God's Warrior

by Hilary Green

  ‘With the Count. They will have much to discuss.’ Marc glanced over his shoulder. ‘I must get on. I was sent to find one of his men. We shall meet again at dinner?’

  ‘Yes, at dinner. Until then …’

  Marc hurried away and Ranulph began to move towards the steps leading up to the great door. Then he stopped. He had a good reason to seek out Count Roger, to present the report he had been gathering in the south, but instinct told him that he would be given scant attention at this time. If he wished to press his case with Bohemond he must wait for a more opportune moment. Regretfully, he turned away and climbed the staircase that led to his own apartments. His servant, Dino, a boy he had recruited from one of the outlying farms, had warm water ready for him to wash and fruit and wine were set out on a small table, but Ranulph dismissed the boy and went to stand gazing out of the window. His mind was in a turmoil and he needed to think.

  His room was high up in one of the towers and from it he could look over the rooftops of the city. Below him, closest to the castle, were the houses of the wealthy merchants who had made Palermo their home and from here Ranulph could see into the enclosed courtyards at their centres, oases of green with lemon trees and fountains, starred here and there with brilliant blossoms. One of them, he knew, could have been his own by now. As soon as his influence at court began to grow he had found himself being welcomed into the home of more than one merchant and introduced to his daughter. It was probably as good a match as he could have hoped for, and some of the girls were very pretty, but he had always found a way to sidestep the issue. He told the families about his early upbringing in the monastery, and rather than give offence he had hinted at a vow of celibacy; but he had never taken vows and he knew only too well that he could not claim chastity. Once there had been plenty of beautiful women eager to find a way into his bed, and he had been happy to accommodate them ...until Antioch. With long practice he closed down that line of thought and forced his mind along another track. Some wounds were best left unprobed. In the first weeks after he had arrived in Palermo he had paid men to watch the harbour and bring him news of any ship coming from Antioch. It was not long before one sailed in, captained by a man he had known in his years as a merchant, and he confirmed what Ranulph had known was inevitable. He had not returned to the city as he had promised, and now it was too late.

  There was another reason for his refusal to commit himself. At a deep level he was convinced that he had to hold himself in readiness for whatever great mission God intended for him. A wife, and the family that would probably follow, would be an impediment to that.

  It had been a long wait. It would have been easy to be distracted from his purpose. He had had six years of ease and comfort and he had found pleasure and fulfilment in his work. He still woke at night, sweating, from a nightmare in which he was back in the galleys; and, which perturbed him most, in which the face of the slave master with his whip was the face of the sea captain who had abused him at the age of twelve. In spite of confession and absolution, that man’s death still lay on his conscience. But the dreams came less and less frequently now. He had come to love Sicily and it gave him joy to see the country settled and at peace and to know that he had a part in that. The Norman knights treated him with condescension, but they accepted that he carried the weight of the Count’s authority and gave him no trouble. But it was with the Arab nobles that he felt the greatest affinity, and particularly with the scholars who had been invited to Roger’s court. He had spent much time with them, studying the works of mathematics and philosophy and natural history which they brought with them, many of them translated from the ancient Greek masters whose writings were unknown in the monastery where he had been educated.

  But that very ease and pleasure ate at his conscience like a maggot at the heart of a ripe peach. Last time the Count returned for one of his brief visits to the island, bringing his usual retinue with him, Ranulph sought out the priest who had acted as his confessor in Malta all those years ago.

  ‘Father, you will remember that when we last spoke I told you of a miraculous vision which instructed me to abandon my hatred of all Normans and instead to join with my fellow Christians in the struggle against the infidel.’

  ‘I remember it well, my son.’

  ‘I was convinced then that the Lord had some great mission for me. But I have waited for six years and the call has not come.’

  ‘From what I hear of you, you have spent those six years in the service of our Count, helping to bring peace and prosperity to this island and to reconcile the Christian and the Moslem inhabitants. Is it not possible that this is the great purpose God intends for you?’

  ‘But, father, it has been six years of comfort. That is not the way of the cross. Surely, it is the devil who tempts us down the primrose path of ease. The followers of Christ must take a hard and stony road. Sometimes I fear that the vision I saw did not come from God, but from the devil, to distract me from the path I should have followed.’

  ‘The vision led you from the path of hatred to a way of peace. That is not the devil’s work.’

  ‘True, father. But I cannot believe that all God requires of me is to pass my days in comfort here.’

  ‘I am sure you are right. So you must prepare yourself. Perhaps this is a time of trial, even though it seems easy. What are you doing to make yourself ready?’

  Ranulph hesitated, searching his mind. ‘I have studied the writings of the sages, many of them pagan writers but I have found much wisdom there. Have I been remiss?’

  ‘No. A well-stocked mind is a useful weapon, as long as you are not seduced from the words of God. What else?’

  ‘I have kept myself strong in body and in practice with the warlike skills I learned as a young man.’

  ‘That too is good. You have exercised body and mind. What about spiritual exercise?’

  ‘I have attended Mass. I have prayed as I was taught in the monastery. And I have remained celibate. What more should I do, father?’

  ‘Have you fasted? You say that your life is too easy. There are many ways to discipline both body and spirit. The path of self-denial is open to anyone.’

  ‘I understand. I will heed your advice.’

  ‘Then remember what I told you when we first met. Be patient, and the Lord will reveal his purpose in due course. Fast and pray.’

  So he had fasted; but even as the pangs of hunger clawed at his guts a small rebellious voice within him protested at this wilful weakening of the body. Fasting, it said, was all very well for priests and monks, but it was not the way of the warrior. And a warrior was what he felt himself to be.

  Now, at last, it seemed the call had come. At the earliest opportunity he would kneel to Lord Bohemond and beg to be taken with him.

  That evening at dinner time the Great Hall was crowded with men as the knights of Count Roger’s train joined with those of Bohemond. Ranulph took his place well down the long trestle table, away from the dais where the two lords would sit. He might wield more power in the running of the Count’s domain than any of the knights but he still ranked below the least of them. Marc caught his eye from across the hall and beckoned him over but Ranulph shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was to draw unfavourable attention to himself that evening. The assembled company rose to its feet as Count Roger entered with his guest and Ranulph caught his breath at the first sight of Bohemond. Here, indeed, was the perfect model of the warrior knight! The first impression was one of size. Bohemond was built like a bull, a head taller than any other man present and broad at the shoulder and chest, tapering to a narrow waist and slim, muscular legs. His hair was fair, cut short to his ears, and he was clean shaven, in contrast to many of his knights. But as his gaze swept round the hall it was the eyes that captured the attention. They were blue and had such intensity that it seemed almost as if they were lit from within. So this was the Guiscard’s son! Ranulph had an unhappy memory of his own encounter with the father. It had been one of the worst mome
nts of his life; but the Guiscard had acted honourably and shown mercy to a young man he might with justification have ordered to be killed. It was the first time that he had been forced to admit to himself that not all Normans were monsters. Now, once again, he had a choice to make between his childhood vow of vengeance and the path fate had set out before him. Ranulph let his breath out slowly. Here, if appearances could be trusted, was a born leader, someone a man could follow - to the death if necessary.

  The meal went on far too long for Ranulph and while the rest of the company drank themselves into something close to insensibility he barely touched his wine. All his attention was focussed on what he would say to Bohemond when he got the chance. At last Roger rose and he and his guest withdrew to the solar, the private chamber behind the great hall. Ranulph slipped unobtrusively past the backs of the carousing knights and followed. At the door a page stopped him but he knew Ranulph’s trusted position and when he told him that he had a report to give the Count he let him in. Roger looked up askance at the intrusion, and then smiled.

  ‘Ah, Ranulph! You have news for me? Bohemond, this is my Chief Secretary, an invaluable man, my eyes and ears here in Sicily. Ranulph, I am eager to hear your report, but tonight I have other matters to attend to. Come back in the morning.’

  Ranulph bent his head. ‘Sire, with your permission, it is Lord Bohemond I would speak to.’

  ‘To me?’ Bohemond looked surprised. ‘What can you want with me?’

  Ranulph dropped to his knees. ‘I would go with you on your great quest to the Holy Land, sire. If my lord Roger will give me leave, I will pledge myself to your service – to the death if need be.’

  Bohemond turned to Roger. ‘This man is a secretary, you say? What need do I have of such?’

  ‘He is a man of many parts,’ Roger said reasonably. ‘He can speak and write many languages. I should be sorry to lose him. Indeed for any lesser cause I would refuse my permission. But I think you might find him useful.’

  Bohemond dismissed the suggestion with a brief laugh. ‘It is knights I need, Uncle. Men who can wield a sword, not a quill. I have scribes enough in my service. I need no more.’

  Ranulph rose to his feet. His face burning with shame, he began to expostulate, citing his experience as a warrior, but Bohemond had already moved away, drawing Roger with him into the embrasure of a window. Ranulph could only withdraw with as much dignity as he could muster.

  Roger decreed that a great tournament be held to mark his nephew’s departure on his holy quest. Accordingly, eight days later, crowds began to assemble at the field which had been chosen as the site of the spectacle. A dais had been erected for the Count and his relations and closest friends, and lists had been constructed at either end of the tournament ground. Bohemond’s knights would be pitted against Roger’s and expectation was high as wagers were laid on both sides. The initial jousts between chosen champions representing their respective lords were evenly matched enough to stoke the excitement to fever pitch, but it was the melée everyone was waiting for. Then the cream of the warriors on both sides would line up and charge each other, aiming to unhorse an opponent and then beat him into submission in hand to hand fighting. The victor could then claim a ransom from the vanquished and many a poor knight had won his coat of mail or his helm in such a manner. Roger had donated a fine silver goblet to be awarded to the knight judged to have fought the best and Bohemond himself would lead his forces. Few doubted that he would win the cup.

  The two groups of knights lined up at either end of the field. Sunlight reflected on mail coats and burnished helms and glanced off the kite-shaped shield carried by each man. Horses jostled and whinnied, their coats glossy with sweat and mouths frothing as they champed the bit. Insults and challenges were hurled from one end of the field to the other. In the centre of his troop, Bohemond sat a magnificent stallion with a coat the colour of flame and his armour and accoutrements glittered with the reflection from precious stones. The heralds were about to sound the call that would mark the start of the battle, when a single horseman rode out from behind the lists and inserted himself into the centre of the line of Count Roger’s knights. His chain mail was gilded at the shoulders, as was the nose-piece of his helm, and his shield bore a single blazon, a fist in golden mail, grasping a sword. He rode a black destrier a hand taller than any other horse on the field except for Bohemond’s.

  A buzz of surprise and curiosity rose from the crowd and Roger turned to a page standing behind him.

  ‘Who is that man?’

  ‘I do not know, sire,’ the boy replied.

  ‘Go and find out!’

  The boy moved away but before he had gone two paces the trumpets blew and with a great shout the opposing forces charged at each other. Roger’s knights guided their horses away from Bohemond, seeking easier prey. Besides, nobody wanted the doubtful triumph of unhorsing the Count’s nephew, even if such an outcome were likely. But the stranger knight rode rode straight at him, lance couched. With a roar Bohemond spurred his destrier forward but at the last moment the black horse, without slackening speed, made one deft step sideways and the point of Bohemond’s spear passed harmlessly along his rival’s side, while the point of the opposing lance caught him a blow on the shoulder that all but knocked him out of the saddle. Both riders dragged their mounts to a standstill and turned to face each other again, but the black was nimbler and by the time Bohemond had his own horse under control his opponent was almost on him. This time their shields met with a mighty clash, and they spun their horses in a circle, each seeking an advantage. With an oath, Bohemond flung down his lance and drew his heavy, broad-bladed sword, hacking away with a force that would have penetrated the finest armour if it had found its target, but again the black horse and his rider were so perfectly attuned that he was unable to land more than a glancing blow. Furious, his strokes grew wilder until one, missing its aim entirely, unbalanced him. The opposing knight seized his chance, rode in and rammed his shield against the mighty body. Bohemond found himself in the most unaccustomed position of lying on his back on the hard-baked earth.

  He staggered to his feet, his sword still in his hand and growled defiance, ready for hand-to-hand combat; but to everyone’s amazement the stranger raised his own sword in salute and cantered back towards the lists. The melée was almost at an end, except for a few dogged duels being fought out between men who refused to yield. All around the field loose horses were being caught by their squires and knights limped, or in one or two cases were carried, back to their own side. Bohemond grabbed his destrier by the bridle and hauled himself back into the saddle, but before he could seek out a new opponent the trumpets sounded again, calling an end to the battle.

  ‘Bring that knight to me!’ Roger ordered, and three attendants hurried off, but the stranger was already riding towards the dais. He drew rein in front of it and bowed his head to the Count.

  ‘You have fought well, sir,’ Roger said. ‘But I do not recognise you. Who are you?’

  ‘I am called the main d’or,’ was the reply. The knight raised his hand and pulled off his helm. Golden hair fell to the gilded shoulders of his mail and a gasp went up from all those around. For a moment Roger stared, then he began to laugh.

  ‘Of course! The golden hand! You told me years ago when we first met that that was how you were known. But, Ranulph, how does all this come about? This armour, the destrier – and your skill at arms. Explain.’

  Ranulph bent his head. ‘You will remember, sire, that I told you my trading ventures had given me some wealth. It was not hard to have it transferred from Amalfi to a merchant here in Palermo, who has had the use of it while I did not need it. When the moment came he was happy to repay me, and there are skilled armourers enough on the island. The horse I purchased some years ago from one of your tenants. I saw his potential and thought that one day I might have need of a war horse. I have been training him in spare moments since then and he has repaid my work. As for my skill at arms – it was hon
ed in a hard world and I have never let myself forget it.’

  Roger cast an expert eye over the horse. ‘He is a magnificent animal. What do you call him?’

  ‘His name is Brand. In my language, the tongue I grew up with, that can mean several things. It can be a flame, or a sword. He will be both to me.’

  Bohemond had ridden over and was listening to this exchange, grim-faced. Ranulph turned to him. ‘I hope you will forgive me, sire, for any injury I may have done you. It was the only way I could see of proving to you that I am worthy of a place in your retinue.’

  Bohemond scowled for a moment longer, then his face cleared. ‘A doughty fighter indeed, and a useful man to have by one’s side. But,’ he turned his eyes to Roger, ‘this is no knight. He is base born and not fitted to ride with those of noble lineage.’

  Roger rose to his feet. ‘There you are wrong, nephew. You told me, Ranulph, did you not, that your father was a thane and lord of his village and but for the fortunes of war you would have inherited his title?’

  ‘I did, sire. I should have been thane of Erbistock.’

  ‘Dismount, if you please.’

  Ranulph did as he was bid and Roger descended from the dais to stand beside him.

  ‘Kneel.’

  Ranulph dropped to one knee and felt the flat of Roger’s sword heavy on his shoulders.

  ‘I dub thee knight. Rise, Sir Ranulph of Erbistock, knight of the golden hand.’

  2.

  ‘God’s breath! Does Alexios want our help or is he trying to lure us into a trap!’ Bohemond was standing in the prow of the leading ship, staring towards the approaching harbour of Dyrrakhion.

  Screwing up his eyes, Ranulph saw that the quayside was lined with armed men. Sunlight glittered on mailed helms and glanced off banners streaming in the breeze. As he watched, a small galley put out from the shore and made towards them, skimming the waves under the power of a single bank of rowers. The same standard flew from the masthead.