Siege of Heaven (35 page)

‘What’s that?’

I craned forward so that I could see what Sigurd had seen from his vantage on the opposite side of the clearing. A disgruntled fist tugged on my finger, trying to recapture my attention, but I ignored it. Thomas was on his feet beside Sigurd and staring over the tops of the pine trees to the west.

‘An army.’

I passed the baby onto Anna’s knee and ran over. My eyes were not as sharp as Thomas’s, but even so I could see the procession winding stiffly out of the valley and down towards our camp. Sunlight gleamed on their weapons like the scales of a snake, with two white banners like fangs at their head.

‘Can you see the device?’ I asked. In the camp below, men were running out of their tents and staring, but I could not tell if they were preparing for battle.

‘The cross of the Army of God,’ said Thomas. ‘And beside that, the banner of the five wounds.’

Godfrey’s standard. I looked at my family in the glade, trembling that he should have come so near them. ‘And the Norman serpent banner? Is that there too?’

Thomas shrugged. ‘Not that I can see.’

I pulled on my boots. ‘I had better go. Nikephoros will want me.’

Anna hoisted Everard down from her lap and set him on the ground. He swayed, then dashed resolutely forward towards his mother – as if he had never fallen before, would never fall again. But of course he did.

I was summoned almost immediately. Duke Godfrey’s arrival occasioned a council of the princes, and Nikephoros required me to be his mouth and ears. They met in Count Raymond’s tent – not his great pavilion, with its silk curtains and rich furnishings, but a small, square tent erected in a field a little distance from the camp. The princes watched each other warily.

‘But where is Bohemond?’ asked Raymond. He said it lightly, as if referring to a well-renowned horse he had been curious to see. No one was deceived.

Godfrey looked up. Where the trials of the past two months had slowly twisted the roots of Raymond’s soul, so that his whole body appeared crooked and misshapen, Godfrey seemed to have benefited from the interlude. His bearing was firm, his face bright, his blond hair thick as a lion’s mane and his blue eyes unyielding with purpose.

‘Bohemond set out with us from Antioch two weeks ago. Three days later, he turned back.’

Raymond breathed a slow sigh, like a warm summer wind. His hunched shoulders relaxed and his bearing straightened, so that he seemed taller, more noble again.

‘He will not come,’ he declared softly, almost to himself. ‘He has shown himself at last.’

‘He swore he would honour his oath to worship at the tomb of Christ,’ said Godfrey.

‘When better men have captured it.’ Raymond laughed in savage triumph. ‘Bohemond’s part in this enterprise is over. Our names will ring in history as the conquerors of the holy city; Bohemond’s will be forgotten, or remembered only in the annals of traitors and cowards. As soon as Arqa is taken we will fall on Jerusalem like wolves.’

‘
As soon as Arqa is taken?
I did not bring my army here at a forced march to defend you against a few Saracen villagers marooned on a hilltop. We should go now.’

Several of the other princes nodded their agreement. Raymond stiffened, bending forward like a bow drawn tight.

‘I have besieged this town for a month; I will not see all that effort wasted now.’

‘Better than seeing it wasted two months from now,’ said Tancred.

Raymond looked as if he might strike Tancred – and Tancred, equally, as if he would relish fighting the old man. Fortunately, at that moment the council was interrupted by a commotion among the guards. A small knot of men were trying to push through, their voices raised in indignant protest. The guards waved their spears and shouted them back; for a moment I feared this might be the moment that the entire army broke apart in open battle. But Raymond must have recognised one of them, for he angrily called the guards to let the newcomer in.

A short, pot-bellied man shrugged his way between them and marched across to the tent. The camelskin tunic flapped around his knees, bulging out over the leather belt that tied it, and his small eyes surveyed us from the illtempered face. He seemed different in daylight, smaller in every part except his belly, but I recognised him at once as the man I had seen in the pilgrim camp – Peter Bartholomew’s self-styled prophet.

He did not have the air of a peasant approaching the great princes of the earth. He held his head high and sure, his fat lips pouting as if he had already detected some slight against his dignity. All the princes stayed seated, save Raymond who was already standing.

‘What is happening here?’ he demanded. He turned on Count Raymond. ‘Why have you summoned secret councils without my lord Peter Bartholomew’s presence, bless his name?’

In any other place, to speak as he did to a man of Raymond’s station would have been death. Instead, Raymond choked back his obvious anger and said simply, ‘This does not concern Peter Bartholomew.’

‘That is for him to judge.’ The prophet’s eyes swept around the gathering, defying them to argue.

Godfrey ignored him. ‘Who is he?’ he asked Raymond. His face was a mask of distaste.

‘I am John, disciple and prophet of Peter Bartholomew, bless his name.’ He rounded on Godfrey, who somehow contrived to evade the accusing stare and fix his gaze just over the man’s shoulder.

Godfrey stood. ‘I thought this was to be a council for princes – not paupers and rabble.’

‘Wait,’ Raymond pleaded. ‘At our councils at Antioch, we always had leaders from the pilgrim host present.’

‘If Peter Bartholomew is their leader, why is he not here himself?’

Raymond was about to offer an excuse, but the prophet John spoke more quickly. ‘The time is not yet ready for Peter Bartholomew to reveal himself. He is preparing for the time to come – the time foretold by the prophecy. The time when the last shall be first and the first last.’ He spun around, fixing his small eyes on the princes. ‘You know what is coming.
The King will ascend Golgotha. He will take his crown from his head and place it on the cross, and stretching out his hands to heaven he will hand over the kingdom of the Christians to God the Father
.’

Godfrey moved so quickly I did not see what he did. One moment the peasant was standing, the next he was writhing on the ground, squealing in outraged agony until Godfrey’s boot on his throat choked off the sound.

‘Who told you that?’ he demanded. ‘Where did you hear it?’

He half lifted his foot from John’s neck so that the wretch could speak. ‘Mercy,’ he spluttered. ‘It is what Peter Bartholomew preaches. It is written in his book.’

‘
What book?
’

‘The book of prophecy,’ squealed John.

‘
Liar!
’ Godfrey’s cheeks were flushed; I had never seen him lose his temper like this, not even on the mountaintop
at Ravendan. ‘That is not his book.’ He took his boot off John’s throat and delivered a sharp kick to his ribs. ‘You should keep your dogs better trained,’ he hissed at Count Raymond, ‘or they will pull you down and devour you. Bring Peter Bartholomew to me.’

Raymond squirmed. ‘I cannot–’

‘He will not come.’ John had struggled to his feet. ‘Not until the appointed hour.’ He circled around like a cornered dog, keeping his eyes fixed on Godfrey. ‘And then, Duke Godfrey, beware, for his revenge will be terrible. The good wheat he will gather into his granary, but the
chaff
’ – he almost spat out the word – ‘he will burn with unquenchable fire.’

There were no councils after that. Godfrey’s army crossed the bridge and made their camp to the south-east of the city, well away from the Provençals, while Tancred extricated his men from Raymond’s camp and took them south on foraging raids. Peter Bartholomew and the pilgrim horde stayed aloof on their hilltop. On the twenty-fifth of March, the Feast of the Annunciation, the Franks celebrated the start of their new year. It seemed to bring new life to the world: wildflowers bloomed on the hillside among the pines, and in the valley green buds began to sprout from the skeletal boughs of fig trees. A white sun shone from cloudless skies, warming the earth to dust. Even the crack and thud of siege weapons was, for a time, drowned out by birdsong. But it did nothing to brighten
the mood of the Army of God. You had only to look at their faces to see the thunderclouds that gathered over them, to feel the charge in the sultry calm that gripped them. Soon, I feared, the storm would break.

It came on Holy Wednesday, the Wednesday before Easter. That morning I ate the stale, presanctified bread and listened to the priest read the gospel.
The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Now is the judgement of this world; now the ruler of this world will be driven out. Walk while you have the light, so that the darkness does not overtake you
. Afterwards, I sat with my family in our camp, while Helena wove daisies into a crown for Everard.

‘I don’t like Holy Week,’ Zoe declared. ‘Everything is pain and death.’ She had never been shy of speaking her mind, though her thoughts seemed more provocative now than they once had. I had learned to choose when to answer and when to ignore her; Helena, however, could not restrain herself.

‘Without the passion there is no resurrection. The sufferings of holy week are the foundations on which the church is built.’

I said nothing; I had my own reasons for disliking Holy Week. It was then, eighteen years ago, when the emperor Alexios had captured the imperial throne while his troops sacked the city where my wife and newborn daughter lived, and it had been Holy Week too when, sixteen years later, the Franks had tried to seize Constantinople. Instead of humility and love, this festival of exalted suffering seemed
more likely to provoke violence and frenzy. I had seen too much of it.

‘What’s that?’

I looked where Helena was pointing. From the hill to the north, where Peter Bartholomew and the pilgrims had their colony, a long procession had emerged and was winding its way towards the main Provençal camp. There must have been thousands of them, and even at that distance I could hear the melody of the hymn they sang.

‘What does it mean?’ Zoe asked, tugging my sleeve. ‘What are they doing?’

‘I don’t know.’ It might have been nothing more than a rite for Holy Week, some Frankish custom we did not know, but I doubted it. Already, at the foot of the hill and in the valley, I could see knights and soldiers emerging from their tents to stare in surprise.

‘They look so solemn,’ said Helena. ‘More like an army marching to war than a host of pilgrims.’

She was right: rigid discipline gripped the pilgrim line, and they walked as if moved by a single, solemn purpose. A terrible foreboding rose in my heart; I shook off Zoe’s hand and broke into a run, threading my way first between the tents, and then through the thickening crowds who flocked towards the same place. Up on the mountain spur men abandoned their siege tools and descended to meet us, while others poured over the bridge from Duke Godfrey’s camp.

The pilgrim column reached the north side of the camp, where the valley floor began to rise, and halted. The crowd
of knights and soldiers gathered around. Raised above all, on a rocky outcropping, stood Peter Bartholomew. He wore a long robe of pure white wool, with only a rope belt for adornment. His hair and beard had been washed, combed and tied straight with bands of cloth, and his sallow skin had been embalmed with oils and perfumes. Only his misshapen nose broke the picture of perfection, and betrayed the man he had once been.

He lifted his arms. The long sleeves of his gown hung down like wings.

‘Rejoice, my brothers. The Lord came to me last night in dreams. Our deliverance is at hand.’

The pilgrims erupted in cheers and jubilation, hosannas and amens. Many of the facing knights joined in, though at least half – mostly the men of Normandy and Lorraine – remained impassive.

‘Bring out the relic, the holy lance that pierced our Saviour’s side, so that I may swear the truth of my vision.’

Three priests brought the golden reliquary that contained the fragment of the holy lance. One knelt on the ground and held up the casket to Peter, who laid both hands on its lid. Waves of light rippled from the crystal and gold, bathing his face in celestial radiance. A sigh shivered through the crowd.

‘I swear by the holy lance . . . No!’

He broke off, snatching his hands away as if they had been burned. The crowd gasped – could this be punishment for a false oath? – but before they could move Peter had unlatched the reliquary, thrown back the lid and
plunged in his hand. He pulled it out and held it in the air, his fist clenched around something too small to see.

‘I swear
on
the holy lance.’

The crowd erupted in a turmoil of euphoria. The din must have carried all the way to the lofty walls of Arqa far above us on the mountain, perhaps even to heaven itself. No one could see the lance – it was only a fragment, after all, no longer than a nail – but no one doubted that he held it. Even I felt a trembling in my heart, as if by touching the relic Peter had plucked a string that resonated in all our souls.