Count Bohemond

by Alfred Duggan

  But had he ever been a true pilgrim? The nagging doubt remained. All his life he had fought to win a great fief, either from the Greek Emperor or from the infidels. Now he had Antioch, and he was content. Duke Godfrey had certainly fought for the love of God, though he had been rewarded with a great-lordship. The Duke of Normandy and the Count of Flanders had served an even purer motive, for they had not asked or received any temporal recompense at all for the blood and treasure they had squandered. It could be said that he had fought solely for his own advantage.

  Well, that was not positively wrong. No one suggested that his mighty father had done wrong when he drove the Greeks from Apulia to rule it himself. The Normans of Italy were the most faithful defenders of the Church, which needed secular defenders in this fallen world. Before he left Italy, Pope Urban had been his close friend and companion, at Bari and Monte Cassino and in many other places. It was sad that Pope Urban had not lived to know of the liberation of the Holy Sepulchre, though in fact he had been ruling the Universal Church when it was liberated. His successor, Pope Paschal, would think well of the renowned Bohemond of Antioch.

  In battle he had done his duty, though perhaps no more. Poems were sung about his prowess, but other knights might be more reckless; he was usually the tallest and strongest man on the field, so it was only natural that he should charge in front. But without his mind to tell them what to do, and the natural authority which made his equals follow his advice, all the pilgrims would have died in Anatolia. He thought back to the rolling plain of Dorylaeum, two and a half years ago. At that time nobody knew by experience how to fight Turks in the open field, no knight who saw a mounted foe could think of anything except to charge and knock him off his horse. Bohemond had seen what must be done; unless indeed he had been directly inspired by the Holy Ghost. What was it they sang of the hero Charles Martel, who had turned back the Moors at Poitiers long ago? “The men of the north stood like a frozen wall.’’ At Dorylaeum the Normans had done it again, because Bohemond said so. Behind his closed eyes as he knelt in prayer he saw what so easily might have happened: the futile charge into a cloud of horse-bowmen, the plain dotted with the scattered corpses of dismounted knights. As for the great battle against Curbaram, eighteen months ago, there had never been such complicated manoeuvring since the days of Julius Caesar; in the end men on foot had driven an army of horsemen from the field and plundered their camp; and though St. George and other warrior saints had given their help the supreme commander, by request of all his peers, had been Bohemond.

  If he had marched from the city with the object of liberating Antioch, rather than the Holy Sepulchre, that was in itself a praiseworthy object. His motives might not have been so pure as Duke Godfrey’s, or Tancred’s; but they were good enough to earn him the pardon. He was in a state of grace, he was a virtuous pilgrim. It was time to turn his thoughts from politics to worship; the Dawn Mass of Christmas was nearly finished.

  The congregation surged out of the church. Great lords gobbled bread soaked in wine as they stood waiting for their horses. Archbishop Daimbert was too exalted by the greatest experience of an eventful life to notice his hunger, though some of his clerks looked rather sorry for themselves. Soon they were all riding to Jerusalem.

  They rode two by two, well closed up behind a screen of scouts; for there was still no road in all the Holy Land that was safe from infidel raids. Bohemond motioned for Tancred to ride beside him. He had not spoken freely to his nephew since they had parted in the previous spring.

  “A fine church, isn’t it?” said Tancred, looking back. “I liberated it, or rather the infidels fled before I could catch them. But I was the first knight to pray there with a sword at my side. The natives gave me a great welcome. They had all remained true to the Faith under infidel rule, and of course for centuries they had been forbidden to carry arms.”

  “I didn’t know you had liberated Bethlehem. Were you alone, or did others help you? I have heard another tale, that you tried to liberate Jerusalem all by yourself. What’s the truth of that?”

  “My mesnie were with me at Bethlehem. As a matter of fact Count Baldwin of Le Bourg was there too. He’s a kinsman of the Boulogne brothers, but a good knight all the same. Anyway, I have forgiven Baldwin of Edessa, as you must have noticed just now. I did as a matter of fact try to be the first knight on the walls of Jerusalem, but well-meaning friends interfered and the assault was called off. When we did break in the first knight on the wall was a Fleming, Litold of Tournai from Duke Godfrey’s mesnie, a very good knight. I hope we shall see him at the Holy Sepulchre. His children will have something to remember.”

  “Yes, but tell me about your unsuccessful try.”

  Bohemond liked to hear Tancred talk. The combination of unabashed boasting and scrupulous fairness to rivals was an example to all good knights.

  “It’s a long story. I wasn’t the first to reach the Holy City, because I was driving a herd of bullocks I had captured from the infidel at Bethlehem. When I got there I saw the pilgrims making camp as though we had all the time in the world. But I knew an infidel army was on the march from Egypt and that we ought to hurry, and I was greatly encouraged when I ran across a Christian hermit who had been hiding on the Mount of Olives. You’ll never guess what he was doing. He had come out to look for Hautevilles. He was a Greek, but he could speak some Frankish. He said that he had been born near Durazzo, and that years ago when his home was burned by the mighty Guiscard he had come to live as a hermit beside the Holy Sepulchre. He knew that pilgrims from the west were here to free Jerusalem, but he didn’t think they would succeed unless the Hautevilles were among them; for the Hautevilles were the only warriors who had made the Greek Emperor flee before them. So I reminded him that in the same year that you chased Alexius your father was chasing the German Emperor; and I added that I was at least half a Hauteville, on my mother’s side. So he exhorted me to go straight on and conquer. When I reached the camp they were making scaling-ladders, but only one was finished. I carried it to the wall and set it up. That wasn’t really dangerous, you know. The infidels in Jerusalem were Egyptians, and anyone who wears mail can walk right through Egyptians. They don’t fight like Turks. But some of my faithful comrades wouldn’t see it. They were too busy saving my life to hold the ladder steady for me. Instead they tried to take the ladder away from me. I had slung my shield on my back, the best place for it during an escalade; so I hooked my left arm in the rungs and no one could separate me from that ladder. I was still standing on the ground, looking up to dodge any stones from the wall. So Richard of the Principate made a jump for the sword in my right hand, and snatched it away while I wasn’t looking. Imagine it—disarmed as though I were a little boy too small to play with grown-up weapons. I was going to swing the ladder at him and squash his helmet down to his waist when I remembered that I had sworn not to wage war on a fellow-pilgrim. So I gave way to public opinion and postponed the assault.”

  “I see. A pity, when you might have won such glory. But you might have been killed, and I’m sure Richard meant well. Did you get any good plunder when the town fell later?”

  “Oh yes, all that was in Solomon’s Temple. The infidels had fitted it up for the worship of Mahound, and there was a lot of good stuff in it. But again my fellow-pilgrims did me down, if you can call the south French fellow-pilgrims. The infidels in the Temple surrendered to me, so I put my banner on the roof to show that they were under my protection. But there was still a lot of fighting in the streets, so I joined in. When I came back next morning the south French had killed all my captives, just to spite me. What made it worse was that the infidels who surrendered to Count Raymond got away. Of course I went to look for them. But they were in the Tower of David just by the Jaffa Gate, so they could get out to Ascalon without passing through our men; whereas my temple lay in the middle of the city. Count Raymond tried to hang on to that tower, by the way; but I’m glad to say we have turned him out. Now he’s up north somewhere near Tripoli.”r />
  “You still have your temple, I hope.”

  “I gave it to Duke Godfrey, when we chose him Advocate of the Holy Sepulchre. He needs somewhere of his own, now that the Patriarch is grabbing all he can. Besides, there are too many houses round it. I don’t like neighbours so close. But of course I kept the plunder, and now I have liberated Galilee. Nice open country that, and my only neighbours are infidels. I can go my own way there.”

  “Does Count Raymond still keep the Holy Lance?”

  “I suppose so. At least he hasn’t publicly thrown it away. An odd relic, that. I wish I could make up my mind about it. Peter Bartholomew really believed in it, you know. He passed through the fire of his own free will. I saw him.”

  “But it didn’t save him. Or did it? He took a fortnight to die. It might have been an ordinary sickness.”

  “Perhaps he told the same story so often that he came to believe it. That can happen. I shan’t make a pilgrimage to bow to the Holy Lance, but if I meet it on the road I shall dismount, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Anyway, Count Raymond has lost an asset.”

  The clergy began to sing an appropriate hymn, and conversation died away.

  That Christmas Day went on a long time. Bohemond was too tired after his vigil to take in much of the appearance of Jerusalem; and within the Holy Sepulchre he seemed to fall into a dream.

  It was a huge basilica, of a pattern he had seen often in Italy. Like the basilicas of Italy it had been patched and sacked until little remained of the original design. Heathen Persians had plundered it, and then the infidels; the mad Caliph of Egypt who thought he was God had ordered its complete destruction, though he had been murdered by his own infidel subjects before his orders could be carried out. Only the ground-plan remained of the work of the mighty men of old. Now that it was once more in Christian hands it could be made into a seemly Frankish church.

  But that little marble hut over there was the tomb in which the Body of God had been laid. He was only a few yards off, under the same roof. He was carrying his sword, and he called no man master. The Mass followed the Latin rite. It was for this they had all left home.

  His thoughts ranged back over the last three years. He saw once again the bullying Patzinaks, and Tancred charging against them all unarmed; Thracian peasants lamenting beside their sacked cottages; murdered Franks and Greeks outside the city; the deluded followers of Peter the Hermit lying rotting at Civetot; the gallant knights and stout sergeants killed under the walls of Nicaea; the women and children and clerks cut down when the Turks broke into the camp at Dorylaeum; the terrible crossing of the mountains; the starvation, plague and misery before Antioch. Of all the myriads of pilgrims who had left the Latin west not one-tenth had lived to see the Holy Sepulchre. Yet here they were, the survivors of that multitude. The shrine was open to all Christians. It had been worth doing. He would start again tomorrow and do it all over again if, which God forbid, it should become necessary.

  When the Mass ended he lay flat on his face, his arms stretched in the shape of the Cross, to continue his prayers. Presently he joined the crowd of other newcomers who inched their way forward on their bellies to kiss the outer wall of the tomb.

  Presently a clerk announced in a loud voice that the legate and the Patriarch called on all laymen to leave the basilica, where the Canons of the Holy Sepulchre wished to meet in private. Bohemond remembered that he was to dine with Duke Godfrey in Solomon’s Temple, the only building allowed by the clergy to their Advocate. If Tancred had not graciously yielded it Godfrey would have had to lodge in his pavilion.

  In the temple was a fine marble hall, which the infidels had used for the teaching of their false religion. Duke Godfrey kept considerable state, more than one would expect from the Advocate of a clerical fief; Bohemond was gratified to be seated at his right. There were a number of other guests, but some of them were strange to him. Already many of the great lords who had led the long campaign were on their way home.

  Everyone was very hungry, and a poet made a great noise shouting out a song he had composed in honour of the hero-pilgrims. This was a new development. Godfrey explained that even gentlemen of good birth who had fought in the pilgrimage were composing songs about it. Everyone in France was eager to hear of these great deeds. Poetry had become smart, as in the old days when Bishop Turpin sang of Roland. Bohemond heard his own name often enough to know that the poet had his facts right, but otherwise the new fashion did not appeal to him. He was glad that under the noise of poetry and hearty eating he could talk privately with Duke Godfrey.

  His first question was natural, though blunt. “Who rules here, you or the Patriarch?’’

  “The Holy City must belong to the Church. The head of the Church, of course under the supreme authority of the Pope, is the Patriarch. But every knight within these walls takes his orders from me.”

  “Then since I am a knight I shall take orders from you, so long as I am here. Is the Patriarch a decent sort of man? I never heard of him.”

  “Arnulf? Well, there’s no harm in him; though if I had been a Bishop I might have chosen someone else. They say he’s a scholar, and certainly he preaches well. The real point is that he was a favourite clerk of Duke Robert’s, who fought very gallantly and got nothing for his pains. The Normans worked it, I believe, to block the election of some south French follower of Count Raymond. A pity there wasn’t a more outstanding candidate, but all through this pilgrimage we had to work with the material to hand.”

  “Does he tell you what to do?”

  “I’ll say this in his favour—he doesn’t. His position is shaky, you know. The election was hurried, and some say his consecration was irregular. The legate is inquiring into that this afternoon. Besides, Duke Robert has left for home, and he was Arnulf’s chief supporter. I rule in these parts just as much as if I were King. But it seems more decent to call myself Advocate. Certainly I regard Pope Paschal as my superior.”

  “The legate holds court this afternoon? A glutton for work, that holy man. Since midnight he has sung three Masses. I know, because I heard them all. On top of the fast of Christmas Eve, too. But he’s a good man in his way, with the right ideas about Greeks. None of those schemes of reunion with Constantinople that fascinated poor dear Adhemar. Daimbert came to land first at St. Simeon, and rode with me from Antioch. He brought out the whole war-fleet of Pisa as escort, and on the way he fought a considerable battle against the ships of Alexius.”

  “Did he indeed? Who won?” Godfrey liked to hear news of battle.

  “It was more or less a draw. Greek Fire gives Alexius an unfair advantage, and will do so until I find a traitor to sell us the secret. The Greeks captured one of the biggest Pisan ships; then luckily the weather grew worse. The coast of Cyprus was dangerously close, and of course in a storm Pisans sail better than Greeks. The legate got away in fair order. But I don’t think he will bother us by upholding the rights of Alexius in these parts. Alexius who makes war on a legate of the Pope.”

  “Down here we forget Alexius. I suppose he is rather a menace to you in the north?”

  “Why not say that I menace him? Years ago, long before this pilgrimage, I saw the tail of his horse. I may see it again before I die. But the road from the city to Antioch is barred just now, the road we followed the year before last. That’s why this excellent Pisan fleet is so important. It’s my only link with Italy.”

  “The legate is our link with Rome. While the Pope supports us Frankish knights will get here by one road or another. That’s why I give such honour to the Patriarch. The Pope must do more than wish us well, he must send out reinforcements.”

  At that moment a steward called for silence. A Canon of the Holy Sepulchre stood in the door, with thurifers and clerks. He bore in his hand a roll of paper, from which he wished to read aloud. Bohemond wondered idly what would happen to a clerk who came in and told him to be silent in his own hall; but here in Jerusalem the clergy seemed to be in control. It was only good
manners to copy the submission of his host.

  The Canon announced that the legate desired the presence of these great lords within the Holy Sepulchre an hour before sunset, to hear the papal judgement on a cause of grave importance. He added that certain Bishops elect would be consecrated, for which as many witnesses as possible should be present.

  “Good Heavens, does this legate ever eat?” exclaimed Bohemond as the Canon withdrew. “He was fasting all yesterday, and he can’t have had much dinner today. It must be a very important judgement, at least to Archbishop Daimbert. Do you mind, Godfrey, if I rest until we go there?”

  Attached to the Holy Sepulchre was a chapter house for secular business, since it would be indecorous to discuss such affairs before the actual tomb. There all the great lords in Jerusalem assembled. Godfrey as Advocate had the place of honour, but Bohemond, Tancred, and Baldwin of Edessa sat in a row just below him. Opposite them the Canons sat side by side on a dais, on either side of the Patriarchal throne, which was empty. Knights, clerks, and a few pioneer traders from the Italian towns crowded the rest of the building. The proceedings began with an inspection of Daimbert’s legatine commission. It was carried round by a Canon escorted by armed sergeants so that all present might verify the papal seal.

  It seemed strange that neither the Patriarch nor the legate was present; but the ecclesiastical manner of conducting business often baffles the layman.

  Then the same spokesman read out a long legal judgement, whose import left the audience gasping. After due inquiry the legate had discovered defects in the election of Arnulf as Patriarch, and indeed in his consecration. It was not certain that he was validly a Bishop, or even a priest; before election he had been merely a sub-deacon. That left the Patriarchal throne vacant. But in these troubled times a Patriarch was necessary, so the Canons had immediately proceeded to a valid election. Their choice had fallen on Daimbert, Archbishop of Pisa and papal legate. An hour ago he had been solemnly enthroned, since for an Archbishop no consecration was needed.