by Paul Doherty
‘Eleanor, where have you been?’
‘I found them,’ she gasped. ‘Norbert and Imogene.’
‘Both dead?’
‘Imogene was not!’ Eleanor closed her eyes and groaned at Simeon’s impulsive remark. ‘You killed her!’ the scribe continued hotly. Eleanor caught the passion in Simeon’s voice and wondered if he too had been taken by the pretty Jewess. Beltran simply clicked his tongue.
‘Miserere mei,’ he replied. ‘I thought the stupid bitch was dead. I suppose you shrived her, Eleanor, heard her last confession, but who’d care for a Jewess?’
‘I do.’ Eleanor let all pretence fall. ‘I do. I did. I shall. God curse you, Beltran. She loved you, yet you murdered her because you didn’t need her any more. The same callous way you murdered Anstritha and Robert the Reeve. Anstritha died because of a mysterious horseman: you. Robert the Reeve went stumbling out into the dark drunk, and you drowned him. You’re a serpent in hell and you’ve made that hell worse. Now let me by!’
‘I would love to,’ he replied mockingly, ‘but tomorrow we might all be in hell! Heaven forfend, the wheel does turn! You see, Eleanor, I need your priggish, murderous brother. I want to be with him if, or when, he finds that treasure hoard. True, I used Imogene like an eyelet into the chamber of your affairs. I thought she’d eventually tire of me but she stuck fast like a leech. She had to go.’
‘And Count Raymond?’
‘Oh, I joined his service easily enough. Men like the count always need men like me, obsequious, knowledgeable, ready to obey their every whim. Some serpents require little cunning. It’s so easy to worm your way in.’ He sighed noisily. ‘Everything was upset by Urban’s Deus vult.’ Beltran laughed. ‘All the Frankish west roused to march on Jerusalem! The treasures of the east would be seized. My commercial affairs would be harmed. First my stupid sister Anstritha went looking for protection, then your brother and his coven with their vision of this and that. Robert the Reeve suspected I was the horseman, that I was not what I claimed to be. He became curious about my affairs, so I killed him.’
‘You are the Magus? You pretended to be the Fedawi?’
‘I sell relics to those stupid enough to buy them, and yes, I had to protect my interests! Seize back my stupid sister’s map. I left it too late. Your brother had it.’ Beltran shrugged. ‘He’d have made copies.’
‘And a spy?’
‘I have no faith, no allegiance, no lord. I move among men. I bustle busily to earn a crust. I tell this person that, that person this. I’m just a merchant in a marketplace.’ He waved a hand. ‘Look at these fools. I am here for gold, the real possibility of making myself rich with a king’s ransom. Such business always carries risks. But the likes of your brother? Dreaming of marvels, myths and make-believe! No reward in this life, and after death? Not the light he or you hope for, just a darkness more profound, the darkness of nothingness.’
Eleanor heard a sound behind Beltran. She calmed herself. She must delay him, hold him whilst looking for any opportunity.
‘You’re a spy,’ she rasped. ‘You sell information, be it to the Byzantines or the Turks. So easy, certainly before Antioch, to ride out and meet enemy scouts, and give them information. Baldur, oh yes, you know him? He certainly knew of you! He played a game with your name. He tossed his belt on the ground and told Theodore to hang you with it. A belt for Beltran, a clever conceit but true! You will hang!’
‘I do not think so.’
‘You’re the horseman, the Magus, the Fedawi,’ Eleanor continued desperately. ‘You used the confusion of battle to slip here and there, disguised as this or that. You used your position with Count Raymond to hint that the spy was a member of my brother’s company.’ She laughed sharply. ‘For once you told the truth: there was a spy – you, though Count Raymond never suspected that!’
‘A merchant moves from one place to another . . .’
‘You’re a killer!’
‘Negotium auri, Eleanor, the business of gold.’
‘And now?’
‘I heard you leave. I did wonder if Imogene was dead. I could take no chances.’ Beltran knelt, bringing up the arbalest. ‘Your stupid scribe has brought your deaths on you.’
‘Beltran?’ The whisper hissed through the darkness.
Beltran turned. The whirr of a crossbow bolt cut the air and struck him deep in the face, its barbed shaft shredding skin and bone. A blood-spattered mess, gruesome in the poor light. A shadow sped forward. A knife glinted as it drove deep into the side of Beltran’s neck. Beltran gave a loud, gargling sigh and pitched forward on to his face. Theodore stepped into the pool of light. He knelt, grasped Beltran by the hair, pulled up his head then let it fall.
‘I heard you whispering in the tent.’ Theodore went down on one knee, staring at Eleanor. ‘Then you both left.’ He gave a lopsided grin. ‘Simeon, you grumble like an old sow. I thought of accompanying you, but I was exhausted. I was making myself comfortable for sleep when he . . .’ Theodore gestured at the corpse sprawled in an ever-spreading pool of blood, ‘moved too quickly for a supposedly tired man. I smelled mischief.’
‘Did you always suspect him?’ Eleanor rose clumsily to her feet.
‘Yes and no,’ Theodore murmured. ‘Beltran was an enigma. He made mistakes, small ones, inconsistencies. Like the other day he seemed to know more about the Governor of Jerusalem and Ethiopian troops than he should have done. He was so eager to join the Portal of the Temple, but Hugh and Godefroi objected to his relationship with Imogene. A spy?’ The Greek shrugged. ‘Perhaps! Until the Battle of Antioch, any one of us, as we know,’ he smiled, ‘could move from one army to another. Then there was the Fedawi.’ Theodore rested the arbalest against his shoulder. ‘I found it difficult to accept that they were amongst us, so far from their castle fastness, so close to us.’ He shook his head and extended a hand. ‘Come, leave the dead to bury the dead. Tomorrow, God knows, we might join them!’
At daybreak on 15 July, the Year of Our Lord 1099, Godfrey of Bouillon and Raymond of Toulouse flung their armies at the walls of Jerusalem. A beautiful dawn, as Eleanor de Payens wrote in her chronicle, its serenity soon shattered by the creak of twisted ropes, the curses of men, the screech of wheels and the blood-chilling whine of fiery missiles, stones, arrows and blazing bundles. Crashing and thudding swept the air as the terrifying din of battle increased. Godfrey of Bouillon, his gold cross standard openly displayed, ordered his great tower forward. The defenders of Jerusalem brought up their slings and mangonels, loosing firebrands dipped in oil and grease at the attackers. A deadly race ensued; that was how Eleanor de Payens described it in her chronicle: the Franks desperate to bring up their tower, the Turks and Saracens eager to burn it before the besiegers ever reached the walls. A thick pall of smoke ringed the tower, penetrated only by missiles. At one time Godfrey of Bouillon himself was nearly killed. A stone hurled randomly struck a squire standing close to him; the man’s skull was shattered, his neck broken, and he died instantly. Godfrey, having narrowly missed such sudden death, fought back fiercely using his crossbow to bring down defenders.
The tower crept forward through the breach of the outer wall, closer and closer to the main defences. The top of the tower threatened to overlook the battlements of Jerusalem. Frankish archers and slingers released a deadly storm of stones and arrows. Fire was hurled back, but the tower was protected by mantlets and wattle screens covered with slippery skins. The firebrands and burning coals struck these only to slip down to the ground. The defenders brought up tubes of Greek fire, which belched out greedily, but the outside of the tower had been doused in vinegar whilst wineskins hung in the tower held more. The tower inched its way forward. On either side of it thronged archers who loosed shafts wrapped in flaming cotton; these struck the wooden defences, the sacks of straw and oiled ropes the Saracens and Turks had arranged along the wall to protect it against the rams, and they burst into flame, forcing the defenders from the parapets. Scaling ladders were hurriedly brought forw
ard, whilst Tancred took a force of knights to pound at St Stephen’s Gate.
The defenders were now confused by the fires billowing along the battlements; curling smoke and acrid fumes blocked their view and confused their actions. The Portal of the Temple put up its scaling ladder, and one of their company, Lethold of Touraine, clambered up over the walls, the first knight to enter Jerusalem. The tower edged closer. Godfrey of Bouillon glimpsed two great beams thrust out by the Turks to hold it off. He swiftly cut the ropes of one of the ox-hide-covered mantlets, which fell across the beams to provide a makeshift drawbridge. Godfrey hurried across, his men pouring after him, their long swords hissing and cutting, fighting like demons through the black smoke. The breach was stormed and held. The tower crept closer. Further along the wall the three witches and the slaves supporting them were deluged by a hail of stones that pulped them into a bloody mess. The tower now leaned over the walls of Jerusalem. Its drawbridge fell. Scores of knights ran across on to the battlements to join Godfrey. The defenders panicked and ran. The collapse spread. The garrisons at the Herod Gate, St Stephen’s and further along at Mount Sion simply fled. Entrances were forced and the Franks poured like a river of revenge through the city, spilling out along every thoroughfare, street and alleyway. No quarter! No mercy was to be offered, nothing but the sword for men, women and children.
The Franks fanned out like reapers gathering some bloody harvest. Groups of Turks and Saracens made one final stand, archers still loosed arrows from rooftops, but it was all over. The governor and remnants of his Egyptian cavalry fled to the Tower of David and locked themselves in. The Franks simply passed through, living incarnations of the Angel of Death, a black cloud of murderous fury. Streets, squares, houses and gardens became thickly strewn with the corpses of men, women and children. Axes and swords fell until the fountains splashed red and the white walls became drenched in blood. Some hoped to gain sanctuary in the mosques; none was given. The Franks reached the courtyard of the Holy Sepulchre, where more people were huddled. They advanced, sword and axe at the ready, but their intended victims hurriedly knelt, crossing themselves, and croaked the prayer of mercy from the Mass: ‘Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison’ – Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy. The Franks sheathed their weapons, touched the heads of these Armenian Christians and went searching for other prey. They burst into the great Temple enclosure where Turks and Saracens clustered to surrender. None was accepted. By the time the slaughter was ended, men waded through blood that lapped beneath their knees and stained the harness of their horses.
At sunset the Franks put an end to their killing. They had, like wolves snuffling through the scrub, glutted themselves on gore and blood; now they doffed their armour, put on gowns and walked barefoot to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to give thanks. They passed mounds of severed heads, arms and feet. They crossed a mat of corpses as they reverently chanted their psalms and hymns. They made their devotions and retired for the night.
Meanwhile the Portal of the Temple were hurrying down into the warren of gloomy passageways beneath the Dome of the Rock. Hugh de Payens and Godefroi of St Omer had survived and were zealous in their quest. The Fedawi had either fled or died in the massacre, so they hacked down doors and lifted rusting iron-plated traps until they found their treasures. They moved quickly and orderly all through that night and the next day, when the slaughter in the city began once again. No mercy was to be shown. This was God’s work, the Franks argued: their enemies had mocked, humiliated and used all manner of wickedness against them; this could only be purged by blood. Some survivors climbed on to the flat roof of the Aksa Mosque; Tancred offered them protection, even handing over his own standard, but the killers ignored this, storming on to the roof and massacring all three hundred survivors.
As smoke hung like a black cloud above a city stinking of slaughter, in the narrow passageways beneath the Dome of the Rock, Hugh and Godefroi ransacked the secret treasure hoards hidden away in chambers where the great Solomon had once stabled his horses. In the light of candles and lantern horns they rolled out the sacred cloth that once covered the Lord’s face. They knelt in adoration of it and repeated their solemn vows: kingdoms, princes and powers could trample through the streets of the Holy City. They would come and go, nothing more than a watch in the night, but the Portal of the Temple, the House of the Temple, the Templars would take root and grow as magnificent as the cedar of Lebanon . . .
Under the awning of her shabby tent on a hillside overlooking Jerusalem, Eleanor de Payens made herself comfortable on a faldstool, threading battered Ave beads through her filthy fingers. Theodore, blood-stained and smelling of fire and wood smoke, squatted before her. He had taken off his hauberk and leather leggings, and cradling a wineskin, he toasted Eleanor before taking a drink.
‘The City of Jerusalem has fallen.’ Theodore wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Your brother, using the maps he had gathered, has found his treasure trove. Relics, Eleanor, linen sheets containing imprints of our Saviour, documents, artefacts, precious stones, silver and gold. He and Godefroi—’
‘They are well?’
‘As strong as lions! They lost some of their company.’
‘Were they involved in the massacre?’
‘Mistress!’ Simeon, sitting behind Eleanor, leaned forward. ‘Mistress-sister,’ he whispered, ‘leave that.’
‘Oh yes, I will!’ she retorted harshly.
‘Will you go into the city?’ Theodore asked. ‘Hugh and Godefroi are waiting. They’ve given thanks to God, they . . .’ His voice trailed off at the look on Eleanor’s face. ‘I told them about Beltran.’
‘And?’
Theodore spread his hands. ‘They saw him as a troublesome wretch, nothing more. Eleanor, will you come?’
‘I have travelled thousands of miles,’ she murmured, closing her eyes then opening them. ‘I thought I would dance under the gateway of Jerusalem, but now I am here, I do not want to go into the Holy City. I do not want to see any more severed heads or blood-spotted walls.’ She stared out at the black plumes of smoke rising above the city. ‘Here, Theodore,’ she tapped her breast, ‘here is Jerusalem. Here,’ she leaned forward and caressed his cheek, ‘is the Face of Christ. Here,’ she pressed her hand against his chest, ‘is true religion. There,’ she gestured with her hand, ‘some whitewashed cottage, with the honeysuckle climbing up the walls, is paradise.’ She put away the Ave beads, wrapped her cloak tight about her and got to her feet. ‘And Alberic?’
‘He fought like a warrior, wounded but well.’
Eleanor smiled and extended her hand. ‘Come, let us search out Norbert and Imogene and give them honourable burial.’ She gestured at the finely carved box lying next to her stool, the one Imogene had so treasured. ‘For the love of God, Theodore, and for love of me, take this into the city. Bury it deep in the black soil beneath some cypress tree.’ She smiled. ‘Then come back to me, and we shall find our own Jerusalem.’
Author’s Commentary
The Templar is based solely on eye-witness accounts that can be read in translation in a splendid book: The First Crusade. The Accounts of Eye Witnesses and Participants, ed. A. C. Krey (Princeton, 1921). A good modern account can be found in Christopher Tyerman’s God’s War (Allen Lane, 2006). The perspective of the Byzantines is clearly reflected in The Alexiad of Anna Comnena, trans. E. R. A. Sewter (Penguin, 1979), and that of Islam in The Damascus Chronicle of the Crusade, ed. H. A. R. Gibb (Dover Publications, 2002). As regards the theft of sacred relics and the exploits of men like the Magus, please see Furta Sancta, Thefts of relics in the Central Middle Ages by Patrick Geary (Princeton, 1978). The relics of Christ’s Passion have been the subject of many books, but I do recommend Ian Wilson’s The Blood and the Shroud (Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1998).
The First Crusade was a phenomenon still debated today. Pope Urban’s speech comes to us second hand, but its effect through Europe was electrifying. The composition of the Crusade is faithfully reflected in this novel.
There were as many reasons for going as there were participants, the idealistic to the depraved and cruel. However, what is fascinating is the incredible courage and stamina of those involved. The ferocity of the battles and the massacres that followed clearly did away with any theory of a just or holy war. In a sense the Crusades were total war, where no prisoners were taken and the absolute destruction of the enemy was a military objective. Of course, certain mysteries still persist. There are no clear reasons why the Byzantines attacked Raymond of Toulouse’s army near Radosto, but bearing in mind the rapacity of certain of his followers, the reason given in this book is probably as valid as any other. The Magus and the Fedawi do figure in history, whilst the finding of the Holy Lance and its psychological impact on the Frankish army is, in my opinion, one of the most brilliant propaganda coups in the history of warfare. Firuz was involved in the betrayal of Antioch and some chronicles do mention that it arose due to grievances over a woman. Firuz apparently disappears from history, but his brother was killed in the first blood-letting. Khebogha’s advance on Antioch is as I have described it. In my view he was tricked. According to many accounts he was still playing chess when the Frankish army deployed!
Finally – the Templars. The origin of the Templars, according to all accounts, was linked with Hugh de Payens and Godefroi of St Omer (in some accounts he is called Geoffrey). The Order was founded some years after the taking of Jerusalem, and became a great power in western Europe until its destruction by Philip IV of France between 1307 and 1314. One of the earliest accounts is that of William of Tyre in his Historia who talks of them being ‘devoted to God’. In my view William is referring to the Order in its early stages. In many ways the Templars were enlightened. They had a strict code and it is interesting that in their First Rule, confirmed at the Council of Troyes, there is an explicit reference in section 53 to ‘no further acceptance of sisters’. Proof enough that at one time, in its early history, women were accepted as members of that mysterious Order.
