Prince of Legend

by Jack Ludlow

  The more pious could not look at Bohemund, for he had stated his position with clarity for the first time, not that it had been obscure to anyone with an ounce of sense. Others did hold his eye and it was clear why: Antioch and Northern Syria, which their liege lord now controlled, would require to be administered by the senior men he led.

  Castles would have to be built and garrisoned, which meant that the lands around them would be handed out to those who took command of the region, kept it at peace and held their fiefs against invaders. From that came the things of which any landless knight dreamt: titles and wealth.

  If it was less than benevolent, Bohemund was challenging their faith, pitting it against their sense of personal yearning. The men who went on to Jerusalem might indeed fulfil their vow – they might also die in the attempt – but if they succeeded in taking the Holy City and survived, by the time they came back to Antioch all the best land would have been parcelled out to those who had stayed. Loyalty to Bohemund would stand higher in their leader’s estimation than the depth of their dedication to Christ.

  ‘This day, we have a battle to fight that will decide more than what happens here at Ma’arrat an-Numan. Just as I respect the faith of the true Crusader, I will also not press any of you to participate who think that my actions are blameworthy. But that is a decision you must make right now!’

  The last expression being made with a bark had all pulling themselves upright; to decline now would be seen as a lack of courage and that they would never show.

  The strip of daylight between the tower and the walls of Ma’arrat had so narrowed as to almost disappear yet that last tiny gap was proving the hardest to overcome. For all their efforts the stone crossing they had built over that dry moat had none of the consistency of the impacted ground they had earlier traversed.

  The tower first swayed forward, only to lean back again as it was pushed onto another uneven patch, causing the screen which had protected the knights to first drop slightly then be hauled back up again; without it and not engaged in actual combat they were vulnerable in a situation where long pikes could outdistance their lances, while arrows and javelins launched at such a short range might even penetrate their chain mail.

  Bohemund had been determined not to begin his own assault until the Provençals were fully engaged, thus pinning the defenders, but matters were not progressing as he had anticipated; it was all taking too long. Too much time had been wasted before the thing first moved and he could feel the stirrings of frustration not only at its slow progress but the way it was compressing the amount of daylight in which he would have to fight.

  Behind him stood his warriors and they would be feeling the same impatience, mail-clad knights ranged in an extended line alongside the climbing frames, those lying on the ground where they had been placed overnight. Constructed in numbers they would allow his men to assault an entire section of the southern wall between two towers, an effort harder to defend against than a series of single-person ladders. They also served to send a message that this was no probing attack but one designed to take the city.

  There was also in his calculation the notion that even if the danger of his attack were seen as soon as those frames became visible, there would be a time delay between the realisation of the threat and the moves needed to counter it by a defence already heavily engaged in two places. That it was not working as he had hoped required that he change: for the whole assault to succeed and in the available time he would need to draw off some of those opposing Raymond.

  ‘Blow the horns,’ he commanded, moving forward himself under his red banner so that all along the line his men could see it was time to move.

  Up from the covering brushwood came the frames; as soon as they were in view they caused a ripple of obvious alarm on the battlements, as the nature of what they portended was assessed. It should have been a time to break into a run, to get to the base of the walls at speed, regardless of the ditch, but those frames, as they had to be, were made of heavy timber and green stuff with it, full of sap and ten times the weight of seasoned wood.

  Thus the Apulians shuffled forward, dragging the frames behind them, seeking with their free hand to place their shields in the best place to ward off danger. If they bellowed their bloody intentions, their count in his dignity could do no more than threaten those men on the walls with the fierce nature of his appearance – his massive height added to the mighty axe he carried, the white surcoat he wore, still with its red Crusader cross – for the threat of Christian retribution to a Muslim was more forbidding than any de Hauteville family device.

  As he came closer the men on the walls might see the look in his eyes, steady blue orbs on either side of the drooping nose guard of a conical Norman helmet. If they did it should chill their blood, for the promise of the gaze was one of death and mutilation. Naturally because of his stature and the position of leadership he adopted Bohemund became the prime target that had to be stopped, so that every projectile cast or fired from the walls came in his direction.

  To protect him, and this was their duty, his familia knights stepped up to surround their lord and used their shields to create an impenetrable barrier off which arrows and javelins bounced, that raised to cover heads the closer they came to the massive rectangular stones, jointed with mortar, that made up the walls. All along the line his men were dropping into the dry moat, before setting down their burdens, a foot set on the base to secure them, while those who came behind rushed to raise them hand over hand until the tops rested on the battlements.

  The enemy sought to immediately push the frames away, only to find the very weight that had slowed the Apulians made it impossible for the defenders to budge them and that was rendered even more difficult as soon at the attackers began their slow climb. What came down on them to slow their progress was dangerous – boiling oil, rocks, javelins and heavier spears – but it was widespread and not sufficient in content or concentrated enough to impose a complete check.

  That came from the tenacity of the defenders, who, when engaged fought with a fury that surpassed anything the Crusaders had encountered previously and their efforts increased when reinforcements arrived from the western wall to stop this fresh assault. Bohemund, as was required by any warrior chieftain, was well to the fore, his axe swings deadly to anyone caught in their arc, for each blow was not of a weight to merely wound, aware that even with this form of assault only so many of his fighters could engage at any one time.

  The frames were full of knights waiting to get into the action, which could only come about if one of their number succumbed to their front, albeit if that person fell with a mortal wound his falling body was as likely to take with him that of his waiting replacement as slip on by. Try as they did, the Apulians could not breast the battlements in numbers enough to gain a foothold.

  For all their prowess in battle the Normans began to show signs of weariness. The arms ached, the throats were too dry to properly breathe, the sweat from exertion filled the eyes to make misty that at which they were aiming, and all was being undertaken with a precarious balance. The saving grace was, apart from the latter, the defence suffered likewise, so that it became possible for exhausted fighters to be replaced on both sides in a battle that was making no progress for either; the Turks could not drive back the Crusaders and they could not get onto the parapet where their greater height, weight and reach could be made to count.

  It was in a short period of rest that Bohemund was able to observe that Raymond was faring no better than he, and if his admiration for the tenacity of the Crusaders was great, be they Apulians or Provençals, he had nobility enough to extend that to a race he had respected ever since he first fought them, for the Turks were every bit as formidable as any Latin and just as inspired by their faith as the most devout Christian.

  If he loved battle Bohemund desired success more, so instead of rejoining the fight he took to trying to direct the efforts of his men from below, looking for areas where resistance seemed to b
e weakening or a gap began to appear and directing them to that spot. Time might have lost all meaning but it was obvious from the state of the light that the fight had been going on for a long time.

  Messengers, Firuz included, had been passing to and fro throughout to let Bohemund know if Raymond was making any progress and the news was far from encouraging. Having finally got his tower up to and leaning on the curtain wall he could no more get his men over it than could Bohemund.

  Several times the defenders had set it alight, which meant all hands went to the buckets of water needed to douse the flames, warring knights included, while his diversionary attack had faltered completely from lack of the men to push it to a point where the defenders were pinned in place and thus unavailable to thwart the main assault.

  ‘He has men sapping at the wall beneath the tower.’

  This was information Bohemund passed on to a blood-soaked Tancred, who had likewise been obliged to take a rest from fighting and come to join him. His nephew, who replied through strenuous efforts to get back his breath, suggested that it was a waste of time. How could men, with picks and shovels, in half a day hope to undermine the foundations of such well-constructed walls that had been standing for centuries?

  ‘And if nothing happens to aid us soon,’ Tancred gasped, using his sword to indicate a darkening sky, ‘we will be obliged to halt the attack.’

  ‘I have sent for torches. We fight on.’

  ‘Even if Raymond withdraws?’

  ‘He had the devil’s own task to get his damn tower into place and I doubt he can get it off again, so he will not abandon it.’

  That was part of a message he had received: the front wheels, huge shaped timbers hewn by those English carpenters, had begun to sink into the imperfect ground underneath, its weight dislodging the earth and pebbles, even shifting the rocks that formed a more solid base. Bohemund’s informant reckoned there was no force of men nor beasts that would have the strength to get it off, so there were only two alternatives for the Count of Toulouse: to fight on in the dark or to torch the tower and fall back.

  ‘And that is a retreat that will not end back in his lines. There’s no time to build another tower with the state of our food.’

  ‘It would be better Raymond knows we intend to fight on, Uncle.’

  The reply to Tancred had to wait until Bohemund had finished directing some of his men to a perceived weak spot, or was it that he wanted to think upon the notion – his nephew did not know – but when he did reply it was in the affirmative.

  ‘It has to come from a trusted source and my pride will not allow that it be me, so you must be the messenger.’

  ‘Happily,’ Tancred replied, which got him, even if all he could see was his uncle’s eyes, a less than kindly look.

  ‘Deliver the message and no more, for I need you here.’

  ‘Am I allowed to ask Raymond to reinforce us? He must have men free from his failed diversion.’

  ‘No.’

  There was little temptation to dispute that, even if Tancred thought it short-sighted. The mere movement of Raymond’s knights from one wall to another might help to confuse the defence, might cause them to move men best left in place. These thoughts stayed with Tancred as he made his way to where flew Raymond’s banner. The ripple of reaction when he was sighted approaching was unmistakable; indeed, a pair of familia knights were detached in the increasing gloom of a cloudy twilight to intercept him.

  He was just about to pass to them his message when they halted with startled expressions and looked beyond him, this at the same time as Tancred spun round, the reason for both a sound not unlike a thunderclap, except it did not come from above. He had to peer to see the crack that began to run up the wall to one side of Raymond’s tower but what followed was easily visible. The battlements at the top of that crack began to sag and with a rumble that sounded like the end of time the whole wall collapsed, to leave, once the dust cleared and Tancred could see, a high pile of rubble and above that a clear breach.

  Despite his scoffing, the sappers had succeeded.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It took little time for the news of that collapsed curtain wall to find its way to the ears of those opposing the Apulians, less than it took to reach those of the Count of Taranto himself. If he had heard the rumble of that falling masonry he lacked sight of it so had no idea why those Turks who had held his men at bay for so long suddenly stopped fighting. There was a lapse too before those who had been wielding weapons at enemy heads found them to be swishing through fresh air as their adversaries fled, another before they realised that there was no barrier to their climbing over the battlements and onto the parapet.

  By the time the truth dawned Bohemund was alongside his men to remind them of his instructions, to take control of the nearest towers and not to seek to get down into the city, an instruction that was not easy to obey given there was no one to obstruct them, indeed it fell to their leader to curtail their progress; he was happy with a few of the towers of Ma’arrat an-Numan, he did not need them all. Tancred found him on the Apulian side of that collapsed breach, with barely enough light left in the day to see what lay on the other side of the gap.

  ‘Raymond has called on his men to fall back, leaving only the number needed to secure the battlements.’

  ‘In God’s name why?’

  ‘It seems he fears to fight in the streets in darkness, against an enemy that seems to consist of the whole Muslim citizenry of Ma’arrat, which means a fighter and perhaps a knife in every doorway. The cost in blood would be too high, though since he would not talk with me there may be another cause.’

  ‘I cannot think what it might be,’ came the reply, with a slow shake of the head. ‘Perhaps it is wise.’

  ‘What do you intend?’

  ‘Whatever it is will not be served by us standing in the open where we can be seen as soon as someone fetches a torch.’

  ‘Raymond will know that we have succeeded as well.’

  That was said to his uncle’s back; Bohemund was already heading for the nearest tower, and the chamber within that had provided accommodation for the Turks who had previously occupied it. Entering upon his heels, Tancred was asked to shut the studded wood door that led to the breach, which plunged the tiny space into darkness, until Bohemund called for light and a torch was brought, this allowing him to set the flame to the tallow wads resting in the hollow sconces carved out of the solid stone.

  The room, cold with thick stone walls and no fire, had a table and chests that served as seats in daylight, then, when set together, as beds at night, on one of which Bohemund sat, indicating that Tancred should do likewise, before falling into a contemplative silence, his chin resting on the haft of his axe, a position he maintained for some time and held even when his nephew spoke.

  ‘I think it sensible to wait for daylight.’ That got a slow nod. ‘If the enemy is not truly beaten that means they will still be fired with hope and still numerous enough to spill much blood in the streets.’

  ‘They are bound, on such a night, to be as dark as pitch and narrow.’

  ‘Which is deadly.’

  ‘You are saying it would be equal folly for us to attempt to do what Raymond has postponed?’

  ‘Possibly, but then there is the notion that we will have a free hand to plunder as well before sunrise.’

  ‘What of our men, Tancred?’

  ‘They have obeyed your orders and will continue to do so unless you change them.’

  ‘Even when tempted by such a rich prize?’

  Tancred produced a grim smile. ‘That will not be much use to a man hanging from a doorway for disobedience.’

  ‘And how, nephew, do you think Raymond would react to find that his own men had been denied any part of what is rightfully theirs, arrived in Ma’arrat to find it plundered by us?’

  ‘He would have to be incensed, his lances even more so.’

  ‘Which might push him to act against his better nature.’ Bohemu
nd looked at his nephew and grinned then. ‘Always assuming he has one.’

  ‘You think he might resort to arms?’

  ‘He might have no choice, Tancred. The pressure from those he leads might oblige him to seek bloody redress.’ Another silence followed, Bohemund’s chin was back on the wooden haft of that axe until he had cleared his thoughts. ‘In all my disputes with Raymond, as I have said before to you, I have had a care to never push it to a contest of weapons.’

  ‘You would kill him in such a fight.’

  That got a faint nod but there was no pride in the response; Bohemund was the foremost knight of Christendom and well aware of the fact. He knew that Raymond, even given his prowess as a fighter and leader of men, could never defeat him in single combat. Quite apart from his greater age – he was in his fifties and so a good decade older than Bohemund – there was the sheer difference in height and strength, let alone repute. Such a contest would be an uneven one and Raymond of Toulouse was equally aware of that.

  ‘And I would have no choice lest I wish him to kill me.’

  ‘The Crusade,’ Tancred responded in what was a statement not a question.

  ‘If blood is to be spilt on this venture it will not be by me, or those I lead. I will hold to my papal vow.’

  Tancred had to bite his tongue; where did Antioch come in such a declaration?

  ‘Single combat fills me with no fear, but a battle of factions …’

  ‘And you sense that here?’ Tancred asked as his uncle’s voice trailed off.

  ‘I see the possibility.’

  ‘You could ensure it is single combat by issuing the challenge?’

  ‘The Provençal knights would not stand to see their leader slain.’

  ‘So you are going to leave Raymond’s men a free hand to plunder the city?’

  ‘Never!’ Bohemund spat back, before sitting up and smiling, his tone benign. ‘But I will wait till his men make their entry before any of ours move a muscle. Then we can happily see to the garrison and plunder in company to our heart’s content. No one can gainsay that.’