by Paul Doherty
In Khebogha’s camp, Theodore had already moved Eleanor and Simeon to safety. In the confusion they seized their horses and raced out to hide in the dense shrubbery around the nearby lake. Back in the Turkish camp, chaos rather than strategy prevailed. The Atabeg was confused. The reports he was receiving could not be true. His second line was marshalled. The main army was scarcely moving forward when the first squadrons of Turkish cavalry came hurtling back screaming their fear, pointing over their shoulders at the swirling dust and those demons on horseback. Bohemond’s scarlet banner came fluttering towards them. The two Turkish hosts mingled. Confusion and panic spread. The ranks dissolved. Command collapsed. Banners and standards fell. Officers were unable to give orders. The Turks started to fight amongst themselves, desperate to flee. Panic turned to flight as the Army of God, horse and foot, smashed into Khebogha’s disorganised force. The Turkish leaders galloped off; their army followed. The Frankish host poured into the camp, spearing women, looting the food supplies, pillaging the gilded pavilions, ransacking the cedarwood chests and coffers, plunging their filthy hands into mountains of pearls and precious stones, dragging away the tapestries, gorgeous hangings and carpets.
By the time Eleanor and Simeon returned to the camp, victory was certain, Khebogha’s defeat total. Bohemond and the other leaders had already set up court in Khebogha’s pavilion. Theodore and Eleanor, with Simeon trailing behind, were ushered in to receive the leaders’ grateful thanks. Goblets of wine and sherbet were thrust into their hands, along with soft sweet bread and strips of cooked meat. Bohemond was bellowing that whatever they saw they could have. Eleanor simply rested on the cushions. Theodore delivered his report and, once again, received the giant Norman’s thanks, then they were dismissed. Eleanor begged to be taken somewhere safe and quiet. Officers were already beginning to impose order amongst the troop when Theodore’s name was shouted. They turned and walked back. A group of German swordsmen had a prisoner manacled between them, Eleanor recognised Baldur, his finery all torn. The Germans gestured at their prisoner, and one of them lifted a sword, making a mock show of cutting off Baldur’s head. Theodore spoke quietly to them, and the Germans lowered their swords respectfully. Theodore beckoned Baldur to approach as Eleanor came up behind him.
‘What is it, brother?’ Theodore asked.
Baldur licked dirty, blood-caked lips. ‘My life, brother. I suspected the truth yet I did not betray you.’
‘True.’ Theodore nodded. ‘You did not.’ He turned to the German officer. ‘Give this man some bread and water, his weapons and a horse. Let him go. Count Bohemond will stand guarantor for him.’
The German spat into the dust, shrugged and gave the order. Before they led Baldur off, the Turk turned and walked back. He took off his belt and thrust it into Theodore’s hands.
‘When you find your traitor,’ he whispered, ‘hang him with that.’
Part 8
Marrat: The Feast of St Hilary, 13 January 1099
Regnavit a ligno Deus.
(God reigns from a tree.)
Venantius Fortunatus, ‘Hymn In Honour of the Cross’
‘Babylon has become the habitation of demons and the house of every foul spirit and the cage of every unclean and hateful devil.’ Peter Bartholomew’s voice boomed out across the Army of God camped outside the town of Marrat in northern Syria.
‘Not Babylon,’ Eleanor whispered. ‘No demons there! All the devils have come to Marrat.’ She sipped at the goblet of watered wine, then passed it to Simeon, who looked anxiously at his mistress-sister. Over the last six months he had come to love this eccentric Frankish lady. Eleanor was amusing and brave, though full of ideas and notions that bordered on the childlike. Simeon could never understand why she suffered such bouts of spiritual darkness. Didn’t she know how, in this world, wicked men constantly bustled about, busy with their evil deeds? Had they not often talked about that? How there was little difference between Frank and Turk?
‘Is it ending, Simeon?’ Eleanor stared out at the flames licking the night sky above the city of Marrat. The evening breeze carried the exultant yells of the mob as they tore down the city walls.
‘I don’t think so. At least we are journeying to Jerusalem,’ Simeon added mournfully. ‘Your brother and Lord Godefroi have seen to that.’
‘Yes, yes, they have! If we have changed, so have they.’ Eleanor wiped the smoky dust off her face. ‘Both men act like monks, as faithful to their rule as a Benedictine to his abbey.’
‘And Lord Theodore?’ Simeon teased gently. ‘He is as passionate in his courting of you as ever?’
Eleanor blushed and glanced away. She picked up parchment and quill from the writing desk Simeon had looted from Khebogha’s camp. The scribe smiled to himself. He suspected she would do that, to distract both herself and him. Yet she must, Simeon reflected, keep writing this chronicle. After all, so many others, including Raymond of Aguilers, chaplain to Count Raymond of Toulouse, were keeping theirs. Simeon hoped to win lasting fame through his account, or should it really be that of Eleanor de Payens? Ah well, he shrugged, the chronicle was the important thing.
‘Lord Theodore?’ he whispered, but instead of turning to the matter in hand, Eleanor continued to stare into the night. She and Simeon had composed their own secret riddle. According to this, mankind was divided not between Turk, Orthodox, Armenian and Byzantine but between those who were religious and those who were truly human. Those truly human might not be religious, whilst those who were religious might not be truly human. The first part of the hypothesis described Theodore: courteous, courageous and, if the truth be told, totally cynical about church religion, and even more so about the leaders of this so-called Army of God. Eleanor also realised that Theodore loved her, and if only she could escape from this bloody mayhem, she would reflect on that as well as her own feelings for him. She breathed in deeply. She really must clear her mind! So much had happened since Khebogha’s defeat. She turned to Simeon.
‘Are you ready?’
‘The great victory at Antioch,’ Simeon murmured.
Ah yes, Eleanor reflected. If the Turks were overwhelmed by their utter defeat outside Antioch, so were the Franks by their miraculous success. The only explanation for their victory must be the presence of the Holy Lance, which had drawn down on to the Frankish side St George and the whole heavenly host. Hymns of praise were sung, battle psalms chanted, paeans of praise recited amidst the glorious words of the countless Masses offered in thanksgiving. Khebogha and all his might, both horse and rider, had been overthrown like Pharaoh and his chariots in the Red Sea. The season of want gave way to a season of plenty. Loot was collected, plunder piled, horses taken, food stocks replenished. Khebogha’s camp was brutally stripped as bare as locusts would a vineyard or an orchard. Once they’d accomplished this, the Army of God moved triumphantly back to Antioch. The commander of the citadel surrendered to Count Raymond, who had been too ill for the battle but who recovered swiftly enough to send his banner into the citadel. Bohemond hastened back as if he suspected Count Raymond’s secret plan to seize the entire city. The commander of the citadel promptly sent the Provençal’s banner back, accepted Bohemond’s and, at least publicly, converted to Christianity.
The Frankish victory at Antioch soon deepened internal divisions. The rivalry between Bohemond and Count Raymond intensified. Bohemond saw himself as the victor over Khebogha, but Count Raymond, to whom the Holy Lance had been entrusted, promoted himself as the real cause of the Atabeg’s downfall. Bohemond, however, declared publicly that he didn’t give a horse’s turd about divine signs or holy lances. Khebogha had been defeated by his knights! He seized the citadel and other fortifications, whilst Count Raymond occupied the governor’s palace and, most importantly, Bridge Gate, which commanded the road to the port of St Simeon and the sea. Neither was prepared to give way or concede an inch. A council was called but the two men were unable to agree, each reluctant to advance on Jerusalem until the ownership of Antioch was settled.
A proclamation was issued covering up these differences, pointing out that the hot weather made any immediate march south impossible. The army would stay in Antioch until the Feast of All Saints, 1 November.
The Army of God, exhausted and depleted, accepted this, but as the weeks passed, resentment over the delay deepened. Bishop Adhémar, furious at such rancorous bickering, concentrated on purifying Antioch, as corpses still rotted in gulleys, alleyways, houses and cisterns. The Basilica of St Peter had to be reconsecrated and the Greek patriarch John IV formally installed. Nevertheless, God appeared to have turned his hand against his self-proclaimed army. A mysterious, virulent plague born out of the miasma and foul air from all the unattended corpses ravaged the city. An entire troop of German reinforcements, together with the crew of the ship on which they had sailed, arrived in Antioch only to be wiped out to a man. On 1 August, Adhémar himself died. According to a vision received by Peter Bartholomew, the revered bishop’s remains were to be buried in St Peter’s basilica where the Holy Lance had been found. Peter also proclaimed how Adhémar had personally appeared to him in a vision, full of remorse that he had once doubted the veracity of the Holy Lance. Indeed, Peter confided, Adhémar had only been saved from the fires of hell because of a candle he had lit as well as a donation he had made towards the Holy Lance. Peter’s message was clear: his vision was a solemn warning from beyond the grave not to doubt the sanctity of the great relic or the fact that heaven’s favour rested on its owner, Count Raymond of Toulouse.
The other leaders refused to be impressed and turned to their own affairs. Raymond Pilet, a leading Provençal noble, went foraging, as well as trying to impose the Christian faith through the sword on the terrified inhabitants of the surrounding countryside. Hugh of Paris journeyed to meet Emperor Alexius in order to ask for his assistance. Hugh, however, was exhausted, and decided to remain in Constantinople, later returning to France. Other leaders, with an eye to a quick profit, played upon the fears and jealousies of local Turkish rulers. The Frankish lords offered their soldiers and swords as mercenaries and left Antioch like hawks, hooded and eager for prey. Some were successful, others were not. Fulbert of Bouillon, accompanied by his pretty young wife, journeyed to join Baldwin, who had seized Edessa. A squadron of Turks sent by the ruler of Arzen ambushed them, and Fulbert lost both his head and his wife, who was promptly married off to one of the Turkish leader’s lieutenants. A great beauty, skilled in bed, Fulbert’s lovely widow persuaded her new husband to convince his emir, Omer of Arzen, to call in Godfrey of Bouillon to check Ridwan of Aleppo, that old enemy of the Army of God. Godfrey hastened to comply, seized great riches, then deserted his new-found ally, to the murderous fury of Ridwan.
Eleanor, lodged in the comfortable merchant’s house, could only watch and reflect as the Army of God began to fragment. Many of the Poor Brethren, and other contingents such as the Beggars’ Company, were now dead or missing. The Beggars, who did not know the true fate of their leaders, merged with Tarfur, leader of the Ribalds’ Company from Paris, a wild rabble always at the forefront of any excess. Hugh and Godfrey now hastened to mend bridges with the Beggars. They openly described the desertion of Jehan the Wolf and his two lieutenants as a blasphemy, whilst secretly ensuring that the remnants of that band of ruffians were always well provisioned with food and drink. Hugh’s relationship with Count Raymond, on the other hand, cooled considerably. Hugh blamed the count for the Army of God’s inaction and angrily criticised Peter Bartholomew’s prophecies. He was also eager to tempt others to his side as leadership amongst the Franks disintegrated. Men began to leave one troop to join another. Hugh did his best to attract the best to himself. He believed passionately that the survival of both himself and Godefroi through all the horrors was a sure sign of God’s approval for their plans and vision. He remained courteous and friendly towards Eleanor, highly appreciative of what she had done, but he was, as Theodore described, ‘always looking towards tomorrow’. Hugh and Godefroi had both grown more distant and stern during the long campaign. They acted more like twins, the closest of blood brothers, already drawing up plans for when Jerusalem was taken.
Both knights kept well away from the women of the camp, including the beauties captured from the Turks. Theodore suspected the pair might even be monks, secretly sworn to vows of poverty and chastity in obedience to their vision. He often wondered if they had persuaded the Bishop of Orange, now the religious leader of the Army of God after Adhémar’s death, to ordain them priests. They certainly remained warriors, fierce in battle, expert swordsmen highly skilled with lance and bow.
The Poor Brethren of the Temple, which had left Provence with such high hopes, was now more of a loosely knit contingent than a brotherhood. At Antioch it was replaced by a confraternity of knights whom Hugh and Godefroi attracted to their standards. They adopted a new banner fashioned out of an altar cloth displaying a red cross on a white background. They wore the same insignia on their left breast or the shoulder of their great cloaks. The knights who joined them accepted the published rule, though Eleanor was amused at a debate about whether they should shave their heads and faces or let their hair and beards grow. In the late autumn of 1098 the latter was accepted, though the unkempt appearance of the new brotherhood belied their military skills. They went on raids, tightly organised squadrons under the iron-hard discipline of Hugh. They took prisoners and treated them honourably. The violation of women captives was strictly forbidden. All possessions were to be held in common, every item of plunder handed over to the common treasury under Godefroi. They took over one of the small towers near Bridge Gate, which they renamed the Portal of the Temple, a name also shared by their brotherhood. Here they observed the horarium of the Benedictine order: morning Mass, celebrated by Alberic and Norbert, who acted as their chaplains, followed by the divine offices of Matins, Lauds and the rest. These knights also changed their attitude towards the leaders, distancing themselves from the rivalry of the Normans under Bohemond and the Provençals under Count Raymond and spending a considerable amount of time helping the poor amongst the Army of God. The Brotherhood of the Portal of the Temple set up a hospital as well as a common refectory serving food and drink to all comers. They even had their own exchequer for the distribution of money, an almonry for the weak and infirm, and an armoury for those bereft of weapons. They helped women, particularly widows or those on their own. They excluded these from the brotherhood, although they accepted able-bodied men as squires, pages and servants.
Hugh and Godefroi worked like men possessed, rarely returning to the house except late in the evening. Quite often they’d stay in the dormitories established in their own tower. They truly believed that God had a plan for them and that their secret vision had kept them safe. Tens of thousands had died, but they, Eleanor, Theodore, Alberic and Norbert were, apart from petty wounds and mild sicknesses, miraculously preserved, as were those on the edge of their company such as Imogene and Beltran, who were now living openly as man and wife. Moreover, the danger from the Magus, that sinister relic-hunter, and those fanatics the Fedawi appeared to have receded. Theodore agreed with this, arguing that perhaps all had been killed, either in battle or by sickness. Simeon thought differently. He was fascinated by the stories about the Fedawi being amongst them and found it difficult to accept that they would send emissaries so far away from their lonely hilltop fortress. However, he, Eleanor and Theodore were in agreement that Baldur’s ripping off of his belt and throwing it in the dust with the words: ‘hang your traitor with that’ was truly puzzling, a possible reference to the fact that their secret opponent, or opponents, might only have disappeared for the time being.
In the late autumn of 1098 the harvest Hugh and Godefroi had sown began to sprout. A new faction or party emerged opposed to both Normans and Provençals, a movement that included the common mass, the poor of the Army of the God. They called themselves the ‘Jerusalemites’ and their message was stark and simple: enough time had been wasted in Antioch squabbling over p
lunder; the army should march on Jerusalem immediately. The surge of protests, managed skilfully by Hugh and Godefroi, intensified. Peter the Hermit joined their ranks and became the Jerusalemites’ eloquent mouthpiece throughout the city. Eventually they forced the leaders to return to Antioch from their various foraging campaigns. The army lined the streets and cheered as the Great Ones trooped back into the city, their carts piled high with plunder, followed by long columns of Turkish prisoners with the severed heads of their comrades tied around their necks. Nevertheless, the Jerusalemites soon forced the council of leaders to meet and Peter the Hermit stated their cause.
‘Since the Lords are restrained by fear or other reasons, or by their promises to the Emperor, from leading us to Jerusalem, we, the people, shall elect from amonst us men-at-arms, people brave and faithful in the service of the Lord, with whom we will go on. Does it not trouble the princes,’ Peter proclaimed, ‘our lords, that we have delayed here for a year and that thousands of armed men have died here? Those who want to stay and gather gold, let them stay! Those who want Antioch, let them have it! We, however, shall set out on the road. Those who stay here will perish without doing any good, just like those who died here in the past. Indeed we have every day so many disputes in Antioch that we shall tear down its walls in order to restore the peace we had before the city was ever taken. Instead of being weakened by hunger and quarrelling, we ought to return to our pilgrimage.’
