At length they reached Harenc, whence the Turkish army had set forth that morning. It was a walled town, but the walls were built against robbers rather than armies, and the gate had to be left open to allow the fugitives to enter. The whole mixed band of riders pushed their horses through the gate in one mass, and the grooms and servants of the Turkish baggage-guard fled to the east as they entered from the west. By common consent the pursuit ceased here; and indeed the weary horses could not have been driven any further. Those infidels who were still mounted escaped out of the east gate, under a shower of stones and roof-tiles from the Christian and Arab inhabitants, who both hated their Turkish masters; the pilgrims dismounted and scattered to see what there was to plunder.
The spoil was more than they had expected, and exactly what was needed by the army; the town had been the base for the forces of all the infidel barons of Syria, and was stocked with food, clothing and arrows for the relief of Antioch; besides the ponies captured in the fight there was a vast number of baggage animals, mules and camels, and for the first time the pilgrims got possession of blooded Arab mares, the property of the inhabitants, since the Turks used only their common ponies in war. Messengers were sent to the camp before Antioch for grooms and crossbowmen to come and fetch the spoil, and the knights settled down to a pleasant afternoon of sacking the private houses. Unfortunately there was little gold or silver to be found, naturally enough in a town that had been under Turkish rule for more than ten years; most of the inhabitants were Christian and could not be robbed of everything they possessed, and the few infidels were merely driven out to the east. They had made no attempt to defend the town and were entitled to quarter. That night everyone feasted in the main square, and next morning, after priests sent hastily by the Bishop of Puy had sung Mass in the reconsecrated church, they rode back to camp on their stiff and weary horses. Roger’s share of the spoil, though it contained no money, was yet valuable enough; he had several linen shirts, a camel-hair cloak to wear over his armour in the new fashion that so many pilgrims had adopted, and several lengths of silk for Anne. Best of all, food supplies were now assured for the whole army for the next few months.
The rest of February was a holiday for everyone in the camp, though Roger was worried to note that the wickedness and flouting of God’s laws that had begun when they starved did not diminish now there was plenty for all. The pilgrims seemed to be worse men than when they had left Europe, and it was easier to fill their empty bellies than to make them forsake robbery and fornication. Anne questioned him anxiously, to find out whether he had done anything to win the Duke’s approval, but he had to admit that, though he had done his duty, he had not been amongst the most forward in the charge, and that no one had noticed his exploits. But he had sold his pony for a good sum in gold, and she was pleased with the money and the new clothes. The whole army was in high spirits, convinced that the Turks could always be beaten in fair fight, and everyone talked of ways to take the city. It was clear that to breach the walls would be a very difficult undertaking, but something might be done to shut in the infidels, and starve them. At the end of the month a fleet from the English Channel and the North Sea reached Saint Simeon. The pilgrims were encouraged to hear that all Europe was talking of their prowess, and that plans were being made to reinforce them. Better still, the ships brought timber, tools and skilled workmen, who could build siege engines.
On the 1st of March the Counts of Taranto and Toulouse set out with knights and footmen to bring the carpenters and other workmen from Saint Simeon to the camp. The Count of Toulouse had played a very small part in the siege hitherto, keeping to his pavilion with a sickness of some kind; though gossip said he was not really ill, only too jealous to serve under Count Bohemund. Now the rumour was that he had bestirred himself to watch Taranto, and see that the command was divided. The Duke of Normandy stayed behind; Roger was glad to stay with him, for Blackbird had never really recovered from the hammering his old legs had taken on the road to Harenc, and was still stiff and lame in front.
On the 5th of March, the Vigil of Saint Perpetua, the convoy was expected back from the port, and the pilgrims before the city were ready to welcome them; the foot were preparing huts to shelter the newcomers, and Roger, with several other knights, strolled across the bridge behind the camp to meet them on the north bank of the river. Winter was nearly over, the sun was shining, and the ground fast drying out; it seemed that the campaign was about to make a fresh start. About midday the column came in sight, the Provençal knights riding first, then the footmen and the waggons, with the Italian cavalry in the rear. He heard a pilgrim say how glad he was to see the Count of Taranto in the place of lesser honour, and turned to rebuke him; for, like all who had fought there, he knew that Count Bohemund had saved them in the battle by the lake. But before he could speak he heard an outcry from the other watchers; the great Bridge Gate of the city had been flung open, and horse and foot were pouring across the river.
It was long since the infidels had dared to ride on the north bank, and the convoy had carelessly come too close to the enemy bridgehead; while dismounted Turks took ground in the cemetery which covered the northern approach to the Bridge, horse-archers spread out and prepared to charge the baggage-waggons. Taken by surprise, the Count of Toulouse made a false move; he brought the van-battle at a gallop to the northern end of the pilgrims’ wooden bridge, evidently fearing that the Turks would swing right, cross the river again, and attack the unprepared camp. Meanwhile Roger and the other unarmed spectators were running back to the camp, to arm and mount. The alarm spread quickly, and he found Anne waiting, with his mail shirt in her hands.
“This is your chance,” she whispered fiercely as she knotted the laces of his hauberk. “Jeannot is now saddling Blackbird, and you will be one of the first knights ready. I shall watch myself from the south bank of the river, and the whole army will be looking on. For the sake of your honour and the duty you owe to me, you must do some deed to-day that will make your name known. Come back a baron, or remain on the field.”
Roger was a little dazed; things had moved much too quickly for him. In his other battles he had been keyed up beforehand, and the charge had actually come as a relief from the tension of waiting; but only twenty minutes ago he had been looking forward to his dinner, and now he was pressing over the temporary bridge, with his bladder full, a dangerous thing on horseback, and his mail shirt most uncomfortably disarranged under the arms. On the north bank he drew his sword, and then put it back again to set his helm more firmly on his head; but, this done, there was no further excuse for waiting. He drew it once more, stuck in his spurs, and set Blackbird cantering in a lumbering stiff-legged gait, on the wrong foot, towards the nearest infidels.
The Italians in the rear-battle were held by a dense mass of Turkish horse, and the Provençals were halted to guard the pilgrims’ bridge. Small parties of horse-archers were riding among the scattered foot and waggons of the convoy, and though most of the crossbowmen had climbed into the carts, where they could well defend themselves, many of the precious carpenters were already slain. Roger bowled over a Turk who didn’t see him coming, for he was shooting at a waggon; he charged on downstream, with the river on his left; there were no knights in front, for he had been one of the first out of the camp, but he could hear the Provençals galloping behind. The Turks knew by experience that they could not withstand the charge of armed knights, and they began to withdraw towards the mound. Roger galloped on; Blackbird’s joints were warming up, and he was going better. He saw with surprise an infidel galloping towards him, as though he wished to joust. The enemy had a steel cap on his head, and seemed to be wearing a light mail shirt; he had a little round shield on his left forearm, and carried a curved sword. Roger was puzzled; the man was not armed or equipped like a Turk, but he was clearly one of the foe, and here was a chance to do a deed of arms between the two armies. He tightened the reins, and squeezed Blackbird with his thighs, determined to knock the other over b
y the charge of his horse; but the infidel was well mounted, and at the last moment his handy pony swerved, so that the two riders met swordarm to swordarm. Roger cut down heavily with his sword, but the weapon glanced off the little round shield, held cunningly at the right angle, while his opponent coolly buried his sharp sabre in Blackbird’s unprotected neck. Roger was horror-struck, but he had no time to think; the horse blundered on for a couple of paces, and then collapsed quietly on to his off side, just giving his rider time to get clear of the stirrups and stagger to his feet. The infidel was wheeling his horse, and preparing to charge his dismounted antagonist, but the Provençal knights were thundering up from the rear. With a mounted enemy bearing down on him, while he stood in the track of his own friends’ charge, Roger took the safest but most unheroic course; he lay down flat beside the body of his horse, and tucked his feet under the point of his shield. The infidel tried to ride on to the shield, but the pony would put no more than one forefoot on such unsafe ground, and after one ineffective jab with his sword at Roger’s hauberk, his foe galloped away. The ground shook as the Provençals charged by, and one hoof spurned the shield with a mighty blow, but then they were past; bruised, dazed, and very frightened, Roger staggered to his feet. Shock and fear brought tears to his eyes, and as he bent to pick up his sword from the ground he suddenly vomited. He looked dully round the battlefield, but he could see nothing except the hind-quarters of the warhorses where they charged the infidels at the bridgehead, and a few crossbowmen rallying round the carts. There was no place in this battle for a knight without a horse, and he limped slowly to the bridge leading to the camp.
He felt stiffer every step he took, and the enemy’s thrust had bruised his neck through the hauberk so that he could hardly move his head; he longed to disarm, to rest and eat some food, yet he dreaded returning to his wife and the others in the camp who must have seen his downfall. Almost worse than the disgrace was the change in his military, and therefore his social, position. An hour ago he had been equipped to fight beside a baron or even a count, now he was worthless, a mere hoverer on the outskirts of battle, who must beg from some more fortunate warrior the gift of a miserable pony that he could never afford to buy. He could not bring himself to cross the bridge, with Anne waiting on the other side; wandering a little way upstream, he sat down by the river-bank. He took off his helm, and filled it with water; after he had drunk he tried to bathe the bruise on his neck, but though he could get the hauberk off the top of his head, he could not undo the fastenings, or reach the tender spot. His left arm was numb, and his hip swollen and stiff, where the Provençals had ridden over him. He wondered how bad the damage was. Perhaps he was really wounded, and in that case no one could blame him; but it was unlikely; after all, armour was worn to prevent that sort of thing happening.
Presently the clamour of the battle down river died away. With difficulty he turned his head, and saw knights riding back to the bridge, in small groups at ease, their shields and helms hanging from the saddles; evidently the pilgrims had been victorious. With a burst of resolution he got stiffly to his feet and hobbled back to meet them; he must face his home-coming some time, and perhaps if he slipped in with them it would look as though he had been fighting hard all day.
But when he reached his hut Anne’s first words showed that she had seen all his misfortunes. “My poor Roger, are you hurt? Let me disarm you and bathe your wounds. I’m afraid I asked too much of you, when I suggested that you should do some deed of arms between the armies and attract the notice of the Duke. My God, you did make a fool of yourself! If you can’t manage a warhorse in full gallop you are better off on foot. That infidel would not have come out to meet you unless his pony was up to all sorts of tricks. Well, no lord will give us a castle after this. When your Duke goes home you will end up guarding a wall for some rich lord, even though you think soldiering beneath you.”
By this time they were inside the hut, and she was undoing the lace that fastened his mail shirt at the back, between his shoulder blades. He had begun to listen meekly, for he was at fault, and Anne knew enough about warfare to be entitled to criticize; but when he heard her speak of soldiering, the one thing which he disliked and despised above all others, he could stand it no longer, and fairly ran out of the hut. He caught hold of a passing groom, who was terrified at his angry scowl and blazing eyes, and made the man disarm him; then, throwing his mail shirt into the door of his quarters, he strode away, unwashed, in the sweaty clothes he wore under his armour, and with his hair on end from the ruffling of the hauberk.
Father Yves could have calmed him down, but he was not hanging round the Duke’s chapel as he generally did. Roger walked on, his stiffness struggling against his impatience to give him a very curious gait, until he reached the camp of the Normans of Italy. His cousin Robert de Santa Fosca was at the door of his hut, with a comb in one hand and a bronze mirror in the other; evidently he was just getting ready for dinner. He exclaimed at Roger’s appearance, and fussed round him more tenderly than would be expected of a warrior.
“Are you wounded? The Arabs at Salerno say it is a good idea to wash wounds clean as soon as possible. Would you like some clean clothes? Nothing but knocks through your armour? Then take this comb and tidy up. Come to dinner with me at Taranto’s table, and tell me all about it.”
He bathed his cousin’s neck, lent him a clean cloak to cover his disarray, combed his hair, and took him on his arm to the canvas open-sided pavilion where the Italians were already at dinner. Roger was so in need of sympathy that he poured out the whole story of his misadventures, and kept pretty strictly to the truth; Robert was kind, and set himself to restore the self-respect of his cousin.
“You had very bad luck indeed. Of course you were right to charge by yourself, it’s the only way of winning renown among these trouvères who only appreciate blows, and never notice wise planning. I think that man who came to meet you was not a Turk at all, but a Saracen knight from the south. The Turks haven’t spurred against us since the spring of last year, and no man of them would start it now; but the Saracens will fight hand to hand, as we learnt in Sicily. Yet it is a serious loss. Forgive me for asking, but will Domna Anne take this very hard?”
“She saw it all from the bridge,” confessed Roger bitterly, “and when I came back to her to be disarmed she mocked me, and said I was only fit for a soldier. I couldn’t bear her voice, and now I daren’t go home. Damn all women. I’ve got no money with me, but I should like to get drunk to-night.”
“So you shall,” Robert agreed heartily. “You have been very hardly treated, and you deserve something after all your bad luck. We are celebrating the victory to-night and there should be plenty of wine going round, but in any case I have a friend among the butlers. Have you heard that after we in the rear-battle had linked up with the Provençals we stormed that mound outside the bridgehead, where their cemetery is? We caught a lot of Turks, too, because some bloody fool on their side had shut the town gate behind them, to make them fight harder, I suppose. The foot were taking the heads of the slain when I left, and they say we are going to hold the cemetery permanently with crossbows. It is all our Count Bohemund’s doing; he knows just where to attack. The other leaders should put him in charge of the whole siege. Hi! you with the wineskin! fill up this knight’s cup, and I will see you after dinner.”
The meal had begun late, after the battle, and there was no disposition among the feasters to get up and leave the table before supper-time. They sat and yawned and told stories, while the Count of Taranto watched from his high seat at the head of the table, and sent the wineskins round. Roger was not used to heavy drinking; at home in Sussex they only had wine on great occasions and the ordinary table-beer was very small. He soon grew loud-voiced and talkative, and would have been quarrelsome if Robert had not agreed with everything he said. Presently he felt sleepy, and dozed with his head on his hands and his elbows on the table, while a trouvère sang of the sack of Rome, and the deeds their fathers h
ad done for Pope Gregory; the Count took pride in being a loyal son of the Church, and encouraged his followers to remember the north French tongue. Then supper was placed on the board, and though Roger did not feel hungry, he woke to drink again. Dazed with wine and fatigue, he became aware at last that Robert was talking persuasively in his ear.
“… so you see we have always fought for the rights of the Church, which is more than your house of Rollo has done, if I may say so. Now is our chance to extend the borders of Christendom, and bring all these Easterners into obedience to the Holy See. But to do it we must cut loose completely from this schismatic Greek Emperor, and that some of the leaders are not at all inclined to do. The only leader who wants to rule out here as an independent prince, and who is brave enough and rich enough to do so, is our Count Bohemund. But the other leaders won’t give him a free hand, and he is not strong enough to defy them with his own following alone. In fact, we want friends among the vassals of the other lords, and that is why I am asking for your help. The Count will find a horse for you somehow, and all you have to do is to promise some little oath; nothing against your duty to your lord, but just never to bear arms against us, and to do your best to make Taranto the ruler of the Christian East. If you agree, we can slip away to the chapel now, and after you have taken the oath a horse will be waiting outside the door.”
Roger sat up stiffly and rubbed his eyes, which would not focus properly. He did not quite grasp what it was all about, but he knew he was being asked to swear something to a new lord, and firmly implanted in his mind was the conviction that all his present troubles were due to the oath he had taken to Duke Robert in Normandy. He shied away from any more promises with instinctive repugnance. Beside, why should he want a horse; what was the matter with Blackbird? Then he suddenly remembered the events of the morning, and burst into tears.
Knight with Armour Page 18
