by Simon Acland
He turned to open a dark chest behind him, lifting out a sword in a scabbard decorated with fine Venetian embroidery.
“My friend, this sword was meant for you and I want you to have it. Go to the armourer and tell him to issue you with a coat of mail, a shield and a lance. After all, you are my cousin. It is not meet that Charlemagne’s blood should run in the veins of a mere clerk. You will travel to the East with me as a proper knight. Of course your duties as my secretary will continue. Your skills in writing and reading are too valuable for me to spare. Your talents with language will serve me well. Brother Baldwin has his interpreter – that shifty Armenian; you shall be mine.”
I was too much overcome to speak coherently. I swelled with pleasure. I felt prouder than I could remember since the Abbot had praised me and made me his secretary, but now that I was unbound by the vow of humility I did not have to bottle up my emotion. I stammered out thanks as best I could, stroking the sheath of the sword – ‘My sword,’ I thought – and grasping its leather lined hilt to draw it out. Its balance and its weight felt so natural in my hand. Thoughts of the great deeds I would accomplish with it flashed through my mind. I could not wait to try it out and hear its sharp blade whistle through the air. Godfrey saw my pleasure and excitement, and smiling indulgently gave me an affectionate slap on the back.
Later, when I was back at my desk, handling some last minute correspondence, my elation was punctured by an unwelcome visitor. Baldwin’s Armenian slithered into my room, his narrow face painted with a poor simulacrum of a smile.
“Now I must address you as Sir Hugh. I am truly pleased to hear that you will accompany us all to the east. What a fitting reward for your loyal services.”
I received Bagrat’s ingratiating congratulations with as good a grace as I could muster.
“But do you not think that Duke Godfrey might have been a little more generous? Some monetary recompense perhaps? Some payment? I have always found my Lord Baldwin a most open-handed master.”
I must have given him a cold look, for momentarily the strangely accented Latin stopped sliming through the Armenian’s lips.
“Please. Please do not misunderstand me. Not for a moment would I wish you to desert the good Duke’s service; quite the contrary. We would have you continue to serve him as assiduously as ever. It is just that we would ask you to serve Lord Baldwin as well. A little information from time to time would be so well-rewarded. And it would do no harm. Indeed, how could you better serve the Duke than by fostering good relations with his noble brother – by making sure that fraternal communications flow smoothly, with nothing being hidden from the one by the other. Who says that one cannot serve two masters?”
Bagrat simpered, revealing a mouthful of pointed teeth in his dark face. I raised myself behind my desk.
“Our Lord Jesus Christ himself says so – both the holy Evangelists Saint Matthew and Saint Luke give us his words: ‘For either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other.’”
As I stepped from behind my desk and moved towards him I was pleased to see his disappointment turn to fear. He backed away from me towards the door.
“And I am devoted to my Lord Godfrey, for he has been good to me. Work out for yourself where that leaves your master.”
And with that he turned and scuttled away.
At long last our mid-August departure day dawned. The city of tents that had mushroomed along the Semois valley had been struck, the packhorses were loaded and the army was ready. I puffed with pride as I galloped with Godfrey’s close retinue to the front of the line. I hardly noticed the weight or the heat of my mail over my padded undershirt. Like all the men in the army, I wore a white surcoat with the red cross embroidered on its left shoulder. I had heard that some had been overcome by such religious zeal that they had suffered the pain of having the cross branded into their own flesh.
Godfrey rose in his stirrups in front of the host and bellowed, “We follow the road named for Charlemagne, my great ancestor, onwards to glory and salvation.” The soldiers roared back their approbation and beat their weapons on their shields so that the valley echoed.
In spite of the long column of camp followers with their slow rumbling carts, in three weeks the army had reached the valley of the River Danube, the like of whose great smooth flood of water I had never seen before. By the end of the month of September we were close to the border of the Kingdom of Hungary. Our way was clearly mapped by the path of desolation carved by Hermit Peter’s army. Most of the villages we passed were deserted. The roughly handled peasants must have seen in the distance the clouds of dust we kicked up and had not waited to see if this new army was more benevolent than the horde which had already passed. All the villages bore the scars of violence. Dwellings were burned and broken. The carcasses of dead animals lay where they had been butchered. On occasion human bodies rested unburied nearby, fallen perhaps in a rash defence of their poor possessions and livelihood. These first signs of violence spent by Crusader on Christian shocked me to the core. We were well provisioned, carrying with us corn and driving flocks of sheep and cattle. There was no need for us to pillage, and the Duke’s professional military eye looked with scorn at the wasteful damage that had been done. I consoled myself with the thought that Blanche must have passed that way.
We reached the Hungarian border at the town of Oedenburg. As we approached the walls, the gates opened and half a dozen well-mounted men galloped towards us. They turned out to be messengers from King Coloman, courteous in manner, but stern and unsmiling. From their solemn expressions I guessed that their news was unlikely to be welcome. Their leader handed Godfrey a parchment scroll grandly sealed with the royal double-headed eagle. Godfrey passed this missive to me.
“Be so good as to read it out for us.”
I lifted the red wax with my dagger. The writing inside was Latin.
“I, Coloman, by the Grace of God King of the Hungarians, offer greetings to Godfrey de Bouillon, Duke of Lower Lorraine. As a true Christian monarch, I am ready to grant you passage through my dominions and to provision your men in your holy cause, but I seek assurances that my subjects and my lands will be left unmolested. The army of Cowled Friar Peter turned to pillage and many of his followers paid a mortal price on the swords of my knights. Truly by visiting violence upon their fellow Christians they forfeited the succour of God, for we have now had news…”
My reading faltered. Under a sharp look from Godfrey I gathered myself and continued.
“…that the Saracen has massacred them to the last man outside Nicaea.”
My voice tailed off again as the attention of Godfrey’s lieutenants sharpened. I rested my hands on my horse’s neck to stop them shaking, crumpling the scroll in my anxiety. I could not blame the air’s crisp chill for my shivers. Blanche – what had happened to her? Had she been with the army? Pray God no. Pray God she had stayed safe in Constantinople. I saw degrees of my own anxious concern reflected on the faces of most of the Duke’s council. In Godfrey’s eye, though, there was a gleam of something like satisfaction that his prediction to Walter Sans Avoir had been fulfilled. Only Baldwin’s pale face was free of all emotion, frozen in cold indifference.
I gathered back the tatters of my concentration and struggled to continue reading in a steady voice.
“As surety for your good behaviour, I request that you send forward your noble brother Lord Baldwin and his family, to be held by me as vouchors of your peaceful passage. They will naturally be treated with all honour and courtesy but I tell you plainly that no lesser guarantor will do. They will be returned to you once you have peacefully passed into the Byzantine Empire’s province of Bulgaria.”
Now the cold blank of Baldwin’s face flushed full with proud anger.
“I’ll not act as hostage for this foreign kinglet. You can go, or Eustace.”
“Come, Baldwin, it won’t be so bad. You will have a comfortable time at the court of the King with that lo
vely wife of yours while we roughen our arses on the saddles of our horses. Or would you rather leave Godehilde here with me?”
The icy look on Baldwin’s face said that Godfrey had gone too far. I could tell all too easily that he had made a foolish mistake in letting slip the careful tone he habitually used with his younger brother, and especially in joking at his expense in front of others. Bagrat lurked behind his master, aping Baldwin’s cold expression. Godfrey paused and for a moment I thought he was going to needle his brother further. Then better judgement gained the upper hand, and he changed his tone to solicitous flattery.
“Come, Baldwin. You know that you can rely on me to keep discipline. There will be no risk to your safety. The Hungarian King has doubtless heard of your fearsome reputation and of your high position in our councils. Your bruit and fame is what prompts his single-minded demand for you.”
Under his breath, so quietly that only I could hear, he added, “Or perhaps he has heard of your wife’s beauty and wants to eye her for himself.”
Scowling, Baldwin still refused to go.
“Send Eustace. Or go yourself.”
Now it was Godfrey’s turn to flush angrily as the issue developed into a test of strength between the brothers. He changed his point of attack.
“I had not thought to see the day when my brother Baldwin was scared. Your time as a churchman obviously took a greater toll than I had thought.”
The gathering was now tense and utterly silent. The two brothers glared at each other, reliving who knows what trial of strength from their childhood. Baldwin’s horse fidgeted from side to side and he brutally pulled its reins, snarling.
“Very well. I will go, to answer the slur that you have dared to cast on my courage, but the day will come when you will regret treating me like this. You know I do not forget a slight so easily.”
Baldwin and his family followed Coloman’s messengers, with a small retinue including his dark Armenian shadow. Baldwin’s brittle bearing as he left plainly expressed the high price in fraternal discord that had been paid for safe passage. Our journey continued, now in the company of a large escort of King Coloman’s troops.
When we had crossed the broad Hungarian plain without incident, I almost regretted the good discipline that Godfrey enforced on his men, because Baldwin was safely restored, still angrily sulking that his brother had been willing to place him at risk. But either the event had passed from Godfrey’s mind, or he relished taunting his brother and could not resist showing off to his sister-in-law. For he greeted the Lady Godehilde on her return with a deep bow and another over-familiar kiss on the hand. He was rewarded by a flash of warm admiration from beneath her long eyelashes. I could see that neither gesture escaped Baldwin’s basilisk eyes.
But I had greater worries. Anxiously I fingered the ribboned hank of Blanche’s hair as it nestled beneath my undershirt. I told myself that it was impossible that I would not see again the owner of those beautiful locks. God could not be so cruel. My anxiety fought my excitement, two days before the sacred feast of the Nativity, in the year of Our Lord 1096, when I saw for the first time the ramparts of Constantinople. Behind them, I hoped and fervently prayed, I would find Blanche safe and sound.
SAINT LAZARUS’ COLLEGE
Back in the rooms which had been his home for nearly twenty years, the Modern Languages Tutor nursed a dry martini and a feeling of poisonous resentment towards the Master. The empty feeling in his stomach made him think bitterly to himself, “So this is how the Fisher King must have felt when he was wounded in the guts. If he’d given me that sword I’d have it out of its Venetian embroidered scabbard in a flash.”
Two more dry martinis and the Modern Languages Tutor had been emboldened enough to reach a decision. The Master could not be allowed to get away with it. He knew what he had to do. He slipped out to the street and headed for the hardware store.
CHAPTER SIX
UNREAL CITY
I came to Constantine’s great city thinking only of finding news of Walter Sans Avoir’s retinue. But I confess that, when I first saw that extraordinary metropolis, my thoughts were diverted for a while towards simple awe and amazement.
At night around the camp fire I had listened to much talk about Constantinople. None of those who talked had seen the city, but I could believe them when they said that its fortifications had never yet been breached. I could almost believe their claim that it was greater than Rome herself, but I found it harder to accept that its walls encompassed more people than the whole of France. However, I did not dare to contradict them. During the weary months of our journey I had built Constantinople in my imagination. But when I arrived I had to knock down the fantasy I had constructed, so small and puny was it in comparison to the reality. As soon as the city came into sight, I could immediately believe everything that had been said.
Even in the distance the walls looked as if they had been built by some race of ancient giants. Close to, I could appreciate not just their size but also the beauty of the huge honeyed stones locked together in tight precision. Countless stout round towers butted forward, proudly wearing belts of ochred orange brick. The poor huts and hovels huddled before them served only to accentuate the height rearing above, like thickets at the base of a great tree. If ten tall men had been able to stand on each others’ shoulders they might have just touched the top. Then I saw that such a measurement could not have been made even by the best acrobats, for the whole was protected by a wide water-filled moat which lapped the base of the ramparts. This liquid girdle stretched out as far as I could see, choking off the whole neck of land that contained the city.
‘Thank God we come here in peace, not war,’ I thought in grateful optimism. My own astonishment was reflected in different shades across the features of my companions as they came to appreciate the city’s insuperable position. To the south, whence we had come, it was protected by the Sea of Marmara. That in itself was a matter of wonder to me, for I had never seen the sea before, and could scarcely believe that such an expanse of water existed.
And to the north stood guard a thinner stretch of water known poetically as the Golden Horn. It was in this direction that we were shepherded by a sharp-helmeted imperial escort. Our route along the walls showed off the full extent of their Emperor’s formidable fortifications. Perhaps it had been deliberately chosen to awe us. I counted four main gates, each guarded by square crenellated towers still more massive than their round cousins between. Before each gate seethed a diverse throng of travellers and merchants, seeking entry for the Nativity feast day. I longed to pass with them through those gates to gain news of Blanche and to view the unimaginable riches beyond. But instead I had to make do with whatever glimpses I could catch from outside, as we were firmly guided to the northernmost end of the fortifications.
Our guides – or guards – told us that we should be honoured by the place given to us to camp, for it lay just opposite the Emperor’s own Palace of Blachernae, separated from it only by the tall city walls. There we settled down as best we could to celebrate the Feast of the Nativity. The weather had at last turned cold. A northern wind swept the exposed site, and many must have shared my wish that we were inside the shelter of the fortifications. My Lord Godfrey’s tented pavilion, in the middle of the army, and those of the other barons, provided some shelter, but most of our men shivered in the open around their smoky campfires.
So I was well pleased when the Count de Vermandois, with three of his French followers and three of Alexios’s men, rode into camp bearing the Emperor’s invitation to Godfrey and his lieutenants to enter the city and take up more luxurious lodgings. Vermandois greeted the Duke with an embrace of affectionate condescension. I could see that Godfrey had been needled by the Count’s patronising bearing when he stepped back, holding out his hands, and said, “My Lord Count, look at you and your fine raiment. You look quite the Greek in these rich silks. You put us simple soldiers to shame.”
Indeed the sumptuous purple and red silk
tunic and the fur-trimmed cloak worn by Vermandois set a sharp contrast to the dull travel-stained woollen garments worn by the rest of us. Otherwise, squat and round-faced, with a cold arrogant glint in his eyes as he tilted his head slightly upwards to answer, he made a poor comparison to the taller Godfrey. I wondered what justified his grand manner.
“We heard rumours that you had been shipwrecked on the Dalmatian shore and even ill-used by the Emperor’s underlings. I am glad to see the falsehood of these reports.”
“Indeed I was shipwrecked, my Lord Duke, but when the noble Emperor Alexios heard that the blood of the royal family of France runs in these veins of mine he became especially gracious and generous towards me.”
I looked with renewed interest at the first person of royal blood that I had seen. I still could see no external justification for the respect the little man’s pompous manner appeared to demand.
“He has heaped me with rich gifts, and in return I have taken an oath of fealty to acknowledge his imperial suzerainty and to agree to restore to him any territories that I conquer. I am here at his request to ask you to do the same.”
Baldwin thrust forward into the surprised silence that followed these words, his black eyes flashing, and hissed, “I will take no such oath. I have not travelled all this way to wield my sword in the service of some foreign emperor and then to hand back all the conquests that I make.”
Even Count Eustace’s habitual stolidity was shaken, and he nodded his head as Godfrey blustered.
“My emperor is Henry the Fourth in Germany. I am with brother Baldwin. I’ll not swear. Nor will Eustace. What is more, I do not trust this Alexios. I’ll not venture into his city unprotected. Tell him to come here if he wishes to speak with me. He has only sent me a few heralds,” gesturing rudely at the Count and the Byzantine officials who had accompanied him, “so I will send him back some of my own.”
