Faithful Dead (11 page)

Geoffroi, recovering in a hastily-erected hospital tent from the combined effects of diarrhoea (the drinking water on board had been foul), severe dehydration (it had run out three days before they reached Antioch) and a cut on the temple (someone had dropped a barrel on him as the ship tied up), felt that the ten-month journey from the north had aged him ten years. At the least.

He recovered swiftly, however. After little more than a week, he felt totally well again. Moreover, like the rest of the gallant remainder of the army that had set out so jubilantly and optimistically from Paris all those months and miles ago, he was eager to press on. So many had died – by enemy action, accident, of sickness, injury, plague, and by drowning – and so many had simply run out of food and money and given up. You could not, Geoffroi thought charitably, blame a man for his failure of courage; the circumstances had, far too often, been so frightful that it was surely amazing that more had not become disheartened and fallen by the wayside.

He went to give thanks to God that he had not been one of them. Praying, his eyes on the tormented figure on the cross that stood on the altar before him, his heart was filled with love and pity. His Redeemer had suffered far more than any of the crusaders, Geoffroi reflected; surely they could bear their own small echo of his pain, in this great enterprise to secure the Holy Places. ‘For Thee, dear Lord,’ Geoffroi murmured, ‘it is all for Thee.’

Closing his eyes and bowing his head, he prayed, with renewed fervour, that he be given the strength and the courage to do God’s will.

The next day, the army left Antioch and set out southwards for Jerusalem.

‘They say that the King and Queen are at odds again.’ The speaker was an English knight, rather older than Geoffroi; tall, broad in the shoulder and thickset, his rich auburn hair shone in the hot spring sunshine of Outremer. ‘Hardly to be wondered at, when she has been making eyes at her Uncle Raymond throughout these days we’ve been in Antioch.’

Geoffroi grinned. ‘
They say
, Herbert,’ he said. ‘Who have you been talking to? The washerwomen?’

Herbert of Lewes laughed. ‘It is not only washerwomen who gossip,’ he replied. Urging his horse closer, he dropped his voice and went on, ‘She tires of him, they say. No wonder she made moon-eyes at Raymond; even if he is her uncle, he’s strong and handsome, and a deal more virile, I’d guess, than your precious, pious Louis.’ Belatedly remembering that he was addressing one of Louis’s subjects, even if Geoffroi had become a friend, he added, ‘Piety is, naturally, greatly to be prized, and I––’

‘Enough, Herbert,’ Geoffroi said good-naturedly. ‘I have not taken offence, so there is no need to talk yourself into further difficulties.’

Apparently feeling himself forgiven, Herbert plunged on. ‘She was woken at midnight, you know. They burst into her chamber, shooed out her maids and bundled her up in a blanket! Carried her out to a covered litter and hurried her away before Raymond knew aught about it!’ Another rich chuckle. ‘No fond farewells
there
, you can be sure!’

They rode on, Herbert keeping up a steady flow of chatter, most of it increasingly wild speculation about King Louis and his Queen. They no longer shared a bed. She wanted to divorce him, claiming they were really cousins and should never have married in the first place. The King’s preference for prayer over the pleasures of his marriage bed meant he could now no longer satisfy any woman, and especially not the alluring, hot-blooded Queen Eleanor. She was going to run away, back to Antioch, marry Raymond and rule beside him.

Geoffroi, the hot sun on his back and the stark, dramatic countryside of the coastal strip unfolding vividly before his enchanted eyes, stopped listening.

Herbert was a good sort, he reflected, but, by the blessed Holy Mother, how he did go on! They had met when both were being treated following the terrible voyage from Anatolia. The meagre food supplies – dry, starchy stuff and little of it – and the lack of water had combined to make Herbert very constipated, and the poor man had been suffering dreadfully from piles. Side by side in the hospital tent, Geoffroi’s bowels turned to water and Herbert’s to stone, they had – eventually, when they began to recover – seen the funny side of it. With nothing to do all day but moan and talk to each other, they had become friends. Herbert had even done Geoffroi the great honour of telling him all about his family back home in England, including (and in particular) his favourite, his beautiful daughter Ida: ‘Hair the colour of autumn leaves, eyes like the midsummer sky, and a tiny little waist that you could encircle with your two hands’. Now, although they rode with different contingents, often they sought one another out.

‘. . . it’s likely, they’re saying, that she’ll keep her head down now.’ Herbert, craning round to look into Geoffroi’s face, said accusingly, ‘You’ve not been listening to a word I’ve said!’

‘Yes I have.’ Geoffroi gave a guilty start. ‘The Queen has eyes for her uncle and Louis no longer goes to her bed. And – er––’

Herbert gave him a friendly shove that almost unseated him. ‘Go on with you! I’ll warrant you were thinking of the fighting ahead, eh?’

‘No, I––’

But Herbert was not to be robbed of the picture he was forming, of an eager young knight ablaze with ardour for the coming battles. As he set off on another favourite tack – the glory of the fight for God’s Holy Places – Geoffroi went back to his calm contemplation of the scenery.

The march from Antioch to Jerusalem took over a month. As the army neared the Holy City, fatigue, illness, homesickness and injury were all forgotten as a sort of collective ecstasy overcame the crusaders. When, at long last, they finally had their first sight of the walls of Jerusalem, still far off but shining in the bright light like a beacon to welcome them, many were totally overcome.

We are so close now, Geoffroi thought as, with his comrades, he knelt in prayer that night. Although not entirely certain what action he would see – Jerusalem was safely in Frankish hands, it seemed, and there would surely be no call to fight there – he knew that he
would
go into battle, sooner or later. His fingers found and stroked the crusader’s cross sewn on to the shoulder of his tunic. Worn now, fraying a little at the edges despite his mother’s tiny, careful stitches, he would wear it, he knew, until the vow he had made as he received it was fulfilled.

He recalled the words that had been spoken on that unforgettable day. The crusaders, Bernard of Clairvaux had informed them, were uniquely fortunate in being given this opportunity for salvation. God was doing them the supreme favour of
pretending
to need their service to win back his Holy Kingdom whereas, in fact, his true motive was to allow the crusaders to fight for him so as to be able to bestow upon them remission of their sins and everlasting glory.

Geoffroi was not at all sure he had understood that line of reasoning at the time. He was even less sure now. But he told himself it didn’t matter; God had called, he had answered, and now here he was, prepared to do whatever he was told, prepared to give his very life, if it were to be called for, to win back God’s earthly realm. The fact that this supreme act of penance would, or so they promised, absolve him from all his sins – both those he was aware of committing and those he wasn’t – was a sort of ongoing, perpetual reassurance. A comfort. No, he thought, struggling to put his profound emotion into words, more than that. A––

But at that moment the officiating priest raised his voice and literally cried out to heaven, and Geoffroi, swept along on the huge tide of emotion, had no more time for private thoughts.

After that night there was a long period of inactivity. The sense of anticlimax was great; as Herbert remarked, they had come all that way and suffered so much to see Jerusalem at last, only to find themselves camped in a field with nothing to occupy them, kicking their heels while endless councils and conferences decided what to do next.

There was discord among the leaders of the crusade, that much was well known. Queen Eleanor’s Uncle Raymond had declared he wanted no further part in the proceedings, which, Herbert observed, was hardly surprising, all things considered. And the Count of Tripoli, ‘so they said’, had been accused of trying to poison a fellow count and had gone off in a huff.

‘You see, your King Louis,’ Herbert pontificated, ‘devout and pious soul that he is – and he
is
, we all know that! – isn’t what you might call a political man. Is he, now?’ Geoffroi, to whom these remarks were addressed, agreed that no, he wasn’t.

‘See,’ Herbert went on, ‘there’s so much happening under the surface, as you might say, that a straight-thinking, simple-minded, God-fearing man like Louis just doesn’t comprehend. Which is all to his credit!’ he added hurriedly, in case Geoffroi might be taking offence. ‘See, there’s so much intrigue and political manoeuvring going on and, besides, many of our precious leaders seem more interested in what they’re going to get out of the whole business than what they may or may not be called upon to do for God. And – listen to this! – some of these Outremer Franks, these very people whose appeal for help we’ve come all this way to answer, don’t seem to want us here! We’re interfering, so they say, and poking our noses in where we’re not wanted.’ Indignation soared through him and he said furiously, ‘Imagine that!’

‘What are we going to do?’ Geoffroi asked.

‘Do?’ Herbert repeated. Then, with a shrug, ‘I don’t know, lad. Wait for our orders, same as always, and then obey them.’

The orders, when at last they came, seemed at first incomprehensible. The vast crusading army, which had come so far at such great cost, was to attack Damascus.

‘But I thought Damascus was a friend, not a foe!’ Geoffroi said when the ever-reliable Herbert brought the news.

‘Friend or foe, that’s what we’re to do,’ Herbert repeated. Then he fell into an uncharacteristic silence.

‘But you don’t make war on your allies, not––’ Geoffroi began, eventually frightened into making some comment.

Herbert glowered at him. ‘Not for us to question our orders, lad,’ he said starkly. Then, relenting slightly, ‘I reckon it’s those Templars that are behind this. They’ve been in secret conference with the Emperor Conrad, or so I’ve heard, and this – this assault on Damascus – is the result. It’ll be strategy, you mark my words. Strategy.’ The last word was almost spat out.

Geoffroi, not understanding, hoping for the best and praying for the courage to face what he must face, had no answer.

The next day, they marched off to attack the Turkish emirate of Damascus.

The short-lived and ill-conceived assault on Damascus was a fiasco.

Not that Geoffroi and his fellow knights could know that as, in late July, they approached the city and prepared for battle. Taking communion that morning, after humbly confessing his sins, Geoffroi had prayed for the success of the engagement.

Then, in an action which swiftly turned from an ordered attack into a rout, he rode into battle.

Beside the crusading army rode contingents of Frankish settlers but, even with this welcome addition to their numbers, the task seemed daunting. Unable to gain entry to the fiercely defended city, the army laid siege.

Stalemate.

Rumours began to circulate.

Someone within the city – maybe even the Emir – had bribed the Jerusalem lords to give up and retreat. Reinforcements had been sent for, and a vast Muslim army was even now heading for Damascus, intent on slaughtering every Christian they laid hands on. Nureddin himself was on his way, his fanatical eyes alight at the thought of heaps of Christian dead. The Frankish settlers were planning to abandon their newly arrived comrades and, even worse, turn them over to the Turks. Or the Muslims. Or both.

Morale plummeted.

On the fourth day, the siege was lifted and the Christian army was ordered to retreat.

Then all hell broke loose.

Fighting for his life, with no clear idea of what his orders were or, even, of what was the most sensible thing to do, Geoffroi copied his fellow knights and battled his way out through the surging throng of the enemy. Whether the swarthy, dark men he fought were Turkish Damascenes who had ridden out to send the invaders packing, or crack Muslim troops under the command of Nureddin, he did not know.

All he did know was that the enemy fought with an efficiency and a ferocity that he, a fighting man himself, could not help but admire. Professional soldiers, many used the bow – of a peculiar, curved shape – as a cavalry assault weapon, firing it from horseback with a skill born of long experience and endless training.

The effect on the Christian army was devastating. All around him Geoffroi saw men fall, some shot with the awful, penetrating arrows that flew off those strange bows, some dragged from their horses to be cut to death by knife or sword.