The road was paved with cobblestones, and stretched straight behind them to another saddle which cut off the view; on either side were gently swelling hills, grassgrown and still green with early summer. In every direction, over the crests and beside the road, stretched ruined dykes and broken stone walls, while in the valley below two apple trees grew beside the scorched foundations of a group of stone buildings. The contours of the hills reminded him of his own South Downs, though in the south-west mountains rose behind them. Yet nowhere was there smoke, or growing corn, or grazing animals. This was the border of the Turks, harried for fifteen years.
The column of foot came over the hill behind them; since nearly every man led a packhorse it flowed towards them like an endless snake, the rear still out of sight. At last the horsemen in front moved on. Roger put Jack into a walk when the movement reached him, and the cloud of dust rose again. Roger was in the left-hand file, and his right-hand neighbour, who was suffering from toothache, had nothing to say for himself; so he rode in silence, thinking only of the heat and his own discomfort.
About midday there was some excitement in the advance-guard, as they climbed the shoulder of another hill. Roger hoisted up his shield, and put his bridle-arm through the grips, but the news was quickly passed back; they were at last in sight of Nicaea.
Soon all the cavalry in the main body could see it, and Roger woke up and began to pay attention. Here at last were the enemies of God. The town looked smaller than he had expected, as all towns do seen from above, but the line of walls could be made out, completely enclosing it. High and straight, broken at intervals by tall square towers, they gleamed golden in the sun, as formidable as the Aurelian walls of Rome, though not so terrifying as the triple girdle of Constantinople. On the right stretched the lake, and north, east and south were the camps of the pilgrims. This was the Holy War at last, and the long journey through peaceful Christian lands was over. It was the 1st of June 1097, eleven months since he had left Sussex.
Duke Robert, with the Normans of Normandy, rode right past the town and halted on the south side. Then the criers gave orders that the camp should be pitched where they stood, beside the followers of the Count of Toulouse. Roger dismounted where he was, stuck the butt-end of his lance in the ground, and waited for Peter and Godric to find him. It was hopeless to look for them in that crowd of men and baggage animals. Presently Peter arrived, leading the hackney; the horse bore a light sack of clothing, and after he had been disarmed, for no one could put on or take off a mail shirt by himself, he set off, in his best tunic and mantle, to visit the other camps. His bivouac would be complete when the baggage-horse arrived, since he had no tent.
It was only mid-afternoon, and he walked, since he was saddle-sore. This was the first time he had seen the host of the pilgrims gathered in one place, and the crowds stunned and bewildered him. The Provencal camp was large and well-organized, consisting chiefly of huts built of timber and roofed with brushwood. They had been encamped a fortnight, and the stench was appalling. So was the noise. The women were collecting grain from the Greek merchants who had brought the supplies promised by the Emperor; it was supposed to be free, but the Greeks were reluctant to give it over for nothing, and there was shouting and gesticulation. There seemed to be little military activity, though in front of the camp was a line of Greek balistas, with Provencal footmen at the winches, and a detachment of crossbows and spearmen stood at a respectful distance from the south gate, ready to repel a sortie. This was businesslike, and even the women seemed to be well fed. Evidently the Count of Toulouse could look after himself and his contingent.
But the language, so different from north French, made conversation difficult. He went on to the next camp, on the eastern face of the town. This was also stoutly built and well guarded, though the language difficulty was even greater, for it was the camp: of the Duke of Lotharingia, and many of his followers spoke nothing but German. He inquired of a priest, in Latin, where the Normans of Italy were to be found, and was directed to the camp over against the north wall.
The camp of the Count of Taranto was quite different from the others, and did not look at all Norman, either. Many of the servants were dark skinned, and spoke an unknown language; there were few wooden huts and many pavilions of cloth, some decorated with silk. The main guard consisted of fully-armed knights who stood holding their horses out of balista-range of the north gate. Since these men were not busy at the moment, while everyone else in camp was engaged in tending the horses or getting supper ready, Roger approached a young knight who stood rather in the rear, leaning on his lance.
“Good evening, sir. I am Roger fitzOsbert de Bodeham in England and I have just arrived with the Duke of Normandy. Will you tell me how the war is going?”
The other looked him up and down. He was a dark young man, in his twenties, and his white-toothed smile was gay and welcoming. He answered in good though hesitating north French:
“This siege, like me, is standing still. But something is up behind the scenes; the Greeks are making some preparations about the lake, and there is a suggestion that the Turkish commander may be bribed to surrender. What is the news from Normandy, and particularly from Eu; my grandfather William came from there, and my name is Robert fitzRalph de Santa Fosca in Apulia.”
“Then, sir, we are cousins. My father holds from the Count of Eu in England and was born his man in Normandy; his uncle William went to Italy, though we never heard how he got on.”
Robert put out his hand, sliding the reins to his elbow. They chattered excitedly of names and dates, and established that they were second cousins. Then, of course, talk turned to the war. From Italy they had followed much the same route to Constantinople, though Robert had been earlier by six months, and could give an account of the discussions and negotiations there; he seemed to be very full of inside information, for a simple knight, and always attributed the lowest motives to everybody. The thing that interested him most was the question of the pilgrims’ future conquests, and their relation to the Greek Emperor. Roger had never given this much thought; he had supposed that he would help to conquer towns and castles from the Turks and other infidels, and would end his days holding one of them against the enemy, but he had never bothered who his overlord would be. Robert was eager to know what oaths he had taken, and he explained that in England he was landless, and no man’s man, but that before setting out he had become the man of the Duke of Normandy, only for the duration of the pilgrimage. The Duke had taken the oath to the Greek Emperor, the same oath which had caused such trouble earlier, and that of course bound his men, though when the Duke left for home they would be free.
“But that is splendid,” cried Robert. “The Count of Taranto is the Emperor’s man, and he intends to stay out here; so I am bound to him, whether in Romania or Italy. But you will soon be as free as air, and if you can get hold of a castle, you may take it to the highest bidder. I know what Bohemund is up to; he is trying to get Antioch from the Emperor. If I hold from him, and find that I have to rebel for some good reason, I shall have your castle as a refuge.”
This was going much too fast for Roger, who explained that he probably would never get a castle to himself, that if he did he would get it from some lord, to whom he would owe suit and service, and that pilgrims under a vow should not talk of oath-breaking. Robert listened with a grave face, and agreed with everything he said, but didn’t seem to be paying much attention. Then, as the night guard of crossbowmen were seen to be getting under arms, they parted, agreeing to meet the following evening, if they were both off duty.
Roger walked back towards his lines, too deep in thought to notice the hubbub of the camp settling down for the night. He recalled the eleven months’ journey he had made. First from Rye by ship to the mouth of the Seine, and then by easy stages to Rouen; the six weeks waiting in Normandy, getting to know the other pilgrims, and fearful that it would be all over without him unless they started soon. Then the always unpunctual Duke had set out, an
d they had journeyed south through France, Burgundy and Savoy until they reached Italy. It had been a march from the confines of civilization to its centre, from barbarism to the seat of culture. Supplies had been plentiful in the closely tilled south, and the people had been glad to see them. The different languages, from north French to Italian, had melted gradually from one into the next, without any abrupt barrier, so that you could not help picking up a bit as you went along, and everywhere the literate clerks could speak Latin. The manner of living was the same as at home, in spite of the increasing splendour of the towns; each village was held by a knight, who held of a count, who held of a king or an emperor; the vines and olives were a new experience, but otherwise, the pattern was unaltered. Even Rome was as he had expected, from the countless descriptions of pilgrims and ecclesiastics who crossed Sussex and Kent on their way to London. Southern Italy was part of the same world, a world where peasants, speaking various queer languages, were ruled by French- or Roman-speaking knights, who held land by military tenure. When Bishop Odo of Bayeux died in Palermo, he had not really wandered very far from home.
But after the olives and wine of the mild Italian winter, they had crossed the sea into a completely different world. That six weeks’ ride from Dyrrhaccium to Constantinople had not been at all difficult or arduous, for strange Greek barons, in long silk robes like Mass vestments, had arranged the route and assembled provisions. But human relationships were so completely different, so unlike the sensible, everlasting foundations of the Christian life at home, that it was almost impossible to understand them. In the first place, there was the language difficulty; no one spoke Latin, the tongue that would carry a man from Spain to Norway, from Ireland to Hungary; the very letters of their writing were incomprehensible, and seemed to mock the pilgrims with a spurious likeness to the proper alphabet of civilized man. The troops of the Greek envoys, who guarded the pilgrimage from the savage mountaineers, seemed to be respectable men, but they were all soldiers. The churches were strange, too; so shapeless that a man could not tell from the outside where the East might lie, and so amazingly gorgeous within. He had ventured into one in Thessalonica, choosing the early afternoon when Mass would be over and Vespers not begun, as he did not wish to imperil his soul by taking part in a schismatic service. The height of the dome had astonished him, and the host of saints, angels and armed men depicted on the wall cowed him like a living crowd; the altar was hidden by a carved and shining screen and the wheel-shaped candelabrum overhead seemed to threaten like a suspended club. It was a jealous and secretive God Who was worshipped there. A doorkeeper had come up and jabbered at him and he had been glad to leave.
Oddest of all was the whole economic and military organization of the Empire of Romania, as he had gradually realized it in the course of his journey. On the one hand were the mountaineers, who paid tribute when they had to and plundered when they could; that was normal enough, for an armed knight could never catch them on their hillsides, and the same thing happened in Wales. But the plain country was owned in a very curious way; most of it belonged to rich men who lived in towns, who took rent in money from their tenants, and paid taxes in money to the Emperor. Nobody did military service, and soldiers were hired to defend the towns. There was not a single knight in the whole Empire of Romania! All was guarded by soldiers; even the barons who conducted them were in a sense soldiers also, for they were not born to their positions, but served the Emperor for pay. Furthermore, the Emperor himself, though of noble birth and the son of a leader of soldiers, had no more right to his throne than Count Harold to the crown of England. He had won it in battle, and would hold it until he was overthrown by a stronger. No wonder these Easterners needed Normans to defend them, rebels, schismatics and oath-breakers that they were.
So the march had continued, through the vineyards and the mulberry plantations, round the shining white towns half-hidden by their high straight walls, with the sea on the right hand, and the hills of Thrace on the left. Then as they rode over gently undulating green swells, with the red earth showing in the gullies and the roads, they were aware of a regular level line in the far distance, stretching seemingly from horizon to horizon. As they drew nearer, the line was broken by towers and roofs, then it dissolved into row after row of walls, running from right to left as far as the eye could discern, with the gleaming helms of sentinels reflecting the sun from the battlements, banners flying from the towers, and behind it the murmur and smell of a multitude—the Triple Walls of Constantinople.
It was not only the largest city they had seen, but of an altogether different order of magnitude, as Russia is larger than Middlesex; nor was it friendly. The gates were kept shut, and it was difficult to get permission to enter. Roger had not been inside; he had no wish to trust himself among this alien crowd, that showed so little gratitude for Norman aid. He had not even seen the Emperor, for when the Duke gave his oath at a meeting in the suburban camp of the pilgrims he had been absent, collecting forage from a Greek village. All the other pilgrims had already crossed into Asia, and indeed the siege of Nicaea was already formed, so they had not lingered. A quick crossing of the Bosphorus, two days marching in the uplands of Bithynia, and here they were with the main army. But what a strange land, how terrifying the queer motives and actions of these people, and what worlds away from Sussex!
With these sad thoughts clouding his mind, Roger wandered slowly back to his bivouac. Peter was absent, with one of the troops of grazing horses that strayed under guard on the nearby hills, but Godric had prepared his master’s bedding, and told him supper for the knights of the second rank was arranged by the pavilion of the Duke.
The front of the Duke’s pavilion had been looped up, and the high table faced the open air, while the lesser knights squatted at boards laid on the ground, running at right angles from it. Roger found himself sitting between a young knight from the Cotentin, and a middle-aged priest from Brittany. The high table was unusually full, and Roger asked who the guests might be.
“The Count of Toulouse,” answered the priest, “and his courtiers. That is Count Raymond himself sitting beside the Duke, at his right hand; on his left is the Bishop of Puy, who ought really to have the highest place, since he is the Pope’s Legate in charge of the pilgrimage. But the holy man is a vassal of Toulouse, and will not sit above his lord.”
The young knight on the other side joined in the conversation. “The Count of Toulouse should always have the highest place among the pilgrims. Not only is he a warrior who has done great deeds in Spain, not only did he come the whole way here on his horse, fighting his way through the mountaineers of Sclavonia, but he is the only free prince we have among us, untrammelled by any oath. He could set up a third Empire in the Holy Land, if he wished, without leave of Alexius or Henry. If he stays, after the Duke has gone home, I shall take service under his banner.”
“All this endless talk about oaths!” said Roger. “I wasn’t there when the Duke took his, though of course I am his man and it binds me. But it seems to me quite a reasonable thing to have done. We are here to help the Christians of the East, and if they provide for us suitably, as they are doing now,” and he waved a mutton chop, “I am willing to fight their battles for them.” He spoke more often, and more loudly, than he had done a year ago.
“Exactly. If they provide for us suitably,” agreed the priest. “As a matter of fact, they are drawing up a treaty about it. The Bishop of Puy’s archdeacon is writing our version of it this evening; I used to know him at Clermont and he told me so this afternoon.”
“That is bad news,” said the knight from the Cotentin. “Everyone knows what an oath means; but once you get things written down, any clerk can twist it to mean what he likes. My uncle holds by a written charter from the Abbey of Mont Saint Michel, and I know by experience. In three months we shall be fighting the Emperor, if we argue on parchment now.”
Roger felt there was something in this. He remembered the discontent that was caused by the writing down
of all the holdings in England in Domesday Book, and he was sorry all these Christian princes could not trust each other better. But he was anxious to know more.
“It is no good, father, you telling me what is written in the treaty; I don’t know the language of lawyers. But will you explain it in simple words. For example, what is going to happen to this town when we take it?”
“The treaty is quite clear on that,” said the priest, “and so is the oath. This town will go back to the Emperor, and I suppose he will give it to some good knight to hold for him. Until quite recently the Emperor of Romania held lands stretching for hundreds of miles to the eastwards, up to Antioch and beyond. It has only been lost in the last twenty-five years. I don’t know where the boundary was; though I hope the people did who drew up that treaty.”
The talk then turned to the prospects of the siege, and the difficulty of finding forage for the horses; soon after Roger went off to his bedding. He thought of the conversation he had listened to during this first day of war; there seemed to be too many legal arguments for warriors on pilgrimage. His cousin Robert appeared to know a good deal about feudal law; he would consult him to-morrow. He was soon asleep.
The next day he spent a lazy morning, though he heard Mass first. Some of the Normans overslept badly, and even missed that, which was rather shocking on such a pilgrimage. After dinner he was on the main guard before the south gate, but without his horse, as it was thought easier to defend the siege-engines on foot. He was interested in the work of the balistas, machines he had never seen before, which threw large boulders, always aimed at the same corner of one tower by the gate. They were directed by Greek engineers, excitable unmilitary men in cloth tunics, who pushed and slapped the crews composed of Provencal footmen and grooms. It disturbed him that schismatics should give orders to good Christians, but of course the war must be carried on. As far as he could see, no damage was done to the corner of the tower, and the garrison-on the walls often cheered, and shot arrows which fell short. In the evening the guard was relieved, and after being disarmed he went to meet his cousin at the appointed place.
Knight with Armour Page 4
