Prince of Legend c-3

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘I say we ignore it,’ suggested the Duke of Normandy.

  His opinion was based on the difficulty of assaulting such a location, one that was now being examined from below by all three contingent leaders. It would involve a long climb through wooded hillsides and over barren open slopes, then an assault on the one assailable wall, which would have to be carried out with whatever they could hastily construct in the way of ladders once they got there.

  ‘Tancred?’ asked Raymond.

  ‘The damage they can do is limited and will lessen as we march on.’ With Raymond quick to frown, he was equally quick to qualify and add what to him was the paramount consideration. ‘The trouble lies in the message it sends to those we must face up ahead.’

  It was Normandy who responded, not Raymond. ‘You see it as encouraging them to resist?’

  ‘Look at Raphania. Fear has been our friend so far and it is an invaluable asset that has kept the likes of the Emir of Homs within his walls. To let pass what happened here will surely dent Muslim caution.’

  ‘It is your command to give,’ Duke Robert concluded, unwilling to make a stand on his own opinion.

  Raymond, his fury unabated, did not hesitate. ‘Then we will attack on the morrow.’

  It was not an assault carried out at the customary time of dawn; it took all of the morning just to climb high enough to even get onto the massif at the end of which the fortress sat. It was fortunate that Raymond now led a force well fed and fully restored to vigour, for to navigate the narrow paths through the lower woods, followed by the traverse of the screed and bush-covered slopes, was exhausting.

  Their arrival before the walls was no surprise either, not least because it was necessary to recover breath and organisation on what was close to flat ground. Besides, progress had been easily marked at first light, from the moment the lances set out from their camp. Now when actually facing that one exposed wall the Crusaders were subjected to a massive outpouring of jeers and insults to both their manhood and the manner of their birth.

  These were ignored and they immediately set about lashing together, to form rough ladders, the lengths of wood cut from the lower trees and brought up with them, this being carried out with such energy that it silenced any catcalls from defenders who now realised this was no mere demonstration. As was the custom, Raymond, through an interpreter, invited them to surrender and march out unmolested, an offer that was refused.

  ‘Convey to them how happy their refusal makes me,’ he said to his Arab-Latin speaker, ‘for I look forward to their pleas for mercy as they slow-roast over open fires.’

  Raymond, determined to personally lead the assault, called his lances up to join him, the men of Tancred and Normandy held back in reserve. With a loud cry the Provencals rushed forward, ladders at hand, those swiftly laid upon the wall despite a hail of arrows and lances, with the knights climbing at pace, their own weapons out to engage.

  Raymond was to the fore, his anger carrying him forward, so much so that he nearly became utterly isolated from his personal knights. Such was his prominence — he had made it plain he led the attackers — that the defenders rushed in numbers to the spot at which he was attacking in an effort to kill him and they nearly succeeded, only a furious assault by his own men driving them back.

  None of these efforts broke the defence and nor was it expected that they would, the Provencals, Raymond included, soon being withdrawn so that the Apulians and Normans could take their turn to fight. If this occasioned losses to the Crusaders, it inflicted a greater number of casualties on the defenders. These men had never faced the like of these determined and mailed European warriors.

  Fading light forced Raymond to call off the assault, but not before he had promised that he would return on the morrow and the day after that, with the added rider that these scabrous dogs had wounded his pride so grievously that nothing would assuage it but their heads on pikes. With torches lit to guide their way, his force of knights made their way back to the camp on the plain below, from where the defenders could watch them enjoy food and rest around their numerous fires.

  The lances were marching again at dawn, following the same route and with no diminution in determination. Before they entered the trees they could just see the heads of the defenders as they marked their progress, the view soon cut off by the thick upper branches of the woods. Above the treeline, they scrabbled across that screed once more, then debouched onto the gentle slope before the fortress, with Raymond again lining up his Provencals for the initial assault. He was exhorting them to a supreme effort, until one of his knights pointed out that there seemed to be no one manning the walls and prepared to offer a defence; within a blink they found out the garrison had fled and the place was wide open.

  The rest of the day was spent casting down as much of the walls as could be achieved while the light held, not enough to completely destroy Hisn al-Akrad as a position that could act as an outpost, but enough to render it vulnerable to anyone determined to press home an attack. Apart from that there was nothing to celebrate: when they left, the Emir’s men had taken with them everything, which the Crusaders surmised did not amount to much.

  Two days later, with the host still moving slowly and eating heartily, the leaders were alerted to a body of mounted men approaching from the east in a cloud of dust. With evening approaching and close to water, Raymond called for the host to camp and for his pavilion to be hastily erected, orders also relayed that allowed those riders to approach, they being in numbers insufficient to present any threat.

  What they did proffer, once they were allowed into the tent, were the gifts sent by a chastened Emir of Homs who had quickly been appraised of the defeat of his garrison: more fine horses and more gold, as well as a statement of his peaceful intentions.

  ‘How shocked he must be at the loss of Hisn al-Akrad,’ Raymond preened, speaking in French to Tancred and Normandy, ‘to be so alarmed that he sends all this while we are marching away from his lands.’

  ‘How good it would be,’ Duke Robert replied, ‘to retrace our steps and show him what Homs would look like after we have finished with him.’

  ‘Translate that,’ Raymond ordered his interpreter, ‘and make it sound like a threat.’

  Spoken in Arabic, those words saw the blood drain from the face of the Emir’s messenger. It also produced an immediate flood of pleas to discover what it would take to satisfy the Lord of the Host for the insult made to him by those fools at Hisn al-Akrad, men who had acted against his master’s wishes and whose heads, he wished to assure him were, at this very moment, adorning the gates of Homs as a message to his subjects.

  ‘Probably a lie,’ Tancred opined, ‘and one we cannot verify.’

  The interruption made Raymond tetchy, which lent verisimilitude to his next words, harshly delivered in both Latin and translation.

  ‘Then let the Emir stay within his city boundaries, for should I hear that he has left them I will turn back and set the walls of his city about his ears.’

  The emissary looked at the other two Latin leaders, as if seeking a more pacific intercession, both with stone-like expressions on their faces, not easy to maintain given they were inwardly amused at Raymond’s bluff: Homs would be a hard nut to crack with the forces at their disposal and was now in the wrong direction. That they knew it to be so mattered not; it was only of concern that such a message as had been outlined went back to Homs and was believed.

  ‘And tell him,’ Raymond added, his voice loud and overdramatically terrifying now, ‘to send out riders to the other cities that they too will face the same fate if they insult us, for our God will smite you through our swords.’

  Tancred moved closer and spoke softly, using French, in Raymond’s ear. ‘Can I suggest, My Lord, that they be camped well away from our lines, for in the morning, when they can see our true strength, they might assess that you have issued an idle threat.’

  Silence was a clear indication that the Count did not want to accede to that, he
was too full of his own joy at the success of his attack on that supposedly impregnable fortress. Yet the sense of what he was being advised was too great to counter: he had set out from Ma’arrat with barely five thousand lances, and even with a relatively easy passage men had fallen by the wayside, while that recent fight had cost him more.

  If this emissary had a sharp eye and any military knowledge he would soon see how small was the actual crusading army and how much of what looked formidable was in fact made up of thousands of useless pilgrims.

  ‘Make it so,’ he finally replied, leaving Tancred to pass on a message: his pride would not allow him to do so himself.

  So the instructions were issued: their camp was to be set up well beyond the crusading perimeter and they should depart eastward as soon as the first hint of light coloured the morning sky and be not visible to any western eye at full daylight.

  Progress to the coast was not only peaceful, it became like a victory parade as the inhabitants of every settlement passed came out to line their route and prostate themselves, with food as gifts and even sometimes a path strewn with leaves of palm. When another embassy arrived, this time ahead of their line of march and from the Emir of Tripoli, it underlined how much alarm was caused by their approach.

  Again, the usual gifts of gold and horses were proffered, as well as an offer of amity that would allow the host and the pilgrims to make camp north of the ancient port city. Their soldiers would be allowed to use the markets in constrained numbers, while the men of rank would be treated as the Emir’s honoured guests should they choose to reside within.

  ‘I will do so only with an army around me and holding the walls,’ Normandy proclaimed, when this was relayed to him. ‘I would no more trust an Arab than I would my own blood brother.’

  This time the embassy from Tripoli marched onwards with the host, a multitude that saw, a few days later, in the blue water of the Mediterranean, something to be savoured. Soon the shallow waters and wavelets were full of splashing Latins, knights — some mounted — and pilgrims alike, with Raymond of Toulouse on his knees.

  Peter Bartholomew was at his side, something he tried to be often, the Holy Lance held up as he prayed for thanks to God. Those who followed Raymond, Bartholomew and the relic were only brought to more moderation by the call to prayer and Mass, a temporary altar having been set up on the beach by Narbonne.

  That was soon followed by the construction of a proper camp and one that had about it an air of permanence, so unlike those set up since Ma’arrat. Expecting a conference, both Normandy and Tancred were confused and a little put out when Raymond retired to his tent and showed no indication of wanting to include them in what his thoughts were for the next act.

  From the seafaring traders of Tripoli came confirmation of what Tancred had suspected: his uncle had chased Raymond’s Provencal knights out of the Bridge Gate, though he had left them the Governor’s Palace, which had no tactical value. Subjected to Provencal rage at this news, all he could do was listen to it in stoical silence; what had Raymond expected?

  Of more importance was the fact that instead of marching south, Godfrey de Bouillon and Robert Flanders were more intent on making secure the whole of Northern Syria. The effect of this on Raymond, the utter repudiation of his claims to any kind of leadership, was equally a cause of rage.

  Better news arrived with an embassy from the Fatimid ruler of Cairo, the Vizier al-Afdal, which finally had Raymond call upon Tancred and Normandy to join him in facing them. Hearing of the fate of Kerbogha and knowing how such a defeat had thrown their Abbasid rivals into disarray, they had marched on Jerusalem, which was now in their possession.

  If this apparently meant a more friendly ruling polity in that city, any enthusiasm was soon dampened: the Sultan in Cairo was no more willing to surrender the city to the Christians than their religious adversaries in Baghdad. Yes, pilgrims were welcome in certain numbers — knights too, if unarmed — and would be respected, but no one should approach Jerusalem carrying weapons as that would be seen as an act of war.

  Raymond was in no position to issue threats to counter such a sanction, though he did try. He hinted that when he was joined by his noble confreres, who at this very moment were making the move from Antioch to join him, and when the Emperor Alexius, the ally of the Crusaders, brought his full forces to join with the Crusade, the Fatimids might see it as better for themselves to hand over the Holy City, lest risk the fate of Kerbogha.

  His words had no effect on these emissaries from Cairo: somehow they knew them to be hollow. There was no concession offered, just a repetition that they held Jerusalem and that the wishes of their ruler should be not only respected but obeyed, a word which had the Count of Toulouse spluttering with indignation when they departed, loudly declaring that from the Holy City to Cairo was a distance Moses had covered and perhaps his footsteps might be followed by the sword and warriors of Rome.

  Relations with the Emir of Tripoli were much more fruitful; now with the Crusade on his doorstep he was determined to avoid any kind of confrontation which would see his personal rule and his city destroyed. He offered to pay Raymond a regular tribute in gold to be left in peace and to that was added another success achieved at no cost.

  Raymond, ignoring the Apulians and Normans, had sent a small part of his army under the Count of Turenne north to the next port of Tortosa, which they found strongly held and in no mood to negotiate; the demand to open the gates was refused. This led Turenne to employ the overnight tactic of lighting increasing numbers of fires, as if he was in receipt of constant reinforcements, indeed that the whole host might be outside the walls come dawn.

  Even Turenne was surprised by the extent of success his bluff achieved; like the high fortress of Hisn al-Akrad, dawn showed open gates and supplicant emissaries, the entire contingent of armed citizenry having decamped, which allowed Raymond’s men to occupy a town with full storerooms and a fine harbour.

  Even better, the emir of the next port up the coast, in terror, for his neighbours in flight had descended on him, sent an offer of abject surrender. There was gold, a herd of horses, as well as a willingness to accept a Crusader garrison. Soon the Occitan banner of Raymond of Toulouse was flying above the walls of both.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  News travelled swiftly in both directions by sea and the arrival of Raymond on the coast was known to Bohemund and his fellow nobles within days, soon followed by the successes he had enjoyed in subduing the nearby enclaves, which seemed to them remarkably similar in territorial ambition to that which he had previously sought to achieve at Albara and Ma’arrat, as well as on the Jabal as-Summaq.

  This was especially deduced since no word came from the Count of Toulouse himself seeking that they rejoin the march on Jerusalem, not that they would have obliged him, being busy themselves in securing Northern Syria and still, as they had been at the turn of the year, unwilling to accede a claim to leadership yet to be set aside.

  Nor did it seem, in Raymond’s camp, that there was any urgent intention to do that either, for he had found a way of filling his coffers, always with Toulouse a pressing concern, by squeezing tribute out of the towns north and south of Tripoli to add to that which he was receiving from that city and its emir.

  If there was avarice in this there was an absence of greed in the host: what monies came in were placed in a central fund prior to distribution, Normandy and Tancred naturally receiving the shares due to their standing, money going to every lance and foot soldier, with even enough spent to feed the pilgrims.

  If such delay in the Crusade frustrated the Duke of Normandy, he was mollified by the amounts of money he received, so great as to promise he could acquire enough over time to pay off his mortgage to his brother, King William, and recover his territories.

  It was less so for Tancred, who felt he had sacrificed much in the way of family loyalty to get to Palestine. He chafed at the lack of progress but was aware that his status as the most junior of the lords left him
little room to challenge the policy adopted. He too reckoned Raymond to be on a quest for territory, an attempt to set up, not unlike his uncle, a fiefdom for himself that would rival Antioch.

  The strands of what happened next were hard to fix. Partly it was the desire of the Emir of Tripoli to divert the Crusaders away from his city; partly that Raymond had no immediate goal in sight and an army at danger of being idle, always dangerous to its long-term capability and morale. The Emir hinted at a great payment to be made if the Count subdued the rival inland city of Arqa, ruled, much to his chagrin, by an assembly of its citizens and a commercial rival to dent Tripoli’s income.

  This played upon Raymond’s greedy territorial instincts, given it was an important trading centre full of fat merchants, a link to the north that might hamper communications and a fortress of some strength which, if held, would allow him increasing dominance of the region; the fall of such a city would also bring in more tribute from those who feared the same fate.

  What tipped the balance was not the pleas of the Emir, but the refusal of the citizens of Arqa to not only surrender their city but also to pay heavily for the privilege of having Raymond’s garrison lord it over them. Always at risk of allowing his pride to override his judgement, such a refusal, coming on the back of so many others having acquiesced, sent the overly conceited Count into one of those passions from which actions sprung regardless of wisdom.

  Arqa would feel his wrath, he insisted, this justified to his confreres by the intimation that to allow such an insult to pass would embolden others, even perhaps Tripoli, to do likewise, thus drying up the stream of gold filling their coffers.