On the Feast of the Forty Martyrs, 10th of March 1099, Roger was studying the fortifications of Acre, as he last year looked at the walls of Antioch. The little expedition of Normans and Provençals was a much less powerful force than the great pilgrimage that had sat down before the capital of Syria, and their camp was spread thinly over the plain, between the low but steep hills inland and the promontory on which the town was built. They were up against those crushing Roman walls again, and the memories of the last eight-month siege exercised a depressing effect.
The little army had wandered for a month before they reached their present position. The obvious route from Antioch to Jerusalem was by the great valley of Coele-Syria, up the Orontes and down the Litany until they reached the head-waters of the Jordan; but the strongly-fortified towns of Hama and Horns barred the valley of the upper Orontes. So they swerved westward, over the pass that led to the great port of Laodicea; but the Greek garrison of that town would not let them approach too closely, and they had to struggle on south by the coast road without refreshing themselves within its walls. Here their troubles were as bad as ever, for Tripoli and Beyrout were in the hands of infidel tyrants, either Turkish, Egyptian or independent, but in all cases hostile; the enemy were cowed by their great defeats of the last two years, and they did not sally out to challenge a pitched battle, but it was necessary to skirt the towns, leaving the great coast road and travelling over difficult broken country. Finally, on Saint Valentine’s Day, the 14th of February, the expedition had arrived outside Acre. The Count of Toulouse, always a cautious warrior, had refused to go any farther unless they could leave a friendly port behind them. So, reluctantly and with sinking hearts, they had prepared for another doubtful and time-wasting siege.
The position was really worse than at Antioch; Acre stood on a promontory, and they could only approach the walls on one side, the south-east; it was impossible to starve out the inhabitants, for local boats could always bring in supplies from the other infidel towns on the coast.
After two years in the crowds and confusion of the main pilgrimage, the Normans and Provençals realized only too clearly the smallness of their own numbers; the siege was conducted by slow and careful approaches, with the object of saving as many lives as possible. Accordingly, everyone had been set to work to weave hurdles out of branches and scrub, and these hurdles were set upright in long lines as close to the walls as possible; they gave the besiegers cover at least from view, so that the infidels’ machines must cast their stones at random; and if hides from the slaughtered cattle of their food-supply were thrown over them, they would keep out an arrow as well.
So it was that on the Feast of the Forty Martyrs Roger found himself peering round the edge of a leather-covered hurdle, watching the effect of a large catapult, whose engineers were trying to batter one particular patch of wall with each stone they threw. He was of course in full armour; his right shoulder was tender from the continued pressure of his shield-strap, so that he had taken off the shield, and propped it with stones against the inner face of the hurdle. As long as he kept behind it he was safe from arrows, and there was no more protection against stones cast from engines if he wore it than if he didn’t. The Count of Toulouse was really a skilled and experienced warrior, though rather too cautious for such a desperate undertaking; he had given strict orders that all the look-outs should be grouped in pairs, and they were encouraged to talk for fear they should feel drowsy. Roger’s companion was Eudes de Harcourt, a Norman of Normandy, and each had already heard at wearisome length everything the other had to say about the prospects of the siege. Eudes sat facing the rear, with his legs straight out in front of him and his shoulders leaning against his upright shield; his job was to watch the catapult that was sending stones in a high arc over their heads, and warn Roger whenever a missile was on the way.
“Here’s another,” he grunted; they both heard the thud of the released spoon of the engine as it fetched up against its wooden stop. It was mid-afternoon and they were facing the south-west, so Roger only looked out at the last possible moment, with his hand before his eyes, to dodge the glare of the sun reflected from a calm sea. He saw the great stone, larger than a man’s head, flashing out of the blue sky; it was hard to follow it when it left the sunshine and passed into the shadow of the town wall, but it seemed to hit the lower courses of masonry a glancing blow and raised a puff of dust and a few chips. The Christian engineers had the range perfectly, and all their projectiles were falling in the space of a few square feet; but the high trajectory lessened the shock to the perpendicular wall, which seemed little the worse for its repeated blows.
“A fair hit,” said Roger, “but what’s the use? There must be twenty stones lying there, and they all hit the right spot as well as you can expect from a catapault. Keep down! They are getting ready to send us an answer.”
Another great stone flashed in the sunlight; this time it came in the opposite direction, from a smaller catapault that the infidels had mounted on the city wall to reply to the besiegers. But the Christian engines were beyond its extreme range, and the line of hurdles was a very small mark to aim at; the stone hit the rocky ground behind them, and skidded away. Altogether the pilgrims had three catapults playing on the same length of the fortifications; the range of these machines was so short that it was impossible to concentrate more on the same object and keep the engineers out of range of infidel arrows. Obviously, if they continued long enough to hit the same spot the wall would eventually collapse; but it looked as though the besiegers would be dead of old age before that happened, at the present rate of progress.
Roger and Eudes settled down again to their monotonous occupation. Eudes, who was tired after a bad night, yawned long and loudly, and began to talk to keep himself awake.
“My God, we seem to have a life-work here,” he grumbled. “Is there any sign of that cursed wall collapsing?”
“There is no hope of that for weeks to come, at this rate. The last shot but two knocked out a big chip, but these high-pitched stones come in at the wrong angle. At Nicaea the Greeks had engines that sent their stones more nearly horizontally; you saw some result from the day’s work then.”
“Ah, those Greeks, clever chaps, always up to some new devilment in a siege,” Eudes answered lazily. “It’s a pity we haven’t some of them to help us here.”
“Not much hope of their coming to help us,” said Roger. “Those soldiers in Laodicea are more likely to be on the side of the infidels. It’s a crying shame. I’m sorry Prince Bohemund couldn’t get hold of that town last autumn.”
“He made a mistake all the same, picking a quarrel with the Greek Emperor just when we were going to need his help so badly.”
Roger gave a non-commital grunt in answer, and poked his head round the edge of the hurdle to watch the fall of another Christian stone. But Eudes wanted conversation, and soon he began to speak again:
“What were you doing this time three years ago?”
Roger thought back. It seemed so long ago that memory was dim; three years ago he had not met Anne, and now his married life was finished. Then a clear picture rose in his mind of the watermeadows beside the Rother, and his father coming down to say that his horse had done enough, and that they must get ready to ride to the Abbey of Battle.
“Three years ago,” he said dreamily. “Do you know I think I was practising with the lance at a mark set up in a field. I remember I had to borrow my brother’s mail because I hadn’t any of my own. And I was learning how to manage a warhorse; of course, he died long ago. I don’t suppose there are a hundred horses left that came out with the original pilgrimage. Digging and hurdle-making would have been more useful crafts to learn than all the swordplay and lance-exercises I did by the hour. I suppose war is never what you would expect, or like the songs the trouvères make about it.”
“Three years ago I was harrying Maine,” said Eudes slowly and comfortably, like one who settles down to tell the story of his life. “That was a
proper sort of war, and just like a trouvère’s song. They had set up a wrongful Count, and it was open for all of us to raid, whether we followed King William or Duke Robert. Great fun it was too. You could ride out with a few friends, and perhaps joust with the same number of Angevins, if you would rather fight than plunder. Of course, there are strong castles in that country also, but we left them alone, or put the foot to blockade them, while we galloped about in the open and enjoyed ourselves. I tell you, it’s the little wars that are fun. This pilgrimage is too serious and professional, and we never get away from our leaders. Besides, these infidels won’t spare a knight who has a bit of bad luck in battle, and plundering by yourself is really too dangerous out here. I had a very narrow escape once when I left the line of march in Cilicia.”
“Yes, you told me about it this morning,” Roger said quickly. Perhaps this was another adventure he had not heard before, since Eudes, by his own account, had fought a great many desperate skirmishes with the infidel; but the conversation had made him homesick, and he wanted to think about his boyhood in Sussex. Truly that seemed another world altogether, where the rivers flowed in their appointed channels all the year round, with only a little mild flooding in the spring, and the pastures were green winter and summer alike. He suddenly longed to see his family again; his father was stern, and his brother had often bullied him and always treated him like a child; but they were home, the fixed landmark from which he had set out, and to which he would never return. He wondered if his father was still alive; he was ageing rapidly, and three years was a long time to an old man. His brother might even be dead also, in some obscure Welsh skirmish or by any other chance that could befall a king’s soldier, and the manor of Bodeham might be rightfully his own. He tried to shut this out of his mind; by coming of his own free will on this pilgrimage he had left England for ever.
Now the stones came over at longer intervals; it was getting near sunset and the machines, as usual, were running short of missiles. The foot searched all day long on the rocky plain for suitable boulders, and others with crowbars tried to break up the reefs of the sea-shore, but transport to the camp was a difficulty, and they never seemed able to build up a reserve supply. Presently the sun set, and the engineers slackened off the twisted cables of the catapults before the night dew could do any damage; it was time for the knights in the front line to go back to the camp for supper.
Roger found all in order when he got back to his hut; Tom had been out with the pack-pony, carrying stones to the machines; this meant a lot of walking, but kept the animal fit. His riding-pony had been grazing with the horse-guard on the empty hills to the eastward, where the winter rains had kept the ground still covered with a little green. A European warhorse would have starved, but the pony was native to the country, and could pick up a living without corn throughout the year. Tom was still cheerful; he had not seen the wall from close to, and picking up stones was a definite job that could show results for a day’s work. It was only the forward observers, who could see how well the city stood up to its battering, who were already disheartened.
Four days later the Duke of Lower Lotharingia and the Count of Flanders came into camp with all their followers. Now at last the main body of the pilgrims was assembled in front of Acre, and the siege could be pressed all along the accessible part of the wall. If only Acre could be quickly and cheaply taken other places would be cowed into surrender; yet a successful outcome was as unlikely as ever. The walls were too strong to be breached by such engines as they had at their disposal; the ground was so rocky that mining was impossible; and starvation was out of the question so long as the infidels held the other harbour-towns within easy sailing distance. There was one other desperate and bloody way of taking a city, by simultaneous escalade at so many points at once that the garrison could not gather to repel them all. The real question was: would the inspiration of the Holy Lance carry homesick and dispirited troops over that mighty Roman wall? That depended on what they thought of the Holy Lance, and the position of that doubtful relic had deteriorated since the day, ten months ago, when the whole army attributed their amazing victory to its virtues. Roger had long been a sceptic; now he found many to agree with him, even among the Provençals.
These doubts came to a head when the Count of Toulouse proposed that an escalade should be attempted on the seaward walls, by creeping along the rocks when the sea was calm. This was such a dangerous plan, and so certain to fail unless they were aided by a miracle, that public opinion demanded some test of the preservative powers of the relic that would lead them. Eventually it was given out that on Good Friday (the 8th of April) Father Peter Bartholomew would walk through a fire carrying the Holy Lance, and if he came through safely its miraculous properties must be admitted by all. This shook the scoffers; it showed that the priest himself had faith in his own claims, and he was the one man who must know whether they were genuine or not.
Unfortunately the test was inconclusive. Peter Bartholomew came through the burning fiery furnace alive, but he was very badly roasted, and the two parties were more estranged than ever.
That afternoon Roger took his turn as a guard to the grazing horses, and tried to think the matter out. He could not make up his mind. Certainly Father Peter must have known whether he had really been granted a vision of the Apostle, and if he had lied about that vision why had he voluntarily faced searing pain and almost certain death? That was the inexplicable part of the affair. Roger was glad to turn over these inconclusive reflections, for they kept his mind off Anne, whose face still haunted his dreams.
He was depressed by a pervading feeling of universal failure. His wife was a very wicked woman, but she had left him because he was too feeble and undistinguished to provide for her as he should, and though the third year of the pilgrimage was well advanced he had not yet made a name as a warrior; his self-confidence was gone, and though if he had plenty of time to prepare he could brace himself to be as brave as the next man, his courage was not really spontaneous.
Then another idea struck him; perhaps he was too prudent because he was not in a state of grace; all the preachers, and at least some of the romances, held that a knight fought better with a clear conscience. In any case he must receive Communion on Easter Sunday, the day after to-morrow, and for that he must bring himself to forgive Robert de Santa Fosca, and then confess to Father Yves. Standing with his pony’s rein over his’ arm, while the other horses grazed round him, he began to force his mind into a state of forgiveness. This is not really a very difficult thing to do, if only you try hard enough; in any case, all that had happened at Antioch seemed very far away now; at sunset, when it was time to drive the animals back to their picket-lines, he thought he had worked himself into the right disposition.
After supper he sought out Father Yves, and made a good confession. When he had received Absolution he stayed, at the priest’s invitation, to drink a cup of wine and talk over the events of the day. Father Yves was upset about the ordeal.
“The leaders should never have allowed it,” he said. “Though a miracle proves something, the absence of it proves nothing. It is presumptuous and temerarious to expect God to grant us a sign whenever we ask for one. Now we have been punished for our sins by being left in doubt when the trial is finished. The pilgrims must trust in their own swords.”
“In that case it doesn’t look as though we shall capture this town,” Roger said sadly. “If things had gone right, it’s just possible we might have managed a sudden escalade. The army won’t have the spirit for that now. We seem to have gone as far as we can by the power of our own swords.”
“That may very well be true, but it is no reason for giving in. If you die you still gain all the spiritual benefits of the pilgrimage, and no one has managed to beat us yet. I hope Father Peter recovers from his burns; it will have a bad effect on everyone’s courage if he dies, and he was a brave man to face the ordeal, even if he was deceived.”
Nevertheless, on the 20th of April, twelve d
ays after the trial, Peter Bartholomew succumbed to his injuries.
The siege continued, with an unwilling and disheartened army. With the coming of spring the grass grew thickly on the hillsides and there was plenty of forage. The warhorses were rested and fit, but from now on they would lose condition during the summer heat, and the knights clamoured that this was the moment to fight a pitched battle, not to hang about dismounted for a siege; unfortunately there was no enemy in the field for them to charge, and siege-warfare it had to be. The leaders were known to be divided; the Duke of Normandy and the Count of Toulouse were reluctant to give up the chance of capturing Acre after spending so much time and money on the investment, and Count Tancred of Cilicia was of the same opinion; men listened to him, although he was only a younger son with a small following, because he was really singleminded in his hatred of the infidel, and had a great reputation as a brave and successful warrior. The other side was led by Duke Godfrey and the Count of Flanders, eager to push on to Jerusalem; on the whole the army was with them, for anything was better than the way they were now wasting their time. But the wiser men had to agree that Jerusalem also possessed strong walls, and they would only be exchanging one siege for another. The result was that the army stayed in its camp and went through the motions of a siege, but listlessly, and without real drive.
It was really not easy to decide the best thing to do next. If the pilgrimage had been intended to rescue the Christians of the East from the yoke of the unbeliever, then probably the wisest thing to do was to go right back to Iconium, and turn the Turks completely out of Anatolia; or failing that, to build up Antioch and Edessa into strong and flourishing independent states; or there was the chance to found a principality among the Christian mountaineers of the Lebanon, who might be able to capture Damascus with the help of a Western army. All these would be useful objectives, that could pay from their own taxes for their own defence, and would safeguard the dominions of the Greek Emperor. Unfortunately these schemes were hardly considered. The more religious and uneducated of the pilgrims knew exactly what they wanted to do next. The headwaters of the Jordan were only fifty miles away across the mountains, they were on the threshold of the Holy Land, and they clamoured to be led straight up to Jerusalem. The lesser knights and the foot were united on this, and Roger felt the same as his fellows.
Knight with Armour Page 31
