The Templar

Part 6

Antioch: The Feast of St Godric, 21 May 1098

Vexilla Regis prodeunt.

(The standards of the King advance.)

Venantius Fortunatus, ‘Hymn In Honour of the Cross’

‘O Key of David! O Rod of Jesse! O Morning Star!’

Eleanor de Payens shivered as Norbert and Alberic intoned the Advent ‘O’ antiphons. Outside Hugh’s tent it was black and cold. Inside a meagre fire and two evil-smelling candles shed a little light and warmth against the stink and the freezing cold. 1097, the year of iron and blood, was drawing to a close. When they left Dorylaeum the Army of God thought they would celebrate the great feast in the real stable at Bethlehem whilst their battle standards fluttered above the ramparts of Jerusalem. Instead they had marched on to the plains of hell and encountered Antioch, a city of iron and steel, a huge, dangerous boulder blocking their path. Antioch! The Army of God dared not go round it because the city controlled northern Syria. It could cut off their lines and sever any help from the Emperor and the west. Yet what help? Eleanor wondered as she stared down at her bitten fingernails.

She tried to curb the wave of self-pity and stared round the tent. They had left Constantinople seventy thousand strong; now they were fewer than fifty thousand. A long trail of funeral crosses and burial mounds stretched back across Asia. An army of ghosts must now march with them. She closed her eyes briefly and gave thanks that at least those dear to her had survived. Hugh and Godefroi, Alberic and Norbert, Theodore, Beltran and Imogene, but, she stared swiftly around, they were all now grey people: grey-haired, grey-faced, grey-souled, ekeing out a grey existence in that sinister half-light of the year before the brooding mass of Antioch. Again Eleanor tried to check herself. There were those other grey shapes left along the dusty highways and roads. Little wonder wolves had come down boldly to the gruesome feast provided. Lions, scenting the rotten smell of decaying flesh, had slunk close. Bears abandoned their lairs for the feast and dogs the hovels they lived in, filthy beasts, soon joined by every creature that could smell carrion-tainted corruption from afar. Vultures, shadowy flocks of them darkening the sky, became their constant companions. These foul birds of the air so filled their bellies they grew too fat for flight, so trees, bushes and gorse became sprinkled with gore from their feathers whilst bits of putrid flesh and drops of blood fell on the trudging column. Were they cursed? Eleanor recalled passing a crumbling graveyard. She forgot which village in which province, they all seemed the same now, but she certainly remembered that one! A hag, a crone crawled out from between the rotting masonry of a cemetery; she was scrawny and squalid, her hair all matted and tangled. She danced round on the top of a table tomb screaming curses in a screeching voice until some unknown archer loosed an arrow straight through her throat. They left her sprawled in a pool of blood. No one cared, but had they killed a witch?

‘Eleanor? Eleanor?’

She glanced up. Hugh, eyes all red-rimmed, stared down at her. She shook her head and got to her feet. Her brother grasped her hands.

‘Eleanor, you are looking well!’

‘Brother,’ she joked, ‘no better than you.’

‘This siege must be broken!’

‘How?’ she retorted. ‘Shall we sprout wings and fly?’

Hugh released her hands, murmured something about Bohemond and walked away. Eleanor closed her eyes and whispered a quick prayer. She’d been too harsh. They were all hungry, cold and wearied. For a few moments she thought of other Christmases in their manor house at Compiègne: the crackling logs, the sweet smell of fresh meat, of goblets brimming with wine.

‘I must stop it!’

‘Stop what, mistress-sister?’

Eleanor opened her eyes. Simeon the Scribe was staring at her.

‘I must have some meat,’ she retorted.

‘Not human flesh?’ he joked. ‘Mistress, we should retire.’

She followed Simeon out of the tent and through the silent, cold camp. Here and there cooking fires flickered. Men, women and children grouped around seeking warmth and food. Standards, dirty and tattered, fluttered on poles. Eleanor glanced away. The very sight of her companions deepened her depression, the darkness in her own soul. When she reached her own tent, she asked where Imogene was.

Simeon shrugged. ‘The same place! Beltran knows where food is. So, where food and Beltran are, Imogene always follows.’

Eleanor sat down on the soaked cushions. Simeon cut their freshly cooked meat into small pieces, placed some on a scrap of parchment and handed them to her.

‘Eat, mistress, and look.’ He opened his leather jerkin, taken from a dead soldier, and pulled out a small wineskin. For a while, they sat sharing this between them. Simeon busied himself lighting a small fire, gathering twigs, pieces of rubbish to burn. The smoke smelt foul, but the weak flames provided some warmth.

‘Mistress, why not return to the chronicle? It is better than sitting here staring into the flames. I tell you, more souls have been lost looking into fires…’

Eleanor, feeling better after the meat and wine, even though her stomach now hurt, nodded in agreement.

‘It’s best,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, it’s best…’

They made themselves as comfortable as possible. Simeon, Eleanor reflected, had become very useful. Again she cursed her bitterness. Simeon was a friend. He’d told her a little about his life. How he’d lost one wife full of fever whilst his second wife and young son had been captured by Turkish bandits.

‘God knows where they are, mistress,’ he’d remarked. ‘Perhaps one day…’

She realised that Simeon too carried his own book of sorrows, his own bag of pain. The scribe had become an expert at filching food, even the odd little luxury. He had responded to her protection with deep loyalty. He had also persuaded her to talk, describe what they had been through, insisting that she continue to write her memories down.

‘Others are doing it,’ he pointed out. ‘Stephen of Blois writes copious, detailed letters to his wife.’

The depredations of the march and this long, dreadful siege had certainly curbed Eleanor’s enthusiasm for reflection, for memories. Simeon tried to prompt her with news, scandal, rumours and gossip. She recalled Hugh’s warning about a traitor, a spy, but as Simeon had pointed out, the Turks had a legion of spies throughout the camp. They would certainly be busy collecting news about the condition of the Franks, which would make the hearts of those in Antioch rejoice. Ugly rumours were also being spread. How an army was gathering in Egypt to march, pin the Army of God against the walls of Antioch and utterly destroy it. More importantly, Simeon’s sharp observations about religion had begun to influence Eleanor’s own attitude, though not her faith. She still believed in the power of the Mass, the Eucharist, prayer and the need to be shriven of one’s sins. Nevertheless, during the journey she had begun to question the truth about the Army of God and Urban’s great vision. Deus vult! Did God really want this? she wondered. Death, cruelty, rape and rapine? The barbarous greed of their leaders, lords constantly fighting amongst themselves over which cities and towns they should hold?

‘Mistress,’ Simeon intervened. ‘Dorylaeum, we left Dorylaeum, remember? It was the height of summer…’

They’d left chanting the Veni Creator Spiritus, which was just as well, Eleanor reflected, for they needed all the help God could give them. The leaders had decided to keep the Army of God together even though this meant foraging for food and water became more intense. The taste of victory soon turned sour as they trudged in the wake of the Turkish army, which had already devastated the bleak countryside with fire and sword. The only comfort was that they met no opposition. The Franks had replenished their armouries with lances, axes, swords and maces; these, together with their great oval shields, were slung on the carts from where women and children, silent now, stared sorrowfully around at the burnt villages and the blackened crops of wheat, barley and millet they passed. Hunger and thirst soon stalked the Army of God. The vultures became busy again, their great white-haired heads constantly blood-stained. They shadowed the army like a host of demons. Beneath them floated the hawks, kites, buzzards and fantail crows that also gathered eager for the feast of flesh. Wells and cisterns had been deliberately polluted. Eleanor approached one, leaned over its crumbling wall and stared in horror at the severed head of the camel floating there, its dirty grey hair all fly-infested, yellow teeth bared, bloodshot eyes glaring, the murky slime from its severed neck fouling the water. Other horrors affected them. Hordes of flies and reptiles that swarmed out of the undulating yellow hills and deep dusty hollows on either side of their route. Black-red dragonflies, yellow-black hornets and strange lizards, that kept changing colour from a dusty grey to a muddy red as if some mysterious angry fire burnt inside. Such creatures were their constant companions. All these frightened them whilst myriads of pot-bellied black flies wriggled into mouths, noses and ears or crawled under collars or cuffs to torture their sweat-soaked bodies. Around them the landscape stretched bare. The peasants and farmers had fled. Only occasional scouts were glimpsed, bearded men in evil-smelling goatskins riding shaggy hill ponies and armed with long tufted lances. No one could tell whether they were Turks or simply local inhabitants, for they scattered like quail under the shadow of a hawk when the knights rode out to meet them.

The army crossed arid scrubland, dotted with tamarisk and acacia bushes that sprouted from rugged masses of rock, their surfaces smoothed by wind and rain. A nightmare of winding chasms and dark brooding valleys, so hot and unwelcoming Simeon claimed they were crossing the lip of hell. Eleanor heartily agreed. Sometimes they would shelter from the noonday heat in caves, but even there, danger lurked: blue and green lizards darted in and out of crevices, and were just as dangerous as the vicious-looking snakes, horned and decorated in macabre colours, which struck fast and furious at the unwary. Armour-plated black scorpions and scuttling spiders as big as a man’s hand only heightened their terrors.

Eleanor reflected on Simeon’s description: if daytime was one lip of hell, night-time was certainly the other. They pitched their tents, if they could, and gathered around weak fires of dried dung, wormwood and whatever bracken they could find. Darkness was truly a time of terror! Eleanor never understood how such a deserted place could conceal so many creatures. Wolf jackals howled at the sweet fleshy smell of their restless horses and braying donkeys. Fire beetles flared eerily out of the dark. White moths flew in over the camp fires whilst the exhausted pilgrims screamed as bats, with their half-cat, half-monkey faces, chattering and swishing, swarmed in to feed on the myriad of insects. Eagle owls, fierce and fiery-eyed, joined other predators: jackals, snakes, huge rats, as well as the occasional lynx that slunk into the camp to seize dogs, birds, pets and, on one occasion, a sleeping girl. Eleanor herself soon experienced the dangers of leaving the camp. One night, alarmed by strange sounds, she went beyond the line of carts. She heard a soft growl and, turning to her left, glimpsed what looked like balls of green fire staring at her. A dark shape emerged from the darkness, a squat head with grinning mouth displaying sharp fangs and flecks of bubbling froth on a curling upper lip. Eleanor screamed, lashed out and the striped hyena swiftly disappeared into the darkness.

The effect of such hardships on the Army of God soon became apparent as they journeyed through the stifling heat. Hunger was commonplace. Leaves, bark, flowers and berries were eagerly seized and eaten. Some were poisonous, and more corpses and graves trailed their route. Horses, donkeys and dogs died. Pack animals became a rarity, so goats, sheep, cows and even dogs were used to carry the baggage until their skins became scuffed and worn. Knights rode oxen or trudged wearily in the wake of the carts. Water became equally precious; those wells, streams and waterholes the Turks had missed were soon turned into nothing better than muddy messes. People left the column to dig at roots, searching for any moistness. They prayed for rain, yet the sudden violent storms only brought fresh hardship. Simeon taught them how to build screens of poles, interwoven with palm fronds, prickle pear and acacia twigs, to protect their tents; these became ragged and torn but could be quickly repaired with goatskin. The abrupt, tempestuous sand storms, however, became the bane of their lives, especially at night, when the heavy clouds rolled in, hiding the stars and plunging everything into an inky blackness. Blinding flashes of yellow forked lightning silenced the growls, howls and deep coughs of the night prowlers. The air became heavy, and hot, thick flying sand pelted them so all they could do was shelter and pray for it to pass. Jagged holes would appear in the clouds, then close again, whilst the rain would fall, streams of icy water turning the ground into a sticky yellow mud that coated everything. The night would pass. The storm would break and the sun rise to blister rock and burn the ground, then by noon the dust returned to redden eyes, clog the mouth and block the nose.

Some pilgrims just disappeared; others turned back. Even their leaders began to falter. Tancred of Hauteville and Baldwin of Boulogne decided to take a different route through the Cilician mountains. They reached Tarsus, drove out the Turkish garrison, then fought each other for control of the city. Tancred, furious, had to withdraw and return to the main army. Baldwin followed because his wife was dying, but when she was gone so was he, with a conroy of knights, to Edessa in the land of the Armenians. Here he became the adopted son of Tholos, the ruler of the city. Treacherous as ever, however, Baldwin conspired with certain leading men in the city and Tholos was literally thrown to the dogs.

Peter Bartholomew, their self-proclaimed prophet, now came into his own. For most of the journey he had kept quiet, apart from the occasional outburst. As they suffered the horrors of their march from Dorylaeum, he seemed to survive only on brackish water, and began to preach and proclaim his visions. How in the dead of night he had dreams in which the trumpets of the Apocalypse summoned him to watch what was about to happen. How fire would fall from heaven to destroy the impious, yet this fire was only the harbinger of even greater calamities. Thunder and lightning delivered further visions. Plagues would be released to the clash of cymbals. Earth, air, water and fire would become polluted by the horrors God intended to unleash on the world. The Angel of Wrath would fly over ruined cities, whilst a devil named Wormwood lurked in the shadows, ready to strike. Very few understood him; even fewer cared. Nevertheless, after the morning Mass, or in the afternoon when the Ave Maria was recited, Peter would often climb on to some cart and preach about the pale horse, mounted by Death, which rode on their right flank, whilst black horses carrying Famine and Hunger galloped to their left. Of course the curious asked if God was punishing them rather than the Turks. Peter would blink, stare into the middle distance and immediately launch into another vision he’d received.

Eleanor wondered if Peter really had become witless. Beltran and Imogene insisted that he be banned from preaching and kept close, but Hugh thought differently. Now and again he would take Peter off into the dark, and they would sit away from the camp fire and talk quietly together. Once Eleanor asked Hugh what the topic of conversation was. Hugh merely gave that lopsided smile, his eyes not meeting hers. Indeed, brother and sister rarely talked during the march. Hugh was constantly employed by Count Raymond for this task or that, whilst Eleanor’s companions were either Beltran or, more usually, Theodore. On that occasion, when questioned about Peter, Hugh gnawed his lip and was about to walk away, but Eleanor caught him by the sleeve.

‘Hugh, we face horrors enough without Peter’s trumpeting. Why do you allow it?’

‘Very simple, sister.’ Hugh stepped closer, his face coated with a fine sheen of dust. ‘Peter reminds us that this is God’s journey. True, we call ourselves the Army of God, but in fact, Eleanor, we’re not. We have blood on our hands. We are as vicious and as cruel as our enemies. Nevertheless, God uses us for his own secret purposes. We will reach Jerusalem. We will discover the treasures there. Peter is important in this. If his voice echoes like a trumpet, then I say it is God’s trumpet reminding us why we are here.’

Theodore thought otherwise and approached Eleanor with a plea to talk quietly to Peter to try and calm him. Eleanor repeated Hugh’s words. Theodore shook his head.

‘Sister,’ he replied, ‘the pilgrims thought they would march through Asia into Syria and take Jerusalem. We have lost some twenty thousand souls through hunger, thirst, desertion, war and weakness. If we are not careful, the Army of God may think itself cursed, and then what?’

Eleanor realised that both Hugh and Theodore were correct: they were walking a narrow bridge. The Army of God must be virtuous, but if it lost hope, then what future was there? What vision existed? Hugh also sensed this and did his best for his own company. He would gather the Poor Brethren of the Temple and lead them in Compline or Vespers, or simply stand on a cart, a solitary stark figure, reciting his Ave beads and inviting others to join him.

The Army of God continued its march, beginning its climb through the mountains leading down to the plains of Syria and the city of Antioch. As Peter Bartholomew so eloquently proclaimed: their ascent was, in fact, more of a descent into a cruel hell of tortuous shale-strewn trackways lined with dark, sombre forests, along ledges that turned treacherous underfoot, especially when the autumn rains set. Little wonder Hugh and Godefroi called them ‘the Mountains of the Devil’ or ‘the Mountains of Hell’. Now and again they found some respite in one of the scattered stone-walled villages with their brown-domed churches and flat-topped, mud-brick cottages with cow and goat pens hidden behind. At least the inhabitants did not flee. Squat, sallow-faced men, garbed in old armour and reeking of cattle, dried milk and dung, came out to greet them. They carried crosses and offered wine and stale bread, explaining how they were Armenian Christians, hostile to the Turks. When Eleanor, Hugh and other leaders of the Poor Brethren met them in the dusty porchways of their round churches, they found the Armenians equally wary of the Franks. In truth, they offered little help and stole whatever they could. They also relayed false information, telling them that Antioch was an open city where the Turks were preparing to flee. Count Raymond, recovering from a near-fatal illness, believed them and immediately dispatched a conroy of five hundred knights, but the news proved false. On one subject the Armenians were adamant: the way ahead was bleak and treacherous. And so it proved.

The Army of God climbed across a landscape of plunging gorges, narrow winding tracks, twisting paths, icy air, biting winds and mist as thick as vapour from a steaming pot. Men, horses and pack ponies missed their footing or were too weary to be wary and slipped into the yawning darkness below. Knights found armour and harness a great burden and offered to sell them for a few coins; when they found no buyers, they cast their heavy loads into the chasm. Nights were long and cold. Sometimes it was impossible to kindle fires as they perched on ledges and trackways under brooding cliffs. Bishop Adhémar kept their spirits up by insisting that they intone the Ave Maria, whilst Hugh continued to lead the Poor Brethren in their own devotional hours. Eleanor found it difficult to reflect. She could only concentrate on each day as it came, plodding through that grim, horrid place listening to Simeon the Scribe whisper how they would soon be out of the Mountains of Hell. Eventually they were. Early one morning they breasted the peaks and began their descent into green-carpeted valleys, down through soft meadowland and fields where barley, wheat and millet had been freshly harvested. Simeon pointed out the various trees: sycamore and oak, laurel, terebinth and palm. They feasted on the soft, plump fruit of olive trees with their knotted trunks, shiny green bark and lance-like leaves. They collected the fruit of fig, almond, apple, apricot and pear. They wondered at the purple pomegranate and plucked at carob trees for their medicinal use while gazing hungrily at the fat-tailed sheep browsing in the grasslands and the occasional black-nosed gazelle that sped hastily across their path.

Eleanor felt as if she had been reborn as Simeon described the great variety of birds: shrikes, goldfinches with rose-coloured breasts, cranes and white storks. They slaked their thirst at pools where river warblers sang, and in the grassy fringes, crickets and grasshoppers chanted their monotonous hymn to the sun. Food and other supplies became plentiful through barter or foraging. No Turkish forces appeared; news of the defeat at Dorylaeum had spread on the wind. The only threats were the scattered garrisons locked up in their hilltop fortresses. According to scouts, the way to Antioch lay open. The Poor Brethren, like the rest of the Army of God, relaxed. They camped in the meadowlands enjoying the sun, filling their bellies and, as Peter Bartholomew declared, shaking off the dust from the devil’s mountains. A census was taken. The wounded were moved to be tended by leeches and priests. Animals were let out to graze. Clothes were stitched, darned, washed and stretched out to dry. Armour was cleaned with sand, weapons were sharpened, harness, carts, baskets and panniers repaired. Eleanor bathed, washed and mended what she could and seized any hour for rest and sleep. The journey from Constantinople had changed her. She was now less certain about everything; more concerned about those around her than reaching Jerusalem. She put this down to exhaustion, yet there was something else. It was as if all her old certainties had been shaken. Such quiet reflection soon ended. Eleanor became alarmed at disquieting rumours about Antioch. How the city was heavily fortified, so impregnable its inhabitants openly boasted that it could only be taken by treachery, surprise or starvation.

‘The latter is out of the question,’ Hugh announced at one of their meetings. They sat under the spreading branches of an old oak tree sharing a wineskin and a dish of fruit. They revelled in the warmth of the autumn sun, their nostrils tickled by the sweet scent from the nearby orchards mingling with the fragrance of wild flowers.

‘Why?’ Peter Bartholomew asked.

‘We have no siege weapons,’ Hugh replied, ‘and it would take weeks to hew wood, fashion planks and construct engines of war. We have lost engineers and masons. The Emperor Alexius is a hundred miles away, unable to help us. Antioch is our real challenge. Let me explain.’ He snapped his fingers. Simeon produced a scroll of parchment and unrolled it. They gathered closer to study this finely drawn chart of Antioch.

‘The first line of defence,’ Hugh explained, ‘is the river Orontes, which cuts across the plain of Antioch. Beyond that, the great wall of the city rises at least thirty-two feet high. This wall is so thick, one of our great carts could be rolled along its ramparts with horsemen riding on either side.’ He stilled the rising clamour. ‘It runs two miles along the Orontes, then on either side it climbs to encircle the city as well as contain three great hills. On the highest of these stands a towering citadel that dominates everything. When we march there we will leave the foothills and occupy the northern plain. Looking across it, we will see the river, a stretch of land, the great ditch and then the might of Antioch. We will have to camp in front of the city. The flanks and rear of Antioch are protected not only by that wall but also by the sheer height of the three hills. On the flanks and rear stand no gates; only small postern doors served by narrow trackways. It would be impossible to camp there. The ascent itself would be very, very dangerous and easily detected by guards on the wall or the citadel.’ Hugh paused. ‘Think of climbing the cliffs we have recently crossed, then having to scale a wall, whilst we can only camp on a ledge so narrow, only a few men at a time could assemble there.’

‘So our attack,’ Imogene asked fearfully, ‘must come from the front?’

‘Yes, and again there are great difficulties.’ Theodore pointed to the chart Simeon still held between his fingers. ‘The curtain wall is very thick. The city has many gardens and fruit orchards, whilst a stream runs down from those three hills through a watergate on to the plain.’ He wagged a finger. ‘Remember that! Antioch is furnished with enough water and produce to withstand a siege for a while. Moreover, that wall is so long and so massive, we simply do not have the siege equipment to break, shatter or undermine it.’

‘What about gates?’ Beltran asked.

‘Five in all,’ Theodore declared, ‘along the great wall facing the plain. All of these are flanked and protected by massive square towers rising sixty feet into the sky. From these towers the gates, as well as all approaches to them, can easily be protected.’ Theodore paused at the groans of his companions.

‘We have given the gates names,’ Hugh declared. ‘The furthest east, leading to Aleppo, will be called St Paul’s. The second, moving from east to west, is the Dog Gate, which opens on to the river. The third, where the Orontes skirts the city wall, is the Gate of the Duke. No,’ Hugh fended off a question, ‘this is not as vulnerable as you think, as it is protected by a tangle of marsh. Further along there is a bridge spanning the Orontes; at the end of this stands Bridge Gate. The most western gate leading down to the port of St Simeon and the sea is the St George Gate. What you must realise is that to attack any of these gates we have to cross the Orontes. However, because we don’t have enough men to attack all five at the same time, the Turks can sortie from any other gate left free and trap us against the walls.’

‘Hugh speaks the truth,’ Theodore confirmed. ‘We cannot lay siege to all five gates.’

‘So the Turks can come and go as they please,’ Imogene declared. ‘Either through one of those main gates or through the postern doors up in the hills that we cannot guard.’

‘Could we cross the Orontes?’ Eleanor asked.

‘No,’ Theodore replied. ‘The Turks would hurl missiles at us, launch sorties and trap us against the river or the wall. Moreover, that stream as well as the Orontes turns the ground very marshy, ill-suited for a camp especially as winter approaches, when the rains and snow will soon swell the waters.’

‘Think!’ Hugh plucked the chart from Simeon’s fingers. ‘Antioch is like a sprawling garden that can only be entered from the north whilst those inside may leave by a number of routes.’

‘Then why besiege it?’ Beltran asked. ‘Why not just go home?’

‘God will help,’ Peter Bartholomew declared.

‘With what?’ Beltran jibed.

‘His help!’ Peter Bartholomew’s shout sent the birds fluttering above them. ‘He will help! He will send his angels.’

‘I sincerely hope so,’ Beltran whispered, though loud enough for the rest to hear.

Eleanor realised the coming siege would be a crisis. She had a deep sense of oppression and found herself going more often to Alberic or Norbert to be shriven. These men of God, however, were resolute in their belief that the army would eventually be victorious. Both encouraged Peter Bartholomew’s increasing urgency to describe the visions of the night.

The Army of God prepared itself and moved down towards Antioch. A brief but brutal foray was launched to capture the so-called Iron Bridge, which forded the Orontes to the north-east of the city and controlled the road to Aleppo and Damascus. A savage mêlée ensued, with the Franks forming testudos to take the fortress commanding the bridge. Eventually it fell, and the Army of God moved into the foothills leading down on to the plain of Antioch. They deployed before the city during the last week of October, just before the Feasts of All Saints. Camp was pitched and Eleanor rode out with commanders of the Poor Brethren to view the city’s defences. These seemed absolutely formidable: a range of turrets and towers above which the green sheen of orchards shimmered. Hugh and Theodore’s description was perfectly accurate. The Orontes twinkled in the sun; on the other side of it lay a stretch of marshy land, then that wall with its massive towers, one either side of all five gates. Above these frontal defences rose the peak of the highest hill which, Eleanor learnt, was called Silpius; from that soared an impregnable citadel with a commanding view of the countryside on all sides.

The Army of God immediately moved to besiege some of the gates. Bohemond, supported by Robert of Flanders, set up camp before St Paul’s Gate on the far east of the city. Raymond of Toulouse encamped in front of the Dog Gate, Godfrey of Bouillon before the Gate of the Duke. Bridge Gate and the St George Gate, however, not to mention the Iron Gate, the heavily fortified postern door at the rear of the city, were left unguarded; the Franks simply lacked the men to besiege these as well. The Army of God glared at the obstacle before them whilst the Turks beyond the walls stared back. Debate raged fast and furious. What was to be done? A great council was convened. A large pavilion plundered from the enemy was erected, the ground beneath it covered with looted prayer carpets. Godfrey of Bouillon was given the chair of state, beside him Adhémar of Le Puy in full episcopal robes. Special stools were arranged for the rest: Hugh of Paris; the yellow-haired giant Bohemond; Robert of Flanders, constantly stroking his own face; Robert ‘Short-breeches’, Duke of Normandy, flushed as ever, one hand on the buckle of his war belt, the other grasping a goblet of wine. Next to these sat their Greek adviser Tacticius, his false metal nose gleaming in the sunlight. Count Raymond, grey-faced and sweat-soaked, after recovering from his malignant contagion, opened the debate. Behind him Hugh and Eleanor were given places of prominence to witness what happened. In the end, nothing did. Count Raymond advised a swift, brutal assault on the city but the rest declared they would wait. The council meeting broke up and everyone drifted away to pursue their own gains.

A strange period, as Eleanor wrote in her chronicle, as if it was a holy day during a festive season. The Turks were locked up in Antioch so the Army of God was free to go on a foraging spree of plunder and rapine, scouring the surrounding countryside for food, wine, women and livestock. For two weeks they gobbled the rich fat of the land. The entire camp was given over to revelry and drinking. They almost forgot Antioch until the Turks struck, sallying out in swift, savage raids. They left by the Iron Gate at the rear of the city, seized the heights above Bohemond’s camp near St Paul’s Gate and poured down a heavy hail of arrows and other missiles. To bring the battle to the enemy, Bohemond retailiated by building a tower he named Malregard, or Evil Look, to protect his position, whilst Duke Godfrey constructed a bridge of boats across the Orontes to reach the Gate of the Duke. Meanwhile, Tancred took the heights above the St George Gate and bided his time.

The siege now began in earnest. The days of revelry were over. The Army of God had plundered vineyards, pits of grains and orchards, their trees bending heavy with fruit. Now, as the winter rains lashed in, the countryside was stripped bare of produce. The Turks released Armenians into the camp to act as spies but kept their wives and children as hostages to fortune as well as to war. If any of these spies were caught, Bohemond had them paraded before the walls and summarily decapitated. The Turks responded just as cruelly. The Armenian patriarch who sheltered in the city was taken up on to the ramparts and hung upside down over the battlements, where the soles of his feet were beaten with rods. Frankish prisoners were also exhibited on the walls before being decapitated, their heads flung by catapults into the camp. Eleanor was one of those deputed to collect such grisly objects and wrap them in linen for decent burial. She did so carefully even as she wondered about the cry of ‘Deus vult!’ and the will of God. One burial particularly haunted her, that of Adelbaro, Archdeacon of Metz. He had gone into the woods near Bridge Gate to play dice with a young woman from the camp. They regarded it as a festival day, taking wine, fruit and bread. A Turkish troop burst out of the city and invaded the orchard, driving out all who sheltered there, including Adelbaro and his sweet maid. Both were captured and taken back into the city. Just before darkness fell, Adelbaro was dragged up on to the battlements and decapitated, whilst the young woman was publicly stripped and repeatedly raped, her cries ringing out through the darkness. At dawn she was stabbed and her head was cut off. Just as Father Alberic was finishing Mass, the whoosh of a catapult cut across his blessing and the severed heads of the pair were hurled into the camp. They bounced along the ground, then stopped, objects of horror with their gaping mouths and startled eyes. Theodore, Eleanor and Simeon collected them in linen sacks and buried both together in a hole beneath a pile of rocks, whilst Alberic sprinkled holy water with his asperges rod. Afterwards Eleanor sat and sobbed in her tent as Simeon the Scribe, anxious about his mistress-sister busied himself over this task or that. From outside came the sound of more catapults delivering their gruesome burdens. Shouts and cries echoed. Somewhere a monk began to chant the hymn ‘In Cruce Christus Dominus Vincit Mundum’ — ‘On the cross Christ the Lord Conquered the World’.

Eleanor listened to the words and began to laugh. What conquest? she reflected. What world? She lay down on the cot bed, crossed her arms and stared at the light pouring through the tent flap. She recalled the prophecies of Peter Bartholomew about the Apocalypse. Were they all part of that Apocalypse? Was she really dead and living in hell? What had all this cruelty to do with the cross of Christ? She, Hugh, Godefroi and the rest were no better than babbling babes; they’d had little inclination of the bloody cost of this undertaking. As if mocking her, Eleanor heard the whoosh of catapults, the cries of the besiegers, followed by shouts from the archers closer to the walls; above all this rose a Turkish voice chanting a prayer. Eleanor knew what was happening. In revenge for the execution of the archdeacon and his mistress, more prisoners were being herded down to the river bank to be executed. Eleanor began to shiver, then burst out crying. Imogene came in and crouched before her. Eleanor just stared back. She was not ill, she assured herself; in fact she felt as if she could perceive everything most clearly. She gazed at the Jewess so determined to bury her parents’ ashes within the precincts of the Holy City. Eleanor could understand that. Yet even Imogene had changed. Jerusalem did not concern her now; only Beltran. He had become Imogene’s life; her second, or even first reason for being here. Over the last few months Imogene had distanced herself. Sometimes Eleanor would catch the woman staring curiously at her, but she very rarely talked about Beltran, though she often tried to draw Eleanor about what might happen once Jerusalem was taken. Eleanor had ignored her questions, being more concerned with the present than any future plans.

Eleanor continued to lie there, staring into the middle distance. Imogene offered her some wine. Eleanor refused, so Imogene left. Simeon the Scribe, crouching in the corner, crept out to fetch Hugh, who came and sat beside his sister. He coaxed her to drink the wine Imogene had poured. Eleanor did so and felt her body being warmed. She drew a deep sigh, sat up and then attempted to stand. Hugh told her to stay.

‘It’s nothing,’ Eleanor murmured. She put her head into her hands, staring down at her battered ox-hide boots caked in yellow mud.

‘It must be something,’ Hugh insisted.

‘It is.’ Eleanor forced a smile. She gestured at the tent flap. ‘Brother, the killing, the blood, the revenge, the agony, the pain. Is this really God’s work? Are we here so that Bohemond can carve out a kingdom? You’ve heard the rumours. Bohemond wants Antioch for himself.’

‘It is necessary.’ Hugh’s voice was fierce and resolute. ‘Sister, what we do now is truly filthy. I know that. Godefroi and I have been talking. We have taken a great oath. If the Lord delivers Jerusalem into our hands, if our lives are spared to achieve that, if we can look upon the Holy Face, then we will found a holy order of poor knights who will take the vows of monks and dedicate themselves to protect God’s people.’

Eleanor hid her smile. The fire in Hugh’s heart only burned stronger; he was no longer talking to her but preaching his own private Crusade.

‘What you see here, Eleanor, is the truth,’ he continued. ‘This so-called Army of God does include men and women of vision, though many are here to indulge their filthiest passions.’ He blinked, pausing for breath. ‘I speak not only of the likes of Jehan the Wolf and his lieutenants, Gargoyle and Babewyn, but also of our leaders. Nevertheless, here before the city of Antioch, God will purge them all.’ Still absorbed in his own dream, Hugh patted her hand and left the tent.

Eleanor laughed quietly to herself.

‘As the child,’ she murmured, ‘so the man; as the tree, so the branches.’

‘Pardon, mistress-sister?’ Simeon the Scribe scrambled to his feet, face all concerned.

‘Hugh.’ Eleanor spoke over her shoulder. ‘Ever since I can remember, he has been the preacher and I have been his congregation.’ She walked to the entrance of the tent, pulling her cloak closer about her. As she lifted the flap, she almost walked into Theodore, who grinned and stepped back.

‘I heard you were ailing.’ He smiled and extended a hand. ‘You wish to walk?’

Eleanor agreed, and they went out into the frenetic bustle of the camp. Under iron-grey skies, tents and bothies were being erected. Carts were being pulled across the narrow thoroughfare to block any attack by enemy horsemen. Camp fires spluttered, cauldrons bubbled. People stumbled about dressed in the now common colours of brown and grey. A blacksmith was trying to fire his forge. A group of Saxon mercenaries were sharpening their swords on a whetstone. A knight in rusty chain mail led his thin-ribbed horse carefully through the camp, picking his way around ropes, pegs and mounds of refuse. Smoke billowed and swirled. The cold breeze blew the various smells: the stench of the latrines and horse lines mixing with the odours of sweat, leather, burning wood and roasting meat. The Beggars’ Company had gathered around a cart, eager to share the plunder it brought.

Eleanor and Theodore walked in silence down to the edge of the camp where the standards and pennants fluttered. Eleanor stared at the slight ridge of land that rose before falling down to the Orontes. On the near bank lay a heap of corpses, blood spilling out from their severed necks. On the ridge above it stretched a long row of poles; each bore the severed head of a Turk, positioned where it could be seen easily by the defenders of the city. Eleanor shivered. Theodore put his arm about her shoulder. She did not resist.

‘It’s only beginning,’ he whispered. ‘We have gorged ourselves after our hunger upon sweet bread, figs, fruit and wine. People think this is the Promised Land, flowing with milk and honey. Eleanor, fresh horrors are about to emerge. We’ve plundered the countryside bare. Constantinople is an eternity away. We’ve bathed in pools, occupied plundered houses, but now what?’

‘Deus vult!’ she whispered. She turned, freeing herself from his grasp, and stared full at him. ‘Do you really believe that, Theodore? That God willed this, the sickness, the savagery, the fighting, the blood, the severed heads, the catapults? Look at poor Adelbaro and his mistress playing dice in an orchard. Was that what God intended?’

‘I don’t know.’ The Greek’s usually merry eyes were now black and hard. ‘Eleanor, I believe in the truths of our faith, that Christ the Lord is God incarnate, but also that real religion is a matter of the individual soul, the mind,’ he tapped his head, ‘nothing else. In here, in our minds, our souls, we have Jerusalem, the Holy Sepulchre and Calvary. Here we have the Sacred Face. If we cannot worship Him in our own inner sanctuary first, then what is the use of searching for something else?’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve just learnt that!’

Eleanor remembered his words as the siege tightened and the Army of God bayed like a pack of ravenous wolves before the walls of Antioch. November came in a flurry of sleet and rain. The ground turned soggy underfoot. A creeping fear seized the camp. Count Raymond had spoken the truth: the city should have been assaulted immediately. Now everything had changed. Yaghi Siyan, the protuberant-eared, white-headed Governor of Antioch, had perceived the weakness of the besiegers and sent hasty messages to Aleppo and Damascus pleading for help. He also dispatched his horsemen in brutal forays through the various gates to plunder and ravage the Army of God. The Turkish archers, in gleaming breastplates and colourful robes, rode swift-footed ponies, bows pulled back, arrows notched ready to drop a deadly hail into the enemy camp. At night the misery continued, the Turkish catapults hurling fiery missiles into the tents. The pain turned into agony. Heavy rains swelled the Orontes. Icy sleet pounded the sodden, thinning tents, rotting bowstrings, spoiling rugs and carpets, polluting food stocks. Eleanor did what she could to assist. She filched, begged and scoured the camp, then she cooked and broiled the morsels into the most savoury messes.

Eleanor now regretted what she called her miasma of fear. She drew strength especially from Theodore. Instead of talking about the siege, he chattered constantly about his own dreams of a whitewashed villa set in vineyards with orchards full of pears, apples and almonds alongside fields burgeoning with millet and wheat. The Greek won Eleanor over with his vision of life, of ordinary things, peace and stillness. Eleanor reflected and vowed that she would come through this nightmare to find her own salvation. What could misery and despair achieve? Tomorrow always brought new hope. So she struggled along with the rest, even boiling leather straps to fashion a weak soup. She foraged with the other women, grubbing for shoots and roots, anything that could be cooked in boiling water.

Advent came. Bohemond planned a great foraging expedition to bring in supplies. It ended in disaster. His company was ambushed even as the rest of the army were attacked by Turkish horsemen; they streamed into the camp, slicing and cutting, casting firebrands and loosing flame-edged arrows into the tents. Eleanor, now resolute, grasped a pike and fought alongside the other women. What did she care if Christmas had come and gone? Here was her life, squelching in mud, pike out, jabbing at horsemen in billowing robes who thundered past her. Nevertheless, when the attack ended, wise-thinking heads brought important issues to the fore. Bohemond had left to forage and been ambushed. At the same time Yaghi Siyan had quickly learnt that Bohemond was absent and dispatched his raiders to wreak hideous damage in the camp.

‘Strange,’ people murmured, ‘how the infidels were so closely informed about what was happening.’

The new year of 1098, as Eleanor reflected in her chronicle, brought little cheer. The portents for the future looked dismal. The threat of total and absolute failure swept the camp. Eleanor realised it might all be coming to an end but took comfort in the belief that she had done her best. She could do no more, so she and Simeon spent their time chronicling the past and ignoring the future. She wished Hugh and Godefroi would visit her, but they had become virtual strangers, until one January night when Hugh swept into her stinking goatskin tent, and asked her and Simeon to join a secret council convened by Count Bohemond. At first Eleanor objected, but Hugh grasped her by the shoulders.

‘Eleanor,’ he hissed, ‘times have changed. No more sword! More wit, more wisdom! Come with us.’

He led her and Simeon across the bleak, foul-smelling camp to Bohemond’s tent. Inside, the Norman, dressed in a furred robe, his long yellow hair falling down either side of his face, sprawled on cushions talking quietly to Theodore and Godefroi. He paused as Eleanor entered, remembered his manners, scrambled to his feet and gave the most elaborate bow before gesturing at the heap of cushions and bolsters prepared for them. Eleanor sat down. She stared at the great Norman; those piercing blue eyes in the ruddy, weatherbeaten face glared back. Bohemond could never stay still; now he turned and fidgeted. Occasionally he would glance at her lecherously, look away, then stare piteously as if beseeching her help. Wine was poured, precious sweetmeats served. Bohemond waited until the tent emptied of servants before getting to his feet. He went outside, breathing noisily as he stared around, ensuring no eavesdropper lurked. When he returned, he flopped down on to the cushions and jabbed a stubby finger at Eleanor.

‘You are our Trojan horse.’

She stared steadily back.

‘The Trojan horse: you know the story?’ he asked.

Eleanor nodded.

‘We cannot take Antioch.’ Bohemond shook his head. ‘Not by storm or by stealth. Remember the Antiochene boast, that their city can only be captured by starvation, surprise or treachery. We have decided upon treachery.’ His powerful face creased into a smile, then he tapped his chest as if confessing his sins. ‘Well, not all of us, just me.’

‘My lord,’ Eleanor spoke up, ‘what need of me? You talk of stealth and treachery. How can I assist you in that?’

‘Oh, very easily.’ Bohemond pulled himself up and stretched, and Eleanor realised why he was such a fearsome figure amongst the Franks. He was square-shouldered, slim-waisted, a powerful, deep-chested man, his long square face framed by that yellow hair, those eyes, icy blue, constantly moving, constantly searching. She stared round the tent at the various scraps of armour and harness, weapons piled in a tangle, manuscripts tossed in a heap. Here, Eleanor reflected, was a man eager to grasp something, anything. At first Bohemond acted the blustering soldier, revelling in his own achievements, pretending to be drunk, cursing the other leaders, describing how he would have arranged matters. As Eleanor sat and watched, she realised that Bohemond was a very dangerous man. He acted as if he was tipsy, yet he was cold-stone sober. He clasped Godefroi and Hugh as if they were comrades-in-arms, then he would move on to a story about his father or his brothers, his wars in Sicily and his hatred for the Greeks, before returning to the siege. Eleanor realised he was trying to prepare her as a man would seduce a woman, offering signs of his bluntness and honesty, his desire to do what was right. What also emerged was his deep hunger for Antioch. He had seen the city and wanted it for himself. He’d realised he couldn’t take it by force so he would try other means. He stopped abruptly halfway through a tirade against Godfrey of Bouillon and glared at her.

‘Eleanor, you want to save your soul?’

‘It is already saved, my lord,’ she answered. ‘Christ’s blood has bought it.’

That confused him. He blinked, slurped from his goblet and slammed it down. He glanced at Hugh and Godefroi then at Theodore, Simeon and Eleanor. At last, as if tired of the pretence, he moved his hand across his face, stroking his brow, eyes closed tight.

‘If we don’t take Antioch,’ he said slowly, ‘we might as well go home.’

Eleanor, tired, exasperated at this meeting, which seemed to be leading nowhere, lost her temper.

‘My lord, why are we here?’

Bohemond’s head went down, that glorious mane of hair shrouding his face, then glanced up. ‘I am asking you to sacrifice yourself,’ he said. ‘All right.’ He pushed his hands forward, palms towards her, fingers extended in the sign of peace. ‘I’ve blustered, I’ve bragged, I’ve threatened, I’ve promised, but at the end of the day, Eleanor de Payens, I need you. Now I can sit here and give you sweet verses from the troubadours, lines from the poets-’

‘My lord, why are we here?’ Eleanor insisted, ‘What do you want from me?’ She glared at Hugh, who looked away. Godefroi, embarrassed, simply stared down at the floor and shuffled his cup. Simeon plucked nervously at his jerkin. Theodore sat, one hand over the lower part of his face, as if he sensed what was coming.

‘Very well.’ Bohemond took a deep breath. ‘We will never take Antioch by force. We can build towers, we can launch forays, this, that and the other. The Turks know exactly what we are doing. They have spies amongst us. If I discovered who they were, I would take them out myself, drag them down to the river bank and pluck their heads as a farmer would a flower, but what is the use of that?’ He smiled at Eleanor. ‘Terror without a reason is diabolic; terror with a reason is understandable, it’s logical. Now, Eleanor, this is what I plot. I want spies to go into Antioch, and this is how it can be done. Theodore is a Greek mercenary. He will enter the city with his wife, namely you. He will claim he has had enough of the Frankish army and wants to sell his sword to the victorious party. If he brings the sister of a high-ranking Frankish knight, together with her scribe and maidservant, people might accept that he is speaking the truth. In a word, Eleanor, you, Theodore, Simeon and Imogene will enter Antioch as our spies. Once there you will seek out someone, anyone, who will betray part of that wall to us.’

Eleanor stared across the table at Theodore. She was putting her life into this man’s hands. She trusted him, yet she didn’t really know him. She glanced at Hugh, who stared resolutely back.

‘It is a sacrifice,’ Bohemond said softly, ‘that you and your companions will make on behalf of us all. We must have someone behind the walls of Antioch. Someone quick-witted who will seize any opportunity and use it for the Army of God.’ He pushed himself closer so Eleanor could view his face in the light of the needle-thin candle: strong and brutal, the golden moustache and beard streaked with grey, the skin all peeling but his eyes blazing with passion. She recognised that look; she’d seen the same in her brother’s eyes. She looked at Godefroi, who was still staring into his cup. Simeon stirred restlessly.

‘There is no need for you to come,’ Eleanor whispered.

‘No, mistress-sister, I will be safe with you.’

Bohemond’s lip curled in a smile. ‘Well said, Simeon,’ he declared. ‘Eleanor de Payens is your sure defence. If she left you here, those in this camp who resent your presence might act. Moreover, we need you in Antioch. You know the ways and customs of the enemy, their tongue. You could be of great assistance.’

‘And what if,’ Eleanor asked, ‘we go through the gates of Antioch and are arrested, taken up on to the battlements. Theodore and Simeon are executed. I am raped, stabbed and decapitated and our heads are flung back into the camp. There is that risk.’

‘Of course,’ Bohemond agreed, ‘as there is every risk that Turkish light horse might attack the camp tonight and you could suffer a similar fate.’ He drummed his thick, muscular fingers on the top of the small table before him. ‘Think, Eleanor! The Turks will do you no harm. Why should they? If deserters from this army are brutally executed, that would discourage others. Already men are leaving, mercenaries selling their swords to the highest bidder. Why should they execute you and Theodore? No! No! They will boast of your presence. Who knows,’ he joked, ‘fortune might smile on you. You could be treated as guests of honour, given furnished quarters, good food and drink, a chance to bathe, to be clean and warm, well away from this stinking, freezing camp.’ He paused. The tent flap shifted; a draught of cold air seeped through.

‘There is something else.’ Hugh spoke up.

‘My lord, wait.’ Eleanor held up a hand. ‘We are in the retinue of Raymond of Toulouse. Does he know?’

‘Yes, and he agrees,’ declared Hugh. He leaned across the table and grasped his sister’s hand. ‘If you don’t want to go, you need not, we shall think no worse of you. Count Raymond also believes the only way Antioch will fall is through treachery. For that we need someone we can trust.’

‘You said there was something else?’

Hugh let go of her hands and turned, staring at the tent flap. ‘Listen, Eleanor!’

She did so. Faint sounds: a woman screaming, a man shouting curses.

‘Bishop Adhémar believes,’ Hugh said softly, ‘that one of the reasons we face such obstacles is because the Army of God needs to do reparation, to purge itself, to express sorrow for its sins. He has persuaded our leaders that all women must leave the camp. People like yourself and Imogene will be escorted to the port of St Simeon to await events. The whores, prostitutes and camp followers are to be summarily driven out.’

Eleanor gasped in surprise.

‘It is harsh,’ Bohemond spoke up, ‘but necessary. For God’s sake, woman, we are supposed to be the Army of God, yet we house a crowd of tinkers, moon people, troubadours, whores and catamites. Bishop Adhémar is right! Our camp should be purged, the army must cleanse itself, express its sorrow and receive absolution. We are not talking about women like you, but others. They bring nothing, they offer nothing, yet they eat and drink and impede our progress. Within the week they will be driven from the camp.’

‘And Imogene?’ Eleanor asked. ‘You called her my maidservant.’

Hugh looked at Bohemond, who nodded slightly. ‘Imogene must go with you.’

‘Does she know?’

‘No. You will simply say that she must follow you. She will be given no opportunity to discuss this or talk to anyone about what is happening.’ Hugh paused. ‘It is logical for you to take a servant. Moreover, Imogene cannot stay here to chatter her surprise and, perhaps, her disbelief at your desertion.’

‘Such an observation,’ Godefroi spoke up, ‘might endanger you.’

‘And Beltran?’

‘He does not know, nor will he. Only Count Raymond and the people in this tent know the truth. It’s best that way.’

‘You see,’ Bohemond took up the thread, ‘we want you not only to enter Antioch and discover ways of betraying it, but, if possible, discover who the Turkish spies in our army are. Now of course we know there are Armenian traders,’ he lifted a hand in a weak apology to Simeon, ‘but is there someone else who has an ear at our council door and informs Yaghi Siyan about what we plan? I ride out to forage and I am ambushed. At the same time, because I have left the camp, the enemy attack. Coincidence or a plot? Is there a traitor?’

‘And what happens,’ Simeon spoke up, ‘if we fail, if we are captured or betrayed?’

Bohemond chewed the corner of his lip, refusing to meet Eleanor’s eye. ‘If that happens, and we discover it, we will bargain for your lives. If we fail, I will have Masses sung for your souls.’

‘And what happens if you fail?’ Eleanor asked. ‘What if the army moves down to the coast to take ship?’

Bohemond pointed at Theodore. ‘He has gold, silver and letters hidden away in a certain place in our camp. If the Army of God retreats, Theodore will seize the opportunity to leave as swiftly as possible. After all, what is the point of staying in Antioch if it will never be ours?’

Eleanor caught the change in his voice. Bohemond had nearly said ‘mine’. He smiled to himself as if realising the mistake he’d narrowly missed. ‘Antioch must be taken,’ he continued. ‘Once we have that, we shall march on Jerusalem.’

‘And when do we leave?’

‘Now!’ Hugh spoke up. ‘Tonight, sister. The moon is only a quarter, the sky filling with clouds; there will be more rain. You will be led down to Bridge Gate and left to your own devices. The real danger is being recognised by our own soldiers and attacked as traitors, or by Turkish guards thinking you plan mischief. If you do enter Antioch safely and are accepted, Theodore knows what sign to give. Until then, sister, I shall pray, as will everybody in this tent, that you remain safe. Will you go?’

Eleanor glanced at Theodore. She wanted to refuse, yet she understood the logic of Bohemond’s plan. If things didn’t change, the army would simply rot away. The great cause would collapse and what could she do but wait with the rest? Yet in the end, her life would depend on that dark-faced soldier sitting opposite, so calm and poised. Despite the ravages of the weather, the deprivations of the siege, Theodore always kept himself clean and washed, his black moustache and beard neatly clipped, even oiled. A wild thought occurred to her. What if Theodore was a traitor? What happened if she was taken into Antioch and betrayed? The Greek glanced directly at her, liquid dark eyes full of amusement. Eleanor trusted few men: Hugh and Godefroi, but Theodore was a third. The die was cast. She was committed. She pushed back the cushions and rose.

‘I will go, and as you say, it’s best if we are gone within the hour. After all,’ she laughed sharply, ‘what possessions can I take? What do I have?’

Bohemond rose and embraced her, followed by Hugh and Godefroi. Hugh came back and held her again, pressing her close.

‘Little sister,’ he said, ‘take care. So much depends, so much.’ He squeezed her again, kissed her on each cheek and, spinning on his heel, left the tent.

Theodore escorted her through the camp. The Greek was well armed and carried a bundle ready to leave. Behind them Simeon was praying quietly under his breath in a tongue she could hardly understand. They reached their tent. Eleanor pulled back the flap and went in. Thankfully Imogene was by herself.

‘We have to go,’ Eleanor declared. ‘Imogene, we have to go now. You must follow me; you must trust me. Take what you can. We are not going far.’

Imogene went to protest but Eleanor pressed her finger hard against the woman’s lips. ‘If you do not go, you will not be allowed to stay in the camp. You must trust me and follow me. Have I ever betrayed you?’

Imogene, face startled, eyes full of fear, shook her head.

‘Then come!’

Imogene, of course, grasped her carved wooden box and a few meagre possessions. Eleanor did the same. Simeon packed his writing tray and leather pannier, then they rejoined Theodore. As they walked through the camp, Eleanor kept her eyes to the ground to hide her own nervousness. They reached the picket lines and slipped through. Apparently the guards had been withdrawn and they made their way across the muddy, slippery ground down towards Bridge Gate. The night was dark, the wind chilling and cutting. From the shadowy battlements pricks of light glowed. Theodore stopped abruptly, putting down his small roll of baggage and bringing up the arbalest he carried. He opened the pouch on his belt and, taking out a bolt, slipped it into the groove, winching back the cord. At first Eleanor couldn’t understand until she heard it, a sound behind them. Someone was following them! Imogene moaned. Simeon immediately put a hand across her mouth. Theodore moved back, retracing their steps, then stopped.

‘Who is it?’ he called softy into the darkness. ‘Come forward.’ Three shapes emerged, cowled and cloaked. Eleanor caught the glint of eyes then straggling beards and moustaches. ‘Come closer,’ Theodore urged. ‘Push back your cowls, lower your visors.’ The three arrivals obeyed, pulling down the strip of cloth over their mouths. Eleanor closed her eyes. Jehan the Wolf and his two companions, Gargoyle and Babewyn! They had followed them from the camp.

‘Well, friends,’ Theodore said softly, ‘how goes it? What are you doing here?’

‘We could ask the same,’ Jehan retorted impudently as he swaggered forward. ‘You are deserting, aren’t you? I saw the woman leave her tent and go to Count Bohemond’s. I followed you there and then you came back. What mischief are you plotting, friend? Whatever you are doing, we will join you. We’ve had enough of rotting vegetables and hard biscuits. They say we’ll be starving before the end of the month. We will come with you. You will vouch for us.’

‘Of course I will.’ Theodore lifted the crossbow and released the catch, and the bolt took Jehan full in the chest, sending him spinning back. The other two were so surprised they stayed stock still. Again Theodore moved, sword and dagger drawn in a hiss of steel. He attacked one, a swift thrust to the belly, and then the other, who was already trying to flee. Theodore’s dagger caught him in the back and he stumbled deeper into the darkness. Theodore followed. Eleanor heard a faint moan, a slight scream abruptly cut off. Theodore came back and wiped his sword on Jehan’s cloak. The Wolf was dead, but Gargoyle beside him was still juddering on the ground, trying to rise. Theodore moved swiftly over, pulled back the man’s head and cut his throat. Eleanor could only watch. Imogene swayed slightly on her feet. Simeon quietly vomited. Theodore resheathed his dagger, took his sword and neatly decapitated Jehan and then Gargoyle, before going back and doing the same to Babewyn in the darkness: an awful cutting sound followed by the drip of blood. Then he plucked up one of the cloaks, wrapped the three heads in it, tied the bundle with a belt taken from one of his victims and sauntered back as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Simeon and Imogene had crouched down, holding each other, trying to control their tremors at the suddenness of the attack and Theodore’s silent, bloody work in the dark.

‘Why?’ asked Eleanor, pointing at the heads wrapped in the cloak, the blood already dripping through.

‘Why not?’ Despite the dark, Eleanor sensed Theodore was laughing. ‘What do you think would have happened? We would have entered Antioch and those three miscreants would have had us at their mercy. God knows what story they would have spun! They were treacherous. They were planning to desert, really desert. If Bohemond or Count Raymond had caught them, they would have been hanged.’

‘And now?’

‘Well, we can enter the gates of Antioch and show these heads as a guarantee. After all, Jehan did lead a company here. I’ll say they tried to stop us so we killed them. It will make our story all the more convincing.’ Theodore gestured towards the shadowy walls of the city. ‘They wait for us. Let’s not tarry any further.’ He brushed past Imogene and Simeon, who clambered to their feet. Eleanor followed, and they made their way down to the bridge. Behind them the noise of the camp receded, though she heard one shout of ‘Deus vult!’ She closed her eyes. If God wished it she would come through this safely and rejoin her brother, but in the meantime she stared at those forbidding soaring walls, the lights along the battlements. Within a few hours, she would know her fate. Either they would be accepted or, sometime tonight or early tomorrow morning, they would be past all care. Theodore stopped and came back, clutching her by the wrist.

‘Eleanor,’ he tightened his grip, ‘before we begin this, remember! Trust me because I love you.’ And not waiting for an answer, he walked back into the darkness.

An arrow struck the earth, followed by a warning call; flames flashed as fire cressets fluttered. Yes, that was how it began, Eleanor reflected in her chronicle, their dangerous venture into Antioch. The arrow embedded deep in the ground before them was followed by a torch thrown to spread a pool of light. It happened so swiftly she had little time to reply, let alone reflect on what Theodore had just said. He now whispered at them to stop. He put down his baggage and grisly burden and walked slowly forward with Simeon. They both extended their hands in the sign of peace and shouted hoarsely in the lingua franca. A voice rang out, and Theodore answered.

‘Deo Gracias,’ he whispered and picked up his bundles. ‘At least they will accept us.’

They walked over the makeshift bridge of boats, stumbling on the wet surface, and slowly approached the main gate. They heard a creak and another torch was flung out. Again a voice shouted. Theodore ordered them to stop. In the flickering light Eleanor could make out the massive reinforced gates, the iron studs gleaming through the steel portcullis lowered in front of it. To the right and left of these rose fortified towers, lamps glowing at their arrow-slit windows. The night breeze was tinged with the smell of burning oil from the cauldrons ready on the battlements. At the base of each tower was a doorway, narrow and thin, its steps hacked away. The door to the right opened, and a voice shouted an order.

‘One by one,’ Theodore whispered.

They approached the door. Each had to hand over their baggage before being roughly grasped and hauled up inside. Eleanor, confused, staggered in the darkness, and a hand steadied her. A pitch torch flared, the shadows danced, a brazier crackled. Eleanor stared round the grim chamber with its rough walls and dirty floor. She glimpsed a dark bearded face, the glint of a spiked helmet, the flash of white head cloths. The sinister clatter of steel echoed. A hand stroked her breast. A rough voice barked with laughter, followed by a chatter of tongues. They were bundled into another room. Eleanor was concerned about Imogene, who looked confused and terrified. Little wonder: dragged from her tent, that grisly, violent meeting with Jehan and his two lieutenants, and now this.

The chamber they entered was ill-lit and cold. An officer, his head framed by a chain-mail coif, his damascened helmet on the table before him, shoulders draped by a dark blue cloak over an armoured breastplate, was warming his hands above a chafing dish. Around the room lounged men, crouching or lying down, playing knucklebones, whispering amongst themselves or half asleep. They rose as Theodore’s party entered. One of them muttered a joke; a few laughed. Two of the soldiers drew their curved swords and daggers. The officer beckoned Theodore closer and spoke quickly in the lingua franca. Theodore replied. Now and again the officer’s cold black eyes shifted to Eleanor, who caught her own name being mentioned. Theodore kept pointing to her, and with a flick of his finger dismissed Imogene and Simeon as mere nobodies. The conversation continued. All four were abruptly searched, and Theodore’s weapons taken, as was the grisly bundle. When the three severed heads, eyes blindly staring, lips bloody and parted, rolled out across the floor, the officer gave a brief smile. He rose and kicked all three heads to one of his soldiers, who picked them up and put them in a reed basket. The officer returned, leaning against the table, arms crossed. He stared hard at Theodore and the questioning began again. Abruptly, the tension eased. The officer was laughing, poking Theodore in the chest, nodding; he even turned and smiled at Eleanor, then he gestured to the far corner. They went and squatted down, making themselves comfortable.

‘Don’t talk,’ Theodore whispered in Latin. ‘Except about what we are supposed to be, deserters from the Army of God.’

‘I…’ Imogene’s eyes rounded as she tried to speak.

‘Trust me, Imogene,’ Eleanor hissed. ‘For God’s sake hold your peace.’

‘I know him.’ Theodore smiled and gestured at the officer, who was now sitting at the table talking to one of his men. ‘We fought in the same troop some years ago. In fact,’ he clapped his hands and gestured around, ‘I am sure they all know me.’ Again he lapsed into Latin. ‘Keep your peace, do exactly what I tell you. Don’t talk unless I say.’

The officer shouted an order. A man left and came back with a bowl containing a mixture of meat and hot peppery sauce, as well as a jug of what smelt like curdling milk. They shared this out amongst themselves and had hardly finished when the officer strolled across. He snapped his fingers, gesturing at them to rise, and they followed him out of the chamber, down a narrow passageway and on to a slippery cobbled lane. A well of inky darkness, filled with slinking shapes and strange smells, greeted them. On both sides of the lane, the dusty walls of buildings reared up to the sky, so close they almost touched, leaving a narrow slit above them. With a clink of armour, the officer and his escort led them along this twisting byway. No glimmer of light showed from door or window, nothing except the lantern horns of their escort. A deathly silence held, as if they were crossing some City of the Dead. The lane descended more steeply. They stumbled down broken steps and across rough cobbles. On either side rose buildings with small windows high up in the decaying walls drenched with fetid-smelling liquids, the slimy moss, dirt and grime glittering in the light of the lanterns. Small doors were set deep in these walls, murky openings leading down to gloomy cellars, the dwelling places of vermin. Out of these cellars billowed the stench of rotting garbage and decaying excrement. The smell of dead rats, an odour Eleanor was used to from the camp, hung heavy and foul. They turned a corner and were almost pushed into the downstairs room of what looked like a hostelry or tavern. The officer led them across this into a rear chamber. He gestured at Theodore, then left. The door was not locked. There was a cesspit outside, and more food — fruit, dried bread and brackish water — was brought. Theodore, whispering swiftly in Latin, made it very clear that they would be spied on: the chamber walls probably had eyelets and listening holes. He then dominated the conversation, talking loudly in the lingua franca about how pleased he was to be in Antioch, eager to sell his sword to his new masters. Eleanor, lying next to Imogene, pressed her lips against her companion’s ear. She whispered in quick, short sentences how they had decided to flee the Army of God. They were now safe, and Imogene must not to do anything to alert suspicion. Imogene, of course, had a spate of questions, but Eleanor refused to answer, turning on her back to secure some sleep.

The following morning the officer returned. They were to be seen by Yaghi Siyan himself, the Governor of Antioch. Imogene was now openly resentful at what had happened, though she quickly realised that if she wished to survive she would have to comply. Nevertheless, the dark glances and the muttering under her breath clearly informed Eleanor that she no longer had a friend. The officer also returned their possessions, including Imogene’s precious box and Theodore’s weapons. The Turk was even friendlier than the previous evening, Theodore’s desertion being regarded apparently as a glittering prize. He took them out into the streets. They had to shield their eyes for a while; the clouds had broken and the sun was strengthening. The officer was apparently under strict instructions to show these important deserters how strong Antioch was. The narrow streets he led them through teemed with men of many nationalities, all busy about their various affairs. They entered the great square, thronged with market stalls under their striped awnings offering bread, rice, meats already cooked and roasted in stews, together with pheasant and partridge, as well as fruit and vegetables including heaps of ripe watermelons. The officer bought slices of these and offered them round. The sweet juice tasted delicious, refreshing Eleanor’s mouth and throat. Further on, stalls displayed silks, rubies, pearls, cloths and a wide range of spices. Deeper into the city they passed parks and paradises with graceful names such as ‘the Sweet Green’ and ‘the Oasis of Fruitfulness’. In between these lay the trade quarters of the city: weavers, ironworkers, goldsmiths, potters, bowl-makers, tile-makers, craftsmen of every description.

The morning air was still cool, but already the din and clatter of the city was ringing out. People looked well fed and content. Eleanor’s heart sank. The Army of God was apparently having little effect, a fact the officer loudly proclaimed as he gestured at the stalls piled high with produce. To achieve anything, Eleanor reflected, each of Antioch’s gates had to be closely besieged. They entered the wealthy quarter with its well-paved squares and streets. The fine buildings, decked in blue and gold tiles, overlooked elegant drinking fountains, richly decorated pools and elaborate bathhouses. High above all these loomed the minarets like watchful sentinels over the blue-domed mosques, their gleaming brickwork laced with elegant script done in turquoise and navy blue.

At last they reached the square stretching up to the ruler’s palace, its buildings almost hidden by the luxurious greenness of its many orchards. Only here was the normal bustle of the city shattered by a gruesome scene. A spy, so the officer informed them, had been caught and was about to be executed. The unfortunate, bound hand and foot, was being dragged face down at the tail of a horse across the cobbled square, backwards and forwards until his body and face were torn to shreds. In places the blood swirled in puddles or congealed between the stones as the condemned man was reduced to nothing but a bloody rag bouncing behind the horse’s hooves. The officer waited, eager to create a lasting impression upon his guests, before he crossed the square and led them through an ornamental gate with panels of mosaic faience and polished copper. Guards in brightly coloured quilted armour, soft boots on their feet, with turbans or spiked helmets over chain-mail coifs, patrolled every entrance. Others, Mamelukes in lamellar hauberks and breastplates, stood in recesses, armed with kite-shaped shields and wickedly pointed spears.

They went down cool, shimmering-white passageways, colonnades and porticoes brilliantly decorated in eyecatching floral patterns of blue, yellow, white and green. Scrolling vegetal decorations and elegant ochre calligraphy caught the eye. Some of the walls were decorated with glorious murals displaying green hexagons, or cranes, the birds of heaven, in full flight. Sunlight poured through fretted windows of coloured glass. Fountains splashed in bowls where red apples bobbed. Here and there, as Simeon later explained to Eleanor, were beautifully carved inscriptions to make the passers-by reflect, verses such as: ‘The tomb is a door which everyone must enter’, and ‘The Prophet of God, peace upon him, said “Hurry with prayer before burial and hurry with repentance before death.” ’

Eleanor found the contrast with the dark, damp, evil-smelling Frankish camp almost breathtaking. Rooms were warmed by rotund copper drums filled with burning charcoal and crammed with pouches of herbs that burst in the heat to exude the fragrance of the most exotic garden. She was surprised, too. Old images, impressions, thoughts and ideas were being swiftly destroyed. The Turks were not barbarians. In many ways, they reminded her of the Byzantines of Constantinople: cultured, sophisticated and courteous. Certainly fearsome and bloodthirsty in battle, but, she reflected ruefully, so were Hugh, Godefroi and Theodore. Undoubtedly these chambers and halls represented the luxury of the great lords of Antioch, but they were a sharp contrast to the dirty, freezing-cold manors and castles of the Franks.

Eventually they were ushered towards the Halls of Audience, their walls decorated by a technique known as thousand-leaves tracing, which secretly contained sacred names on tiles of turquoise within borders of navy blue. In the waiting chambers stood merchants bringing baskets of goods for the governor: nutmegs, cloves, mace, cinnamon and ginger. The sweet smell of these costly spices drifted everywhere. In other chambers traders waited to offer cloth, glass, metalwork, silk, taffeta, fur and ermine. Around the various doors clustered a horde of servants, cup-bearers, messengers, singers and zither players.

Yaghi Siyan held court in an inner chamber, its walls and floor an ivory colour; hence its name, the ‘Hall of the Pearl’. The governor lounged on a small mattress stuffed with flock and covered with blue and silver embroidered cloth, which stretched along the dais. On either side of him squatted his leading officers, all dressed in open dark cloaks over dazzling white gowns. Some wore turbans; others let their hair hang free. At first glance, all looked powerful and forbidding, with their dark or olive-coloured faces, glittering eyes, black, grey and white moustaches and beards. Only Yaghi Siyan carried a weapon: a curved dagger in an exquisitely embroidered scabbard thrust through his waistband. Around the chamber stood his personal guards, clad in dark red turbans around silver damascened spiked helmets, glittering chain mail under blue cloaks, their hands resting on the hilts of drawn sabres. Theodore, Simeon and Eleanor were summoned to sit on cushions before the dais. Imogene knelt behind them.

Yaghi Siyan propped himself up against the blood-red cushions. He looked strange: a large-domed, balding head with protuberant ears, and a white moustache and beard that straggled down to his waistband. He studied Eleanor closely, his popping eyes bright with interest, then turned back to Theodore to begin the questioning. Now and again he would turn and smile at Simeon. Eleanor wondered wildly if the scribe was what he claimed to be or, in truth, a Turkish spy deliberately placed in the Army of God. The interrogation was swift and intense, broken now and again by Yaghi Siyan raising his hand so that soft-footed mutes could serve goblets of ice sherbet and dishes of sugared almonds. Eleanor later discovered that once food had been offered and taken, no harm would befall them. Theodore also told her how Yaghi Siyan’s inquisition was easy because he simply told the truth, whilst the governor’s benevolence towards Simeon was due to the scribe’s desertion being further evidence of the Franks’ worsening situation.

Yaghi was keen to learn about the high councils of the Army of God. Theodore eagerly listed a litany of woes: the desertion of Count Baldwin to Edessa, the secret withdrawal of so many towards the coast, division amongst the leadership, the shortage of food, the depletion of livestock, especially horses and pack animals, the lack of an overall commander, the sickness of Count Raymond and the paucity of means to maintain a blockade against all the city gates. This proved delightful news to the Turks, Yaghi Siyan and his council nodding in gleeful appreciation.

Theodore also convinced them because he spoke passionately, describing things as they were rather than how he secretly hoped they might be. In addition, what the Greek said seemed to fit with what Yaghi Siyan had learnt or wished to believe. Theodore was very careful not to press the matter. He made no attempt to discover where the governor had gained his news. After all, that would not have been difficult to explain. Two of Antioch’s main gates had been left unguarded so spies could enter and leave almost at will. Indeed, as Theodore had confided to Eleanor, the greatest danger facing them was that some spy in the Army of God might create suspicion about their desertion and pass this information along. In the end, however, Yaghi Siyan was satisfied.

‘The Franks,’ he declared, ‘will be overwhelmed, drowned in a sea of destruction, consumed by the fire of perdition.’

The governor then made his greatest mistake. He committed Theodore and his party to the care of an Armenian noble named Firuz, who sat on his right: a tall, elegant man with deep-set eyes, a sharp pointed nose and full, rather protruding lips. Firuz wore a white turban and a sleeveless brocade coat over a dark cream gown. He rose at Yaghi Siyan’s gesture and indicated to Theodore and his party to follow him. Yaghi Siyan, however, was not finished. He put his hand beneath a cushion and tossed Theodore a small purse of silver, which the mercenary deftly caught. This provoked laughter. The other councillors bowed towards Yaghi Siyan and rose to clasp Theodore’s hand, Eleanor, Simeon and Imogene they simply ignored, though as a courtesy, Yaghi Siyan whispered compliments about Theodore’s wife being ‘pretty’.

They left the palace still escorted by the officer, who introduced himself as Baldur, a captain of Turcopoles. He was apparently on the most cordial terms with Firuz, who, as they made their way through the city, introduced himself as Armenian by birth and commander of two towers known as ‘The Twin Sisters’ to the south-east of Antioch on the slopes of Mount Silpius. Firuz led them there through the markets and bazaars, across squares where scholars squatted with their backs to a marble cistern as they disputed over matters of philosophy. They went along streets and alleyways, stepping aside for cavalcades of soldiers, men in armour, their ponies dark with sweat, foam bubbling on their bridles. Firuz, like Baldur, was determined to demonstrate the power of Antioch. He took them down market lanes reeking of hide and oils, where sallow-faced men clad in dark fur robes touted for business. Fires roared before the doors of shabby houses; quarters of mutton were being roasted and the traders’ children offered wooden platters of the cooked meat piled high with rice and barley cakes. Customers could buy these and eat whilst they gathered round cotton booths where shadow puppets wiggled and strutted against lighted sheets.

Eventually they reached the city outskirts and climbed the trackway skirting Mount Silpius. On either side rose dark green poplars. Eleanor noticed how, apart from Baldur’s two lieutenants, they now had no military escort. The Twin Sisters rose square before them, their turreted tops overlooking the curtain wall, the postern gate between them being bolted and barred, firmly blocked up. Firuz explained how it was of little use; Yaghi Siyan preferred to keep open the St George Gate for sallying out in sudden attack as well as receiving supplies.

Firuz and his wife lived in one tower, his kinsmen, servants and retainers in the other on the far side of the postern gate. The interior of the tower was very similar to those of Compiègne: rough, undressed stone with a spiral staircase leading to the upper floors. Nevertheless the chambers themselves were splendid. The walls, plastered and lime-washed, were hung with rose-coloured, silver-tasselled tapestries and brilliantly embroidered cloths, whilst woollen rugs lay strewn across the floors. All the windows on the inside were glass-filled; those on the outside, overlooking the walls, were covered with wooden shutters or strips of hardened horn. Candlesticks, spigots and lantern horns provided light, whilst copper braziers gave off perfumed warmth.

Asmaja, Firuz’s wife, welcomed them with goblets of honey mead. She was truly beautiful: a close-fitting white veil framed a delicate, sensitive face, pale-skinned with lustrous eyes and rose-bud lips. Firuz clearly adored her. He immediately invited her and his new guests on to the dais of the main chamber. They sat on cushions around a low table. Servants brought platters of pitta bread, fruits, dried meats and delicious-tasting wines. Firuz, who was not a Muslim, openly rejoiced in feasting his guests; Baldur was more circumspect and frugal. Theodore acted the relieved man, happy at his reception by Yaghi Siyan. Simeon and Imogene remained silent; the latter, her precious box close to her, still looked sullen and petulant. Eleanor felt exhausted and dirty after the previous night’s imprisonment. She was desperate for sleep but determined to remain vigilant.

Firuz, under the influence of the wine, explained how Theodore would join him in securing the Twin Sisters tower and advising him on what siege machinery the Franks might bring up against them. Apparently his home was also to be their prison. Apologetically he explained how, for the time being, his guests, under pain of immediate death, were not allowed to leave the vicinity of the Twin Sisters for the city markets or bazaars, whilst they were certainly not to approach any of the main gates. Theodore, munching from his tray of diced lamb and vegetables, nodded understandingly and the conversation moved on. Eleanor, tired though she was, became distracted. At first she thought it was her own weariness, her bleary eyes, yet she was sure she caught a loving glance pass between Asmaja and Baldur. She lowered her head and mentally recited the Confiteor, an act of contrition for her sins and wayward thoughts. Yet as the meal continued, she glimpsed similar glances between the pair. Firuz, flushed with wine, remained totally oblivious, yet to Eleanor, his wife seemed deeply smitten with the handsome captain of Turcopoles.

The meal over, Firuz and Baldur wished to discuss things amongst themselves. Theodore, Eleanor and the rest were taken up to the highest floor of the tower, the staircase outside it leading through a narrow door on to the crenellated fighting platform. The chamber itself was comfortable, with pegs on the walls for their clothes, and chests and coffers for their other belongings. Servants busied themselves, and eventually four straw-filled palliasses lay about the room. Embroidered cloths hung against the walls, whilst rugs, shutters and bronze braziers kept out the cold. A wooden lavarium provided a bowl and water jug. Theodore, finger to his lips, indicated that they should remain silent whilst he loudly commented on how comfortable the chamber was and how, living at the top of tower, they would be more secure.

‘And more easily guarded!’ Eleanor whispered.

Once they had unpacked and made themselves comfortable, they went across to the basement of the other tower to wash and change their clothes. Afterwards they gathered in a circle in their own chamber. Theodore had inspected everything carefully, and had found no eyelets or peepholes in the wall, whilst the door was of thick, strong oak. They were safe. At first they had to listen to Imogene’s hiss of hateful words, her fury at being taken away, her desire to return. Theodore calmed her, relaying what Yaghi Siyan had said whilst reminding her how fortunate she was. If Antioch fell to the Army of God, she would be safe. If the Army of God withdrew, they could all easily slip out amidst the joyful celebrations of the city. Moreover, if they had stayed in the camp, they could starve, die in the fighting or run the risk of even being ejected from the camp. Imogene seemed satisfied. Theodore pressed them all not to ask questions; their task was not to discover spies but to find a way for the Army of God to enter Antioch. Eleanor described what she had seen pass between Baldur and Asmaja. Theodore chewed on the corner of his lip, narrowed his eyes and told her to watch further. For the rest, he advised, they must only wait and see.

So, in that freezing January, the Year of Our Lord 1098, they settled down in the tower of the Twin Sisters in Antioch. Theodore joined the garrison, proving himself to be a skilled adviser, impressing everyone with his expertise. Eleanor and Imogene helped with household tasks. Theodore asked Simeon to tutor both himself and his ‘wife’ in chancery skills, declaring that he wished to extend his education. In many ways it was a halcyon existence compared with the horrors of the camp beyond Antioch. They were cut off from the siege but, through Firuz, discovered what was happening outside. Matters were turning from bad to worse in the Army of God. Rain beat through the fabric of the tents, rusting the armour, softening the bowstrings. The ground beneath became churned, the mud working its way up through the rugs and blankets on which the besiegers slept. Nature seemed to be against the Franks. One night the earth shook with a heart-chilling tremor. Pavilions toppled down. Men who ran out into the open were thrown off their feet. Fissures and cracks appeared in the earth. As the Franks gathered in groups to see what was happening, fresh horrors terrified them. In the northern sky plumes of flame shot up amongst the stars, the orange-red glow spreading out and changing to purple. The light rose higher, twisting and turning, brightening the sky until the Army of God could see the mud underfoot and the pale faces around them. Night turned to day; dawn broke even before the first cock crew. Surely it was a sign? The Army of God wondered about this, as did the people of Antioch. More news arrived at the Twin Sisters. Adhémar had declared that God was angry with the Franks so they must purify the army. All women had been forcibly driven beyond the camp down to Port St Simeon; now he ordered a three-day fast with prayer. Sinners were rigorously punished. An adulterous couple, caught in their sin, were stripped naked and paraded through the camp to be beaten and humiliated. Theodore relayed this information while they were sitting at table with their hosts. Eleanor watched Asmaja’s face blush lightly. Theodore swiftly moved the conversation on, praising Firuz and Asmaja for their food whilst pointing out that famine ruled amongst the Franks. Merchants were charging eight pieces of gold, a hundred and twenty silver dinars, for a donkey-load of provisions.

‘Many are dying,’ he declared. ‘Even more deserting.’

Principal amongst the deserters were William the Carpenter and Peter the Hermit; neither could tolerate the deprivation any further and had fled into the night. Bohemond heard of this and sent Tancred in pursuit to bring them back. For an entire night William the Carpenter lay bound ‘like some evil thing’ in Bohemond’s tent. The next day the Norman lord gave him a public lecture, calling him miserable, a shame and a dishonour to his own people, and making pointed reference to other betrayals when he had served in Iberia. William at least had the sense not to object. Other knights pleaded for him, and Bohemond finally agreed that he would not be punished providing he took an oath to remain. He did so, but a few nights later deserted for good. News of such betrayals spread joy in Antioch, especially when they heard that Tacticius, the Emperor’s own representative, had decided to leave to report to his master. Tacticius took a solemn oath to Bohemond that all the castles and towns captured on the way would be his, and he left his tent and baggage as guarantee that he would return, but he never did. When Theodore heard this, he just shook his head.

‘Foresworn he is,’ he whispered. ‘Foresworn he shall remain.’

At the end of January, Firuz called his household and guests together. Tonight they would celebrate, he declared, for wonderful news had arrived: Ridwan, Emir of Aleppo, was marching with twelve thousand men to raise the siege. The news had spread like wildfire through the city, and there were jubilations, dancing in the street, celebrations at the palace.

‘We will crush them!’ Firuz declared. ‘We shall crush the infidels between Ridwan’s army and the walls of Antioch.’

Theodore tried to put a brave face on it. Imogene had to leave the room, claiming she felt unwell. It seemed as if the Army of God was destined for destruction. Later that evening they gathered in their chamber. Theodore could offer no comfort.

‘We can do nothing,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘except pray.’

They waited. The days passed. At last news began to seep through. A miracle had occurred! Apparently the Army of God had decided to meet the foe out in the open. They put the command of the camp under Adhémar and Count Raymond, whilst Bohemond led out a thousand mounted men to meet an army of twelve thousand. He took up position near the Iron Bridge and camped on level ground about a mile long between a great lake and the marsh, which would defend his flanks. He then organised his division into six cohorts and simply waited for Ridwan to approach. He did so swiftly, just after dawn. Scouts rode into the Frankish camp screaming how the enemy were almost upon them. Bohemond raged around, kicking men awake, urging them to don harness and saddle their horses. He ordered his cavalry out, five phalanxes lined up side by side; the sixth he kept in reserve.

Ridwan’s army came on, thousands of them in two formations. The Turks expected the Franks to attack, but they did not, and the Turks had no choice but to come on, approaching at a trot. It was a grey day, so Eleanor later learned for her chronicle, and the battle was fought in a bleak place, a desperate struggle for survival. Turkish arrows whirred through the air, but still the Frankish line did not move. Saddles emptied, horses reared, plunged and panicked. The Franks just sang, verse after verse of the same psalm, as destruction fell on them. At last the Turks broke into a full charge and so did the Franks, long lances going down, shields up as they spurred their charges on. They ploughed into the Turks, sending the first line reeling back on to the second to cause utter confusion. Bohemond then committed his sixth phalanx, which circled the battlefield and tore into the right flank of the enemy. The swift horses of the Turks did not avail them. Bohemond surged on like a reaper through corn, first with his lance then his sword, his knights following, their crimson standards rippling in the breeze. The Frankish charge was relentless. Swords flashed, cutting through the enemy like a knife would cloth, dealing out death to the left and to the right. The Turks broke, fleeing back. The Franks pursued. Confusion amongst Ridwan’s forces spread like ripples of water merging into each other. In the end, Ridwan of Aleppo and his captains fled, leaving the field to Bohemond and his knights, who stormed the enemy camp and took possession of it. The black banners of anarchy were unfurled. No prisoners were taken. Wholesale executions were carried out. A day later, Bohemond arranged stakes along the ditch before Antioch. On each he placed a head so that the city garrison could stare out at the thousands of poles each bearing its gruesome trophy.

The news of Bohemond’s victory spread gloom throughout Antioch, astonishing Yaghi Siyan and his council. Nevertheless, they still hoped that famine and pestilence would devastate the besiegers. The reports coming into the city were increasingly grim. The Franks were grubbing for roots and chewing on leather to stifle the ache of hunger. They gorged themselves on the sticky-sweet meat of dead camels and trapped rats and mice. Some of them turned to cannibalism and collected the carcasses of dead Turks, which they skinned and skewered, boiling chunks of flesh in their great cauldrons. Word of the ghastly feast spread through the camp and people came to watch. Once they had tasted human flesh, the perpetrators searched for more amongst the Muslim tombs outside the city.

Theodore confided to Eleanor how the Army of God had now shrunk to thirty thousand, yet they were still intent on victory, especially as help had arrived. Ships from England and Hainault docked in the port of St Simeon, bringing in engineers and wood to build siege engines. Yaghi Siyan heard about this and launched fierce raids, but they were driven back. The Franks had now decided that all gates to the city should be blockaded. They seized an abandoned mosque near Bridge Gate, beat off attackers, dug a double ditch and built a limestone wall with a tower which they nicknamed ‘La Mahomeri’, the old French for the Blessed Virgin Mary. Worse was to come. Tancred had taken up residence in the hills near the St George Gate. He attacked caravans and supply wagons, seizing horses and provisions before moving to occupy and fortify a disused monastery nearby.

As March turned into April, the city of Antioch realised that the Franks were still resolute in their aggression. Each gate was now controlled and blockaded, and despite sallies and forays, the Army of God held fast. In Antioch, fear and panic began to spread. No longer were the markets and bazaars full. The city teemed with people, and as the Franks tightened their belt around it, hunger soon made itself felt. Eleanor and the rest were no longer invited to banquets and feasts. Food grew scarce. Prices began to rise. The siege started to bite savagely. Yaghi Siyan turned to terror. He had prisoners taken up on to the walls. One knight, Reynold, captured in a foray, was ordered to renounce his faith but refused and was promptly executed on the battlements, his corpse tossed over into the ditch. Other prisoners were paraded. Again they were asked to renounce their faith but refused. Yaghi Siyan ordered brushwood to be gathered; the prisoners, men and women, were tied to stakes and the fires lit. The screams of the burning captives could be heard all over the Frankish camp, but such barbarity only strengthened their resolve.

Inside Antioch, Theodore continued his deception. Eleanor reasoned that he must have communicated somehow with Bohemond, for the Poor Brethren of the Temple appeared in the rocky passes and culverts beneath the tower of the Twin Sisters. Theodore became busy advising Firuz on the mangonels, catapults and mantlets the Franks brought up. Eleanor felt she was in a waking dream. She was locked in the tower, acting as if this was her life, whilst a mere arrow-cast away, her beloved brother Hugh, Godefroi and the rest took up positions to shatter the world she sheltered in.

Life in the Twin Sisters was certainly changing. The blockade of Bridge Gate and the St George Gate, and the presence of the Franks in the foothills of Mount Silpius, had their effect. Food, supplies and provender were abruptly cut off. Markets closed. Bazaars emptied. Stallholders had nothing to offer as famine crept the streets. The effect of such strictures deepened. The Armenian population became restless; even Firuz began to rail at the harsh regime of Yaghi Siyan, arguing that his ruler should at least seek terms of surrender from the Army of God. Theodore, skilful and sly, noted this and cast about looking for an opportunity. Asmaja provided it.

Eleanor had volunteered to look after washing the clothes. These were piled into great tubs, soaked, squeezed and taken down to a nearby olive grove to be stretched out for the day. One morning early in May, taking advantage of the strengthening sun, she was laying out some garments when a flash of colour caught her eye. She left the baskets, moving silently as she had done when she and Hugh were children playing in the woods near their parents’ manor at Compiègne. It was a beautiful day, the grass alive with crickets, birds singing in the branches above her, the scent of wild primrose heavy on the morning breeze. On the far side of the grove, she glimpsed Asmaja and Baldur, two lovers entwined, kissing and embracing, passionate in their desire for each other. Eleanor felt guilty, yet she stayed and observed even as Baldur took Asmaja deeper into the trees. She watched as they lay down, unaware of the sounds around her; only the flash of cloth kept her attention before she stole away. She felt guilty, disturbed at what she’d seen, but eventually she informed Theodore. During their stay in the tower, he’d kept his distance, acting the distracted husband, never intimate or personal. Now he took her hands in his and kissed her fingers gently.

‘Eleanor, all you have done here,’ he whispered, ‘is to act the part as I have. I feel sorry for Asmaja, Firuz and Baldur, but I also pity my comrades rotting in the camp outside. What you have told me I must use.’

Over the next few days Theodore deftly wove a tapestry of subtle intrigue. Firuz learnt about his wife’s infidelity, then witnessed it first hand. Publicly there were no confrontations or angry words. Baldur was summoned to the tower and dismissed, whilst Asmaja simply disappeared. Firuz informed Theodore that he had sent his wife back to her parents. Theodore, ever the good listener, counselled his new-found friend. Firuz appealed to Yaghi Siyan for justice against the adulterer Baldur, but the ruler of Antioch had other matters on his mind and dismissed the plea out of hand. Firuz returned to the Twin Sisters deeply resentful, determined to drown his sorrows in goblets of wine. Theodore, like the serpent in Eden, wound his way round the man’s soul. Firuz listened. Theodore pointed out how all the gates of Antioch were besieged, the city was locked and eventually would fall. He opened a way whereby Firuz could secure justice and vengeance, not only against his wife and Baldur, protected by Yaghi Siyan, but against the ruler of Antioch himself.

Within a week the web was woven and Firuz was trapped. He entered into secret pacts with Theodore and solemnly promised how, at a given time, he would deliver the Twin Sisters to Bohemond and the Army of God. The trap was closed. Firuz could not object. If he now revealed the plot to Yaghi Siyan, he, like Theodore and the others, would be executed as a traitor. It was only a matter of time, of waiting for the right opportunity.