Prince of Legend (22 page)

A pile of olive saplings was set up as a long walkway and soaked with pitch so that it would burn fiercely. Now that word of such a happening was abroad all action in the siege was suspended on the
day of the ordeal and the slope that ran up to the walls of Arqa was crowded with fighting men and pilgrims; no one wanted to miss this and that incline gave many a good view.

Peter appeared dressed in simple white robes, the Holy Lance in his hand, and indicated that the faggots should be ignited, he, like the whole assembly watching as the flames took hold and were transferred from the slivers of wood to the main timbers, the orange and red flickers quickly rising to well above the height of a man, a pillar of black smoke rising from the top of those into the blue sky.

Bartholomew was now in deep and silent prayer, a state in which he stayed until murmuring indicated that it was time to walk, that if he delayed much longer the inferno would die down and not be enough to maintain his claim. Gathering the crucifix he wore on his chest into his one free hand he stepped forward and walked with slow deliberation into the fire, now with flames so thick he disappeared from view.

The creature that emerged did so with his hair on fire, as were his garments. All over the exposed flesh there were blisters while on his face there was clear sight of the agony caused by such a scorching. The hand that held the Holy Lance had strips of flesh hanging from it, the wooden crucifix in the other hand actually burning as he held it. Forward he staggered, until the pain was too great and he collapsed to a groan from the many who had put faith in his prophecies and still believed in his enchantment.

If a goodly number sought to give Peter succour, to stamp out the singeing of his clothes and hair before lifting him to carry him to one of the tents where the mendicants plied their trade, more were now looking at the Count of Toulouse, while in response he was gazing at the sky. One of the men who had assisted Peter Bartholomew just
as he collapsed pushed through to Raymond, the shard of the Holy Lance in his hand, this proffered to a man who had ever valued the holding of it.

Now he was reluctant to take it, for it had proved to be false, proved that it could not offer Peter a carapace of faith that would protect him from his now obvious fate, for without divine intervention, and that now seemed unlikely, he would surely die from such wounds as he had sustained.

But Raymond had little choice; if Peter Bartholomew had placed much of his reputation in that relic, so had the Count of Toulouse. Had he not used it to advance his claim to lead the Crusade, and now it was seen for what it was, nothing but a piece of rusted metal? All around him there was loud wailing, for if the lance had failed the Count there were thousands amongst the host who had resided as much faith in the relic as he.

‘What now, My Lord?’ asked Narbonne, the Bishop of Albara; he had come, like many, to witness a miracle.

Raymond was very obviously aware that within earshot were his fellow princes, who if they had thoughts, and they would not be flattering ones, were keeping them to themselves.

‘We have a siege to pursue,’ Toulouse replied, his voice strong, ‘so let us be about it.’

Raymond knew as well as any of his peers that his standing was blown. Despite what had happened with Bartholomew, who lingered in deep agony twelve whole days before he expired, he sought to replace the power of the lance with a new relic that would bind the faithful to his side. The late Bishop Adémar had purchased, in Constantinople and from the Emperor, a piece of the True Cross, a sliver of near
black wood that, it was claimed, formed part of the crucifix on which Christ had been nailed.

Highly respected as Adémar had been – many would call him a saint – such a shift from one relic to another was seen for what it was, an attempt by Raymond to maintain his authority among the deeply religious and numerous pilgrims. By regaining that, he felt he could continue to impose his thinking on the fighting elements of the Crusade. Try as he might, and word was spread of miracles being wrought by that sliver of wood, it failed to convince anyone; if anything, such perceived desperation weakened him more than the exposure of the Holy Lance as a fraud.

After a talk with Godfrey of Bouillon Tancred was able to meet with the Count of Toulouse and vent his own frustrations by telling him the unvarnished nature of his opinion of both his past and present behaviour, not least the folly of besieging Arqa.

‘And I will have you know, My Lord, that from henceforth I have pledged my banner and those men I lead to the Duke of Lower Lorraine.’

The response was a sneer. ‘So your loyalty can only be bought with silver?’

‘To a man like you, Count Raymond, yes! To Godfrey de Bouillon, as with my uncle, I give it freely.’

With any hope of outright leadership entirely gone and with no sign that the promised expedition of Alexius was even on its way, which laid Raymond open to the silent sneers of his confrères for being doubly gullible, he had no choice but to raise the siege of Arqa and agree that the Crusade should finally set off for Jerusalem.

F
or an army with a divided command, and the man leading the strongest element of that sulking, the Crusade when it did move managed it with surprising speed. Raymond of Toulouse had faced a difficult choice of route when marching south and had turned for Tripoli; now the whole faced a similar dilemma, one direction to Palestine fraught with risk, the other involving the subjugation, either by treaty or battle, of strongly held and ancient cities on the way.

The decision, that haste was the more vital requirement – that the longer the Fatimids were left in peace the harder Jerusalem would be to capture – when discussed in the Council of Princes, only saw unanimity because Count Raymond declined to put forward an opinion. That rendered the voice of Godfrey de Bouillon the most potent and in Tancred, who aided him, he had an adherent raised in war by an uncle famed for boldness.

‘I have talked with our Maronite Christian brethren,’ Godfrey
explained, his mode of speech suffused with enthusiasm, ‘and we will save much time by marching along the coast. It is narrow in places, it is true, hemmed by mountains and the sea, but it favours us and allows for naval support.’

The Duke of Lower Lorraine looked at Raymond then, altering his tone to speak softly and slowly, as if seeking to mollify his fellow magnate’s obvious pique. ‘Should the Emperor come, then all he has to do is sail further south to unite with us, which would not be possible if we take the inland route.’

‘I too have spoken with the Maronites,’ interjected the newcomer, Gaston of Béarn, a slack-jawed man with a protruding lower lip and sad eyes in a large head that made him seem more gloomy than he was by nature. ‘The coast road is, we are told, so narrow in some places that we can only make our way in single file.’

‘Think of how it will confound our enemies.’

‘As long as it does not confound us.’

Béarn saw no need to explain the risks of that to the whole assembly: the vulnerability of rounding the rocky promontories that enclosed every bay along the Mediterranean, in places reducing the so-called road to a track for halter-led donkeys, was obvious. Godfrey, albeit there was acknowledgement, barrelled on in his usual way, his confidence based on the notion that the God to whom he was so passionately devoted would bless his endeavours.

‘But what enemy would think a man so foolish as to come that way?’

‘The Fatimids will know of it before we are passed Sidon,’ Béarn insisted.

‘Will they?’ Godfrey replied. ‘The Arabs of the Lebanon and Palestine have no love for the rulers of Baghdad, why would they have any more for the Sultan in Cairo?’

Tancred spoke up, having gestured to Godfrey to seek permission, eager to back up the man to whom he had so recently transferred his allegiance. ‘And, if we move with speed, we may well get ahead of any news of our movements.’

That roused Raymond from his seeming torpor. ‘What host can move at such a pace?’

‘The one we command, My Lord.’

Godfrey took up his argument again as Tancred got a cold glare.

‘I have studied the maps, as have you all. Every obstacle we must get round leads to a fertile region, a river-fed plain between one set of hills and the next.’

That truth silently acknowledged, he gestured towards Tancred.

‘My young friend here has made a most telling suggestion, that we cannot march as we would in open country, always looking for the next place to set up a camp. It has been put to me that if we march hard without anything in the way of a halt, bar the need to drink and quickly eat, we can cover the ground so fast that we will confound any news that can get ahead of us.’

‘Not camp?’ asked Normandy, though more from curiosity than objection.

‘That we do every third or fourth day and for the whole of it, to allow our men to recover from their exertions and to eat well before the next stage.’

‘As well as scout well ahead,’ Tancred added, ‘which will give us good intelligence of what we might face.’

‘The pilgrims?’ Raymond asked, implying that if they had not been forgotten they were being ignored.

‘Our rest day will give them time to catch us up.’

‘And at what risk will they run coming in our wake?’ Flanders
said. ‘For we face no threat from the interior, and if we did we would know of it well in advance of any danger.’

‘I will not deny there is risk,’ Godfrey concluded, aware that Raymond remained unconvinced, ‘but within the two evils of that or a long march I see this as the lesser way. So now, My Lords, I ask for your vote, for the more time we waste talking the stouter will be the defences of Jerusalem that we will, with God’s help, face.’

That was hyperbole and all present knew it: a day or two of rumination would make no difference, but Godfrey, frustrated for so long in his aim of freeing the Holy Places – to which he was committed to do or die in the attempt – gave the impression that even the seconds it took between the posing of the question and receiving the assent of the majority were too long. His eager look forced a response and only Raymond dissented from his proposal.

To talk of risk was one thing, to face it quite another and Tancred, tasked to ride ahead of the host and warn of any danger, knew that should such a thing be manifest, turning round and reversing the march of twelve thousand fighting men, not to mention the equipment and camp followers in their train, would be impossible without the fighting elements getting mixed up with the rest and the whole descending into useless confusion.

That was true where they had a strip of land and beach to traverse; on the really narrow passes, like the first true obstacle south of Tripoli, a rocky promontory known to the Arabs as ‘the Face of God’, the crags ran right to the shoreline. Such a reverse there could not be achieved without massive loss of life to the men and animals edging along a single-man track with a precipitous drop on their right hand. With a mere glance they could look to the foaming ocean below, or
the sharp rocks upon which the waves were breaking and too easily imagine a terrible fate.

To counter that Godfrey’s promise of fertile valleys was borne out. Given the time of year, full spring blessed with abundant sunshine, in a land full of good red earth that was favoured by several harvests of a huge variety of crops every year, there was no shortage of food for everyone to eat. What horses they still mustered, as well as the livestock on the hoof, were fattened with ample pasture and if there was caution from the inhabitants regarding such a warlike body in their midst there was no trouble, not least because of the way they quickly moved on.

In the sections of open country, moving in normal marching order, the leaders knew the whole army was at just as much risk, for if they did face danger in their manoeuvres on the narrower strips of territory, they at least knew, thanks to those scouting ahead, there were no enemies waiting for them in numbers. On an open plain in extended formation any military host was vulnerable; experience had told the Crusaders that their enemies could gather and move with speed enough to spring a surprise.

No sign of the Fatimids was observed and that did come as a shock; even resting at Sidon, like all the other coastal cities with an emir happy to pay for peace with gold and horses, there was no indication of any enemy ahead seeking to block their way. Any problems they encountered came from nature, most notably a type of venomous snake, numerous in quantity, that killed a number of men by its bite, they dying in an agony that had a near panic ripple through the ranks. Not many slept in the face of such a threat and those that did had to do so through the sound of others banging swords on shields to frighten the creatures off.

Such good fortune, no sight of an enemy, held as they passed through names that were scarred into their Christian understanding, Old Testament places such as Tyre and Acre, the Roman city of Caesarea, where they rested and celebrated Pentecost. On the entire march so far so few men had been lost it was thought to be a miracle, only one foraging party having set out failing to return; some jested they had found a fertile spot on the nearby Sea of Galilee full of wine and women, more sober minds sure they had fallen to some unknown force of Muslims, which had them warning others to avoid overconfidence.

The last place they would encounter if they carried on down the coast was Jaffa, known from pilgrim tales to be formidable; it was the port which led to the Holy City and surely the route by which Cairo fed men into Palestine and therefore bound to be well garrisoned. In order to avoid being held up by both fortifications and the defenders Godfrey got agreement that they should head inland from Arsulf and make for Ramleh.

This was the last city before their goal and, expecting to have to fight for what was a vital strategic centre protecting Jerusalem, they were both surprised and delighted to find it abandoned, and obviously that had been carried out in a headlong panic, for the inhabitants had taken only what they could carry. Ramleh’s storerooms were stacked to the rafters with grain, and resting there they had both time and food enough to reorder their lines prior to the final thrust.

Lying just outside the city was the famous Basilica of St George, said to hold buried in its vaults the saint’s bones. Eager to send a message ahead regarding the nature of the Crusade, Godfrey de Bouillon put forward the notion that once the basilica had been rededicated to Christ, Ramleh should become the first Latin bishopric in Palestine.
This had all the contingents vying that one of their number should fill the office.

Raymond of Toulouse, being so insistent that one of his divines must have preference, united everyone else to agree to a priestly candidate drawn from the remnants of the French forces once led by Hugh of Vermandois – he being known as Robert of Rouen no doubt swayed Normandy and Flanders – and the man was duly consecrated in the office with word sent to Rome so that they could approve his elevation.

They departed Ramleh with every man-sack bulging and every animal laden with grain, moving on to the town of Qubeiba, a mere three leagues from the walls of the Holy City, buoyed by the feeling that the Fatimid garrison they would face had to be lacking in numbers and purpose, or surely, if they had either, they would have come out to fight rather than hide behind their defences.

In a final council Godfrey sought to reach a consensus as to how Jerusalem should be assaulted, only to stumble on what was, as ever, the intransigence of the Count of Toulouse.

‘Would you have me fight under your instruction?’ he demanded of Godfrey.

‘Not instruction, My Lord, but in cooperation so that we act as an aid to each other, not a hindrance.’

‘No one will hinder my sword,’ Raymond barked, ‘lest they seek martyrdom.’

‘This is insufferable,’ Normandy responded, in a voice very close to a shout.

‘Yet suffer it we must,’ added his brother-in-law with a grin as he sought by a hand to calm Normandy.

The way he had expressed it made Tancred look at Flanders
hard. He had the sense that the Count was not truly distressed by Raymond’s attitude, that reinforced when he whispered urgently in Duke Robert’s ear. To that was added silence from the Count of Béarn, which gave another indication of the impression forming in the younger man’s mind.

The only person present who was lacking in ambition was Godfrey, whereas the others present were thinking of their own reputation, none wishing to be tied to a plan that might see another achieve a glory after which any man would hanker, namely to be the first to overcome the defences of Jerusalem, the first knight who could claim to have conquered the city.

The fame that would accrue to that would be massive. Throughout Europe, in every parish church and cathedral the faithful were praying for success. It was a sobering reflection that perhaps what they were about to attempt, and in pursuit of that glory, was likely to be a free-for-all in which individual desire would trump common purpose.

A messenger entering the pavilion interrupted that train of thought. ‘My Lord Godfrey, outside there is a delegation from Bethlehem, seeking audience.’

The name of that place, the birthplace of the Saviour, had even these high-born men crossing themselves and Godfrey quickly ordered that they should be allowed to enter. The trio who did so, elderly men and venerable, made Tancred think of the three kings who had followed the star to the lowly manger where Mary had borne the Son of God.

The request they conveyed, the hope of shucking off Muslim rule before the attack on Jerusalem, was one that could not be refused, yet it was strange how no one present vied to meet their desire that an armed party should be sent to Bethlehem to chase out a body
of Muslim soldiers who garrisoned the barracks and manned the watchtower.

‘Tancred,’ Godfrey finally spoke so as to fill an embarrassing silence. ‘Take a party of your Apulians to Bethlehem and bring it back to the true faith, as these good people so crave. It is not fitting that it should remain in the possession of the infidel any more than the Holy City itself.’

Had anyone else suggested such an act, Tancred would have refused, for if it led to a hard fight he might be kept from the assault on Jerusalem. Godfrey obviously sensed this and added reassurance.

‘No one will set foot from here until Bethlehem is secured.’ Then he seemed to reconsider his first instruction. ‘Take some of my lances too, those captained by Baldwin of le Bourg will serve.’

Night was falling by the time the party set out, not that it mattered much in a sky so filled with stars as to provide clear sight of the ground over which they rode. In order to reach Bethlehem he was required to lead his men in an arc round Jerusalem. As evidence of how numerous was the population of that great conurbation, and how nervous were the defenders, their combined oil lamps and wall torches seemed to add a distant orange glow to the sky above the city.

Bethlehem had no walls, only the small Muslim garrison, set there previously by the Abbasids to milk the pilgrims who came to pray, indeed abase themselves, at the shrine of such a holy site. The Fatimids who had chased their religious rivals away were no less keen on extracting money from visitors, for if the Christian pilgrims of Europe were with the Crusade, there were plenty of co-religionists to feed infidel greed: Copts, Armenians, Maronites, indeed all the fragmented branches of the faith Pope Urban was so keen to unite under the canopy of Rome.