The Waste Land

by Simon Acland

  And he stormed out of the tent. I heard Baldwin hiss to Bagrat, “I’ll not let that ginger Norman seize all the booty in Saint Paul’s city. He’ll have with him only three hundred men; I’ll take five hundred of our knights and follow him over the pass. I have nothing to keep me here any longer.”

  In his enfeebled state Godfrey could do nothing to prevent his brother having his way. Perhaps too he thought that Baldwin’s enmity could do him less harm from afar. Troubled and petulant, he curtly beckoned me. His voice was so weak that I had to strain my ears to catch the quiet words intended only for me.

  “Hugh, I want you to go with Baldwin. Someone’s got to watch him for me. Someone I trust. I’ll not have him using my men to carve out a kingdom for himself without sharing the spoils with me.”

  It was on my lips to tell Godfrey that I would not go, that it was too dangerous, that I feared Baldwin and Bagrat too much. They might not know all my role in foiling their plot to poison Godfrey, or my suspicions about the hunting accident. But about my loyalty to the Duke they could have no doubt. My welcome from them would scarcely be warm. I would be in grave peril. My hesitation must have showed, for Godfrey added querulously, “You failed to protect me from that bear – I don’t want any arguments. You can damn well go.”

  I knew then that any protest I made would be ignored and would only cause fruitless disfavour. Instead, many questions bubbled up in my head…when should I return?…how should I send messages back?…what should I do if…? – but I did not want to show my weakness and anyway there was no time to ask. Godfrey fell back exhausted on his pillows, and after a short interval I followed Baldwin out of the tent.

  SAINT LAZARUS’ COLLEGE

  “It’s a strange thing, but the Police have told me that they believe the hydraulic brake lines were deliberately severed. I know I have made some enemies along the way, but I don’t think even my ex-wife would stoop to such depths. Or would she…?”

  The Best-Selling Author was once again the centre of attention, in the most comfortable armchair with the cast on his broken leg stretched out in front of him and a neck brace holding his head stiffly upright. The Members of the Senior Common Room clustered round him in various attitudes of commiseration and concern.

  “Thank God for airbags and seatbelts, that’s all I can say. And good old Genoese engineering – or is Maserati Milan? I can never remember. It’s very kind of you, Master, to organise a car and driver for these trips. I know my little accident has caused a few weeks delay but I’ll now be able to get cracking again. I can hardly move from my desk unaided, so I’ll have no choice but to keep hard at it.” He forced a laugh, cut short by the uncomfortable constriction of the neck brace.

  “And what about the Police inquiry?” asked the History Don. “Is it really true that they want to interview all of us here?”

  “Well, we were the last group of people to see the victim before the accident,” reasoned the Classics Fellow.

  “Too much like an Agatha Christie for my taste,” said the Professor of English.

  The Modern Languages Tutor burst into a choking fit caused by taking a nervous drag on his cigarette before he had swallowed his mouthful of gin. This attracted unwelcome attention and he waved his solicitous colleagues away. What would happen if his attempt to buy rat poison were discovered? What if it was somehow construed as murderous intent?

  He pulled himself back together to answer the Best-Selling Author’s question of whether he saw the parallels between Duke Godfrey and the Fisher King.

  “There is that awful wound in the loins, after all. And what about the questions that Hugh wants to ask but doesn’t?”

  But before he could respond, the injured man had continued.

  “I could hardly bring myself to make poor Godfrey suffer so. He has turned into such a sympathetic chap. I don’t often feel such a close rapport with my characters.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  AGONY IN STONY PLACES

  It saddened me to part from my duke still more than leaving my abbot two years earlier. Both had been almost fathers to me. Once of my own free will I had exchanged my dull monastic existence for an exciting secular life and the new hopes it contained. Those hopes now seemed increasingly forlorn. But at least then I had replaced one protector with another. Now, at my duke’s order, I had to strike out entirely alone, hoping that I was hardened enough to withstand unassisted his enemies and mine.

  With a heavy heart I watched five hundred of the toughest and most brutal of the Lotharingian knights flock to Baldwin’s banner. With them came perhaps four times that number of men-at-arms. I joined the throng, wearing the same garb as the knights around me, making myself as inconspicuous as possible. I congratulated myself on my success in joining the column unnoticed. It was only later that I realised how misplaced my confidence had been.

  From my discreet position in the middle of the column I watched Baldwin and Bagrat carefully. With some jealousy I saw Bagrat coming into his own as a guide as he neared his homeland. I assumed that Baldwin did not want Tancred to know that he was on his heels. That seemed the likely reason for the easterly course on which Bagrat led us for a day before turning south toward the mountains. Even in the September heat the highest peaks were patched in snow and cloud. Baldwin had decided to travel light, taking with him no carts, just a few score baggage mules, carrying food and most important of all skins full of water. His men rode in silence, grim, intense, focussed only on their goal. This was not what I was used to. My duke had been affable, remarking on the features of the road, pointing out thickets nearby which might harbour game, and joking with those around him. His good humour had been infectious. I missed this easy camaraderie, but in a way the silence now suited me well, for I had no wish to remind anyone of my presence.

  As the road rose into the mountains I saw that for all Tancred’s ranting the much maligned Tatikios had in fact provided sound advice. The steep rocky track soon narrowed so that only two horses could ride abreast. Far below foamed the waters of some fast flowing river. Occasionally hooves dislodged a stone which then cascaded down into the gorge, a reminder of the fate awaiting anyone who lost his footing. Certainly this path would have been impassable for the army’s baggage carts. As we neared the top of the pass, a narrow defile thirty paces across between tall walls of grey rock, the way moved from the river valley and became easier. Then the road began to descend. The barren scree gave way to scrub. A long way below I saw a fertile plain and even made out a silver sliver of sea glimmering in the far distance.

  Before the sea, astride the Cydnos River, stood the city which gave the world the great Saint Paul. A force of armed men was drawn up in the plain before it. I could not be sure from that distance but I assumed that these were Tancred’s Normans, as yet denied access by a Turkish garrison. Our column emerged into the plain in the late afternoon. To Baldwin’s frustration it became too dark to march further and he was forced to make camp. He ordered the start at first light, and his seasoned force moved as fast as possible towards the distant walls, through rich orchards and cornfields whose harvest had already been gathered.

  The situation had changed overnight. Tancred’s men were now nowhere to be seen, and the ever-suspicious Baldwin sent scouts forward to test for an ambush. As we approached, I saw banners flying the Apulian emblem – a chequer board in green and gold – over the city walls. Unusually, Baldwin lost his composure and fired off a string of curses, so loud that I could hear them from my place in the column.

  “May those damnable Normans burn in eternal hellfire! It is Nicaea all over again. Once again our supposed allies steal a march on me and snatch the prize from under my nose. This time I’ll not allow them to get away with it.”

  After a whispered conference with Bagrat, which I noted but could not follow, Baldwin waved his men forward to advance towards the main gates of the city. As we approached, the drawbridge swung down over the moat and the young Norman rode out with a small retinue. Smiling, he greeted Bald
win.

  “Thank you, my friend. When you appeared yesterday evening from the mountains, the Turkish garrison must have realised that they were outnumbered by far. Anyway, they left the city under cover of darkness. I had already sent back for reinforcements to my uncle. I thought I’d have to wait for them to get here. But instead you did the work for me. At dawn this morning the good Christian citizens of Tarsus flung the gates open for us. Now the city is mine.”

  “I think you are being a little hasty, young Tancred,” hissed Baldwin, half a dozen of his henchmen closing round. “As you have just acknowledged, my force is five times the size of yours. What is more I now have your person in my power.”

  Before Tancred could react, Bagrat’s dagger was at his throat.

  “If I were you, I’d instruct your men to file quietly out of the city and move on to find pickings elsewhere. Otherwise they will be looking for another leader.”

  Tancred’s face turned as red as his hair, and then pale again, as he realised how his impetuosity had lured him into a trap and cost him his conquest. The fox had been outwitted by the snake. Snarling, he gave the order to his men to turn Tarsus over to Baldwin. When Tancred’s small force had issued forlornly from the city, Baldwin moved his troops gradually inside, taking care that his numbers facing the Normans in the plain remained superior.

  “Come, friend Tancred, come with me and have one last look inside the city that might have been yours. When my men are all safely behind the fortifications I’ll set you free.”

  “How do I know that you will keep your promise, you traitor?”

  “You have my word of honour as a knight of Christ,” sneered Baldwin. Tancred had no choice, and on this occasion Baldwin did keep his word. He had nothing to gain from incurring the greater enmity of Bohemond by butchering his helpless nephew.

  Baldwin rapped out orders for his men to take up positions on the city’s fortifications. On pain of death we were told to refrain from any pillaging which would alienate the Armenian population on whose goodwill Baldwin depended. I joined a group which took a vantage point above the main gate. From there I watched as the Norman force galloped off forlornly into the distance. They turned rapidly into a cloud of dust and then puffed from view, doubtless anxious to put a good distance before nightfall between themselves and the city whose former garrison might be lurking nearby waiting for an opportunity to extract revenge for their loss.

  Tancred had disappeared from view for just two hours, and it was late afternoon. From my position above the gate I saw another force of men approaching from the direction in which we had come just that morning. As they came near I counted about three hundred men and guessed that these must be the Norman reinforcements sent for by Tancred when he was held at bay before the walls. A messenger ran for Baldwin, who mounted the battlements. I shrank away, taking care to remain unnoticed, fearful of what would happen if I were spotted. The Norman captain approached and shouted up to the walls.

  “My Lord Baldwin of Boulogne, your banners there make a noble sight indeed. We have come as reinforcements at Count Tancred’s request. I hope he did not receive an injury in the fight for the town? Why is he not at your side? Lower your drawbridge, I pray you, so that my men may take shelter within the city walls. Our scouts have just brushed with a large body of Turks and I would like to be inside before nightfall.”

  Baldwin yelled back from the battlements.

  “You want Tancred? Then follow him.” He pointed eastwards. “I’ll not open the gates for you. This town belongs to me and it is going to stay that way.”

  Deaf to the desperate pleas of the Norman, Baldwin turned away, giving fierce orders to the officer of the guard not to open the gate under any circumstances. I saw some measure of my own horror reflected in the captain’s face, for to turn fellow Crusaders away from safe shelter was a heinous crime indeed. But the captain was not brave enough to question Baldwin’s orders.

  In despair at Crusader threatening Crusader, in brazen betrayal of our holy cause, I could not sleep. Instead I remained on watch at the gate through the night. The climate was close and steamy, and mist rose from the marshes around, filtering the light of the moon, while clouds of biting insects tormented me. It must have been around midnight that I heard the sound of clashing weapons and desperate shouts of alarm through the mist from the direction of the Norman camp. My own dismay I saw again reflected in the faces of those around. I turned to the captain of the guard.

  “Surely we must open the gate and give our fellows shelter? Unless we help them they will be massacred to the last man.”

  “You heard Lord Baldwin. You heard his orders,” he growled back behind a shame-faced expression, “It’s more than my life is worth to disobey.”

  I was gripped by despair. I could not wait and do nothing while fellow Christians perished on Saracen steel a stone’s throw away. But nor was it safe to expose myself to Baldwin, doubtless adding wrath to enmity if I begged him to rescue the lives of the Normans outside. I suffered a short agony of indecision before my conscience won the day. I abandoned my post, ran down the steps to the street and set off to seek Baldwin. I found him still carousing at a rich banquet provided by the leading citizens of the town, Bagrat lounging as ever at his side. From the surprise in my enemies’ eyes I could tell that they were astonished to see me in Tarsus. Before the anger rising in Baldwin’s face could form into words, I told him breathlessly that our Norman comrades were under attack.

  “My Lord, the Turks must have fallen on them through the mist. You must give the order to open the gate and let in any that survive. We must make a sortie to drive away the enemy.”

  Baldwin was already flushed drunk from his feast, so I could detect no blush on his face. With fleeting amusement I marked to myself the evidence of the breach of the vow of abstention he had vouchsafed to Godfrey. But where I had expected only anger I thought that I could almost detect shame touching that sibilant voice. All the same, Baldwin stubbornly refused to open the gate.

  “It’s too late. Anyway I’ll not put the town and its citizens at risk,” and he gestured at the scared and startled new friends with whom he had just broken bread. Bagrat vigorously nodded his agreement at his side and spoke words in his native tongue to those around which met with apparent approval. Now I completely forgot myself and my fear of this man.

  “My Lord, this is treachery. You cannot leave our fellow Christians. They are dying on heretic steel. Think…think what your brother would have done.”

  Baldwin rose unsteadily to his feet, pushing back his chair, and struck me furiously across the face with the back of his hand. We stared at each other coldly. I turned before anything could be done to stop me and hurried from the room.

  Dolefully back at the gate I found that an ominous silence had fallen outside the walls. The guards’ ashen faces were washed whiter still by the mist-filtered moonlight. As night gave way to a grim dawn, I made out a terrible scene of death and destruction. Nothing alive was left in the Norman camp. Broken spears and lances stuck from the ground, itself stained dark with the blood from piles of Christian bodies, betrayed and forsaken by their allies. Their horses lay dead too, those that had not been stolen away by their nocturnal Turkish assailants.

  That could have been the end for Baldwin, for with the sun rose anger, and his soldiers’ blood was warmed from shame to rage. But the luck of the man held – or was it the luck of the devil? – for from the far side of town came a cry that a fleet was sailing up the River Cydnos from the sea. From mourning the dead and blaming the man whose orders had caused the slaughter, the mood of the living turned to concern for their own self-preservation. For that they looked to the same leader for guidance. No friendly fleet was known in these Turkish waters, so they could only be Saracens or pirates. The order came to move men from the main land gate to combat this threat from the sea. Scared and disconsolate, I tramped with my detachment round the city walls.

  Three ships were making their way up the river. These
were neither the galleys with their banks of oars, nor the triangular sailed ships which I had seen in numbers in the waters around Constantinople. These ships bore white square-rigged sails emblazoned with the Cross, and pennants fluttered from their mastheads bearing the three red balls on a gold field that I knew all too well from Baldwin’s own coat of arms. ‘If Baldwin had a fleet at his disposal,’ I thought to myself, ‘he has kept it pretty quiet.’ I watched from the fortifications while the ships, too large to dock at the town quayside, dropped anchor in the broad estuary. A longboat was unloaded and landed a small group under a white flag. Nervously they approached the riverside gate. Shouting up to Baldwin on the battlements, they received a more favourable response than the unfortunate Normans the day before, for the gate was opened and they were welcomed inside.

  Rapidly an excited rumour spread through our ranks. Pirates they were indeed, led by one Guynemer of Boulogne. Reckoning that the Crusaders could use a fleet and would reward him well for good services, he had gathered some of his fellow cutthroats who for years had plagued the coasts of the North Sea. They set sail from the Low Countries in spring, down the English Channel, hugging the coast of France and Iberia before passing through the Pillars of Hercules. Reaching Turkish waters, and hearing rumours that there was an army nearby, led by none other than the brother of the Count of his home town, Guynemer led his fleet up the river to offer his services. To Baldwin’s pleasure, he now knelt and swore homage.

  For all Baldwin’s brutality he was a subtle judge of the morale of his men. He was able to judge the strength of feeling against him after his cruel act of treachery towards the Norman contingent. Loathe him though I did, I could not but feel some respect for the rapid and decisive way in which he set about turning his men back to his side. First he made generous distributions to the leading knights from the tribute paid him by the elders of Tarsus. Next he moved quickly to remove the evidence of the massacre, ordering some of his most loyal troops to bury the dead. Then he announced that the army would move on from Tarsus in two days’ time, and that Guynemer would furnish a garrison from his ships and hold the town as his lieutenant.