Crusade moe-2

by Stewart Binns

  The towers were over fifty feet tall – mounted on wheels and built on three levels, they were designed to sit hard against the city walls. The assault troops were protected by thatch, covered with several layers of hide.

  Then Tancred of Hauteville began his particular brand of intimidation.

  First, a captured Muslim knight was paraded in front of the walls before being beheaded by one of Tancred’s henchmen. Then Tancred began to catapult bodies into the city, some already dead, some not so fortunate, who met their deaths dashed against its ramparts and buildings. To his credit, the governor did not retaliate in kind, but did expel all the Orthodox Christians from the city – a reasonable response that seemed only to anger the Crusaders even more.

  One of the many zealots and visionaries with the army was a priest, Peter Desiderous, who claimed to have had a visitation from the much respected Adhemar Le Puy, Pope Urban’s Apostolic Legate, who had only recently died. Le Puy had commanded him to remind the Crusaders that they were pilgrims and that they should form a procession around the city, praying for strength from God for their attack on the walls.

  Although it may have seemed a trifle too devout for the more worldly of the Crusaders, it had a dramatic impact. Not only did many of them work themselves up into a religious frenzy, but the arrows, stones, excrement and hot oil that were hurled at them by the inhabitants of the city only added to their fury.

  The assault began on the morning of the 14th of July 1099, with the Crusaders attacking the city on two fronts at once. The sky was immediately filled with missiles flung from both sides. There were stones, firebrands and a whole range of improvised projectiles, flammable, sharp or heavy.

  The fighting lasted for two days until Gaston of Brean’s towers made a breakthrough. With Godfrey of Bouillon himself on the highest level, one of the towers reached the top of the wall. The defenders had one defensive weapon left, which they had held in reserve, a form of Greek fire that was thought to be impossible to extinguish. They poured vats of it on to the tower, but the banished Christians from the city had revealed the secret of how to kill the deadly blaze: vinegar, which the Crusaders had stored on the inside of the tower in skin sacks and used liberally to douse the fire.

  As soon as the flames were out, Godfrey let down the hide-covered protective wooden lattice at the front of the tower and used it as a bridge to stride on to the wall, leading a mass of knights behind him. As soon as this bridgehead was established, dozens of scaling ladders were thrown against the wall and the Crusaders poured into the city.

  What followed brought shame on us all.

  After three years of struggling against overwhelming odds, on a tortuous journey replete with astonishing acts of bravery, for what most thought was the noblest of causes, the Crusaders once more behaved like wild animals. All sense of decency deserted them; their humanity was forgotten in order to slake their bloodlust.

  There had been other atrocities and much cruel barbarity, but what happened in Jerusalem over the course of the night of the 15th of July was on an unprecedented scale. Almost the entire population of the city was raped, tortured and butchered; Muslims and Jews, none was spared, save a few of the elite Egyptian cavalry and the Governor, Iftikar ad-Daulah, who hid in the Tower of David and negotiated surrender.

  It is difficult to estimate how many died, but it must have been in the tens of thousands.

  Robert led our Brethren as we struggled in vain to prevent the carnage. He ordered his contingent to stand down, but only a few did. We were joined by some who were loyal to the Mos Militum and we managed to get a few poor souls into a safe house and keep it guarded while we went in search of more to rescue.

  Harrowingly, when we returned, the guards had been overwhelmed and their charges massacred. In all, we managed to get two dozen out of the city and sent them with an escort towards the coast.

  Word spread that, before they were killed, many of the richer citizens had swallowed their gold bezants and jewellery to prevent the Crusaders stealing them. Thus there followed horror upon horror, as crazed Crusaders sliced open the bellies of the dead in a grisly hunt for coins and gems.

  Every place of worship, every public building, every home was looted until the carts could carry no more. Nothing of any value remained; the city was cleansed of everything with the blood of its people.

  Within minutes of the end of the carnage, the Crusaders flocked to the Holy Sepulchre to give thanks for their deliverance. Heaving from their exertions, dripping in their sweat and the still-warm blood of their victims, they knelt in prayer.

  We turned away; whichever God they were praying to, it was not our God.

  There was one final battle to be fought in the Crusade.

  News arrived within a few hours of the slaughter at Jerusalem that Malik al-Afdal, the Vizier of the Caliphate of Cairo, was approaching with a Fatimid army 30,000 strong, landing his force at the port of Ascalon. It had elite Egyptian cavalry at its core and troops from all over the Caliphate: Berbers, Bedouin, Ethiopians and squadrons from the personal bodyguards of all the emirs of the Fatimid cities along the North African coast. It was at least as powerful as any army we had faced in the entire Crusade.

  The Princes, emboldened and briefly united by their achievements, decided on yet another unpredictably daring response. They would not sit behind the walls of Jerusalem and wait for the attack; they would ride out and meet it head on. Although their newly purchased horses were less sturdy than their European mounts, the knights could fight on horseback once more and relished the prospect.

  We had no stomach for any more fighting of the sort that had come to be the hallmark of Crusader behaviour. Sweyn, Hereward, Adela and Estrith took Harold and headed north to Jaffa with Hugh Percy and an escort of Robert’s men to organize a fleet for our departure from the Holy Land.

  Robert and I took advice from the Brethren and wrestled with the dilemma for many hours before deciding that it would be wrong to desert the cause at the moment when its objective had been achieved, no matter how much unnecessary blood had been spilled in doing so.

  We reached the vicinity of Ascalon on the evening of the 11th of August. It soon became clear from the reports of our scouts that we had been fortunate and that the audacity of the Princes had worked in our favour once more. Malik al-Afdal had spent the day preparing his army to march on Jerusalem the next morning and then bedded it down for the night. Feeling certain that his quarry would hole up in Jerusalem, he had posted few sentries and made no provision to defend his camp against a surprise attack.

  Godfrey of Bouillon led a Council of War, where the decision was quickly taken to rest for only a few hours and then to form up as close to the Fatimid army as possible during the darkest hours of the night, waiting for the first hint of dawn. When there was just enough light to illuminate our path, we would charge, en masse, straight into the Fatimid camp.

  When the moment came, Raymond of Toulouse took the right flank, Godfrey of Bouillon the left, with Robert of Flanders, Tancred of Hauteville, Robert and myself in the centre. The first rays of the sun caught the crimson of our flags and war banners before bathing us all in its early morning gleam. With the light radiating behind us in an iridescent glow, and the thunder of our horses booming ever louder, we must have presented a terrifying vision as we fell upon the enemy camp out of the night.

  We were outnumbered by at least three to one, but our group of men was the elite residue of an army which itself was the best Europe had to offer when it set out three years earlier. It had survived battle, deprivation and disease and had been forged in incredibly challenging circumstances.

  Many were also inspired by mystical relics unearthed by the Crusaders and brought to the battlefield. Raymond of Toulouse carried the Holy Lance, found in Antioch, which was said to be the spear that had been plunged into Christ’s side on the cross. Arnulf of Chocques, the new Patriarch of Jerusalem, held aloft the True Cross, believed to be a piece of Christ’s crucifix, discovered hidden i
n a silver case in a dingy corner of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem.

  Most of the foot soldiers had walked from Jerusalem barefoot, like true pilgrims, and dozens of knights had worn sackcloth on the journey to purge themselves in preparation for the battle. Mixed in equal measures with a voracious greed and a lust for violence, religious zeal had driven these men throughout the Crusade; it was a frightening brew.

  Only on the eve of battle did they wear their garments of war – which, to them, represented another form of reverential clothing, because killing infidels was another kind of devotion to God.

  The Battle of Ascalon was hardly that; it was more like an ambush that led to a stampede of terrified men. The Fatimid cavalry had no time to find their horses, let alone mount them; thousands were cut down in their camp as we charged straight through their neat rows of tents. Of those who managed to retreat, some made for the shore in a vain attempt to reach their boats, while others rushed to get through the gates of Ascalon before they were barred against them.

  Our losses were minimal, theirs so great that it was easier to count the survivors than the dead. Al-Afdal managed to get into the city and set sail for Cairo, leaving the remnants of his army to fend for themselves. The victory neutralized the Fatimid threat from the south, just as Dorylaeum had nullified the Seljuks in the north.

  The new Christian realms in the Holy Land were secure for the foreseeable future.

  Our obligations to the Crusade now met, we prepared to return to Jerusalem immediately.

  Robert gave his men twenty-four hours to take their share of plunder from the Fatimids’ weapons and belongings, and our portion of the spoils of Ascalon’s treasury was shared out equally. But we refused to let our men enter the city, and we issued strict orders against rape or killing.

  Within the week, we were on the road to Jaffa. Robert had lost almost three-quarters of his knights and an even higher proportion of his infantry and civilians. All his destriers had perished, the finest body of cavalry flesh in the world, and almost all the money he had raised from the sale of his dukedom had gone. He took very little from the spoils of Jerusalem – just enough to get us home.

  My English contingent had suffered similar losses. At the roll-call at Jaffa we counted 63 able-bodied men, 11 crippled or dying, and only 7 civilians, all of them monks.

  Estrith and Adela were the only female survivors, and young Harold of Hereford the only child.

  32. The Parting

  Our arrival in Constantinople brought a few weeks of comfort as we enjoyed the delights of the Blachernae, but it was also tinged with bitterness. Hereward insisted that he would return to his mountain home in the Peloponnese – no matter how hard Estrith, in particular, tried to persuade him to change his mind.

  In September, he found a trader bound for Iberia and prepared to leave for Valencia to visit the Cid before the autumn gales became too severe. But he was forced to abort his trip when the captain brought him news, from a ship newly arrived, that his old friend had died peacefully in his bed in the middle of July. Doña Jimena, grief-stricken, had gone into mourning and refused to see anyone.

  The Emperor summoned us for an audience.

  Hereward had arrived before us; he had discarded his imperial garb and reverted to being the Old Man of the Mountain. He embraced all of us in turn.

  ‘Adela, let me kiss my grandson. Take care of him for me.’

  Estrith burst into tears.

  ‘Please, Father, don’t go!’

  Hereward had turned to leave, but he now stopped and thought for a while before addressing his daughter.

  ‘I once left you and Gunnhild to fight a battle. It was the most difficult thing I ever had to do. This time there are no more battles to fight; there is no reason why I should leave you again. But I can’t go to England.’

  ‘Then let me come with you.’

  ‘Estrith, I live in a lean-to at the top of a mountain in the middle of a wilderness, and winter approaches.’

  ‘It will do me good. Besides, it’s how my mother and grandfather lived in the wildwood. I can work on designs for my roof of hammer beams –’ her eyes widened in anticipation ‘– I will stay until the spring and then go north to join the others in Rouen.’

  ‘What about Harold?’

  She looked at Sweyn and Adela, who smiled and nodded their approval.

  ‘It will do him good too. He needs toughening up, if he is to follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather.’

  Hereward’s face softened.

  ‘I’m not the most engaging company.’

  ‘Neither am I, but I have a child to care for and a complicated roof design to perfect, I don’t need much company.’

  He looked at Alexius.

  ‘Sire, she will need an escort in the spring to take her to Normandy.’

  Alexius signalled his approval.

  ‘It will be at Messene on the third new moon of next year.’

  Estrith rushed at Hereward and threw her arms around him.

  Alexius called to his steward, ‘Some wine, I have a toast to make!’

  The stewards handed round silver goblets and poured generous amounts of Byzantium’s finest black wine.

  ‘To Harold of Hereford, a noble knight in the making.’

  The toast was repeated, and Alexius got up from his throne to thank each of us in turn. He then turned to Sweyn.

  ‘I have a son, John Comnenus, twelve years old; he is away with his companion, John Azoukh – a Seljuk Turkish slave given to me as a gift, who I have adopted. He is good for John Comnenus, because my son has everything and John Azoukh nothing. Don’t spoil your son; make him strong like you and your father. When he is older, bring him back to Constantinople, I would like to meet him and you can introduce him to my two sons.’

  ‘It would be an honour, Your Majesty.’

  ‘And now, let us talk about the Talisman of Truth; it is obviously still working its magic, because it brought us all together. In due course, I will give it to John Comnenus when it is time for him to wear the Purple, but I think John should be the recipient of the Talisman only for the beginning of his reign, when he will need it most. After that, its guardianship should become the responsibility of your Brethren, who may be able to put it to better use elsewhere. I will tell Prince John this, so that when the time is right you can come and collect it.’

  ‘Majesty, I will tell Harold this also. Thank you.’

  ‘I also have a gift for the boy. Keep it safe for when he is older.’

  The Emperor handed Sweyn a small casket containing ten gold Byzantine bezants, a small fortune by anybody’s standards.

  Sweyn fell to his knees and kissed Alexius’s ring.

  That evening, as Hereward made ready to leave, I sought him out so that we could reflect on the past and, more importantly, look to the future.

  ‘It must be very gratifying to know that Estrith and your grandson will go with you to your mountain home.’

  ‘It is something I’m looking forward to, although I’m a little concerned that Estrith will find it somewhat primitive.’

  ‘I’m sure she will adapt perfectly; it sounds like a paradise.’

  ‘It’s strange how life seems to exist in big arcs of destiny. Torfida, Estrith’s grandmother, was raised in England’s wildwood by her father, the Old Man of the Wildwood. Now young Harry will spend his early days with an old man of the mountain.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s the Talisman at work. You must be pleased that the Emperor has chosen Harry to be its guardian one day.’

  ‘I am, but it’s also a heavy burden to place on the boy’s shoulders.’

  ‘Well, he’s got a fine pedigree. I’m sure he’ll be worthy.’

  ‘My Prince, you must help him and Estrith as long as you can.’

  ‘I will, of course. But why do you address me as “Prince” all of a sudden?’

  ‘Out of respect; you were born a prince, but had that title taken from you. Now, in my eyes, you’ve regained
that title and are a prince by deed, not by birthright.’

  I was stunned by Hereward’s words and moved to embrace him, but he backed away, clasped the hilt of his sword and bowed deeply before turning away towards his chamber.

  ‘Look after my daughter and grandson, Edgar, Prince of Wessex and England.’

  I knew this was the last time I would ever see the great man. Once again, he had changed my life and, as he disappeared from view, I felt the tears welling in the corners of my eyes.

  Within the week, our flotilla of ships was bound for Brindisi with sails full and a strong wind astern. Hereward, Estrith and baby Harold had already sailed for Messene.

  Our journey was uneventful until we reached southern Italy, where a strange and wonderful thing happened: Robert fell in love. While his father, King William, was alive, he would not let Robert marry, for fear of a royal marriage compromising the delicate balance of politics in northern Europe. Only once did a marriage of alliance make sense, when he was betrothed to Margaret of Maine, but her untimely death put an end to that scheme. After the King’s death Robert seemed content with a host of pretty concubines and conquests, all of little consequence.

  That changed when we arrived in Conversano in Puglia, as guests of Count Geoffrey, its Norman lord and nephew of Robert Guiscard. He was a charming old man, but his daughter, Sybilla, equally charming, was far from old; she was a girl just turned sixteen, buxom and vivacious. Robert, all but fifty years old, was smitten.

  It was a good match. He was Duke of Normandy – the land of Geoffrey’s birth, and one of the mightiest realms in Europe – and his exploits in the Holy Land meant that he was one of the few Latin Princes whose reputation had been enhanced by the Crusade. He was hailed everywhere as not only a hero but also a true soldier of Christ, a man to be revered. She, for her part, brought a significant dowry from one of the richest counties in Italy, sufficient to pay back the share of Normandy that Robert had mortgaged to King Rufus.