by Hilary Green
‘We do not have the time for such tactics,’ Raymond of Toulouse said. ‘Let us make a direct assault, trusting in the power of the Cross.’
‘Our men are too weak for that,’ Stephen objected. ‘And we are now too few. I think we should wait for reinforcements.’
‘And starve in the meantime?’ Bohemond asked. ‘Below us are fields of plenty. If we can force the bridge and encamp below the city we shall have food and water and it will be their turn to starve.’
Adhemar nodded. ‘My lord Bohemond is right. We must drive the men at the bridge back into the city and make ourselves masters of the fields beside the river. My men are perhaps in better shape than some. I will lead them in an attempt to force our way across.’
‘I will come with you, and bring my knights.’ Robert of Flanders spoke up.
‘And I will back you with my men,’ Bohemond said. ‘Once the bridge is clear the rest of you can follow.’
When the knights and the captains of the infantry were told what he had promised there was almost a mutiny.
‘How can you expect us to fight?’ someone said. ‘Most of our horses are dead and those that live can scarcely walk, let alone charge the enemy. And the men are exhausted.’
‘I understand that.’ Bohemond’s reply was gentler than Ranulph had expected. ‘But what alternative do you see? If we succeed, we shall have plenty of food for ourselves and our horses. If we stay here, or try to retreat, all we can hope for is a slow death from starvation. Let us make this one last effort. I should rather die in battle than starve to death.’
His words brooked no contradiction and Ranulph watched the faces around him change from rebellion to grim determination. As the sun passed its zenith, the three battalions massed on the hillside and prepared to go into battle. Horses had been borrowed or commandeered from those in the other contingents who had managed to keep them alive and the men cheered themselves on with promises of the feast to come and jeered at those who waited behind.
‘See those apple orchards down there? There won’t be a single pip left by the time you get there. We’re going to guzzle until apple juice runs out of our arses!’
Ranulph stroked Brand’s neck and promised him water and fresh grass in return for one more effort. The horse knew they were preparing for battle. He lifted his head and pricked his ears and fidgeted under the restraint of the reins. Ranulph looked at Marc, who had managed to find a solid cob.
‘Keep to the rear. That animal doesn’t look to me as if it can move fast enough to stay with the vanguard.’
‘It’ll move!’ Marc responded. ‘Hell will freeze before I hang back in a charge.’
They headed down hill in ranks of four abreast. Ahead, Adhemar and Robert had formed their men into a wedge with their freshest horses and riders in front and Adhemar himself at the apex.
‘That man should have been a knight,’ Marc said. ‘How did he ever end up as a bishop?’
‘A true warrior for Christ,’ Ranulph replied. ‘Is that not what we all aspire to be?’
There was no time to speak further. A trumpet sounded the order to charge and Ranulph called to Brand and felt him surge forward. Ahead he could see a tight knot of men and horses at the end of the bridge. Swords flashed in the sunlight and then were obscured by a cloud of dust. Out of it came a line of Turkish warriors, howling their war cry, and at Bohemond’s command Ranulph and the others formed into line to meet them. A dark-faced man in a pointed helmet rode at Ranulph with his lance couched. Ranulph spun Brand on his haunches so that he overshot, then spun the horse round again to take his opponent in the rear. A second man came at him, scimitar raised. Ranulph blocked the stroke with his lance but the force of it knocked the weapon from his hand. He drew his sword and slashed, and the Turk screamed as his sword hand was severed from his arm. Ranulph found himself at the very edge of the river. A big man, on a horse heavier then most of those the Turks possessed, drove at him and they met shield to shield. The force almost unbalanced Ranulph and he felt Brand’s hind legs slide away down the bank. For a moment he thought they were both going to end up in the fast flowing water, but then with a great effort the horse bunched his quarters under him and dragged himself upright. It was only then that Ranulph realised that in the turmoil he had dropped his sword. Weaponless, he faced the big man again and saw him grin as he raised his arm to strike. In desperation, he kicked Brand forward and rammed his shield into his assailant’s body, but even as he did so the man arched back with a choking cry and fell sideways. Marc raised a bloodied sword in brief salute, then reversed it.
‘Here! Catch!’
Automatically, Ranulph grabbed the sword hilt as it flew towards him. He was about to protest, when he saw Marc vault from his borrowed cob onto the back of the Turk’s horse and then lean down to grasp the dead man’s scimitar, which had fallen from his grasp and stuck point down in the churned earth. A new opponent appeared out of the dust, but Ranulph dispatched him and Marc dealt with another and then, quite suddenly, there were no more. Ranulph looked to his left and saw that the bridge was clear and the Frankish knights were storming across it. He shouted to Marc and they followed to where, on the far side, Bohemond’s standard waved above a group of knights. The last of the Turkish defenders, those who still lived, were disappearing through the city gate. When they were all assembled Bohemond led them along the south bank of the river to a level meadow beyond arrow shot of the walls. Adhemar and Robert had taken their men in the opposite direction and the remaining Franks, under the leadership of Raymond, were already heading across the bridge.
‘We will make camp here,’ Bohemond said. ‘You have fought well, my friends. Now take your ease and make the most of the bounty the Lord has provided for us.’
Men who had lived for days on a few mouthfuls of dirty water were already running or riding down to the river and they and their horses plunged into the shallows, drinking as if they would consume it to the last drop. Ranulph led Brand to the bank, as far upstream from the rest as he could get, and let him drink. He cupped his hands and swallowed thankfully, then rinsed his face and neck. Grit had worked its way inside his armour and chafed his skin and he longed to strip off and wade into the water, but he knew that it would be foolish until they could be sure the defenders of the city did not plan a counter-attack. He drank in moderation, aware that others were not so restrained.
‘Have a care!’ he shouted to them. ‘Too much too soon will make you sick!’
It was useless. The water was already churned to mud by men and horses, but they took no notice and drank till their over-strained guts responded in an agony of vomiting. Ranulph dragged himself wearily back to where the tents were being set up. They had lost many men already to disease and starvation, on the three month trek from Nicaea. Unless he was much mistaken, they would lose more now from over indulgence.
That evening Bohemond sent for him.
‘You know the city. Tell me about the defences. How many gates are there?’
A scribe sat in one corner of the tent, ready to write if his master required it. Ranulph nodded towards the desk. ‘If you will allow me, sire …?’
Bohemond’s gesture of assent encompassed the scribe and his materials. Ranulph took a sheet of parchment and dipped a pen.
‘There are six gates.’ He drew the outline of the city walls with rapid strokes. ‘There are three here, on the north side, where the land is flat and access is easiest. Then there is one on each of the other three sides. This one here, in the north-west corner, is called the St Paul’s Gate; here, where the river flows close under the city walls, is the Dog Gate leading to the bridge of the same name. That is the principal route into the city.’
‘So six gates must be blockaded if we are to starve them out.’
‘It will be hard. Five of the gates we can invest. But this one here, the Iron Gate, leads to a narrow gorge between the two mountains. It is almost impossible to reach from this side of the city.’
‘So supplies can r
each them that way?’
‘Yes, when they need them. But they knew we were coming. They will have filled the storehouses in readiness.’
Bohemond grunted. ‘Do you see any way of shortening the siege?’
‘Not without divine intervention.’
‘Then we must pray for that!’
Next day the leaders met in council and agreed how to apportion their forces. Bohemond moved his camp to the area in front of the St Paul’s Gate, while Raymond deployed his forces on either side of the bridge leading to the Dog Gate. Between them were ranged the armies of Hugh, Count of Vermadois: Robert Curthouse, Duke of Normandy; Robert, Count of Flanders; and Stephen, Count of Blois. Godfrey of Bouillon was outside the Duke’s Gate in the north-west corner of the city. These camps established, there was nothing to do but wait and enjoy the bounty of nature spread before them. Pits had been found full of stored grain; the horses grew fat and sleek in the pastures once occupied by cattle, and the smell of roasting beef hung around the camp fires; in the villages around there was oil and wine and the trees in the orchards yielded up their apples. It seemed that the defenders of the city had no intention of sallying out against them.
Ranulph watched all this with growing unease. These were the fields and forests where once he had hunted and hawked with a friend. Then they were places of peace and plenty and it was painful to see them despoiled. At length he sought an audience with Bohemond.
‘Sire, the countryside is rich, but if we go on like this we shall strip it bare before winter comes. Should you not impose some restriction on what can be consumed?’
Bohemond smiled easily. ‘Have faith, my friend, and enjoy what the Good Lord has provided for us. Before winter comes we shall be within the city. They will starve before we do.’
‘I think not, my lord. The city is so vast that there is land enough within the walls to grow food, and they will even now be planting new crops. We plant nothing, but move like locusts over the land.’
‘What? Would you have my knights turn farmers?’
It was on the tip of Ranulph’s tongue to say that even the most high born knight might be glad to turn farmer rather than face starvation. Instead he said, ‘There are plenty of men in the host who were farmers and ploughboys before they joined us.’
Bohemond clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Oh, ye of little faith! Do you not remember what our Lord told his disciples? ‘Have no thought for your life, what ye shall eat or what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat and the body than raiment?’
Ranulph sighed and turned away.
The weeks passed. The size of the host had been depleted, not only by disease and starvation. It had been agreed soon after leaving Nicaea that Baldwin of Boulogne, Godfrey’s brother, who was well respected among the leaders, should take his men and attempt to re-conquer some of the lesser cities along the coast for Alexios. This had the advantage of securing the supply lines for the main host and removing any danger of attack from the rear. Immediately he heard of the decision, Tancred had called his men together and set off, without permission, in pursuit. Messages told of Baldwin’s success at Tarsos, Adana and Mamistra, but also that on two occasions Tancred had been ahead of him and had tried to claim the cities for himself. It had come to outright battle in the end and Tancred had been defeated.
One night two men crept into the camp and, when challenged, told the guards that they had escaped from the city because they were Christians and feared for their lives. Questioned, they admitted that they had left behind wives and children, but nevertheless they craved asylum. They were fed and given a place to sleep, but in the morning they had disappeared.
‘Gone to join friends or relatives in one of the villages, presumably,’ Bohemond opined.
‘Or back into the city to tell Yaghi Siyan how small our forces are,’ Ranulph murmured to Marc.
Asking around, he learned that over the last few days other camps had had similar mysterious visitations. His suspicions received confirmation the next day. The gates of the city suddenly opened and a squadron of knights rode out. Ranulph was sitting in front of his tent, polishing his armour, when the alarm was sounded. Without waiting to put on his hauberk he buckled on his sword belt, yelling to Dino to bring up Brand, and grabbed his lance from where it leant against the tent pole. All around him others were doing the same and, without waiting to form up in any order they charged out of the camp. There was a brief, violent engagement and then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the Turks turned and galloped back into the city, and the gates were slammed behind them.
‘What was the purpose of that?’ Marc asked, panting.
‘To harass us, I think,’ Ranulph replied. ‘To keep us from feeling too secure. They obviously didn’t intend a full confrontation.’
These tactics became a regular feature from that day onwards. There was no way of knowing which gate might suddenly disgorge a flood of warriors and, as a result, the Franks had to be constantly on the alert. Raymond and his men suffered most from these tactics, with frequent attacks over the Dog Bridge. To prevent them they attempted to destroy the bridge itself, but were forced back by a rain of arrows.
The Turks sought other ways to destroy the confidence of their attackers. One morning a severed head was catapulted into Bohemond’s camp. The two men who had found it brought to the Count wrapped in a sheepskin. Ranulph was with him, and saw his face blanch and then become suffused with blood as he opened the wrapping.
‘It is Abelard of Luxembourg – one of Count Godfrey’s knights. A young man of great promise, so I have heard. How can this have happened?’
One of the men held out a scrap of bloodstained parchment. ‘This was wound into the hair, my lord.’
Bohemond handed the parchment to Ranulph. ‘What does it say?’
Ranulph scanned the words. ‘It seems the young man was surprised by one of the raiding parties in an orchard near the city. He was not alone.’
‘Not alone? What do you mean?’
‘The letter says he was with a high born lady, the daughter of one of the defenders.’
‘In the name of God, how can that have happened?’
Ranulph shook his head. ‘Who knows? Perhaps she was not in the city when the siege began and was trying to return. Maybe Abelard captured her, thinking to hold her to ransom, and then seduced her – or was seduced by her. We shall never know.’
Bohemond nodded and Ranulph saw compassion in his eyes. ‘It is hard for these young men. We have been away from home for how long now? Almost two years. There are few who can contain their natural urges for so long. We should not blame those who have no legitimate outlet for their passion.’
Ranulph understood what he meant. Some of the great lords had brought their wives with them, along with their extensive households. Baldwin had been one, but his wife had succumbed to disease just after the victory at Nicaea. Some of the ordinary footsoldiers had wives, too, and others had found willing concubines among the rag-tag mob that followed in the army’s wake. Others had simply taken comfort where they could, whether willingly given or otherwise. But for young knights, without the means or the opportunity to marry and debarred by their honour from availing themselves of the opportunities offered to the common men, life was indeed hard.
Bohemond was looking at him. ‘You are not married, are you? Have you sworn yourself to celibacy -or are you one of those for whom women hold no attraction?’
He could have taken offence, but the question was asked without animosity. He shook his head. ‘Neither, my lord. But I will remain chaste until we have taken Jerusalem.’ He met the other man’s eyes. ‘You have left your wife at home.’
‘The better to concentrate my energies on the task before us.’ Bohemond smiled and Ranulph saw that sudden spark of intimacy in the blue eyes which he had encountered only once or twice before. The Count slapped him on the shoulder. ‘We two are true soldiers of the Cross. We must let nothing distract us from that.’
The conversation
recalled to his mind an incident soon after the battle at Doryleaum. Marc had remarked, with studied casualness, ‘That girl who brought us water during the battle. Who was she?’
‘Her name is Phryne, but do not be misled by the way she was dressed then. She had made herself look attractive so that if the Turks were victorious they would take her as a concubine rather than killing her. It is sad, but understandable.’
‘If I had been a Turk in that situation, I would certainly have been happy to take her,’ Marc said with a grin.
‘Don’t get ideas in that direction,’ Ranulph said. ‘She is the daughter of the blacksmith. If you would prefer that he used his hammer to shoe your horse rather than on your head I should keep away.’
In spite of the warning, he had noticed Marc in close conversation with Phyrne and lately he had been absent from the tent they shared on several nights. Ranulph decided it was time to tackle the subject, but his friend smiled and punched him on the shoulder.
‘Stop worrying. We’re not all of the same monkish persuasion as you. I’ve spoken to the blacksmith. He has had enough trouble fending off the various undesirables sniffing round his daughter. He’s glad to see her under my protection.’
Their enemies had further horrors in store for them. Ranulph was practising sword-play with some of the other knights of Bohemond’s household when a trumpet sounded from the city walls. They lowered their swords and clustered together, straining their eyes towards the ramparts, where a company of soldiers were marching a prisoner to a point where he was in view of the camps. They saw a white bearded man, stripped naked, who yet carried himself with dignity.
Ranulph caught his breath. ‘God have mercy on us! Not him!’
Bohemond had joined the group. ‘You recognise him?’
‘It is the Christian Patriarch, John the Oxite.’
‘Christ strike them down! How dare they treat such a man like that?’
