The Templar

Part 7

Antioch: The Feast of St Lawrence, 10 August 1098

Quo vulneratus insuper, mucorne diro lanceae.

(Where he was wounded by a thrust from the sharp tip of that lance.)

Venantius Fortunatus, ‘Hymn In Honour of the Cross’

Full summer was now close. Water was plentiful in the city but the markets remained empty. Firuz, full of bitterness, had grown even more eager than Theodore for the Army of God to act. The situation in and around Antioch was worsening. The army were digging up bodies to eat, and cannibalism was rife in the camp, whilst in Antioch the price of food soared so high that people lay out in the streets begging for food. Violent clashes occurred around Bridge Gate and that of St George as Yaghi Siyan made a desperate attempt to destroy the makeshift forts and redoubts that had been thrown up, but still the Franks pressed their siege. News filtered through. Khebogha, Atabeg of the Caliph of Baghdad and Emir of Mosul, was fast approaching the city with a huge army, ready to crush the Franks. Such news heartened Antioch. Bohemond and the others only intensified their siege. Firuz made a fresh appeal to Yaghi Siyan for justice, but Baldur was needed to lead out sorties from Bridge Gate, and Yaghi Siyan refused to do anything.

By the end of May both besieged and besieger were searching for a way to shatter each other. The Army of God, deluded by certain merchants of Antioch into thinking that the city would surrender, dispatched envoys through Bridge Gate under Walo, Constable of France. These were immediately surrounded and killed, their severed heads catapulted into the Frankish camp. The bloody incident increased tension. Theodore, fearful of Yaghi Siyan discovering his plot, believed Firuz was ready. On the Feast of the Blessed Virgin, the last day of May, the Year of Our Lord 1098, he and Firuz went out along the ramparts of the Twin Sisters. Theodore loosed an arrow carrying a message into the darkness below; a lantern flashed three times in reply, a sign that the message had been safely received and understood. The die was cast. The Twin Sisters were to be betrayed on the night of 2 June.

The hours in between were both fraught and frenetic. The city was bracing itself for more attacks and greater food shortages. News came through that Khebogha, the leader of tens and tens of thousands, was only a day’s march away. The Army of God would be trapped before Antioch and utterly destroyed. Speed became the essence; the hours were passing. Early on the morning of 2 June, during the third watch of the night, Theodore roused Eleanor. Simeon was told to guard Imogene whilst she and Theodore followed Firuz up on to the fighting platform of the main Twin Sisters tower. The Armenian was quiet but resolute in what he intended to do, a man, according to Theodore, who had closed one door of his life and was prepared to open another.

Eleanor felt as if she was in a dream. She could hear nothing from the darkness below as a slight breeze cooled their sweaty faces. She stayed at the top of the steps just within the shadows of the doorway whilst Firuz and Theodore chattered to the guards, warming their hands over a brazier. Suddenly she heard the hiss of steel, the crack of an arbalest, followed by the sighs and moans of dying men. Her name was called and she hurried out. Corpses were strewn about the fighting platform; curls of blood coursed down the gulleys. Theodore was busy at the wall, leaning between the crenellations, letting down a tarred rope, whilst Firuz was tying the other end to an iron hook thrust into the wall. Eleanor ran across, peered over and glimpsed the dim glow of a lantern. On the strengthening breeze came the clink of armour. Men were massing below, desperate, hungry and eager for bloodshed. Theodore sighed loudly as he pulled up the rope; on its end hung an ox-hide ladder. Firuz secured this over the battlements. As Eleanor and Theodore waited in the shadows, an eternity seemed to pass. She heard gasps and moans from the blackness below, then Hugh appeared, stepping on to the fighting platform, Godefroi behind him. Theodore whistled, and they came over. In the poor light both looked like gaunt grey ghosts, chain-mail coifs pulled close over their heads, faces hidden by helmets with broad noseguards. Hugh embraced Eleanor in a gust of sweaty leather, stroked her gently on the back of the head, whispered something and disappeared into the tower. Godefroi kissed her full on the lips, winked and followed Hugh down the steps. Theodore hastened after them as others poured over the crenellations. A short while later, across on the other tower, dark shapes bobbed and moved along the fighting platform. The faint clash of steel echoed; figures fell. Eleanor heard a scream.

‘The ladder!’ Firuz shouted. ‘It’s broken.’

Harassed, he threaded down the rope, and another ox-hide ladder was raised and secured. Eleanor kept to the shadows as Theodore had instructed her. More knights climbed over, pushing their way forward, eyes glazed with fear and anger. They were full of battle fury, torn between terror and the desire to wreak revenge on their enemy. Swords drawn, they hurried down the steps of the tower; Firuz followed. Eleanor heard a crashing and banging below. The knights were now trying to force the postern gates. Lights flared along the walls. The clatter of steel rang like a tocsin from the neighbouring towers. At last a resounding crash sent her hastening down the steps. Shadows fluttered. The narrow, winding steps reeked of sweat, leather, horse and the stench of the camp. A corpse swimming in blood lay across the threshold of the tower; the courtyard beyond milled with mailed men. The postern gate had been torn apart. A giant on a black war horse came clattering through. The blood-red banner he carried was unfurled to shouts and acclamations. Bohemond had arrived, standard in one hand, sword in the other; his great voice boomed through the darkness proclaiming the death knell of Antioch.

‘Deus vult! Deus vult!’ The cry was taken up. ‘Antioch has fallen.’

Now the killing began in earnest. The Army of God secured other gates before spreading like a turbulent river through the streets and across the squares. Turks, men, women and children, rushed out into the night only to be cut down until the paved areas looked like a bloody carpet. Horrible screams and heart-chilling yells broke the night, ringing out above the clash of steel and the thud of axe against wood. Bridge Gate was seized and pulled apart. Raymond of Toulouse and his Provençals poured in like a pack of ferocious wolves, fanning out down streets and alleyways. The army had rotted outside in the wind, rain and boiling heat. They’d eaten leaves and roots and drank water so muddy it stuck to their throats. Now, God’s Day, the Day of Anger, the Day of Vengeance, had arrived. Blood would cleanse and purify the hardships they had endured. Antioch was to be put to the sword.

The Franks burst into mosques, expecting to discover all sorts of abominations, only to find peace and quiet, the sweet smell of candles and dawn’s first light pouring through the fretted windows of coloured glass. The beauty of these places of prayer was savagely shattered. No mercy was shown to the imams and holy men turned devoutly towards Mecca; these met their death bravely enough as the prayer carpets on which they knelt became soaked in blood. The Franks stormed the palaces searching for gold, silver and precious stones. They looted hangings, tapestries, coverlets and cloths, wandering back into the streets dressed in their plundered finery. They smashed cabinets, coffers and chests. They seized women of the harem, beautiful Armenians and Circassians, violating them cruelly on the luxurious cushions and beautiful embroidered divans. Pale-skinned Greeks chanted prayers, made the sign of the cross and showed the crucifix in the hope of mercy at the hand of these killers sweeping through Antioch, their long swords cutting off life like the wind snuffs out a candle.

Turks were trapped and tortured; their stomachs ripped open, their entrails pulled out so that they could be burned or led around like dogs until they collapsed. The garrison retreated into the security of the citadel, where they displayed their green and white banners and waited for help. Bohemond immediately attacked the citadel, now commanded by one of Yaghi Siyan’s sons, until an arrow took him in the leg and forced him to withdraw. Yaghi Siyan himself panicked and fled; drunk and frightened, he kept falling from his horse until his escort, desperate to flee, left him on the ground. An Armenian butcher came across the fallen ruler of Antioch, hacked off his head and took this and Yaghi Siyan’s armour and harness to Bohemond for a reward.

Eleanor learnt all this as she sheltered in the Twin Sisters tower, exhausted and depleted. Theodore came to feed her, and Hugh and Godefroi returned, but Eleanor just sat, sprawled on cushions, staring into the distance. She quietly confessed to Theodore that she wanted to go home. He put it down to the tension she’d endured before the city fell. Eleanor, beside herself, just retreated deeper into the darkness of the tower, whilst outside the bloodshed gradually subsided. On 4 June, however, she was roused by Theodore, who breathlessly informed her that Turkish outriders and scouts had appeared in the foothills to the north of Antioch whilst those still holding the citadel had hoisted the black banner of war and threatened to push down into the city.

‘You must come,’ Theodore insisted. He hurriedly forced Eleanor to dress, collected her few possessions and pushed her through the door, down the steps and out of the tower. Hurrying along the dusty trackway, he warned her what to expect. They entered a city of the damned. Corpses still littered the streets. The white walls of houses and other buildings were now crimson with blood. The stench of corruption spread everywhere, polluting the air and sickening the stomach. Adhémar of Le Puy was doing his best to collect corpses in the squares and marketplaces; huge funeral pyres roared, their acrid black plumes blossoming like something evil against the white-blue sky. A new plundering was now taking place. The Army of God was locked in Antioch and there was little food to be had. Already Bohemond and other leaders, banners unfurled, were riding through the street, heralds scurrying before them, summoning men back to the standards. Eleanor felt as if she was crossing the wastelands of hell. Fires burned. Black smoke curled everywhere. Corpses, bloated and rotting, blocked her way. Only Theodore’s arm around her shoulder provided protection against the feeling of utter hopelessness that hovered to engulf her, a night of gathering blackness that threatened to sweep her soul. One thought dominated her senses: Firuz! She did not know what had happened to him. Yet his personal pain was the cause of all this. He had been betrayed by Asmaja so he, in turn, had betrayed all. Yet, if he hadn’t, what would have been the fate of Hugh, Godefroi and the rest? Was that life, she wondered, one door of betrayal leading to another? The priests preached hell; Eleanor felt as if she was buried there already. Was there salvation, or were she and the rest, Armenian, Greek and Turk, already judged and experiencing the horrors of eternal punishment? Eleanor babbled such thoughts as she was placed in the bedchamber of a Turkish merchant, its owner dead or fled. A leech was summoned who force-fed her a bitter-tasting drink that plunged her into a sweat-soaked sleep.

Over the next few days Eleanor, breaking through fitful dreams, became more aware of the gathering storm around the Army of God. Khebogha had arrived with an army, a moving mass of at least seventy thousand men against a Frankish force now reduced to thirty thousand, starving, still bereft of armour, horses, food and drink. The city was invested. A conflict, bloody and violent, began in earnest. The Mahomeri tower, the Castle of the Blessed Virgin, held by Robert of Flanders, was besieged. The Turks brought up mangonels and catapults to rain down sharpened death. Robert of Flanders burnt the castle and withdrew through Bridge Gate. Meanwhile, in the city, the Turks holding the citadel went on the attack, launching fierce assaults. Bohemond organised the defence along a ridge opposite the citadel. Nevertheless a constant rain, a mass of missiles, arrows and stones, fell on the Army of God. Fighting lasted from dawn to dusk, so those who had bread did not have time to eat it and those who had water were not able to drink. Courage and chivalry were not lacking. Robert of Barneville, with fifteen knights, charged a Turkish troops of horse only to be ambushed by even more. Robert turned, trying to flee back into the city, but his body was pierced by an arrow, his horse struck from under him. He was killed by a spear thrust through his head, which was later cut off and hoisted on a lance to taunt those watching on the battlements.

Bohemond emerged as the leader. He concentrated on the citadel, flying his blood-red banner, bandaging his wounded leg and driving back the Turks. He also fired the houses around, and the flames, whipped up by storm winds, ravaged the city but also drove out the Frankish deserters, whom Bohemond and his captains immediately marshalled against the enemy. Inside Antioch, Adhémar continued the grim task of cleaning the streets and burning the corpses. Chruches were reopened and consecrated. The ancient patriarch, found hiding, was restored to his office. The Army of God still hoped for help from Emperor Alexius, but this hope was cruelly dashed. The stream of deserters grew; even Stephen of Blois and other leaders joined the ‘rope-sliders’, those who clambered down the walls of Antioch at night, evaded the Turkish patrols and fled to spread the widening tale of woe. They reached the port of St Simeon and warned off the sailors there. The Turks attacked the port and burned what was left, killing anyone unable to leave. Alexius also retreated, believing the Army of God, trapped in Antioch, would be annihilated, a conclusion even the Franks now faced. The outer forts were burned and abandoned, and the army fell back into Antioch, confronting a force over twice their number. Yet worse was to follow.

Starvation began to bite. Famine became commonplace. The Franks were forced to eat fig leaves, thistles, leather belts and even the dried hides of dead animals. A horse’s head, without the tongue, sold for three gold pieces, the intestines of a goat for five and a live cockerel for ten. The knights were so desperate they drew the blood from their own horses and donkeys and drank it for sustenance. The Franks even opened negotiations with Khebogha, who demanded their total unconditional surrender and also that they renounce their religion. The Army of God truly faced annihilation. Hugh and Godefroi, however, vowed to fight to the death. They joined Eleanor in making their final confessions and returned to their plotting. God, they had decided, needed a helping hand.

One evening, a week after the fall of the city, Eleanor sat on the flat roof of the merchant’s house with Hugh, Godefroi and Theodore. She watched a meteor score the heavens and fall in a fiery mess behind the Turkish camp. The Poor Brethren were joined by Count Raymond of Toulouse, who came to share a tun of special wine found in the cellars of an Armenian merchant. At first the conversation was desultory. They all agreed there was little hope of relief, so they sat enjoying the wine and the cool evening breeze, staring out at the pinpricks of light in the sprawling camp of Khebogha’s advance guard. Eleanor drank slowly, half listening to the ranting of Peter Bartholomew the visionary, who was striding up and down the cobbled yard below. Peter’s young, powerful voice rang out, quoting the psalms as he cursed the enemies of the Army of God.

He has sent divers swarms of flies amongst them which devoured them and frogs which destroyed them.

He also gave their harvest to the caterpillar and the fruits of their vineyards to the locust.

He has destroyed their vines with hail and their sycamore trees with frost.

He has given their cattle to the hail and their flocks of sheep to hot thunderbolts.

He has cast upon our enemy the fierceness of his anger, laughter and indignation by sending evil angels among them.

He has made a way of anger.

He has not spared their souls.

He will give their lives over to the pestilence.

Count Raymond drained his cup, his one good eye fixed on Hugh.

‘It is only God we have left,’ he declared. ‘The Emperor will not help us. The Turks demand our surrender, or our heads, or possibly both. Our shepherds have deserted their flocks whilst the sheep starve.’ He paused at fresh cries and shouts.

Eleanor stared up at the flashes of fire scoring the night sky. Broad blood-red flames lit the blackness. From the city rose shouts of ‘Deus vult, Deus vult! A sign, a sign!’

‘They have asked for a sign; give them a sign!’ Raymond leaned across and thrust his goblet into Hugh’s hands. ‘Give it soon.’ He rose, cocking his head as if listening to Peter Bartholomew’s fresh ranting, then made his farewells and left.

A short time later the Poor Brethren of the Temple reassembled on the roof of the house. This time they were joined by Alberic and Norbert; they looked like brothers, cowls shrouding their cadaver-like faces, flesh shrunken from the depredations they’d suffered. Nevertheless, the eyes of both men were as bright and sharp as ever. They looked impatient, as if eager to begin some important enterprise. They were also joined by Beltran. He had openly rejoiced to find Imogene safe and well, delighted to be reunited with her though clearly bitter at the way he and his beloved had been deceived. Hugh had shrugged this off, dismissing Beltran’s growing coolness by declaring that in order to succeed, Bohemond’s plan had had to remain secret.

‘Well, well,’ Beltran murmured now, forcing a smile and glancing round. ‘Will we escape this by treachery? By deceit, by cunning?’

‘What shall be done?’ Hugh retorted, his voice harsh at Beltran’s jibes.

‘What can be done?’ Beltran’s reply was almost a jeer.

‘We must fight!’ Theodore declared. ‘We cannot withstand the siege. We grow weaker by the day. We have no choice but to leave Antioch and bring Khebogha to battle.’

‘And be defeated?’ Beltran asked.

‘We are desperate!’ Hugh broke in. ‘We have no other choice. Theodore is correct. The army must be roused. They have seen the signs in the heavens. The Army of God must have a rallying point. We must be purified and purged.’ His voice had risen; now it sank to a whisper. ‘The count knows what I have discussed with him; God’s will be done.’ He and Godefroi rose and went down the steps. They were joined a little later by Alberic and Norbert. Finally Beltran murmured his farewells and withdrew, leaving Theodore and Eleanor alone.

‘You are well?’

She smiled thinly back at him. ‘I am tired, hungry, dirty and…’

‘Lost?’ Theodore asked.

‘Yes, lost.’

‘We have all lost our way.’

Eleanor cocked her head. Peter Bartholomew was now silent. ‘What does my brother plan, Theodore?’

‘A sign.’ He came over and sat on the cushions piled beside her. ‘A sign from God.’

‘With a little help from my brother?’

‘Perhaps…’ Theodore smiled. ‘God helps those who look to Him for help.’

‘And perhaps,’ Eleanor murmured, ‘those who are prepared to give Him a helping hand?’

‘Precisely,’ Theodore whispered. ‘Eleanor, in Jerusalem lie the holy relics of Our Saviour. What if,’ he stared up at the sky, ‘such a relic could also be found here?’

The answer to Theodore’s question came swiftly enough. Peter Bartholomew, who had mysteriously disappeared for a few days, re-emerged and presented himself before Count Raymond and Adhémar of Le Puy with the promise of a revelation. Peter’s demand for an audience was like an answer to a prayer. In the city, panic was beginning to spread, people wondering what fate they could expect. The news of the impending revelation coursed like fire through stubble, and when Peter presented himself, the message delivered by his powerful voice was repeated throughout the city. ‘My lords,’ he began, ‘Andrew, the Apostle of God and of our Lord Jesus Christ, has recently admonished me for the fourth time. He has commanded me to give back to you, after this city was captured, the lance that opened the side of Our Saviour. I have not obeyed him. Today I went out of the city with the rest to do battle. I was caught between two horsemen. I was almost suffocated and sat down sadly on a certain rock, almost devoid of life. I was faint, exhausted from hunger, fear and grief. St Andrew came to me in a dream with a companion. He threatened me much unless I gave the news to you quickly…’ At this, both the count and the bishop interrupted him, asking him to explain what he meant.

‘Months ago, when the first earthquake shook Antioch, I said nothing, God help me. One night when I lay down, the earth shook again. My fear increased, and looking up, I suddenly saw two men standing before me in the brightest clothing. The first was older with red-white hair; his beard was wide and thick and he was of medium stature. His companion was younger and taller, handsome beyond any likeness of the children of men. The older man said to me: “What are you doing?” I was very frightened and I replied, “Who are you?” The man retorted, “Rise and do not be afraid and listen to what I am saying to you. I am Andrew the Apostle. Bring together the Bishop of Le Puy and Count Raymond of Toulouse and say these words to them: ‘Why has the bishop neglected to preach and admonish the People of the cross, for it will profit them much?” ’ And he added, ‘Come, I will show you the lance of Our Lord Jesus Christ and you shall give it to Count Raymond, as God intended for him to hold it ever since he was born.’

‘I rose therefore and followed St Andrew into the city dressed in nothing but my shirt. I passed unharmed through the streets of the Turks and he led me into the Church of St Peter the Apostle, which the Turks had turned into a mosque. Inside the church two lamps shed as much light as if the sun was pouring through. He told me to wait and commanded me to sit at the base of a pillar close to the steps leading to the altar. He went ahead of me and disappeared as if going down into the ground. He then emerged, bringing forth a lance, which he thrust into my hands. He said to me: “Behold the lance which opened His side from which the salvation of the whole world is come.” I held it in my hands, weeping for joy. “Lord,” I asked, “if it is Thy will, I shall take this and give it to the count.” And he said to me, “Not now, for soon the city will be taken. Then come with twelve men and seek it from the same place I drew it from and where you shall find it again.” And he put the lance back. After these things had happened, I was led back into the camp to my own tent. When I woke up, I reflected about the condition of my poverty, and I was too terrified to approach you. Anyway, it was the first day of Lent, around the of time of cockcrow, that St Andrew reappeared to me, in the same garb with the same companion, and a great brightness shone around them.

‘ “Are you awake?” St Andrew asked.

‘ “My Lord, I am not asleep.”

‘ “Have you done what I have told you to do?”

‘I replied, “Lord, I have prayed for you to send someone else to them. I am only a poor man, they will not believe me.” He replied that God had chosen Peter Bartholomew from amongst all men as a grain of wheat is gathered from chaff because he could see in me merit and favour.’ Peter then explained how this message comforted him, though he had still remained silent, until now.

The news of Peter Bartholomew’s vision spread through the city, as did his offer to test the truthfulness of his message by going to the Church of St Peter and searching for the lance. Other visionaries came forward recounting similar tales. Soothsayers and conjurors recalled the meteor that had fallen over Antioch, the earthquake, and how heavenly warriors had been seen amongst their ranks.

Eleanor listened with interest. She tried to entice Theodore into conversation but he simply pressed his finger against her lips and would not be drawn. Hugh and Godefroi acted likewise. They were now both desperate, urging the count to go to the newly converted Church of St Peter the Apostle and search for the lance.

‘It is our only hope,’ they whispered. ‘If that is found, the great relic will be our rallying call.’

At last the count agreed. Accompanied by Theodore, Hugh, Godefroi, Peter Bartholomew and others, he went to the Church of St Peter; this was cleared of worshippers, though people gathered around the doors, the crowd increasing as word spread through the city. Paving stones were raised, and the spot the visionary had pointed out was feverishly searched, but nothing was found. Count Raymond left St Peter’s to jeers. Hugh, Godefroi and Peter Bartholomew, however, continued to dig. Theodore told Eleanor what happened next. They had cleared the earth, digging deep, when Peter Bartholomew himself stepped into the pit wearing only his shirt. He knelt for a while offering solemn prayers to God, and a short while later, dislodging a rock in the wall of earth around him, put his hand in and drew out the spear head, the sacred point of the holy lance. He kissed this and held it up.

‘A sign!’ he cried. ‘God wills it. We have God’s approval.’

The news of the finding of the holy lance swept through the city. A sign had been granted! A miracle had taken place! The leaders immediately met in council and voted that Bohemond should take command of the entire army for the next fifteen days. Adhémar ordered three days of prayer and fasting as well as processions through the streets, invocations, litanies and masses. Exultation now replaced despair. The Franks believed the Angel of Death had withdrawn. The army roused itself and prepared to leave the city to meet Khebogha in full battle. Eleanor, shaken from her lethargy, tried to join in the celebrations, but she and Simeon were kept close in the merchant’s house. Eleanor did not object, as she did not wish to become a burden on the rest. A way forward was now open. They would have to fight or die a lingering death.

Eleanor admired her brother’s cunning, though as she confided to Theodore, she was growing increasingly alarmed by Peter Bartholomew’s change of character as he was lionised and revered amongst the Army of God. He waxed full of fresh visions, becoming the virtual mouthpiece of the Almighty. The leaders accepted the sacred lance but became increasingly jealous of Peter Bartholomew’s insistence that Count Raymond had been specially chosen by God to carry it. Hugh and Godefroi realised that their newly enhanced prophet had to be curbed. Quiet words of advice were given, and the sacred relic was formally handed over to Bishop Adhémar in a public ceremony. The leaders were satisfied, though Bohemond, raging around the city like a ravenous lion, was dismissive of the lance, more concerned about organising the army for battle. The Franks now numbered about twenty-five thousand, but only three hundred horses were fit for battle. Nevertheless, Bohemond intended to gamble, using tactics similar to those employed against Ridwan of Aleppo. Five divisions were organised. Those knights who could not ride were organised into tight phalanxes of foot. They were given strict lectures on the tactics of the Turks, the importance of staying together and of following the directions of their respective leaders. At first Eleanor could not understand why Bohemond, his yellow hair now cropped close, face all fiery, those strange blue eyes gleaming, became a constant visitor to their house in the Street of Incense. Stranger still, he brought precious food, baskets of bread and bowls full of sweet delicacies. The house had its own stable, and three horses, fairly plump and strong, were also brought in and given the best fodder. Eleanor noticed how she, Theodore and Simeon became the principal recipients of the food, secretly served once darkness fell, away from prying eyes.

On the Feast of the Birth of St John the Baptist, Bohemond, garbed in a stinking, stained leather hauberk and dark blue leggings, his Spanish boots all worn and scuffed, came to join them at the evening meal. He loudly proclaimed how St John was his patron saint and that he would celebrate the feast day. He came blustering into the house, clasping Hugh and Godefroi’s hands, patting Simeon on the shoulder, embracing Theodore and giving Eleanor a fierce hug that lifted her off the ground, his unshaven stubble prickling her face. He dropped her as he would a bundle of cloth, then scratched the sweat beads on his neck.

‘Lord knows how I’d love a woman thrashing beneath me, but don’t tell that to the bishop!’ Bohemond spread his hands and roared with laughter at his own joke. Then he plumped down on the cushions and gestured at the others to join him. His great hands broke the unleavened bread, stubby fingers searched out olives from the bowl, great white teeth tore the cooked quail flesh. Every so often he would gulp from his goblet and thrust it out for Simeon to refill. He burped and winked at Eleanor, then licked his fingers, leaned across and thanked her for the deliverance of the Twin Sisters tower.

‘And Firuz?’ she asked.

‘Dead.’ Bohemond pulled his face all solemn, eyes mournful. ‘He was killed by mistake in the first foray.’

Eleanor caught a shift in those light blue eyes and wondered if Firuz had been marked out as too untrustworthy to use any further.

At last the great giant declared himself satisfied and clambered up to inspect, as he put it, his ‘lovely lads’ who guarded doors and gateways against any spy or eavesdropper.

‘Not only from the Turks,’ Theodore murmured. ‘There’s growing bad blood between Raymond and Bohemond over who will hold Antioch.’

‘I heard that.’ Bohemond came back into the room. He patted Theodore on the back and sat down on the cushions.

‘But first, before we sell the bearskin, let’s kill the bear!’ He dipped his finger into his wine cup and on a white napkin drew a crude map of Antioch. ‘Here is the citadel on Mount Silpius, held by the Turks. They can communicate with the enemy outside by raising flags as well as by messenger. Each of the main gates, St George, Bridge Gate, Duke Gate and St Paul’s, is now besieged by the Turks. Further to the north lies Khebogha’s main camp. They have about eighty thousand men to our twenty-five thousand. They must have heard about this bloody…’ Bohemond checked himself, ‘our sacred lance but they certainly don’t know that we’ll fight! Out tactics will be simple. The Army of God will deploy in five divisions. The first will be led by Hugh of Paris. He will swiftly sally out and attack the enemy, driving them off, creating time and space for the rest to leave.’

‘By which gate?’ Hugh asked.

‘The entire army will leave by Bridge Gate. The northern French, under Robert of Normandy and Robert of Flanders will follow Hugh of Paris. Next, Godfrey of Bouillon commanding the Germans, whilst Bishop Adhémar will lead the Provençals.’ Bohemond shrugged. ‘I understand Count Raymond has not yet recovered from an illness. Tancred and I will lead the fifth squadron. Once we leave the city, we will deploy in a semicircle and advance across the plain, keeping the Orontes on our right flank, to confront Khebogha. I need not tell you the dangers of such a plan.’

‘As we deploy,’ Hugh declared, ‘those Turks besieging the gates will attack our flanks and rear.’

‘Worse,’ Godefroi added, ‘if Khebogha advances swiftly towards us, we’ll be encircled and crushed.’

‘Very good, very good,’ Bohemond breathed. ‘Yes, that’s what I thought you would say, but the enemy will not expect us. Tancred and I will take care of any attack from the rear. The Turks on the other gates have to cross the Orontes. They will be loose, scattered, easy to brush off, more of an irritant than anything else. The main threat is Khebogha, but he has made a great mistake. Too wide a gap divides his main camp from Antioch. If we can leave, deploy, brush aside the outposts and aim like an arrow for Khebogha’s army, we might seize victory. Our men are desperate yet inspired. They now realise it is either fight and be victorious or face certain death!’

Eleanor felt her stomach pitch, and a cool ripple of fear crossed her back. She could see what Bohemond was plotting. His plan was crude, simple but very effective. The Army of God would pour out of the city across Bridge Gate and form up on the plain outside. They would advance north, their right flank protected by the river. Those Turks surrounding each gate might attack, but they’d be taken by surprise. They would have to ford the river and would be reluctant to take on the main Frankish host. Those in the citadel could do little; fearful of treachery or betrayal, they would stay there until the battle was decided. However, if Khebogha moved his massive army and marched, the Army of God would simply be surrounded, trapped and annihilated. She glanced up sharply. Hugh and Godefroi refused to meet her eye. Theodore was staring down at the crude map as Bohemond tapped his fingers against it. Beside her, Simeon was shivering slightly.

‘You have to convince Khebogha not to move,’ she said. Bohemond’s ice-blue eyes held hers. ‘You have already begun that, haven’t you?’

He nodded imperceptibly.

‘How?’

‘Very easy. One of my commanders was killed in the fighting around the citadel. We made great play of trying to reclaim his corpse, but eventually we were driven off. He was a good soldier.’ Bohemond narrowed his eyes. ‘A fighting man; he loved the sun, the wine. He’d marched east to make himself a great lord. He vowed that he would serve me in life and death, and he certainly did. I deliberately left a letter on his corpse. The Turks in the citadel will have read it and passed it on to Khebogha. In that letter to the Emperor Alexius, I reveal that I have been made commander of the Army of God, and that I intend to desert Antioch and leave Count Raymond to meet his fate.’ Bohemond smiled. ‘After all, the animosity between us is well known, as is the fact that we plan to march back into the Emperor’s dominions.’

‘So Khebogha won’t move.’ Simeon spoke up. ‘He’ll stay in his camp, where there is a supply of fresh water, away from the contagion around the city. He knows all he has to do is just sit and wait. His garrisons at the city gates will inflict damage on you, perhaps weaken your army…’

‘Precisely.’ Bohemond tapped on the table. ‘And by the time we reach Khebogha, we’ll be depleted, burnt by the sun, starving and thirsty. We may surrender, we may put up some resistance, but…’ he shrugged, ‘why should Khebogha come looking for us when we will come to him? We’ll have to tramp under the sun, through the dust clouds, and suffer attack. He thinks he is the hunter just waiting to spring his trap.’

‘How do you know Khebogha has read your letter?’

‘Very simple,’ Bohemond mused. ‘He hasn’t moved. He knows from his spies, not to mention the watch in the citadel, that we are massing ready to leave. Nevertheless, he has not moved his camp or even strengthened his outposts around the city gates. No, I think the letter is there; he’s waiting. What we have to do,’ he pointed at Eleanor, ‘what you have to do, is convince him by giving him the precise time, date and place of our departure.’

Eleanor felt her breath catch in her throat, her skin abruptly soaked in sweat. She glared accusingly at her brother and Godefroi. They just stared back, and in that moment, Eleanor realised how much things had changed. What was important to them was not any blood-tie, kinship or former memories, only the future, the vision: Jerusalem! Everything, including herself, was simply a way of achieving that. She stared at Theodore. He looked more composed, though she was sure Simeon’s teeth were chattering.

‘How is it to be done?’ she asked quickly. ‘Why me?’

‘The same as before,’ Bohemond continued evenly. ‘You, Theodore and Simeon. During the afternoon of the twenty-seventh of June, the day before we leave, you’ll escape and ride towards Khebogha. The night before, Theodore will have shot an arrow into the enemy camp carrying a message informing the Turks that he will desert the next morning, bringing vital information for the Atabeg Khebogha. You will leave on those three horses specially stabled and cared for; that is why you have also been given food. I want Khebogha to realise that you have been hiding in the city and decided to escape.’

‘But they’ll know…’ Eleanor stammered, ‘that we betrayed the Twin Sisters through Firuz.’

‘Listen,’ Theodore broke in. ‘We have been chosen precisely because of that. This is our story. We fled the Army of God and sheltered with Firuz, who quarrelled with Yaghi Siyan. Firuz was the traitor. He held the towers, not us. He was the one who betrayed them to the Franks, so we killed him in revenge.’

Bohemond clambered to his feet, left the chamber and came back carrying two leather sacks. He undid the cord of the first and drew out a severed head. The face was a deathly hue, the eyes closed, the blood-spattered lips half open. Firuz! The severed skin at the neck was clotted a dark red. In the other sack was a second severed head that Eleanor vaguely recognised.

‘Firuz’s brother,’ Theodore explained, ‘killed in the nearby tower, also judged a traitor.’

‘But he wasn’t. I know that,’ Eleanor insisted. ‘Firuz acted on his own; he was fearful of being betrayed.’

‘Of course,’ Hugh intervened. ‘Firuz and his brother were killed by mistake in the first affray when the blood ran hot. It was difficult to distinguish between friend and foe. However, both heads will be presented to Khebogha as the two traitors who delivered Antioch to the Franks.’

‘And he will believe that?’ Simeon’s voice was almost a yelp. ‘That we, well fed, with plump horses, could hide in Antioch for over three weeks, then ride out with the severed heads of two traitors?’

‘Why not?’ Theodore insisted. ‘Remember, Antioch is a sprawling city with orchards, parks, houses, cellars and passageways. Turks still shelter in the city, well armed, well fed, with treasure and food. They must have heard about Khebogha’s approach. They know the citadel is still being held. All they have to do is hide long enough and deliverance will come. We are three such people. We hid as long as we could, then decided to escape. It’s happening every day; why shouldn’t we flee? The Army of God is depleted and starving.’

‘The information we bring?’ Eleanor asked, trying to keep her throat wet to avoid any show of fear. ‘How did we gain that?’

‘Quite simply,’ Theodore shrugged, ‘we are in Antioch. Armenians and Turks mill about the streets, the blood lust is over, we mingled with this person or that. Let’s look at it from Khebogha’s point of view: why should we risk coming to him as traitors? No, no, our story will be believed. Eleanor, if you do not want to come, do not. The same for you, Simeon. However, it would be more logical, more convincing if all three of us were to explain how, after the Twin Sisters fell, we went into hiding, managed to survive, mingled with the Army of God, were discovered and fled. Count Bohemond is correct. Whatever happens, Khebogha must not move.’

The questioning continued. Eleanor tried to hide her own anxiety under Bohemond’s powerful scrutiny. She fully understood the logic of his plan. She’d heard the rumours of how people were deserting, fleeing, so why shouldn’t they? Their explanation was convincing enough. It was well known that Turks were hiding out in the woods, valleys, parks and orchards of the city, well armed and dangerous.

‘You will leave by a postern gate near St George,’ Bohemond explained. ‘You will be pursued and shot at but you will successfully escape. Once you are in Turkish hands, you’ll be safe. If they believe your story, so will Khebogha. Well?’

Eleanor glanced at Simeon, who sat, eyes closed, rocking himself backwards and forwards, silently mouthing a prayer.

‘I will go,’ Eleanor whispered, ‘but the Lord knows it’s dangerous. What if, and I say this, what if Firuz told someone else? What if some Turk knows we helped him betray the Twin Sisters and that Turk is now with Khebogha?’

‘No!’ Theodore used his fingers to emphasise his points. ‘The Twin Sisters fell during the dark. Only Count Bohemond, Hugh and Godefroi knew of our involvement; everyone else believes it was Firuz alone. On the night the towers fell, Simeon and Imogene were kept close. You, as I told you to, stayed in the shadows; the men who passed you that night were battle-crazed. I disappeared immediately with Hugh and Godefroi…’

‘Were you preparing for this?’ Eleanor half laughed.

‘No,’ Theodore replied. ‘Preparing for failure, the prospect that the attack on Antioch might be repulsed. We would have had to concoct some story, very similar to this, that Firuz was the traitor whilst we were true adherents of Yaghi Siyan.’

‘I will come to Imogene in a moment,’ Hugh interrupted. ‘But apart from her, and possibly Beltran, only the people in this chamber know the real truth about the betrayal of the Twin Sisters. Firuz and his men are dead and we shall now use that to our advantage.’

Eleanor recalled the corpse sprawled across the threshold of the tower, blood gushing out in the dim light. She wondered if that had been Firuz, an accident? Or had he and others been deliberately killed by these ruthless men? Eleanor felt cold, detached.

‘What if,’ Simeon retorted, ‘a spy in Antioch tells them the truth?’

‘Which is?’ Bohemond asked.

‘That when the city fell, we rejoined the Army of God, who accepted us for what we were, heroes!’

Again that calculating look from Bohemond. Hugh and Godefroi just sat, shoulders hunched. Hugh chewed the corner of his lip as if he had already reflected on what Simeon had said and knew the answer.

‘Who knows that you’ve been accepted?’ Godefroi replied. ‘You’ve sheltered in this house for the last three weeks. How many people know? Nobody except a few trusted members of the Poor Brethren of the Temple.’

Eleanor now realised why she and Simeon had been kept so close. Few people understood what had truly happened at the Twin Sisters; that had been a closely guarded secret.

‘There may be a traitor,’ Hugh spoke up, ‘amongst our brethren, that’s what Count Raymond thinks. However, remember that only the people in this room, together with Imogene, and possibly Beltran, know your full role in Firuz’s treachery. I swear to this, since Antioch fell, both Beltran and Imogene have been kept under the closest scrutiny.’ He smiled. ‘I think they know that. Moreover, you will flee Antioch late on the afternoon of the twenty-seventh of June; we leave by Bridge Gate on the morning of the twenty-eighth. No spy will have enough time to send a message to Khebogha, whilst you will carry those heads as proof of the story you will tell. Why shouldn’t Khebogha believe you?’

‘We will go,’ Eleanor whispered. ‘It is dangerous, but what we face here is equally perilous. We can at least try.’ She pointed at Bohemond. ‘But, God willing and we reach Jerusalem, you must swear that whatever I want, whatever I ask for will be given. If not from you, my lord Bohemond,’ she turned to her brother and Godefroi, ‘then from you and Count Raymond.’ All three solemnly agreed. Theodore looked surprised. Simeon murmured something about his freedom, lamenting the danger, then the meeting ended.

Two days later Theodore was ushered up on to a lonely stretch of the battlements near St George Gate. Bohemond’s men, who should have been on patrol, were secretly and abruptly withdrawn. An arrow was shot into one of the wooden pillars of the bridge. A Turk ran into the pool of light thrown by a cresset torch. The arrow was snapped off and the man disappeared into the darkness. Late the following morning, Eleanor, Theodore and Simeon slipped through the stinking streets towards a large park that bordered on the Gate of the Goat, a needle-thin postern door about sixty yards from St George Gate. Eleanor, sweat-soaked with apprehension, carried a set of panniers stuffed with her paltry possessions. She felt very alert, aware of everything and everybody: a dog sniffing at a corpse lying in the mouth of a dark alleyway, two soldiers fighting over a basket of wild plants and herbs, a group of young men and boys bloated with hunger.

They hurried down a dark path that cut through the park, Bohemond’s men stood on guard beneath the trees. A short distance away, along a rocky gulley, others were clearing away the rubbish and pulling off the beams across the postern gate. The three horses were saddled; Hugh and Godefroi in full armour stood guarding them. They helped Eleanor into the saddle, whispered their love and good wishes, then, like some dream in the night, Theodore urged his horse forward. Eleanor went next, followed by Simeon, and their horses gingerly picked their way down the narrow gulley of loose shale. The postern door creaked open. An officer beckoned to them, then they were through. Theodore urged his horse forward, and all three cantered out along the winding path, galloping furiously towards the narrow bridge across the Orontes. Immediately the make-believe pursuit began, led by Hugh and Godefroi; soldiers, swords drawn, stumbled out through the gate, screaming and waving their weapons. On the battlements archers loosed shafts that passed dangerously close. Eleanor was aware of her horse at full charge, its head bobbing, hooves clattering. The air reeked of that horrid sweet-sour stench of corruption, and corpses and pieces of armour and weapons littered the ground.

The shouts behind them faded. Eleanor’s horse checked itself, then followed Theodore’s, iron hooves pounding the wooden boards of the narrow bridge then on to rocky ground, the grass dry and sparse. As Theodore swerved to the right, galloping along the river bank, shouts and cries echoed from the battlements. Theodore slowed down as a group of Turkish horsemen, cloaks swirling, thundered towards them. He reined in, Eleanor and Simeon behind, and quickly raised his right hand, palm extended, shouting loudly, repeating the same gasping words. The Turks surrounded them, eyes gleaming in white-cowled dark faces. Theodore’s sword and dagger were quickly plucked from his war belt. Eleanor waved at the cloud of dust threatening to block her eyes and throat. Another shout, and an officer in gleaming breastplate and damascened helmet, blue cloak flying, galloped up gesturing with his gloved hand that the riders pull apart. The tension was almost unbelievable. The Turks were undecided what to do. The only thing that had saved the deserters was that they had been pursued from the gate and galloped directly towards the Turkish outpost. The officer reined in, pulling a scrap of parchment from the cuff of his sleeve. He thrust this at Theodore, who nodded, pointed back at the gates and spoke quickly, urgently, repeating the name Khebogha several times. Theodore acted the part of a deserter with vital news which his new-found allies must know. He spoke excitedly, as if he was the possessor of all the deepest secrets of Count Raymond and the rest. He patted the two leather sacks tied securely to his saddle horn. Firuz’s name was mentioned. Theodore turned, hawked and spat into the dust. The officer, taken in by the high drama, was convinced. He shouted at his men, Theodore’s weapons were returned, then the officer led them off at a furious gallop, a moving wall of dust across the Antiochene plain.

They must have ridden about five miles before they reached the picket lines of Khebogha’s camp. They slowed down as they entered the main lane leading to its centre. Eleanor’s heart sank. Khebogha’s army was the great horde of Asia. Chieftains and emirs had responded to their caliph’s call to annihilate the Frankish invaders. Masses of foot soldiers thronged in their body armour, heavy cavalry with their helmets and mail hauberks, all armed with spear, dagger and curving sword, and of course everywhere those deadly Turkish archers on their swift, nimble mounts. As far as Eleanor could see stretched a veritable forest of tents and pavilions of different colours and fabrics. The army seemed well provisioned, situated close to a river and lakes. The horse lines housed great herds, all plump, sleek and glossy-coated. Along the ground nearby ranged row upon row of the high-peaked saddles so favoured by the Turkish bowmen.

They were told to dismount, then led to the Atabeg’s tent, a gorgeous purple pavilion with silver ropes and golden tassels. The pavilion and its surrounding tents were cordoned off from the rest of the camp by a palisade, its double-gated entrance guarded by splendidly attired warriors in gleaming armour. Inside were planted the Atabeg’s standards and banners, fixed into spigots driven into the ground. Eleanor glimpsed glossy horses being trotted around by grooms. Scribes sat under awnings, writing trays on their laps. At the entrance to one vermilion-coloured tent stood a group of beautiful maidens, long black hair hanging down free, their golden skin swathed in diaphanous gauze veils. The sound of music and laughter echoed. Eleanor took heart at this. Khebogha had decided not to advance. He was confident enough, apparently viewing the impending battle as already won.

Khebogha’s personal guards took Theodore’s weapons. They were searched and then, with a soldier on either side, escorted into the cool, fragrant-smelling pavilion. Khebogha sat on a pile of cushions. He was a young man with an imperious, arrogant face, small black eyes and a hawkish nose above thin lips. He wore a white turban and a loose embroidered robe. He seemed more concerned with the chess set before him, jewelled ivory pieces on a lacquered board. He spoke angrily to his opponent, an old white-bearded man, then turned to greet his three visitors, who were forced to kneel just inside the entrance. Either side of Khebogha squatted his emirs. In the poor light all Eleanor could see were dark faces, coloured turbans, a flash of white or the glitter of silver or gold thread.

At first Khebogha was openly hostile. He pushed away the chess board and squatted, hands hanging between his knees, as he questioned Theodore. Eleanor calmed herself. Khebogha was arrogant; Theodore was very clever. He told the Atabeg exactly what he wanted to hear. How Count Raymond was ill, the leaders of the Franks divided; they were bereft of horses, starving, weak, desperate for home and openly mutinous. They intended to leave Antioch by Bridge Gate just after dawn the following day and march north, not to do battle but to negotiate their way through into Byzantine territory. It would be, Theodore concluded triumphantly, a matter for Khebogha to decide whether they lived or died. The Atabeg openly rejoiced at this. He nodded vigorously, turning to his colleagues, intent on demonstrating that what Theodore had described was precisely his own perception. They must not move but let their forces outside the gates of Antioch harass the Franks. The main Turkish force must sit, wait and spring the trap. Voices were raised in dissension but Khebogha ignored these. A shadow moved to Eleanor’s right. One of the Turks leaned forward as he salaamed and gave his advice to Khebogha. Eleanor caught her breath. Baldur! The handsome captain, the seducer of Asmaja, the real cause for the fall of Antioch. Theodore and Simeon had also identified him but kept their poise. Baldur, whatever his private thoughts, was apparently desperate to hide his own role in the tragic events of the Twin Sisters’ fall. He dared not voice his suspicions without laying himself open to serious accusation. Seduction of a fellow officer’s wife would be as heinous amongst these pious Muslims as it would be with the leaders of the Army of God. Antioch had fallen because of Baldur’s lust; that would be regarded as his death warrant.

Simeon later whispered how Baldur, instead of attacking or criticising Theodore, had insisted that Khebogha question the Greek on his own credentials. Theodore, as Eleanor later discovered, complied adroitly. He gestured at Eleanor, describing her as his wife. He then described their desertion from the Army of God. How they had been accepted by Yaghi Siyan and entrusted to the care of the traitor Firuz at the Twin Sisters tower. How Firuz had betrayed his post for paltry gain and how Theodore, consumed with rage, had killed both Firuz and his brother. At this point he pushed forward the two leather sacks a servant had placed beside him. The severed heads were exposed to murmurs of appreciation followed by curses directed at these grisly trophies. At this juncture Khebogha clapped his hands. Ice sherbet and saffron cakes were served to his visitors, whom he now called his guests. Theodore, Simeon and Eleanor relaxed. Food and drink had been served; they were accepted.

Theodore now waxed lyrical. He described how he had cut one of the ox-hide ladders Firuz had lowered, a detail known to the Turks, then explained how they had hidden in Antioch, seizing food and horses whilst sheltering in the dense park close to the Gate of the Goat. How they had mixed with the Franks and learned their plans until they had been discovered. Suspicions had been raised so they had no choice but to flee. Theodore did not describe himself as a convert to Islam or even willing to serve Khebogha but as a simple mercenary who’d realised the Franks were finished and needed to flee. In the end Khebogha nodded, clapping his hands, looking around at his companions. The decision was made. Let the Franks emerge from Antioch. They would be harassed by his outposts and then destroyed by his main army. Theodore, Eleanor and Simeon were allowed to withdraw. They were given a small tent within the royal palisade and settled down to await events. Eleanor spent a tense day and night sleeping fitfully, disturbed by the sounds of the camp; only later did she discover exactly what had happened.

Bohemond left Antioch as predicted, though what Khebogha did not realise was that the Franks were intent on a fight to the death. Negotiation and surrender were now regarded as total anathema. The Army of God spilled out of Bridge Gate. Every type of horse had been gathered and fed with whatever fodder could be found. Hugh of Paris swept ahead to clear away any obstacle; his archers unleashed intense volleys at the Turks, who retreated in shock at the brutal and unexpected assault. The Norman French under the two Roberts, Flanders and Normandy, followed, then Godfrey of Bouillon with the Germans. Adhémar of Le Puy led the Provençals. Next to the warlike bishop his chaplain carried the sacred standard, the Holy Lance, which, the bishop had proclaimed, would bring them total victory. Behind all these thundered the fifth squadron under Bohemond’s blood-red standards. The execution of Bohemond’s plan was exceptional. The Army of God swiftly formed a rough semicircle about a mile wide, one flank on the foothills to the west, the other on the river Orontes. Those Turkish squadrons besieging the city gates moved to harass the Franks. Reinhard of Toul, with phalanxes of French and German knights, turned to meet them, but not to defend; instead they attacked like a pack of ravenous wild dogs.

In his camp Khebogha calmly organised his army into two broad divisions. Standards and banners were unfurled. The holy cry went up: ‘Allah is God! There is no God but Allah!’ The devout Muslims, once this prayer was finished, rose from their cloaks and makeshift prayer carpets and donned their battle harness. The Turks had been assured that they would spring a trap and easily destroy the Frankish army for good. Unbeknown to them, a mass of desperate soldiers, also trusting in God, were tramping through the dust towards them. Traders and farmers, garbed in rags and armed with rusty meathooks and axes, marched steadily behind their leaders; some even walked hand-in-hand with their young sons. Priests clothed in the vestments of the Mass chanted prayers as they grasped cudgels and clubs.

The Turkish advance guard attacked the Franks on their right flank, setting fire to the dry weeds along the river bank. The Army of God, behind their sacred standard, simply walked through the fire, beating at the flames with their cloaks. The smoke billowed. Turkish horsemen galloped through it like wraiths, fierce spectres armed with spears and rounded shields. They were met by a savage assault which brought down both horse and rider; lance, spear, axe and dagger whipped through the air, clubs rose and fell, swords hissed and hacked. The Army of God suffered casualties, men falling from every type of wound; these were left on the ground with grass or wild flowers thrust into their mouths as their host for the last sacrament. They whispered their dying confessions to the breeze and passed their weapons to the more able.

The Turkish cavalry charged, but the Frankish infantry still held firm. Again the Turks attacked, then recoiled in horror as mounted grey shadows thundered through the battle murk towards them. Mailed knights, lances couched, smashed into the Turkish line. More knights appeared, lances gone, drawing their long death-bearing swords. Turks fell, to be swept up by the Frankish foot now surging forward. The ground grew slippery with blood. Men staggered around screaming, with intestines pierced or tumbling out, their throbbing wounds pumping blood. Then the hammer blow. Bohemond’s scarlet banner appeared! The mailed giant led his elite fighters deep into the Turkish squadrons. The Army of God surged forward like some huge boulder crashing down a mountainside. The Turks became nervous and panic-stricken. The air rang with screams of ‘Deus vult! Deus vult!’ Mailed horsemen exultantly chanted hymns and psalms. Knights even took off their helmets and flung them at the enemy. Heavenly riders were glimpsed fighting on the Frankish side. The first Turkish line shattered completely, then broke and fled.

In Khebogha’s camp, Theodore had already moved Eleanor and Simeon to safety. In the confusion they seized their horses and raced out to hide in the dense shrubbery around the nearby lake. Back in the Turkish camp, chaos rather than strategy prevailed. The Atabeg was confused. The reports he was receiving could not be true. His second line was marshalled. The main army was scarcely moving forward when the first squadrons of Turkish cavalry came hurtling back screaming their fear, pointing over their shoulders at the swirling dust and those demons on horseback. Bohemond’s scarlet banner came fluttering towards them. The two Turkish hosts mingled. Confusion and panic spread. The ranks dissolved. Command collapsed. Banners and standards fell. Officers were unable to give orders. The Turks started to fight amongst themselves, desperate to flee. Panic turned to flight as the Army of God, horse and foot, smashed into Khebogha’s disorganised force. The Turkish leaders galloped off; their army followed. The Frankish host poured into the camp, spearing women, looting the food supplies, pillaging the gilded pavilions, ransacking the cedarwood chests and coffers, plunging their filthy hands into mountains of pearls and precious stones, dragging away the tapestries, gorgeous hangings and carpets.

By the time Eleanor and Simeon returned to the camp, victory was certain, Khebogha’s defeat total. Bohemond and the other leaders had already set up court in Khebogha’s pavilion. Theodore and Eleanor, with Simeon trailing behind, were ushered in to receive the leaders’ grateful thanks. Goblets of wine and sherbet were thrust into their hands, along with soft sweet bread and strips of cooked meat. Bohemond was bellowing that whatever they saw they could have. Eleanor simply rested on the cushions. Theodore delivered his report and, once again, received the giant Norman’s thanks, then they were dismissed. Eleanor begged to be taken somewhere safe and quiet. Officers were already beginning to impose order amongst the troop when Theodore’s name was shouted. They turned and walked back. A group of German swordsmen had a prisoner manacled between them, Eleanor recognised Baldur, his finery all torn. The Germans gestured at their prisoner, and one of them lifted a sword, making a mock show of cutting off Baldur’s head. Theodore spoke quietly to them, and the Germans lowered their swords respectfully. Theodore beckoned Baldur to approach as Eleanor came up behind him.

‘What is it, brother?’ Theodore asked.

Baldur licked dirty, blood-caked lips. ‘My life, brother. I suspected the truth yet I did not betray you.’

‘True.’ Theodore nodded. ‘You did not.’ He turned to the German officer. ‘Give this man some bread and water, his weapons and a horse. Let him go. Count Bohemond will stand guarantor for him.’

The German spat into the dust, shrugged and gave the order. Before they led Baldur off, the Turk turned and walked back. He took off his belt and thrust it into Theodore’s hands.

‘When you find your traitor,’ he whispered, ‘hang him with that.’