Knight with Armour

by Alfred Duggan

  The defenders were unlikely to halt before they had reached the safety of the citadel, but it was as well to take definite possession of the walls, and Roger with his small party pushed on, past the marsh and Saint Paul’s Gate, until they descended the ravine from the other brink of which frowned the citadel. Then, by common consent, they felt that they had done enough, and that it was time to look for plunder; a crossbowman who had twisted his ankle in the darkness agreed to stay behind the barred door nearest the enemy, and give the alarm if they attempted a sally, and the rest descended the stairway into the town.

  Roger edged cautiously along a narrow alley, his back to the house-walls, and his shield over his head; although the defenders of the wall had quickly seen that all was lost, and had fled faster than they could be pursued, in the town itself things were different. Some of the townspeople were infidels, and many of the garrison had been sleeping in private houses. These, suddenly awakened by the sound of fighting, had instinctively picked up their weapons and dashed into the streets. In the narrow, twisting alleys and courts that rambled up the hillside a sullen murderous war-to-the-knife was being waged. In his journey along the ramparts Roger had gone faster than the pilgrims who were taking the town house by house, and he found himself behind the fighting. He looked behind him, and realized that he was alone in the narrow street; suddenly he felt frightened and backed into an angle of the wall, his shield held just below his eyes. He could hear the roar of the fighting below him but the immediate neighbourhood seemed to be deserted. Then a casement in the wall of the house opposite was opened, and an arm thrust out two sticks tied together to form a cross; it was equal-ended, and he knew that the holder of it must be a Greek. In reply he held up the cross-hilt of his sword and the arm was withdrawn, but a minute later he saw by the light of the fires below him that the door across the way had been silently opened. He hesitated; it might be a trap. But he reflected that the infidels were curiously reluctant to make use of Christian symbols, even to deceive their foes, and in any case he would get no plunder worth taking if he dared not enter a house. In three strides he was in the doorway, peering into a narrow corridor, whose painted plaster walls reflected a light that must be just round the comer. As he advanced towards the light he heard a piercing female scream, and went forward more boldly. He came out into a little paved courtyard, not ten feet across; a three-wicked metal lamp hung from a bracket on the wall, and a frieze of polished tiles reflected its flames. In an alcove at, the far end was a low couch, and on it an elderly woman clothed in silk, who screamed again and again as a man wearing a short coarse tunic thrust a lighted torch into her face. Hearing the sound of Roger’s feet on the pavement the man looked round, and he saw him to be a eunuch; in that case he probably had every reason to revenge himself on his mistress, and Roger saw no reason to interfere; at the same time, it would be better to have a guide while he looked for plunder. After a moment’s hesitation he strode across the court, pushed the other back with a sweep of his shield, and split the woman’s smouldering head with the edge of his sword. The eunuch’s blazing eyes went blank for a moment, and he held the torch aloft and stared stupidly at the knight; then he grinned, and pointed at a curtained doorway in the left-hand wall, making strange mewing noises, and opening his mouth to show that he had no tongue. Roger thrust the curtain aside with his bloody sword, and saw a small inner room, barely furnished but gleaming with coloured tiles, and a small boy of about eight years of age crouching in terror in a corner. The eunuch crowed gruesomely at sight of the child, and waved his torch, but Roger seized his shoulder, shook him, and then pointed to the little money-wallet he wore dangling from his sword-belt. The other understood, went to a corner, still chuckling and crowing to himself, lifted up a loose paving-stone, and drew out a small leather bag, from which he emptied a heap of coins. With his foot Roger divided the money into two roughly equal piles; then he withdrew his left arm from the shieldstraps, went down on his knee, and cautiously picked up one pile, still keeping his eyes fixed on his ally; no Norman ever laid himself open to a stab in the back while he gathered plundered money. When he stood upright again he backed towards the door; he remembered that he would need some bedding now, for the bundle he had left by the castle gate must surely have been stolen. But he preferred to seek it elsewhere; Christian slaves were entitled to revenge on their infidel masters, but he did not want to see, or hear, what the eunuch intended to do to the boy. He left the other stalking towards the child with a little eating-knife he had picked up from a table in the corner.

  Outside in the street the noise of fighting was nearer. Everything was going well, and the light of a few burning houses enabled him to see where he was walking. He picked out a substantial-looking house a few yards away, and began to hack at the wooden lattice of a window with his sword. The house had been silent when he approached it, but the noise of his blows stirred the inmates to activity. He heard the bolts withdrawn from the door, which was opened by an elderly man with a white beard, unarmed. The house holder must have been accustomed to sack and pillage, for in his hands he held a copper tray with money, silver caskets and a gold cup, while behind him three closely-veiled figures carried small bundles. Such co-operation pleased Roger, and he decided to see if he could save the women from anything worse than robbery; he stepped into the doorway, shepherding the infidels before him, and pointed to an inner door, making the gesture of turning a key. It was the larder and storeroom, so the small window was strongly barred, and the walls thick; he motioned the family inside with his sword, turned the lock, put the key in his belt, and went on to explore the bedrooms. He found a little bread; not much, for the town was hungry; but upstairs was a sleeping-room with a magnificent pile of quilts and cushions. He barred the outer door again, after plastering on it a cross made of mud from the gutter, to show that it was already in Christian hands, and went to sleep as dawn was breaking.

  At midday his stomach woke him by complaining that it was dinner-time. The street outside was quiet, but in the distance he could hear trumpets, and the monotonous voice of a crier calling out orders. He had slept in mail and hauberk, for there had been no one to disarm him, so now he picked up his shield, set his helm on his head, and went out into the street to see what was doing.

  Every alley was crowded with rejoicing pilgrims, but there was very little wine in the town, and most of them were sober and had their swords back in their scabbards. The raping and killing were finished, and a few humble infidels sidled by with apologetic smiles. Roger made his way to the Cathedral, whose dome showed clearly above the surrounding houses, but the reconsecration and the Mass was already over, and he was getting hungrier every minute. At last he came to a crowd round a bakery, where flat loaves of unleavened bread were being handed out in an orderly manner. While he ate, leaning against a wall, he heard the crier and his trumpeters approaching. They announced at every street comer that all spoil was to be taken to the front door of the Cathedral for equal division and that this was the order of the Count of Blois. He wondered what he ought to do. The town had been taken by the skilful negotiation of Count Bohemund, not by the pilgrims as a whole, and he had been one of Count Bohemund’s followers; still, he had only taken a minor part, and it was fear of the whole army that had made the renegade betray his post. Finally he decided to compromise; there was already a little heap of valuables in the Cathedral square, guarded by foot-sergeants, and he went boldly up to it, holding his gold cup aloft, but concealing his wallet behind his shield; with a flourish he placed the cup on top of the pile, and walked away amid sympathetic cheers from the bystanders. It was the most valuable piece of plunder that anyone had been honest enough to hand over, but just because it was so valuable it was an awkward thing for a simple knight to keep in his possession.

  Contented and well-fed, with a clear conscience and a heavy purse, he strolled back to the house where he had spent the night. As he went in the sound of battering on the larder door reminded him of the existence of the or
iginal owner and his family. He still had the key tucked in his belt, so he unlocked the door and shooed the infidels into the street; they were hungry, thirsty, and very frightened, but the women had not been dishonoured, and he felt that he had amply repaid any debt that he owed to the householder for handing over his money so quietly. They crept away towards the Gate of Saint Paul, and the greybeard even thanked him in his unknown language before he went.

  Roger went upstairs, and stood looking at the disorder of the sleeping-room; he could make it a comfortable bed-chamber for his wife and himself; but he could see now that it was too close to the citadel, where the Turkish garrison still held out. Eventually he decided that his wife and his money would be safer in the Christian camp, and that he stood a better chance of getting supper if he were nearer the Duke’s kitchen. Outside in the street he found a young native Christian boy, staring wide-eyed at the Western pilgrims; he caught him by the shoulder, took him into the house, and loaded him up with all the bedding he could carry. He drove the lad straight down the ravine, and out of the town by the Gate of the Dog. As he picked his way round the marsh he heard the criers again inside the town, but it was too far to make out what they were calling; probably no more than a proclamation that the sack was over, and robbery must cease; they would be crying that every few hours for the next two or three days, and in the end they would be obeyed.

  There were no ladies left in the tents of the Provençals, all had taken refuge on the ships; but he found a clerk who wrote a letter for him, telling Anne to come back as soon as possible. He gave it to a groom who was riding to Saint Simeon on some business of his master’s. He then wandered towards the Duke’s pavilion, looking for Father Yves; but before he reached it he heard a crier going round the camp, while a crowd of non-combatants scurried up to hear what he said, and remained following him about. Roger pushed through the throng to learn the message, for there was no need to restore law and order in the camp, and this must be something new. It was indeed.

  The crier shouted after every trumpet-blast: “All fighting-men to muster at once round the banners of their lords. Arm, fill your quivers, and fall in. The banner of the Duke of Normandy is displayed outside the nearest city gate. Arm and muster.”

  Roger had been armed for the last forty-eight hours; his neck was chafed by the hauberk, and his shoulders stiff with dry sweat, but there was no chance of a wash now. The situation must be serious if they were calling out the shirkers and non-combatants who comprised most of the population of the camp; bitterly he realized that he had only eaten a bit of bread for dinner, and now he was called to go fighting at supper-time. He muttered angrily to himself as he stumbled across the uneven rubbish-strewn ground towards what was already called the Duke’s Gate, a small entrance opposite the west end of the camp. As he came under the wall he saw that already every tower had a Christian banner flying from it, either the great embroidered standards used by the leaders in battle, or hastily improvised pieces of painted cloth; such a display of colours was unusual unless a city was besieged, and suddenly he remembered the Turkish relieving army.

  The Duke was standing at a window over the gateway, looking worried, hot and tired; he wore his mail shirt, but his hauberk was thrown back on his shoulders and he was bareheaded, that all might recognize him. When his followers were assembled, he addressed them in a weary, crushed voice:

  “Pilgrims of Normandy, by God’s help we have taken this mighty city, but the war is not ended. The King of Mosul, with a great army of Turks from the utmost East, has reached the Iron Bridge, and will attack us to-morrow. We have decided, in the council of the leaders, that the Count of Taranto with the Normans of Italy, and the Count of Toulouse with his followers, shall make themselves responsible for the defence of the city. I, with the Count of Flanders, will hold the camp, and the Count of Vermandois and the Duke of Lotharingia will give help wherever it is needed. Now I know you are tired and hungry, but the emergency is desperate. All dismounted knights and crossbowmen will go immediately to Cemetery Castle and hold the northern end of the Bridge until further orders; all knights who have horses, stand by them here, ready to charge out if the enemy attack. God has brought us this far in the face of many dangers, and we shall emerge victorious from this encounter also.” The last sentence was said in a perfunctory tone, and it was clear to his listeners that the Duke did not believe it himself.

  When he had finished the crowd of Normans stood for a few minutes, while groans of disapproval and angry discussions filled the air. It seemed that the Normans of Normandy must always take the forefront of the battle. As he walked dejectedly back across the Bridge, Roger meditated whether to give up the whole pilgrimage and take ship from Saint Simeon to Europe. Surely he had killed enough infidels to have fulfilled his vow, and now he had money. But what future was there for him if he returned home? He had a wife to support and even his well-filled purse would not buy a manor after he had paid the expenses of the journey. He reminded himself again that he loved Anne very dearly, and that he was very lucky to have won her. But it seemed that a married man must always be thinking of money.

  Wearily he re-entered the door of the castle, which he had left with such high hopes. Of course his bedding had been stolen, and the new silken coverlets from Antioch were somewhere in the Norman camp; he sat by the fire and wolfed a meagre and long-delayed supper in a very mutinous frame of mind. Luckily, after the plunder of the town there were plenty of blankets about, and he was able to borrow some from a neighbour. He was wakened in the middle of the night by shouts of defiance as the first Turkish scouts were driven off by the crossbows.

  Then followed days and nights of misery, broken sleep, no chance to get out of his armour, incessant standing-to. The Turks did not try a general assault on the walls at any point, for the fortifications of the town had not been harmed by its treacherous capture; but they over-ran the whole north bank of the river, made hazardous the communications with the port, and sometimes crossed the Iron Bridge, eight miles upstream, to ride round the walls to the south and get in touch with the infidel garrison who still held the citadel. To make matters worse, the food supply failed after a few days. Antioch had been hungry before it fell, and there was always a great deal of waste when a city was sacked; the infidel citizens had all fled, except a few who had been sold into slavery, and the native Christians hung round the defences, clamouring to do a day’s work in return for a little bread. Always there were masses of Turks hovering just out of arrow-range, so that the defenders could never relax.

  On the morning of the 13th of June Roger was resting in the courtyard of Cemetery Castle, with his hauberk thrown back on his shoulders and his aching feet in a tub of hot water; he saw Robert de Santa Fosca enter through the new gate that had been cut in the wall facing the Bridge. His cousin looked tired, thin and dirty, as of course they all did, but he still walked with his old swagger, and showed his white teeth in a grin.

  “So there you are, cousin,” he said, standing with his hands in his sword-belt, which confined the gay silk tunic he wore over his mail. “I knew I should find you at the post of danger and duty. I am glad to see you have no troubles worse than sore feet. I shall want that tub myself when you have finished with it, for my poor old horse has died at last. I am not broken in to marching on foot like some of you. But I really came to see you at the request of a fair lady. Domna Anne had this written for her, and told me to give it to you.” He handed over a twisted piece of cheap Egyptian paper, secured with an untidy seal.

  With the burden of hunger, physical weariness, and never-ending danger, Roger had buried the thought of all his family responsibilities at the bottom of his mind; his shoulders drooped under the almost tangible weight of this further problem. But it must be faced. He unfolded the letter, and both cousins put their heads together to puzzle it out. Luckily the clerk who had penned it knew it was to be read by a layman, and he had spaced the writing out, with clearly drawn letters and no contractions. It said (in Latin): “D
omina Anna sends greetings to Dominus Rogerius, her husband. She fears to return to the camp, or the city of Antioch, as her Lord has commanded, until the army of the infidels has been driven away. She will remain at this port of Saint Simeon. She is in good health. She has no money.” Roger muttered the words to himself, and easily translated the simple Vulgate Latin into French.

  Robert laughed. “The lady doesn’t waste words when her mind is made up. She is quite right; Antioch is no place for a woman just now. But how she thinks you can send her money with the Turkish army holding the road, I don’t know.”

  “When did you get this letter? Have you been down to the port? The road must be open, or the letter couldn’t have got through.” Roger was talking eagerly; he always cheered up at the prospect of a gossip with his cousin, though he was a little annoyed that someone must have been calling on his wife without asking his permission. But, of course, he could trust Anne absolutely.

  “Oh, I saw Domna Anne two days ago. Count Tancred took a strong party of us down there to try and catch deserters on the road, and the Turks gave us a clear passage. They are still afraid of mounted knights, if there are enough of us. She is camping in a deserted warehouse with a lot of other forlorn wives, watching the ships sail away one by one, and the wharves filling up with panicky clerks, and some knights who ought to know better. It reminded me of the time we had to fetch back the Count of Melun, and that ridiculous hermit Peter. That was an undignified business, but this was worse. At least our old hero, the Carpenter of Melun, had the grace to pretend he was going to fetch help from the Greek Emperor, but these people are just frantic to put the sea between them and the Turks. Unfortunately their betters are not setting them a good example. Have you heard who is the latest deserter? The Count of Blois, no less.”