“Well, I can’t object to your taking wedding-presents from a cousin. I hope he doesn’t get married himself, or expect a present in return. But it was handsome of Robert, and I must not grudge him his good fortune.”
“He seems a very gallant knight,” said Domna Alice, “and he speaks good langue d’Oc, though you can tell he is a foreigner. It cheers me when a knight serves the ladies as they do at home. He said he would compose a poem to my lady during the siege.”
“He expects a siege, then, not a battle,” Roger said quickly, “and he always knows what is going on. Still, that is obvious, or the infidels would have stood before. Yet there may be fighting tomorrow, and I shall go to bed early. Don’t wake me, Anne, when you come.”
Nobody had asked about the failure of his attempt at single combat, and that was something to the good. As for cousin Robert, one must remember that envy is a mortal sin, and that some people are by nature luckier than others.
V. Outside Antioch 1097-1098.
Roger sat outside his hut, and stared across the marsh at the city of Antioch; it was November, and the pilgrims had been in front of the walls for three weeks. From where he sat he could see the interior of the town, climbing the hillside of Mount Silpius in close-packed acres of whitewashed stone walls and vivid red-tiled roofs, with the domes of the desecrated churches standing out clearly in the pale winter sunshine. It was an enormous city, rich and well-built, and the taking of it would make many fortunes; but that taking would be a laborious and dangerous task. On the northwest the town wall ran along the left bank of the Orontes, broken by the great Bridge Gate and the massive embattled bridge, which was held by the infidels; west and south-west it climbed the mountain, with St. George’s Gate in the narrow plain at the foot, from which issued the south-western road to Daphne and the coast; exactly opposite him, across the whole breadth of the town, he could see the double walls of the citadel, the highest point of the enceinte, crowning a spur of Mount Silpius; thence the wall dipped into a ravine, climbed out again, descended the hillside to Saint Paul’s Gate and the Aleppo road, and swung round behind the marsh to the Dog’s Gate immediately opposite. The curtain was forty feet high, sheer stone unbroken by any window or loophole, but at intervals of fifty yards were square towers, overtopping it by twenty feet, projecting into the ditch, furnished with engines and pierced by slits for arrow-shot. The pilgrims’ camp was built on a narrow neck of land, south of the Orontes and north of the marsh that served as a moat to the northern wall; east and south stretched the endless empire of the infidels, and while they held the great Bridge Gate the Turks could sally out at will to the west and north also. The pilgrims were nearly surrounded on their narrow peninsula; they had no skilled Greek carpenters to make catapults, and in any case the marsh was too broad for siege-engines to be used with effect; in three weeks they had not scratched a stone of the defences, and Roger thought gloomily that they could sit there till Doomsday without inconveniencing a single Turk. The siege of Nicaea had been easy, with Greek workmen and Greek supplies; then the miraculous deliverance at Dorylaeum had given them a moral ascendancy; but they had extracted the last ounce of prestige out of that victory, as they pressed the Turks back and back from Bithynia to Syria; now they had come to an impregnable barrier, the final high-water-mark of the expedition.
It was evening, and he sat on his rolled-up blankets with his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees; he was on watch that night against the Bridge Gate, and he was already fully armed, for the warmth of the leather under the iron outweighed the stiffness and chafing of the heavy mail shirt. A yard down wind an iron pot simmered over a small fire, which he watched anxiously. Firewood always became scarce when an army sat down long in one place. Domna Alice came out of the little hut behind him, and walked over to inspect the pot.
“I think it is ready, Messer Roger,” she called, “and you don’t want to be late for your guard. Shall we begin?”
“Where is Domna Anne?” he inquired.
“She went over to the Provençal camp, while you were sleeping after dinner. I took her there, of course, but it was a party of young ladies and I didn’t want to stay; they will send her back with a crossbowman. The ladies had a goat, and they asked her to share their supper.”
“I don’t like my wife wandering round the camp, cadging hospitality that we can’t return,” grumbled Roger. “Why can’t she stay here to look after my meals? What is it this time? Boiled millet again? Certainly the Count of Toulouse looks after his people better than our Duke. What’s the good of the Count of Blois being made Governor of the Camp if he doesn’t distribute the food equally?”
Domna Alice brought out two wooden bowls from the hut and ladled the hot porridge into them; years of dependence had made it a habit for her to soothe her employer’s temper.
“You must remember, Messer Roger,” she said, “that these Provençal ladies are Domna Anne’s neighbours at home, and were her companions in that awful march through Sclavonia. I believe they all put their money together to buy the goat, and my lady paid her share. It is not part of the army supplies; a Syrian smuggled it into the camp under his cloak, and sold it to them.”
“It should have been army supplies, all the same.” Roger went on grumbling. “The Count of Blois ought to get hold of all the goats round here, and distribute them equally; if people buy smuggled food the rest of us go short. I expect those Italians and Lotharingians, with their castles in the north, are living as well as they do at home.”
“It is only fair that those who pay money should have better food than the rest.”
“No, we are on a pilgrimage, and should share equally. Besides, Domna Anne cannot afford it.”
“I am very sorry, sir. Domna Anne seldom goes out to supper, and I will tell her you don’t like it. Now, please eat your porridge before it gets cold.”
He felt better tempered when his stomach was full, and thanked Domna Alice as she fastened his hauberk and put on his helm; the crossbowman who acted as groom brought up his pony, and taking lance and shield he rode to the light wooden bridge that Syrian workmen had built in the rear of the camp.
Opposite the great Bridge Gate, on the north bank of the Orontes, was a low but steep-sided hill; on this was an infidel burying-ground, and a small stone building where in peace-time they worshipped their devils. Every evening it was occupied by dismounted Turkish archers, to guard against a surprise attack on the Bridge, and to cover the raiding-parties that crept out in the darkness to the north of the Christian camp. Every evening the pilgrims sent out mounted patrols north of this Cemetery Hill, and clashes were frequent in the dark. It seemed to be the only way of getting to close quarters with the Turks, who otherwise sat safely behind their impregnable stone walls. To-night there was a special reason for extra precautions; Count Tancred of Cilicia was taking a force of crossbowmen and Syrian workmen over the hills and right round south of the town, to build a fort on the western side, opposite the Gate of Saint George; if he was attacked the night guard must assault the Bridge, to distract the defenders.
When Roger joined the other horsemen of the night guard he found that his luck was in; he was attached to a small group of nine other lesser knights, all mounted on country-bred ponies, but the Duke of Normandy himself, on his great warhorse, was to command them. It was unusual for one of the leaders to take on such a tiresome duty as the night guard, but there had been little excitement in the last fortnight, and there was the Duke, with a thick cloak over his armour, slightly drunk and in very good spirits. When it was dark enough the patrol set off westwards at a quiet walk, and drew up a bowshot to the west of the great Bridge. The night was dark and cloudy, but the native ponies could pick their way over the stony ground without mishap, and the Duke’s warhorse was behaving calmly. Roger was praying hard that the Turks should come out, and give him the chance to distinguish himself in the presence of his lord; if he now did well in a fight his castle would be secure.
The winter night dre
w on, and nothing happened except that they grew colder and more hungry; the ponies, used to night-raiding, stood and shivered without a sound, and they could hear the infidels talking in their fortified cemetery. All was quiet on the hillside across the river, where Count Tancred’s party worked in silence, and the other patrols to the north made only an occasional noise. Presently Roger’s pony raised his head and blew softly through his nostrils; Roger could just distinguish in the darkness that his ears were pricked. He whispered to his neighbour:
“Tell the Duke my horse hears someone coming.”
The Turks in the cemetery were making more noise than usual, chanting their prayers to the devil to ward off the ghosts of the night; but soon all the patrol were listening, and something seemed to be moving on the Bridge. The Duke led them quietly forward. They halted, peering into the blackness, and suddenly there shone a spark where a horse’s hoof had struck against a stone; the Duke shouted “Deus Vult” with all the force of his lungs, and they were all galloping hard for the Bridge-head, a hundred and fifty yards away. They were not riding knee to knee, and the ground was rocky and uneven. Roger suddenly had that desperate terror that his horse would come down in the next stride which is as unnerving as the paralysing fear of heights; he rode loose, ready for the fall, keeping his spurs and knees well away from the pony’s sides, and his nervousness made him tighten the reins. They could just see a cluster of mounted Turks when Roger’s bad riding took effect on his pony, carefully trained for a very different kind of warfare. He felt the beast check and turn to the right; then he trotted sideways to the enemy, waiting for his rider to shoot his arrows. In a blind rage, Roger turned him with his knees and spurred after his companions, but he was too late; already the Turks had turned back into the safety of the Bridge, and the knights were pulling up. A flight of arrows came blindly over them from the cemetery and they cantered out of range.
The Duke was very pleased with himself, for there was blood on his lance, though no one else had been quick enough to reach the enemy; like most leaders of fighting-men, he had eyes in the back of his head, for he spoke to Roger.
“I saw that horse of yours pull out, young man; you’ve been acting as a Turcopole, haven’t you? Don’t forget how to use a lance, just because I have given you a bow. See that you have your horse under better control next time. Now, gentlemen, we shall stay here till dawn, but you may dismount; they won’t send out another raiding party in a hurry.”
Roger was sick with rage and shame; his pony’s behaviour had taken him by surprise, but it was his own nervousness that had provided the opportunity. All his life he had been terrified of the way the ground comes up to hit a rider whose horse trips at full gallop; it had happened to him once when he was a child. For the rest of the night he raged inwardly, and vowed to himself that the next time he charged he would stick in his spurs and go straight on, if the river Orontes was in the way.
When the late November dawn reddened the sky the patrol rode eastward to the temporary bridge that served the camp. Roger gave his pony to the waiting groom, and called into the doorway of the hut for Anne to disarm him. She came out half asleep, and shivering in the cold air.
“Good morning, Roger. What a climate! Were there any excitements in the night? I hear the Duke of Normandy was out there with you. Did you have a chance of bringing yourself to his notice, and winning that castle we must get out of him?”
“I attracted his attention all right, in the worst possible way. A gang of Turks tried to get out across the Bridge, and the Duke charged them without a word to any of us. I had a bad start, and then my pony took fright and wouldn’t go in. The Duke rebuked me for bad horsemanship in front of the whole patrol. He noticed me most particularly, and the castle is farther off than ever.” He flung his hauberk in the direction of the hut, and swore. That was the version of the charge that five hours’ brooding had implanted on his mind; it was all the pony’s fault.
“Oh dear, I am sorry,” said Anne, opening her eyes wide with a startled look. “What bad luck, and how tiresome of the pony. You must practice at the mark again. Do it this afternoon where the Duke can see you; that may impress him with your keenness.”
“I’m damned if I will take riding-lessons in front of the whole blasted army,” Roger burst out. “I have no hope of impressing the Duke, and I had better keep out of his way. I’m sick and tired of this foolish pilgrimage. I shall sleep all day. I’m worn out. And do something about padding the inside of this helm, it has given me another filthy headache. When is breakfast?” It was the first time he had lost his temper with Anne, and he already felt better for it.
He woke at midday, quite refreshed in body, but something in his mind told him that he ought not to be happy; for a moment he could not remember the cause, then recollection came of the awful mistake he had made last night. However, he had slept off his sulks, and he could not recapture the angry mood. He came out of the hut whistling and kissed his wife as she knelt by the cooking fire; she turned a sullen face towards him, but smiled when she saw he was in a good temper. The clerks of the Count of Blois had sent them a piece of strange meat, said to be camel, though the camp joke was to call it dead Turk; at least it was more sustaining than millet porridge. Domna Alice joined them for the meal, and they were quite gay together. The whole camp was in high spirits, for it seemed that Count Tancred had succeeded in building his fort during the night, and this should help to cut off supplies from the Turks. Antioch was built on the northern slopes of a steep hill, and there was no road into it over the crest from the south. The pilgrims’ main camp more or less barred the north, and now the new castle was opposed to the western gate. The Turks were all horsemen, and they had thousands of horses in the town; when these began to die for lack of forage the enemy would probably ask for terms.
But there was a disappointment in store; in the afternoon Saint George’s Gate was opened as usual and the horses of the garrison came out to graze. Tancred’s castle was built on a hillside, divided from the western side of the town by a steep valley, in which a brook flowed northward to the Orontes. A few Turks picketed the fort, and there was plenty of room for the grazing horses on the river plain to the north. Of course, the pilgrims could have formed in battle-array and driven the Turks within the walls; but they would have tired their own horses, who also needed grazing, and no one felt like getting under arms every time the enemy opened a gate. The stalemate was allowed to continue.
The routine of the siege went on. Roger was only needed for duty every third day, and was free to spend the rest of his time sitting in the camp and looking at Antioch. The whole army was bored and despondent, for it was easy to see the attack made no progress, and food was growing scarce. A Genoese fleet was in the harbour of Saint Simeon, a day’s march to the west near the mouth of the Orontes, but the Greeks of southern Anatolia were reluctant to empty their magazines so long as the infidels might return unexpectedly. In fact, the arrival of the ships reminded the pilgrims that it was possible to go home in comparative safety, and weakened their resolution for another winter abroad. It was difficult to kill time. Roger disliked the endless crowding and lack of privacy of the camp, there were not enough supplies for feasting, and horses were too precious to joust with. He was happy in the company of Anne, but she had her housekeeping to do, and that tiresome Domna Alice shared the hut. The most cheerful person he met was his cousin, Robert de Santa Fosca. He had not yet been given a castle by Count Tancred, but the Count of Taranto had promised to do something for him when Antioch fell; he wandered about the camp in his silken tunic, usually with a flask of wine, and composed songs to the ladies in north French, langue d’Oc, or Italian.
One evening Roger strolled up to his own hut after hearing Compline in the Duke’s chapel. Robert was singing a sirvente to Anne, but he jumped up and, taking his cousin’s arm, drew him aside.
“Cousin Roger, I have secret news for you. You know the Count of Taranto can speak Arabic? He learnt it in Sicily. Well, he has
spies out in the country, and one of them says that a Turkish army will leave Harenc to-morrow, to raid our camp. The Count intends to lay an ambush for them and the Duke of Normandy and the Count of Flanders will go with him. It is only a small party, because we depend on secrecy, and only knights with warhorses are going. But your pony is up to your weight, and he can gallop. Go to the Duke and ask to come with us; it’s a chance to earn some glory and get into his favour. You can say I told you in confidence, but remember it is supposed to be a secret.”
Roger was excited; the expedition would break the monotony of the siege, and he might win some renown. He hurried off to the Duke’s tent. There was the usual crowd of petitioners, but he felt the occasion was important enough to warrant a handsome tip to the doorkeeper and he was soon admitted. The Duke was as private as any great lord could ever be; that is, there were only present three or four clerks, a page, and two sergeants as guards. He seemed anxious and impatient, and his temper was short.
“It’s quite impossible. We are going to ambush these people, and charge right home before they have time to scatter; for that you need a trained warhorse, though God knows we have few enough left. I am only taking fifty knights myself, and those the best mounted and armed. If you want to kill infidels there are plenty of chances when they take their horses out to graze. In any case, this is supposed to be a secret attack, and I’d be glad to know how you heard of it.”
Roger did not wish to give his cousin away, but he tried one more appeal.
“My lord, the last time I fought behind you my pony carried me clear of the charge, and I was shamed before the other knights. Since then I have trained him at the mark” (this was a lie) “and I must have a chance to redeem my honour. Let me come with you to-night.”
Knight with Armour Page 12
