Shadows on a Sword (16 page)

At sunset, with great fanfare and amid a cacophony of preparations, the army set out eastward as if to intercept Kerbogha. Theo mounted Centurion and gathered up the bridle.

“Go with God,” Emma said. She gave Centurion a last stroke on his broad, stone-hard forehead, then stepped back.

“Thank you,” Theo said. He reached to grasp her shoulder, but she had already moved away; his hand closed on empty air. He hesitated a moment, then urged Centurion on. There was something about Emma—something strange in her manner. He turned back one last time before he was out of sight of the campfire, but she was no longer there. He stared at the empty site. It was odd that she had not waited until he had ridden out of sight. Odd …

“Theo! Make haste!” Amalric’s voice rang out over the general noise and confusion.

Theo set spurs to Centurion and fell in beside him.

The cavalry led, as usual; the infantry and the archers toiled over the hill paths behind it. Bohemond kept the pace slow so the different parts of the army would not be separated. They marched until night was well upon them; only then did the trumpets signal a halt. As the vast army came to a stop, orders were shouted down along the ranks, from the knights to the infantry and the archers. The army turned and began to march back, this time in silence. Bridles and reins were muffled; no man spoke.

Just before dawn, Theo saw the Tower of the Two Sisters loom up out of the darkness before them. All was quiet. There was no sign of a guard. The vast army materialized out of the surrounding hills almost without a sound.

A small detachment of about sixty knights, led by Bohemond, dismounted and crept forward. Theo was annoyed to find that Emma was not there, as they had agreed, to take Centurion, so he left the horse instead with Amalric’s groom. He was puzzled at her failure to appear, but there was no time to dwell on it because Count Garnier was signaling to him. The count and Duke Godfrey were at Bohemond’s side. Amalric and Theo followed closely. Some of the knights carried a long, wooden ladder. Still in the utmost silence, they placed it against the tower. One by one, the knights climbed up it and through a window high on the wall. Theo found himself behind Amalric. The ladder shook under the weight of the knights climbing above him. The rungs felt rough under his leather-shod feet. He climbed awkwardly, his chain mail heavy and impeding.

Amalric disappeared through the opening. Theo held his breath, waiting for an outcry, but the night was still. He reached for the last rung, then grasped the stone sill. With one mighty effort, he heaved himself over and inside. His linen shift muffled the jingling of his mail somewhat, but the slight noise still sounded loud to his ears. He struggled to his feet. Around him in the pitch dark he could sense, more than see, the assembled knights.

“This way,” a voice hissed. Theo turned toward it and saw a figure silhouetted by torchlight in the open doorway. This must be the Armenian, Firouz, Theo thought. Following his silent directions, the knights slipped out of the room and made their way, some to the left and some to the right, to the other two towers that were under Firouz’s control. Then they signaled to the rest of the waiting army below. Ladders were raised; the army poured up them.

At this, Bohemond gave the order to attack. The walls and battlements suddenly rang with the clash of weapons, and shouts shattered the dark stillness of the night. Theo drew his sword and rushed forward, Amalric at his side. Men tried to block them but together, shields protecting each other, they cut the Turks down and stormed along the wall and into the city. Their first objective was to open the city gates to the rest of the crusading army. To Theo’s surprise, a horde of people surged to their aid: the Christians of Antioch were roused and ready to fight. Within minutes, the two main gates of the city were opened, and the mass of infantrymen and archers poured through.

Under this onslaught, the Turks were soon in full rout. Yaghi-Siyan and his bodyguard fled from the city and up the gorge that led to the Iron Gate. No one bothered to pursue him. His son, Shams ad-Daula, did not follow him, but instead led his followers up to the citadel at the mountain peak.

“After them!” The cry went up. Theo and Amalric, behind Bohemond, raced to follow, but were checked at the entrance. The citadel was solid stone and well fortified. Once inside, the Turks were safe. Frustrated, Bohemond nonetheless planted his purple banner on the highest point he could reach.

“We cannot get in, but they cannot get out. Let them stay in there like the trapped rats they are!” Amalric shouted. As the sun rose and touched Bohemond’s banner with glints of gold, a great cheer arose from the crusaders. The knights turned and forged their way back down into the city.

The fight was over; the looting and sacking began. At first, the morning echoed and re-echoed with screams, but by nightfall they had ceased. Not a Turk was left alive in Antioch. The head of Yaghi-Siyan was brought to Bohemond by a peasant and impaled beside the purple banner so that his son might look out upon it from his refuge in the citadel. The houses of the citizens of Antioch were pillaged. In the chaos, not even the houses of the Christians were spared. Treasures were scattered or wantonly destroyed. Corpses lay in the streets, already beginning to rot in the summer heat.

Count Garnier and his men were assigned houses in the center of the city. Theo helped to clear them of bodies. The corpses were piled in the streets to be burned. It was late at night by the time the job was done.

“Go, Theo, rest. You deserve it. You have fought well today,” his foster father told him finally. Theo was too exhausted to argue. He retrieved Centurion from Amalric’s groom, then stumbled to the house the count had designated his. Of Emma, there was not a trace.

The house he had been given was built of white stone, and had a garden that someone had tended lovingly. The heavy scent of many flowers filled the air and mingled with the stench of blood and bodies. Theo unsaddled Centurion, found water for him, and tethered him to graze. He sank down on the front steps of the house. His mind teemed with the memory of streets filled with bodies, and of soldiers running amok and slicing down every person they saw. He had not taken part in that madness, but he had not been able to stop it, either. He dropped his head into his hands and retched. This sickness was worse, far worse, than any he had ever suffered before. It was not just a sickness of the body. It was a sickness of his very soul.

A commotion at the gate startled him.

“Your boy! It seems he decided to become a fighting man.” It was Guy. A body was slung over his shoulder. “A womanly chap like this—you should whip some sense into him. I told you, did I not, that you spoil him?”

Theo leaped to his feet. Guy dumped the body on the ground.

“We are even now. A favor for a favor. A life for a life.” Incredibly, he smiled. His face was covered in blood. His eyes glittered in the torchlight from the street. “Although I warrant this life is of very little value. Nevertheless, I pay my debts.” He turned and left.

Theo stared down at the body. Blood had seeped into the heavy, woollen tunic of the boy lying there. His short hair was matted and covered his face. An empty archer’s quiver was slung across his back; his left hand still clutched a bow.

It wasn’t possible. Theo’s eyes refused to see what lay before him. Only when the body moved and a moan escaped the bloodless lips did he allow himself to recognize Emma.

T
heo knelt to examine her. In the dim, smoldering light, it was impossible to tell how badly she was injured. He ran out into the street and wrested one of the torches from the ground, then set it into the earth beside her. He knelt again. Blood had soaked into her tunic around the left shoulder. He pulled his knife from his belt and cut the tunic away. An ugly gash ran from the bone under her neck halfway to the shoulder. It did not seem too deep, and was no longer bleeding, but Theo knew she must have lost a lot of blood already. He picked her up and made his way into the house with her, shocked at how light her body felt in his arms.

In the unfamiliar darkness inside the house, he tripped and then realized he had stumbled into a low bed of some kind. He laid Emma down on it and went back outside for the torch. By its light, he managed to locate a dish of oil with a wick floating in it, and made a light. He leaned over Emma again. Her hand still gripped the bow. He loosened her fingers and took the weapon from her, then slipped the quiver off her back so she could lie more comfortably. Now, he had to clean the wound. He had found a well in the yard when he had tended to Centurion. He could get water there.

He was trying to think calmly, to do the things that had to be done, one at a time. He was trying not to think beyond that—not to think that Emma might be dying. He wouldn’t think that. He straightened and went out to the well. An earthen bowl lay on the ground where it had probably been dropped that morning by whoever lived here. Used to live here … He filled it with water and went back to Emma.

She had not moved. Nor had she made a sound since that single moan.

Theo tore a strip of cloth from the bed covering, wet it and began to bathe the gash. When he was finished, he tore more strips and bound the wound as tightly as he could. He fought down the urge to run and try to find one of the healers that accompanied the crusaders. He dared not leave Emma for so long. If she awoke, alone and confused, there was no telling what she might do. The flow of blood was stanched; all he could do now was wait.

He sank down onto the floor beside the low bed and drew his knees up to his chest. He wrapped his arms around them, but kept his head upright, eyes fixed on Emma.

Whatever had possessed her? How had she managed to take part in the battle? The bow, the quiver—who had taught her archery? He began to think back to all her unexplained absences. Finally, he could not stave off the thought any longer: what if she died? No Emma? In an instant, the future turned bleak.

Toward morning, he slept. He was awakened by the first rays of the sun striking in through a window. The wick had burned out. Heat already hung heavy around him, and the smell from the streets outside permeated the room. Today would be spent disposing of bodies before they rotted even more. He couldn’t face the thought.

“Theo?”

Emma’s eyes were open and fixed upon him. Her face was flushed and covered in sweat. Theo dipped a clean rag in the bowl of water and knelt beside her to bathe her forehead.

“Where are we, Theo? How did I come here? I remember a sword … a sword flashing down upon me. I thought I would die. What happened?”

“Guy saved you. He found you lying wounded and brought you here.”

“Guy? I thought he hated you. I know he disliked me. Why would he help me?”

“God alone knows. He is a strange person.”

“Did he realize … that I am not …”

“No. By the grace of God, he did not.”

“Just as well I am so scrawny.” She attempted a smile and tried to raise her head, then dropped it back. “Where are we?”

“In a house. It has been given to me.”

“Given to you? By whom? Whose house is it?”

These were questions Theo did not want to answer. He evaded them by going for clean water. When he came back, he knelt beside her once more.

“Why did you do this, Emma?” he asked.

“I wanted to fight, to be a part of it.” She turned her head away, but not before Theo saw her eyes fill with tears.

He reached to bathe her forehead again.

“Rest then, Emma,” he said. “We will talk later. I’m going to make a soup now—you need nourishment. Then I’ll find a healer to tend to you.”

“No!”

“Why not? You need a healer. Your wound is grave, it must be seen to.”

“No!” She made a feverish effort to rise, then let out a cry of pain and sank back onto the bed. “You must not bring a healer, Theo. He will see that I am not a boy. I will be discovered!”

“But, Emma, you might die!”

“I will not die.” Weak as she was, she dashed the tears away and managed to glare at him. “I’m not ready to die. Make me some soup and cleanse my wound and we’ll see this through together—just you and I.”

“You
must
see a healer.”

“I will not. If you bring one to me, I will scream and carry on so much that it will probably do me even more harm.”

Theo looked at her. Her face was set in a way he knew only too well.

“Soup, Theo. That’s what I need. I pray you, good, hot broth. I will not die, I promise you.”

Nor did she. Theo nursed her every moment he could steal away from his duties to the count, and gradually she began to mend.

“Truly, that maid has a will of iron,” Amalric said one evening a fortnight later. He had come to share the evening meal with Theo, and Emma had insisted on sitting up with them. He looked at her and shook his head. “I would not have you for an enemy, Emma.”

“And why should you?” Emma retorted. “As long as you keep my secret, we should be the best of friends.”

“The best of friends,” Amalric repeated. “The best of friends with a groom, who is really a nursemaid, who is really kin to a nobleman, and who decided to become an archer and go to war. An odd turn to my life, indeed.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “An adjustment that a clever young knight such as yourself can make, I vow.”

“Emma …” Theo began warningly. Why did she always go too far? Why could she not at least pretend to maidenly modesty?

“I tire,” Emma said. “I would sleep now. I’ll leave you two to settle the affairs of the land by yourselves.”

“A mercy,” Amalric replied.

When the triumphant celebrations attending their victory died down, the crusaders took stock. They were inside Antioch now, and had the walls and towers of the city to protect them from Kerbogha when he attacked. All their civilian followers were sheltered as well within the walls, and were no longer the liability they had been outside. They could now be defended with ease. But there were problems.

“We do not have enough men to defend all the walls,” Duke Godfrey said. “The walls are too long. And we must build another barrier between us and the citadel, or we will be attacked from there one night. Shams ad-Daula is in an enviable position to keep watch on us and report all of our movements to Kerbogha, while we can do nothing about it.”