The cry was repeated. The Army of God rejoiced beneath the dark blue velvet sky, the stars brilliant as if an angelic host was also watching. The revelry, however, was broken by the faint sounds of keening and mourning. Eleanor had seen the dead laid out in rows. Men, women and children, mothers and priests as well as warriors like Tancred’s brother: a long line of blood-splattered corpses. The stories were rife about the rape and killing perpetrated in the camp by the Turks. The Poor Brethren of the Temple had certainly lost several of their number: Richer the Fuller, Osbert and Anna, Matilda of Aix with four of her children, William the Brewer, his wife and three children, all wrapped in shabby shrouds. Graves had been hacked from the ground. The corpses, each with a small wooden cross, were assigned to the earth, their souls to God in joyful expectation of the rapture, the final resurrection. The kin of the dead were given special rewards in the distribution of the spoils. Heaps of treasure, lines of horses and stacks of weapons had been put on show. Chests and coffers brimming with jewelled plate, cups of ivory, onyx and jasper, golden goblets, gilded armour, bejewelled sheets, embroidered cloths, elaborate harness fashioned out of blood-red leather, cloaks, gowns, shoes and girdles, medallions and coins, the likes of which had never been seen before.

Now, as the darkness deepened and the celebrations echoed to the heavens, the leaders of the Poor Brethren camped around their fire. All were exhilarated and jubilant. Alberic and Norbert had received light wounds before escaping from the massacre, Hugh and Godefroi likewise, though both had their horses killed under them. The main topic of conversation was the ferocity of the Turks.

‘Count Raymond,’ declared Hugh, biting into a piece of blackened beef, ‘says the war is changing. Bellum in extremis — war to the end.’

‘That is the only war there is,’ Norbert replied. ‘As I said, no war can be just, no war can be holy.’

Eleanor, half asleep over a cracked goblet of wine, tried to clear her soul of the gruesome images of the day. Beltran was agreeing with Hugh how little mercy could be shown or expected. Theodore, exhausted after his furious ride for help, was smiling at Eleanor over the flickering glow of the fire.

‘Our cause is just!’

Eleanor startled at Peter Bartholomew’s trumpet-like voice.

‘Satan walks,’ the prophet continued, ‘Satan rides like a great lord. We must arm ourselves against him, take up the weapons of salvation.’

Hugh caught Eleanor’s gaze and indicated with his head that they should withdraw. Peter Bartholomew continued his prophesying as they both retreated into darkness. Hugh grasped her hands.

‘Eleanor, Count Raymond really asked us to join Bohemond so I could watch for something.’

‘What, Bohemond himself?’

‘No.’ Hugh drew closer. ‘Godefroi knows this as well. Do you remember at Radosto how the Greeks attacked as soon as Count Raymond left? How they seemed to know our movements? How they deployed so swiftly?’

Eleanor nodded.

‘Well,’ Hugh shrugged, ‘this morning Kilij Arsan learned very quickly that Bohemond had become separated from the rest of the army.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Eleanor, we might have a traitor in our midst. Count Raymond now sees a bear behind every bush; perhaps the Poor Brethren of the Temple shelter one.’

‘Why us?’ Eleanor replied hotly. ‘Why not the Beggars’ Company? They provoked the Greeks at Radosto.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he replied, ‘but only amongst the Poor Brethren was it first known that Raymond had left for Constantinople. The rest learned much later whilst the Greeks were ready, just looking for a cause…’

‘And?’

‘We know the Turks have spies in our camp,’ Hugh continued, ‘as we have in theirs. Count Raymond received an anonymous message that if he was looking for traitors then he should search for them amongst the Poor Brethren of the Temple.’

‘A lie!’ Eleanor countered. ‘Someone trying to create trouble.’

‘Count Raymond trusts us,’ Hugh replied, ‘me, you, Godefroi and the others, but as he pointed out, Alberic, Norbert and Theodore have wandered the face of God’s earth, so whom do they truly work for? Do we house a traitor, sister?’

Eleanor reflected on Hugh’s question as she sat in that plundered pavilion and watched the flies dance in the shaft of sunlight piercing a tear in its cloth.

‘Mistress-sister?’ Simeon the Scribe stared around. The pavilion was now empty. Imogene had left saying she wished to share a cup of wine with the brethren. ‘Sister, a spy?’

‘You know, Simeon…’ Eleanor smiled. ‘I trust you whilst you can only trust me.’ She touched the tip of Simeon’s nose. ‘Moreover, you were not at Radosto.’ She gazed round. She’d welcome her own tent, poor and shabby though it was. This one reminded her of blood, the terrible massacre she’d witnessed. The army planned to march to Antioch within three days. She’d be pleased to leave here. There were too many demons, blood-splattered and wicked, clustered about.