by Jack Ludlow
‘Take firm grip on the horses,’ he yelled and painfully, ‘they sense water.’
If the command was the correct one – horses would drink themselves to death in their present state and men too if left alone – it hardly merited such precautions; neither man nor beast had a run or a gallop in them, whatever was over the horizon. All that could be managed was an increased stumble that did not even amount to a trot. It was testimony to the acute survival sense of the horses and how parched they were that it took what seemed an age before the ground began to green and the wide depression of a proper river became visible, although even in that the actual flow was right at the bottom and slow.
But it was water and the Apulians had got there first, both knights and milities; men and horses soon had their heads sunk below the level to drink deep after what seemed an eternity of want. How many did Bohemund and his fellow captains kick? He did not know. How many mounts did he drag back from the riverbank? That too was a mystery, but fight to maintain order they did. At least his men were sated enough to listen when he ordered them to move upstream and make way for those who would follow, in order that the sunken stone-filled bed of the river did not become a scene of men killing each other to get the vital sustenance.
From the position where he stopped his Apulians and looked back, Bohemund saw a scene biblical in its proportions, thousands of figures streaming across the desert towards that life-saving fluid and what he feared came to pass, the only one not moving, the easily recognisable figure of Peter the Hermit, arms open wide, crook in one hand, clearly thanking God for deliverance.
He would have been better to come on and impose some order. So crowded was the riverbank with both animals and men, and so far did those drinking from it extend, that those at the rear could not get to it. They began to fight out of desperation and if it started with fists it was not long before he espied the first flashing swords reflecting the harsh sun, while still yet to arrive were the poor, benighted and much-diminished pilgrims.
If there was a death toll for the crossing of that destroyed land there was another for the leaving of it. Desperate oxen had trodden many in their stampede to drink but the highest toll came from those who could not stop, people who drank so much and so quickly it killed them. They lay among the horses and beasts of burden that no one had bothered to seek to save from themselves. It took all day to restore some form of order, but at least there was water to drink and pasture for those animals that survived. Not that there were many, and all the leaders knew that if battle were joined now it would have to be fought on foot.
If that river did not bring an end to a land scarcely habitable it at least marked a boundary to what was, in summer, an Anatolian desert, part induced by Turkish malice, but one that would have tried the host even if Kilij Arslan had not made it worse. He and his allies had retired east and the Crusade was now moving south; there was pasture, sparse but able to keep the mounts from expiring, watercourses, which if they ran as a trickle in the high summer heat, at least provided vital fluid enough for the army and the pilgrims to make progress at a more normal speed.
That improved when they came across a series of fertile valleys surrounded by high and heavily wooded hills in the country called Pisidia, a point at which they could stop and seek to recover their strength, given what Turks had governed it fled at their approach. That required food, which existed in abundance, as did pasture and oats for their remaining mounts, half of which had expired. Better still, there were horses to buy and the treasure taken from the Sultans after Dorylaeum was put to good use.
‘A hunt,’ Godfrey de Bouillon insisted, ‘is just what we need to finally restore ourselves.’
‘I do not recall you needing much restoration, brother,’ Baldwin retorted, to the amusement of all gathered, which included Bohemund and Tancred. ‘You had more fat than most to live off.’
‘I lived off my faith in Christ, Baldwin, which you so lack.’
‘That I will find when I get to Jerusalem.’
‘You should pray more often, as I do.’
‘True, you have more leather on your knees than I wear on my back.’
‘So what do you say, Bohemund? We have good horses now, so let us test them and us. It is near a month we have spent here and I long for activity.’
‘We must look to move on soon.’
‘Let the weather cool further,’ de Bouillon pleaded. ‘I have had enough of being baked.’
‘You’d make a fine pie, though we’d be stretched to find a big enough pot.’
Godfrey frowned at the general laughter, but even he had to be amused by Baldwin’s jest and soon his barrel chest was shaking with good humour. He got that which he desired and if it seemed frivolous to some it was the stuff of a nobleman’s life to hunt game in the forest, and here in Pisidia they were surrounded by dense greenery in which there were deer, wolves, wild boar and brown bear. Word spread and it seemed a good notion, a way to finally restore morale, if the whole Prince’s Council took part; even the Bishop was keen.
‘You have never hunted,’ Vermandois called, ‘till you have sought prey in the forest around Paris.’
‘My Lord speaks nothing but the truth,’ added Walo.
‘I have heard of French hunting,’ Robert of Normandy said quietly to Bohemund, sat astride his horse beside him. ‘Beaters chase the prey towards the King, who has beside him the best archer, and when some creature comes into view both he and his monarch fire together, the King’s arrow barely aimed. The beast is brought down and all praise their liege lord as a true champion of the chase.’
‘I sense you have no love for your neighbours, My Lord.’ Tancred opined, for he was close enough to overhear.
‘East and west, my friend, east and west.’
The appellation cheered Tancred up immensely; to be called ‘friend’ by the Duke of Normandy was an honour he deeply appreciated and it had been one bestowed on him since Dorylaeum. Added to that, the Duke and Bohemund had become close, his nephew seeing that in many ways the titular suzerain was being seduced into an alliance and he knew why. If Bohemund ever claimed the right to lead the Crusade he could only do so with allies already in place, and it was generally held that Robert did not want it for himself.
When the horns blew everyone began to move out, heading for the edge of the deep forest. A hunt on this scale was massive, hundreds of beaters being sent out with the riders to start running what prey lay in the woods towards the hunt, which would otherwise just move out of the way. This particular quest had its own added difficulties for there were no verderers in this part of the world, as existed in the forests of Northern Europe, men who were tasked to keep the area in good order, to clear the dead wood – some of that was taken by the locals but not in a planned way – to keep clear paths through which hunting parties could move without becoming separated, to get to the depths where the game would run for security, and to advise hunters of both hazards and places of opportunity. Indeed, so ill maintained were these forests that swords were often needed just to cut a path.
As the man who had initiated the whole affair Godfrey was well to the fore, and to those observing him he looked a bit like an animal himself, nose twitching as though he had senses as acute as the prey he sought to smell out. To left and right the beaters were thudding everything in their path and soon their efforts bore fruit as a herd of deer broke cover and, with blaring horns, the mounted nobles set off in pursuit only to find that manoeuvring though uncut undergrowth seriously hampered their efforts.
De Bouillon cast the first javelin and so powerful was his throw, even from what was too great a distance, he managed to graze the buttock of the stag at which he aimed. Baldwin, right with him, had more success, aiming for a plump doe as it sought to jump a bush but which fell sideways as his spear struck home. His brother, in frustration, had grabbed another javelin off one of his accompanying knights and sped after his stag, soon to be lost to sight by greenery. Baldwin dismounted, putting his doe out of
her misery and about to tell those knights he had brought with him to load it onto a spare horse when a series of roars and screams rent the air.
Still mounted, Bohemund and Tancred crashed into the undergrowth, following the path taken by Godfrey though that was far from clear, heading towards the noise, which now seemed to be more roars than cries of human pain. As in all forests there were clearings and the one they burst into presented the sight they feared: Godfrey, covered in blood, trying to fend off with a sword held by an arm that appeared to be broken, a huge brown bear, and with his mount nowhere to be seen.
Their arrival distracted the bear who turned, blood dripping from its teeth, to face them and that, if it did not give either man pause, made their hearts beat at a different rate. If such a creature was fighting there must be cubs somewhere close, for they were generally given to avoiding humans. That meant this she-bear would fight to the death and they were formidable creatures when roused to protect their young.
Godfrey, now collapsed, lay as a heap on the ground near its spread legs, and Bohemund for one certainly hoped that if he was alive he would stay that way; if he raised his head one swipe of a massive paw would break his neck. Without a word Tancred had edged right while Bohemund trended left, but for all they were in a clearing the low undergrowth was still heavy, too much so for a horse to charge through at any pace, which would be needed to avoid being unhorsed. Added to that, the mounts that he and Tancred were on were not fighting horses and they would likely baulk at getting too close to a bear anyway.
As Godfrey stirred – he was badly mauled but not dead – that obliged Tancred to cast his lightweight spear, which hit the bear on one shoulder and caused it to stagger back. The sound it emitted was a mixture of pain and fury, and even if it was stunned and did not comprehend what had happened, the creature had enough sense to pull the javelin out of its body before starting to lope towards the man who had thrown it, and that was when Bohemund came on, out of the animal’s eyeline.
Yet he could not be silent with all the breaking branches he smashed through and he saw the bear stiffen to stop and turn. He dropped his own javelin – it might wound but such a weapon would have to strike something vital to kill – whipped out his sword and forced his mount to keep going as it bucked to refuse. Rising in his stirrups, he was tall enough to utterly overawe an animal that may well never have seen a human before, especially one that stood taller than itself, which forced it to seek to claw his terrified horse.
The blade of the sword swung down, to only catch the creature’s eyes a second before it cut in and down to the massive furred neck. It was testimony to the depth of that and the muscles and tendons it contained that even Bohemund could not cut through, but he did enough to stop it cold, a great fount of blood spurting out of the sliced open main artery. There was a feeble attempt then to claw at his legs, but not for long; after several ineffectual waves of its paws, the bear toppled over in its death throes.
‘Stay mounted, Tancred, there may be another close by.’
Bohemund clambered off his horse, his sword held out at the ready, his eyes sweeping the edges of the clearing, those kept moving as he knelt close to Godfrey who was so obviously badly hurt. De Bouillon tried to move, as if seeking to get to his feet, and it took a carefully placed hand to restrain him, for it was impossible to tell the location of all his wounds.
‘Still, friend, help is coming.’
A horde of men broke through to the clearing, Baldwin with them, and if they looked down on the Duke of Lower Lorraine with pity, his brother did not; if anything he had the gleam of avarice in his eyes.
‘Fashion a stretcher,’ Bohemund ordered, ‘and get him back to the monks, but gently. Tancred, down you come and aid me in looking for the cubs. I fancy they will make gifts for members of the council.’
‘There must be more bears, Uncle.’ His nephew replied with obvious trepidation, still in his saddle.
‘Yes, males, who will eat the cubs if we don’t find them.’
Godfrey was in a bad way, with many broken bones and open wounds from sharp claws and it was obvious his recovery would take time. When it came to the next council and to the planning of the move south, Baldwin of Boulogne took his elder brother’s place and immediately ruined what had been, if not always outright harmony, any sense of shared purpose. He demanded primacy in all things for the Lotharingians, openly stating that the Normans had been too often indulged and that Raymond of Toulouse had assumed airs to which he was not entitled.
He gave offence to all present, and watching him make these claims Bohemund exchanged a look with Robert of Normandy, and if it was a questioning one the Count of Taranto was not entirely displeased, for a little grit in the machinery of governance might in the end lead to a resolution of the entire question of command.
‘It is to be hoped,’ Bishop Adémar said, wearily, as he summed up the meeting in a rare display of feeling, ‘that your good brother comes back to full health soon.’
Baldwin was content; for the sake of concord, he had been assured he would enjoy the lead position when the host moved out and that he would be consulted as an equal in all future operations.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next objective was the Seljuk stronghold of Iconium and the host was so arranged that on the approach they could move to an immediate siege, a precaution that proved unnecessary; the garrison, hearing of their approach, had fled and the gates were wide open. A rumble of discontent surfaced when Tacitus, as per his imperial instructions, took possession of the city in the name of Alexius and depleted his own meagre force to provide a garrison. His demand that it be respected and that the Crusaders be limited in their entry, as they had been at Constantinople and Nicaea, was ignored, though it was agreed that such a stricture should apply to the non-combatant pilgrims, over whom it was hard to exercise control.
There was no desire on behalf of the princes to delay; the weather was still hot but was nothing like as debilitating as barren Anatolia so it was possible to progress, while it was a reasonable assumption that their enemy was on the run, afraid to meet them in battle and not prepared to contest every step they took. With that in mind the march was immediately resumed, aiming for the ancient Greek settlement of Heraclea in the hope that there too they would find the place abandoned.
They came upon that city mid morning and the fact that the gates were shut and the walls were manned came as an unpleasant shock, less so when on examination they proved to be in poor repair, with parts of the battlements crumbling so badly they were meat for an attack with ladders, which could be put together and employed in no time, as soon as the ritual offer to surrender was delivered.
‘An immediate assault,’ Raymond of Toulouse advised, and getting the nod from his confrères, looked to the interpreter to let Tacitus know what he proposed; that the Byzantine Prōstratōr agreed was a mere formality and he knew it, so the response was no more than a sharp nod. ‘Let us give them no time to settle.’
‘Losses,’ said Vermandois, ‘could be heavy, without we make proper preparations.’
‘We will incur more by delay, Count Hugh,’ Bohemund replied. ‘I admit we may be guessing but the garrison cannot be large and nor can their spirits be high. This is not Nicaea.’
‘I will lead it,’ cried Baldwin of Boulogne, his pigeon chest puffing out. ‘I demand the right.’
Bohemund’s reply was cold; he was in no position to demand anything. ‘You are perhaps too eager for glory.’
That was received with a scowl. ‘I am eager to show that my Lotharingians can fight as well as any Norman.’
It was Robert of Normandy who replied to that. ‘I do not recall anyone in this council ever suggesting they cannot.’
‘Many things are implied in this council that do not require words to be used or truths to be openly stated.’
‘Your brother never thought so.’
‘I am not my brother.’
‘So very true,’ growled Raymond of Toulouse
.
Adémar, seeing Baldwin swell up to deliver an angry retort, spoke quickly. ‘Your zeal is commendable, my Lord of Boulogne’
There was flattery in that; Baldwin had been born in Boulogne, as had his brother Eustace, now acting as his supporter, but it was not a fief of his and it was not a title to which he could lay claim; the man who could, the Count of Flanders, was present supporting the Duke of Normandy. Still Baldwin seemed willing to accept it, though it did nothing to soften his belligerence.
‘When the Count of Taranto talks of an immediate assault he no doubt means by his own men or those of the Duke, his boon companion. You pressed a plan at Nicaea that favoured your men in battle, and who chased after the command of the forward section of the host before Dorylaeum if not the Normans?’
‘Chased?’ Robert demanded, very obviously affronted, only to be stopped by Bohemund.
‘I care not who carries out any assualt, Baldwin, only that it is done and quickly in the hope that those Turks manning the walls will sense their situation to be hopeless.’
After Bishop Adémar’s elevation to a lordship, the absence of any use of a title from the Apulian leader was significant and there was no doubt de Bouillon’s younger brother resented it. He shared some features with Godfrey, the ability to go puce in the face one of them.
‘It has to be acknowledged you have ever assumed a lead in these affairs, you Normans.’
That comment by Vermandois, which was as stupid an interruption as he had ever uttered, got a hearty nod from red-faced Baldwin, flashes of anger from the two Norman nobles and a look of horror from Adémar; the French fool was about to lift the lid on a tub of worms.
