Templar

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Who is he? Where is he?’

  ‘We don’t know. He may be one of us, but,’ Hugh pointed at the square of parchment, ‘he would be deeply interested in that. Perhaps,’ he shrugged, ‘he is a member of the Beggars’ Company. If so, there will be further trouble with that coven.’

  ‘They have already invoked the blood feud against us,’ Theodore added quickly, ‘for the death of their comrades.’

  ‘Rapists and murderers,’ Eleanor retorted. ‘Count Raymond fully approved of what Hugh did.’

  ‘I hope God does.’ Hugh replied wearily. ‘The Beggars will have to be watched, but in the end, the relics of the Lord’s Passion are what we seek. Eleanor, we waited until now to tell you the full truth, for to do so earlier may have been dangerous. The Magus will strike at anyone who has knowledge of this, and that now includes you. The dangers, as Godefroi said, are many. Alberic and Norbert are devoted servants of the Poor Brethren but they have brought a legion of other troubles with them.’ Hugh walked to the window, then crossed to the door. He opened this, closed it and returned to the table. ‘We all know about the Holy Father’s sermon at Clermont, but that is not the full truth of our situation. Alberic and Norbert are our teachers in this. They also spent years with the teachers of Islam, who have a faith as certain and firm as ours. They too have their own codes and laws. They too regard Jerusalem as sacred. They call the Dome of the Rock ‘a Noble Sanctuary, the Haram’, a revered site. According to their faith, the great Prophet Muhammad, having fallen asleep while praying in his home town of Mecca, was woken by the Angel Gabriel. He mounted a winged horse called Al-Buraq and was taken “to the most furthest place”, the Dome of the Rock. Once there, the great Prophet ascended into heaven to pray with Abraham, Moses, Jesus and the other leading prophets, as well as receive final instruction for his teaching.’

  ‘The Dome of the Rock is a Holy Place for all faiths,’ Theodore took up the story, ‘and, therefore, a powerful attraction for fanatics, be they Frankish, Muslim or Jewish. One Muslim group, a heretical sect called the Fedawi – the Devoted Ones – are committed to guarding the Dome of the Rock and all its secrets. They are assassins garbed in white with blood-red girdle and slippers. Each carries two long curved daggers. They answer only to their leader, Sheik Al Jehal. They are feared and hated by other followers of Islam, who regard them as heretics because, full of wine mixed with opium, they will strike at those who oppose them or whomever they regard as an enemy.’

  Hugh fumbled at his wallet and drew out a roll of parchment.

  ‘Alberic and Norbert had to flee Jerusalem. Their search for the secret chambers provoked suspicions amongst the Fedawi. One morning they woke to find a dagger thrust into the bolster of a bed with a scroll bearing a warning.’ Hugh unrolled the parchment and read its contents:

  What you possess shall escape you in the end and return to us.

  Know that we hold you and will keep you until the account is settled.

  Know you that we go forth and return as we wish.

  Know you that by no means can you hinder us or escape.

  Hugh threw the parchment down on the table. Eleanor picked it up and studied the writing. The Norman French letters were perfectly formed.

  ‘This was delivered to them?’ she asked. ‘They were marked down for death?’

  ‘Something similar,’ Theodore replied, ‘but that,’ he pointed to the parchment, ‘was delivered to us.’ He leaned underneath the table, undid the straps to the panniers he usually carried over his shoulder and drew out two long curved daggers bound together by a blood-red cord.

  ‘We are,’ intoned Hugh as if reciting a prayer, ‘the Poor Brethren of the Temple; we will, God willing, take Jerusalem and the treasures it holds. We will be a community zealous in our service to the Lord, dedicated to preserving His name and the glory of His Passion. We do not seek the blood of Jew or Muslim but we will follow our vision, for as the Book of Proverbs says: “Where there is no vision on the earth, the people perish.” ’

  ‘And the warning?’ Eleanor asked, curbing her fear.

  ‘The same as that given to Brother Norbert and Father Alberic,’ Hugh replied softly. ‘Pinned to a bolster two nights ago. The Fedawi know what we intend, and they are waiting!’

  Part 5

  Dorylaeum: The Feast of St James the Apostle, 25 July 1097

  Hominumque contentio mundi hujus et cupido.

  (A day when strife amongst men and the lusts of this world are over.)

  The Dies Irae of St Columba

  Deus Vult! God wills it! The hoarse battle cry rang through the valley, echoing up to the pine-edged hilltops, scattering the birds from the cypress trees. Yes, Deus vult, Eleanor reflected, as she sat on a pile of cushions in the looted tent close to the battlefield of Dorylaeum. Dust devils swirled through the flaps of the gorgeous but fire-singed pavilion of expensive cloth with its ornate gold fringes. To the right of the flap stretched a great splash of dried blood; Eleanor tried to ignore this as she dictated to Simeon the Scribe, the man of a thousand faiths, as he described himself. A Copt, a prisoner whom Eleanor had rescued from the blood-spattered mace of Babewyn, Simeon sat waiting patiently for his ‘mistress-sister’ to collect her thoughts. He had everything ready: the writing tray, the sharpened quills, ink horns, pumice stone, a little sand, as well as rolls of looted parchment. Simeon, whose Coptic name Eleanor found difficult to pronounce, stared adoringly at his saviour whilst quietly congratulating himself on his innate skill at surviving. A trained scribe, knowledgeable in Greek and Frankish, not to mention Latin and the lingua franca of the ports, he had served Fatimid, Seljuk, Greek and Frank as well as Armenian, Syrian and Jewish masters. He was a skilled scholar, and could prepare manuscripts, write in cipher, and worship God in any way his masters wanted him to. On the morning of 19 July 1097, Simeon awoke a devout Muslim; by the time he succumbed to a fitful, nightmare-ridden sleep that same day, he was, according to the subtle tale he told Eleanor, a devout Christian captured by the Sultan of Rhum outside Nicomedea. Nevertheless, Simeon, as he now called himself – after Simeon Stylites, the hermit who lived for years on top of a pillar – truly liked Eleanor. He admired her solemn pale face, framed by its veil of black hair, and those lively smiling eyes. If she wanted to recall the stupendous events, as she described them, that accompanied the Franks and their foolish journey to Jerusalem, then he was her man, though he fully intended not to share her fate. If the Turks attacked and were victorious, Simeon quietly promised himself that he would hide as he had done last time, survive the axe, sword or lance and declare himself the most devout of Muslims.

  In her turn, Eleanor studied Simeon out of the corner of her eye: his dark face, the neatly clipped and oiled beard and moustache, his bony body, long arms and slender fingers. Quite an elegant man, with his bracelets, the earring in the left earlobe and the loose dark green robes he wore with a white cord around the waist. Simeon was a born story-teller, Eleanor reflected, and that was what she needed. Others were writing chronicles, accounts and letters about what was happening, so why shouldn’t she continue hers with a little skilled help?

  ‘Write it down as I describe it,’ she said to Simeon.

  He brought both hands together and bowed.

  ‘As you say, mistress-sister, so shall it be done!’ His liquid dark eyes were full of amusement, his face composed in a mask of mock servitude.

  Ah well, Deus vult, and so it was, Eleanor reflected. They had left Constantinople, ferried across the Arm of St George in barges to begin their journey through Anatolia, the Sultanate of Rhum. From the start they had been shadowed by Turkish scouts. The Army of God were following the same path as Peter the Hermit’s horde, and the Turks had deliberately left the remains of the thousands they had slaughtered at Civetot and elsewhere as a grisly warning. Bits of rotting skeletons, decapitated heads, skulls on a row of poles, in spiked bushes, on rocky outcrops or around wells and waterholes glared ominously at them. The signs of such a great massacre dampene
d the ardour of some, though others grew fervent for revenge. The Army of God moved slowly in phalanxes, long lines of carts, horses, donkeys and camels. Alongside these trudged columns of men, women and children, baking under the strengthening sun. Their destination was the Turkish-held city of Nicea with its forbidding towers, huge gates and flaking yellow walls. An impregnable fortress, Nicea was defended on three sides by impressive fortifications and on the fourth by the Askanian lake. The Army of God, however, were in good spirits. They were well supplied with corn, wine, wheat and barley, whilst the route to Nicea was clearly marked along the rutted, tangled path by scouts who nailed up wooden or metal crosses.

  In the main it was a pleasant journey. Eleanor had ridden in one of the carts, reflecting more on what she had learnt in Constantinople than what awaited them at Nicea. Norbert and Alberic had become friendlier, welcoming her as a true sister as if some invisible barrier had been miraculously removed; even Imogene, who tended to keep to herself, commented on that. For the rest, Eleanor wondered about the Fedawi and their threats. How could they be so close to Constantinople? Had they disguised themselves, blending in with the merchants or Turcopole mercenaries who swarmed everywhere? Theodore, in recognition of what they had told her, rather shyly gave Eleanor a small icon painted on wood, very similar to those images she had seen in Hagia Sophia, a reminder of the bond between them.

  Eleanor could now understand Hugh’s enthusiasm, as well as the strict discipline imposed on the Poor Brethren of the Temple. They were marching to Jerusalem not just to recover the Holy Sepulchre but to discover proof of Christ’s Passion and Resurrection. According to Hugh, they must be victorious and purify themselves, in order to be worthy to receive such holy relics. Little wonder too about the secrecy. Relic-hunters like the Magus, whoever he might be, would murder for such religious objects, whilst the Fedawi would never allow entry to a place they had chosen as their own.

  Eleanor, seated on the cart jolting along the trackway, wondered if the Beggars’ Company, marching a little ahead of them, could be a refuge for such outlaws. Beltran distrusted Jehan deeply and had warned her to be wary of that rogue and his coven. Indeed, since leaving Constantinople, Beltran had attached himself to Eleanor and Imogene, paying particular attention to the pretty widow. Like Theodore, he proved to be a genial companion who, by his own confession, had hardly left Provence, being steeped, as he put it, in all its wonders, particularly the poetry and songs of the south. He was not a knight but a serjeant, a nuncius or envoy, well placed to learn all the gossip of the camp and the bickering between its leaders.

  After the long march they eventually reached Nicea. The Turks had withdrawn into the city to await any attack. Hugh took Eleanor to view the massive fortifications, the lofty yellow brick walls with more than a hundred towers all protected by a double ditch. Eleanor had scarcely returned to her tent when the cry ‘Au secours! Au secours!’ was raised. Warning horns and trumpets blared. She and Imogene hurried down the narrow gulleys between the pavilions leading to the centre of the camp. Here stood a huge cart, poles on each corner displaying the battle standards, containing a great wooden altar surmounted by a stark black cross. Two men, dressed like monks in long grey robes, stood with their backs to the cart wheels, swords and daggers drawn. They faced a threatening line of Frankish foot armed with lowered spears and pikes.

  ‘Spies! spies!’ a voice accused. ‘We caught them trying to leave camp with drawings and numbers.’ One of the trapped men raced forward, whirling sword and dagger, only to be stopped by a surge of pike thrusts that almost lifted him off the ground. He struggled like a landed fish, legs kicking, gargling on the blood spilling out of his mouth. The other immediately threw down his weapons and knelt, hands extended in a sign of surrender. He was swiftly seized, bound and dragged away. A short while later Hugh came hurrying back, even as the alarm was raised again: a blare of horns and trumpets, men shouting battle cries, war horses being quickly led out. He grasped Eleanor and pushed her inside the tent.

  ‘They were spies,’ he announced breathlessly, pausing as Beltran, Theodore and Godefroi thrust into the tent behind him. ‘The captured one has confessed. Kilij Arslan, Sultan of Rhum, is marching straight towards us with thousands of horsemen!’

  ‘Where, when will they attack?’

  ‘Bohemond besieges the northern side of Nicea, Godfrey of Bouillon the east and we the south, the same direction as Arslan. We will bear the brunt of the first attack.’

  He had hardly finished when there was a surge of noise from outside, a renewed blowing of trumpets followed by screams and cries. They hastened out to see people pointing. Eleanor stared in horror at the hills behind the camp where the pine trees clustered close together like a green-black wall. Everyone was staring at them: boys and women collecting water in jars; a cluster of monks, Ave beads wrapped round their hands, gathering for the midday prayer; a cook, all bloodied to his elbows, a dead chicken dangling from his left hand; a young boy with a mongrel puppy in his hands; knights in linen undergarments, all gazing at the horror coming from the hills. Eleanor’s throat felt dry and narrow. She blinked and stared again. Hundreds if not thousands of horsemen, in flowing white robes, sunlight dancing off their helmets, were moving out of the trees like a flood of ants towards them. Already a dust haze was rising. The distant thunder of hooves shook the earth; coloured banners snapped in the breeze. Some children playing amongst the decaying stones of a cemetery laughed and shrieked, pointing their fingers.

  ‘They say they’ve brought ropes,’ Beltran murmured. ‘To bind us and lead us into captivity.’

  The crowd could only stare. A monk began to chant a psalm: ‘Domine libera nos – Lord deliver us.’

  ‘You pray,’ Hugh shouted. ‘The rest to arms, to arms!’ The menacing spell was broken. Jars were dropped, cloaks doffed, baskets placed on the ground, camp equipment pushed aside. Knights, serjeants, monks and priests, every able-bodied man, hurried to arm against that river of horsemen sweeping down to engulf them. For a short while the enemy disappeared into the tree-covered slopes, only to surge out again. The Turkish battle cries, a piercing, ululating screech, echoed shrilly above the drumming of hooves. The enemy’s coloured banners could now be clearly seen. The Turks reached the foot of the slope just as the Frankish line, knights in half-armour, on clumsily strapped saddles, burst out of the camp. The Frankish mounts were fresh, much heavier and moving at full charge. The Turks, bloodied on the pathetically armed mob of Peter the Hermit, were taken completely by surprise at the sheer fury of the Frankish attack. This only deepened as the phalanx of armour and heavy horse crashed into them like a fast-moving river hurtling up against some makeshift bridge. The Turks, on smaller, lighter mounts, were simply engulfed, then cut up into small groups, which had to face further Frankish attacks. The air rang with the horrid crash of battle, screams and yells. Banners floated down. The ground became strewn with white-garbed corpses. The Turks, not used to such violent hand-to-hand combat, simply broke, retreating up the slopes pursued by the exultant Franks. By now the news of this first skirmish was spreading through the Army of God. Normans, Rhinelanders, Flemings, French and Greeks flooded into Count Raymond’s camp. Eleanor watched them prepare, donning body armour, strapping on helmets. The mounted knights gathered, masked by a screen of dust and smoke deliberately created to blind the Turks already massing again on the tree-lined heights.

  Hugh, Godefroi, Beltran and Theodore, now properly armoured, collected their oval shields and maces. Norbert and Alberic, faces flushed, joined the foot gathering behind the horse. Fresh fires, deliberately started, poured out more black smoke, concealing what was happening in the Army of God. The Turkish cavalry gathered again for the charge. Their stratagem was simple: to attack, pin the Franks against the walls of Nicea, destroy them and relieve the city. As Eleanor wrote later in her chronicle, the Turks made two mistakes. They believed that Count Raymond’s host was the entire Frankish army, and that its fighting qualities would be no better than t
hose of Peter the Hermit’s ragged followers. They were soon proved wrong. In the early afternoon, the white-robed horsemen again poured like a waterfall down the slopes. The Franks, behind their screen of black smoke, watched, waited, then charged. The swift, heavy iron wall of mounted knights shattered the enemy and the Turkish line crumbled. The Franks swept through, cutting and slicing, drenching the ground in so much blood it poured in rivulets down the slopes, then turned and charged again. The Turks broke and fled. For a while the Franks hotly pursued them before returning in triumph to the camp, spears and lances displaying grisly trophies, herding lines of prisoners, the decapitated heads of their comrades tied around their necks.

  The captives were paraded, taunted and humiliated. One of the catapults Alexius had provided was pushed down to the edge of the great moat around Nicea. As the sun set, the severed heads, gathered in fishing nets, were catapulted into the city. Some smashed in a gruesome pulp against the parapets. Others cleared the battlements, and even from where she stood, Eleanor could hear the groans of the population imprisoned behind the walls. Kilij Arslan had failed! The Army of God now turned on the prisoners. They were herded into the centre of the camp and forced to kneel so they could be decapitated. Simeon the scribe was amongst those captured in the baggage train. Desperately he pleaded for his life. The executioners ignored him. Eventually he broke free and fled through the camp, pursued by Gargoyle and Babewyn, the lieutenants of Jehan the Wolf. He ran screaming down the narrow lanes mocked and pushed by drunken spectators. Eleanor, who had retreated to her tent, heard the uproar and went outside. Simeon almost ran into her and collapsed at her feet. Babewyn and Gargoyle grasped him.