“Oh, she is quite calm, and not a bit worried,” Father Yves said soothingly. “We have been in so many tight places before, and come out safely, that a great many people think we are invincible; but I know enough about war, in spite of my tonsure, to see exactly how dangerous this is. Some far-sighted or cowardly person will presently run off and get on board ship, and then all these valiant non-combatants will crowd after him as fast as they can. If I was responsible for a lady. I would get her safely on a Genoese or Pisan warship before the rush starts.”
“That might start the panic,” was Roger’s retort. “My wife should not be the first to run away, and she is not frightened herself. I understand. Let her stay where she is for the time being. Domna de Campo Verde, whose hut she shares, will not remain longer than is safe, and it will be time to run when she goes off to Saint Simeon. But tell Domna Anne from me, that she is to save her money from now on, and turn into gold any possessions or gear that is not absolutely necessary. If she has a bag of money she can always bribe a sailor at the last minute. Also tell her from me, that I am determined to stay here as long as any of the pilgrims remain. Something may turn up in the end. I cannot believe that all these thousands of pilgrims would have come as far as this, and survived so many dangers, to turn back now with so little accomplished. What we have done so far was only done by miracle, and we must rely on God’s favour.”
“That is a very wrong point of view,” answered Father Yves, “and if you held it seriously I would denounce you as a heretic. During this winter the pilgrims have not behaved in a way to win the favour of God, as you very well know, and it is always wrong to demand a miraculous intervention in furtherance of our own affairs. But if you are determined to expose Domna Anne to these dangers, you are her husband, and the responsibility is yours. At least, I will give her your message, to gather what money she can.”
Roger could not believe that this camp, where they had lived for so long, was really in danger, and he knew that in a crisis Anne would keep her head better than he. During supper, the knights around him talked of nothing but the rumoured army of relief. As with so many other camp rumours, no one had heard of it yesterday, and no one thought of anything else to-day. If the army from Harenc had been estimated at thirty thousand, popular opinion made the army of Mosul innumerable, and even the stoutest warriors were estimating their distance from the sea, and the carrying capacity of the ships.
When supper was finished, and those who were to be on watch that night were wrapping themselves in extra clothing to keep out the chill, a groom appeared at the gate asking for Messer de Bodeham. When he was admitted he handed over a package, saying that it was a cloak sent by Messer de Santa Fosca, who particularly hoped his cousin would wear it that night. Roger was a little puzzled. Cousin Robert had not been to see him since he went into garrison, and he was so thoughtless of others, and so indifferent to climate himself, that this solicitude was very unlike him. Roger was straightforward, and very slow to suspect cunning in others; but at last he realized that the cloak would probably conceal a message from the Count of Taranto. He had entirely forgotten that he was being paid as a secret spy. Sure enough, when the cloak was unfolded at a discreet distance from the fire, he saw writing stitched in black thread on the border. He sat down to puzzle it out, sketching the forms of the letters on the ground beside him, and trying to remember all that the parish priest of Ewhurst had taught him when he was a child. The message was in Latin, for it was hazardous to write in French unless you knew the sort of spelling your correspondent employed. But it was brief, and easy to understand.
“Expect a message from the city. Give it this man, who will call every morning with a flask of wine for you.”
Roger unpicked the thread, wrapped the cloak round him, and climbed up to the fighting-stage, which was his post for the night. So the Count of Taranto was trying to win the town by treachery; it was the only way it could be done in time, before the relieving army appeared, for the walls were completely undamaged. But it was obviously a desperate gamble; the besieged had no reason to ask for easy terms, when the town was about to be relieved by the army from Mosul. He realized that he was being drawn deeper into these Italian schemes, whatever they might be; first he had been asked to report if any other lord was trying to take the town for himself, now he was to help the Count of Taranto to win it alone.
He stared across the river all night, occasionally shifting his position when an arrow came near, and watching closely for a swimmer, or someone climbing down the wall on a rope. But nothing out of the ordinary happened.
Next evening at supper the talk was all of a council of leaders that had been held in the pavilion of the Count of Blois. Every knight had a highly-coloured version of what had happened at the council board, how the Count of Vermandois had been for instant retreat, and the Count of Toulouse for a strong appeal to the Greek Emperor; he was proud to hear that all the Normans, of Normandy, England, and Italy, had been firm for fighting another battle to the eastward before they gave up and retired, but it was obvious the ambush by the lake could not be used a second time. Most knights thought retreat unavoidable, though they would charge once more if their lords rode in front.
Next day the walls were crowded with the infidel garrison, who hurled many stones at the castle, and shouted taunts and insults; evidently the story of the army of relief was now public property within the city. Another council had been held among the leaders, and he heard their speeches recounted at supper. They had nearly come to blows on the question of retreat, and a last urgent appeal had been sent to the Greek Emperor, begging him to come with his army and take the city for himself. Of course, this was just what most of the leaders didn’t want, but it was better than giving up the whole enterprise; the question was whether the Greek army, last heard of in Caria, would get there in time. Some of the crossbowmen were getting a little hysterical, and saying that their leaders, for some unexplained reason, secretly wished the whole pilgrimage to fail. Panic was not far off, and the rumour was widely spread that the Turkish army had already set out from Mosul.
Roger kept his watch in a very depressed state of mind. He wondered whether to get himself killed in the retreat, and so earn at least the spiritual benefits of the pilgrimage; but it was his duty to protect his wife. He had not seen Anne for weeks, and sometimes he forgot her for hours together; yet she ought to come first in his plans.
He was the only knight watching from the fighting-stage on the river side, though three crossbowmen crouched at their loopholes below. The Bridge gate across the water was still and silent, and there seemed little need for him to keep awake; if he curled up in his new cloak and went to sleep where he was, it was likely that he would not be punished. He lay down, with a guilty conscience and a beating heart, on the planks below the parapet, and was spreading out the cloak to wrap over him when an arrow came silently out of the black sky, and pinned its outflung edge to the wood below. His stomach turned over at the sudden shock, but he realized that his armoured body was safe, close to the wall, and he reached out to free the hem. As he plucked out the arrow the moon shone from behind a cloud, and he saw that something was tied round the shaft. He brought it close to his eyes, and could just see in the dim moonlight that it was wrapped in a piece of paper, tied round with thread. At once a hundred tales of besieged garrisons and secret messages flashed through his mind; so this was the answer the Count of Taranto was expecting so eagerly! In great excitement, he teased the paper out of its thread, and waited trembling for the moon to appear again. But when a beam of light shone forth, he saw with disappointment the strange squiggles of an unfamiliar alphabet; it was not the Greek, which was sufficiently similar to the Latin to be recognizable, though of course he could not read it, nor yet the devil-marks of the unbelievers; perhaps the whole thing was an elaborate joke, or worse still, a spell that brought bad luck to the possessor. But his duty was clear; Count Bohemund paid him to deliver any message from the city, and here was a bit of wr
iting from the mysterious stronghold of the infidel. He tucked it in a crack where the leather of his shield gaped from the iron binding, and lay down to sleep with his mind at rest.
In the morning the groom, now known in jest as Bodeham’s butler, was waiting as usual. He took the flask of wine, and slipped the folded paper in the fellow’s hand.
He was roused from a nap in the afternoon with news that Robert de Santa Fosca wanted to see him in private. As they walked together his cousin first spoke of Domna Anne, until they were out of earshot of the castle. Then he turned towards him with a broad grin: “You have done splendidly, cousin Roger,” he exclaimed. “That message you sent in is as good as a key to the city gate, and the Count is very pleased with you indeed. He told me to give you these gold pieces.”
“The Count is generous, and I am glad he is pleased with my service. But you must tell me more. How did you read the message, and what did it say? Is the city betrayed to us, and when shall we enter it?”
“One thing at a time,” said Robert, still smiling. “You are the knight who said it was wrong for a vassal to betray his lord’s secrets, aren’t you? But I will tell you what the Count’s followers know already, for I reckon you as one of them. In the first place, no wonder you could not read the message, for it was written in Armenian, and that language has an alphabet of its own. The writer is an Armenian renegade who sees a chance of making his fortune by going back to his old religion. That is really all I know for certain.”
“But there must be more that you suspect,” said Roger eagerly.
“Your guess is as good as mine, dear cousin,” Robert answered with a deprecating wave of his hand. “But I think you can be sure of this. The Armenian is not just a common archer in the garrison; if he was, and he thought the pilgrims were about to win, he could slip over the wall like other deserters. He must have something more to offer, the command of a tower or a gate, or it wouldn’t be worth buying him now. I really believe we shall be sacking this city before the month is out.”
As a matter of fact, the 1st of June found the pilgrims still in the same positions, which they had held for eight months. The relieving army was only a few days’ march away, and the city must be captured immediately if they were not to be crushed against its walls. At the same time, men whispered to one another that something was up; that the walls would fall flat like those of Jericho, or the Turkish barons inside accept the True Faith; for all could see that the leaders were counting on success. It was hard to believe that in a week at the longest they must leave the camp where they had dwelt for eight months, and either enter the city or retreat to the port; it seemed a bigger move than leaving Europe in the first place. The garrisons of all the castles were increased, especially with Normans from Italy, and the women and non-combatants packed their belongings, and got as much stuff as the few baggage-animals could move down to Saint Simeon. The Italian baroness went on board a Genoese ship and took Anne with her; Roger was relieved that one responsibility was off his shoulders, though the separation was depressing. A final, and very quarrelsome, council of the leaders was held, when the Count of Vermandois despairingly offered the city of Antioch to any baron who could take it. This was the chance the Count of Taranto had been waiting for, and he was said to have closed with the offer.
On the evening of the 3rd of June Roger woke from his afternoon sleep and prepared to take his place by the supper fire. He saw immediately that the whole garrison was ready for something to happen; all except the actual watchmen on duty were sharpening their weapons or going over the weak places in their mail, and the courtyard was crowded with new arrivals, nearly all of them knights. One of these soon told him what was expected.
“There is definite news that the relieving army is only one day’s march away; the leaders expect it to arrive some time to-morrow evening. Meanwhile this is our very last chance to take the city, and they are going to attempt an escalade on the southern wall, where it climbs the highest hill. Some say there is treachery also, and we shall be helped inside the wall. All the greatest warriors in the army have gone round by Tancred’s Castle to lead the attack, and if they get in they will make for the Bridge Gate, and try to open it from within. We are to be on the alert; and as soon as we hear fighting across the river we must charge over the Bridge. If we aren’t in by dawn, the leaders have agreed that everyone may retreat to Saint Simeon as best he can. Have you any baggage in the camp? If so, you should go out and get it started for the coast before it is quite dark.”
“I have nothing at all but my bedding here,” answered Roger. “Thank God my wife is on ship-board already. If we retreat I must carry my shield and walk. Do you know if there is a priest in the castle? I must have Absolution before the fight.”
“The Bishop of Puy himself will be round before we finish supper. We can make as much noise as we like, for the enemy will think we are packing up to retreat. But I should think there are dozens of priests round about, helping themselves to the good food meant for the fighting-men, before they start for the coast!”
Roger did not like this last remark, for the priests had certainly faced as much danger as anyone else in the pilgrimage, and many of them had fought well; but some pilgrims had only come to the East to avoid excommunication, and to get away from public opinion at home, and these were always sneering at the clerks and holy men. He soon muttered a brief confession to a priest, who probably understood little of it, for he was one of Duke Godfrey’s German-speaking Lotharingians; but he got his Absolution, and then settled down to eat as much as he could hold; if things went badly he would not get another meal before Saint Simeon, two days’ journey away. He decided to leave his bedding in the castle; he could not carry it with him on the retreat, and if they took the town he ought to win something better in the sack.
After supper he took his place on the fighting-stage. It was impossible to conceal from the Turks inside the city that the besiegers were going to make some sort of move, and the town wall that looked over the river to the north was crowded with the garrison. But they evidently thought the pilgrims were packing up to leave, which was true enough; and they shouted and sang to celebrate their triumph. All the better, thought Roger, for it would leave fewer men to hold the southern wall.
At midnight many of the infidels had gone home to bed, and the north wall was quieter; Roger felt his supper dying away inside him, and wondered what it would be like to march and fight for two days on an empty stomach. Surely the escalade had been cancelled; no one would betray a town on the morning of the day that relief must appear. He tried to make out the white streak of the southern wall, where it climbed to the citadel on the sky-line; but his eyes could not pierce the darkness. The town was quiet, save for the eternal barking of the dogs, swelling to a chorus and then falling to isolated yaps, that he had heard every night for the last eight months. Then to the south-east he heard a shout; it was not the falsetto wail of the unbelievers, or the nasal whine of the Greeks; it sounded like a deep-voiced Western warcry. The men in the courtyard behind him began to stir, and someone unbarred the door at the back of the castle. Then lights could be seen coming down the hill, and Roger went quietly to the ladder and joined his comrades inside the castle; no more need to watch the Bridge Gate from across the river; soon they would be hammering their swords against its wooden doors. Now men were filing through the narrow gate, and a small (pitifully small) body of horse could just be seen drawn up in the darkness at the north end of the Bridge. He heard someone pronounce a Latin blessing in an ecclesiastical voice, and remembered the rumour that the Bishop of Puy was to lead this attack himself, for all the Counts and Dukes had gone to the escalade. He took his place among the dismounted knights who stood in front of the horsemen; their task would be to ascend the gate-towers as soon as the gate was won; nearly everyone in the army except himself had taken part in the sack of many a town in France or Italy, and they knew their business without further orders. He bent down to tighten the straps that bound his chauss
es to his legs, and the man behind him pushed forward and nearly knocked him over. All the time the clamour inside the town was rising, and the lights drawing nearer. Then above the confused noise could be heard one clear call of Deus Vult, and with an answering shout the dismounted knights stumbled into the darkness.
Roger shuffled along, his shield high over his head, and in a few moments he had joined the crowd who banged on the doors and shouted defiance at the Turks above them. Arrows, and stone merlons from the battlements, hurtled down among them, but the defenders had had no time to boil pitch or water, and the great Western shields made an arrow-proof penthouse for the attackers. Then he was suddenly blinded as the doors swung back, and torches shone in the vaulted passage that pierced the wall. A great shout of “Ville Gagnée” rose from all the pilgrims near the Bridge, the signal that the assault was finished and plundering could begin; Roger, jumping for a dark stairway on the left of the Gate, heard the thunder of hoofs as the Bishop led the mounted men into the town.
He was the first man up the winding staircase, which of course twisted right-handed, to expose an attacker’s unshielded side. At the head of the stairs a closed door barred further progress, but other pilgrims were pressing up behind him, and a groom with an axe came to the front and broke it down. Roger leapt through, his sword upraised, to find himself in a small square empty room, with a similar door opposite and a ladder leading up to the roof. The defenders had already fled, but the bolts of the other door were on the inside, facing him, and could not be closed by the retreating enemy. He dashed through, and found himself on the rampart-walk. The top of the wall was in shadow, and he hesitated to advance, but at that moment someone set light to a cresset on the roof of the tower above, and he could see that the rampart stretched empty before him to the closed door of the next tower. This was soon beaten in with the axe, to reveal another deserted chamber, and he realized that the enemy had abandoned the defence of the wall, and were retreating along the rampart-walk to the citadel, shutting the doors behind them. The walls of Antioch had been built on an ingenious plan, with these stout doors barring the way from the ramparts to the interior of the towers, which contained the only staircases. This had been planned so that if attackers managed to escalade the curtain-wall, they would still be cut off by a sheer drop from the houses inside, and could be shot down from the topmost stages of the towers; but now that the pilgrims had opened the great Bridge Gate all these precautions were in vain.
Knight with Armour Page 20
