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  Eleanor, drenched in a sweaty dust, the strengthening sun beating down on her, could see the Turkish tactics of attack and faked withdrawal. More enemy forces appeared. Eleanor glanced around. The camp was in chaos. Men, women and children now realised that if Bohemond’s men broke, the Turks would sweep through and massacre them. The air became a hellish din of horns, drums, cymbals and trumpets, all mingling with the shrieks, yells and crash of battle. Vultures appeared in the blue skies, forbidding black shadows hovering over that place of blood. The wounded were being dragged back to receive the attention of leeches or shaven-pated priests. One knight, bruised and battered, came clutching his side and collapsed by the cart. Eleanor, startled out of her shock, jumped down and ripped off his mail hauberk and jerkin. Beneath these, his shirt was sticky with blood. She went to staunch the wound, blackish red with the flies already hovering close.

  ‘No, leave me to a leech,’ the man gasped. He grasped Eleanor’s arm and gestured to the front. ‘They need water.’

  Eleanor called to a leech kneeling beside another man, his limbs jerking, the death rattle noisy in his throat. The leech shrugged, pushed a wine-soaked rag into the dying soldier’s mouth and hurried across. Eleanor rose, calling Imogene and a cluster of women and children to bring waterskins, jugs, anything that would hold water. Some of the priests were already organising this as well as putting on white vestments and hurrying to the battle line to offer absolution and the Eucharist. Eleanor reached the rear rank of horsemen, a host of stinking, wounded knights, blood seeping through their chain mail, faces masked red. They sheltered and rested against the corpses of their horses, the bellies of which were already swelling. Some knights seemed to have swam in blood, swords red to the hilt, maces and axes smeared with gore. Angry eyes, glazed with the fury of battle, glared at her. She offered water, which was snatched and drunk greedily. Flies buzzed in dark clouds. Ahead of her echoed the raucous noise of battle. Bohemond had changed his tactics. The army was losing too many horses, so the Franks now stood in a curving arc of steel against the Turks, who attacked them then swiftly sheered off as they delivered shower after shower of barbed arrows. Men cursed and prayed as they rose to rejoin the battle. A few joked how, when they seized the Turkish camp, they’d bathe in water gushing from crystals, wear garlands of flowery spiken mixed with roses and sprinkle cinnamon in their hair. Others stayed nursing hideous wounds, cuts, slashes and bruises.

  Eleanor glimpsed Hugh sitting exhausted on his horse, Godefroi beside him. She called their names but the ground shook with the thunder of a fresh charge and the ear-piercing whistle of the Turkish war cry. Arrows whipped through the air; a horse whinnied in agony. Men screamed for respite. Eleanor wanted to reach Hugh, but a heart-chilling shout sent her racing back to the camp. She stopped by a cart and stared in disbelief. A troop of Turkish horse had found its way across the marsh and was racing into the far side of the camp. Here and there men-at-arms and archers tried to hold them back, but the Turks spread out like angry hornets, shooting arrows before drawing their curved swords to cut to the left and the right. Women, children and priests were slashed and hacked. The Turks were dismounting in groups of twos and threes, seizing fleeing women, stripping them and throwing them down on to the ground. Eleanor felt as if she was carved from stone, with no life in her legs. She felt imprisoned by what she saw, as if asleep, suffering a nightmare that had to be endured. A line of foot was forming to protect the rest of the camp, but beyond these sprouted scenes from hell. A priest, still in his vestments, was fleeing for his life only to have his head sliced open with one swift cut. A monk was staggering backwards, facing the pursuing horseman, who paused, then leaned slightly to one side so his sword neatly severed the monk’s head. A soldier stood trying to free a shaft embedded deep in his chest. A Turk was getting up from raping a woman even as the knife in his right hand gashed her from groin to neck. Others were pillaging a tent, running out with jugs and basins and what looked like severed heads.

  The line of Frankish foot between Eleanor and the Turks moved forward. From behind, archers loosed arrows that hit friend as well as foe. A further shout. The Frankish line surged more swiftly as a conroy of horse dispatched by Bohemond charged into the camp, attacking the Turks now trapped amongst the tents and carts. Eleanor felt the tension ebb, though her stomach clenched and spasms of pain coursed up her legs and across her back. She couldn’t open her mouth. Frankish knights now hacked at white-robed horsemen whilst on the breeze shouts of ‘Toulouse, Toulouse! Deus vult! Deus vult!’ grew stronger. Theodore had been successful! The rest of the Frankish army had debouched on to the battlefield, flinging themselves at the Turkish flanks, whilst Adhémar’s company, armed with maces to shatter bone rather than swords to slice flesh, assaulted the Turks from the rear. Hoarse voices shouted further news, Bohemond was leading his line forward; the battle had turned.

  Eleanor joined Imogene beneath the cart to drink watered wine and chew on dry bread before crawling out to help the wounded, console the survivors and assist with laying out the dead. Late in the afternoon Frankish horse appeared, the riders sporting the ghastly trophies of their great victory on the end of their lances or tied by the hair to their saddle horns. They brought splendid news: the near defeat had turned into a great victory! Angels in gleaming armour had been seen fighting on the side of the Army of God. The Turks had been completely routed, their camp taken and ransacked. The riders brought orders: the rest of the army must move down to occupy the Turkish camp. Jubilant, singing hymns, the entire army swept up the valley to seize, as Peter Bartholomew proclaimed, ‘the tents and possessions of their enemies’.

  On that night a great banquet was held, the darkness lit by hundreds of camp fires and pitch torches. Freshly slaughtered meat was roasted on makeshift grills and spits. Songs, hymns and drunken shouts resounded up to the surrounding hills. ‘Deus vult! Deus vult!’ The cry was repeated. The Army of God rejoiced beneath the dark blue velvet sky, the stars brilliant as if an angelic host was also watching. The revelry, however, was broken by the faint sounds of keening and mourning. Eleanor had seen the dead laid out in rows. Men, women and children, mothers and priests as well as warriors like Tancred’s brother: a long line of blood-splattered corpses. The stories were rife about the rape and killing perpetrated in the camp by the Turks. The Poor Brethren of the Temple had certainly lost several of their number: Richer the Fuller, Osbert and Anna, Matilda of Aix with four of her children, William the Brewer, his wife and three children, all wrapped in shabby shrouds. Graves had been hacked from the ground. The corpses, each with a small wooden cross, were assigned to the earth, their souls to God in joyful expectation of the rapture, the final resurrection. The kin of the dead were given special rewards in the distribution of the spoils. Heaps of treasure, lines of horses and stacks of weapons had been put on show. Chests and coffers brimming with jewelled plate, cups of ivory, onyx and jasper, golden goblets, gilded armour, bejewelled sheets, embroidered cloths, elaborate harness fashioned out of blood-red leather, cloaks, gowns, shoes and girdles, medallions and coins, the likes of which had never been seen before.

  Now, as the darkness deepened and the celebrations echoed to the heavens, the leaders of the Poor Brethren camped around their fire. All were exhilarated and jubilant. Alberic and Norbert had received light wounds before escaping from the massacre, Hugh and Godefroi likewise, though both had their horses killed under them. The main topic of conversation was the ferocity of the Turks.

  ‘Count Raymond,’ declared Hugh, biting into a piece of blackened beef, ‘says the war is changing. Bellum in extremis – war to the end.’

  ‘That is the only war there is,’ Norbert replied. ‘As I said, no war can be just, no war can be holy.’

  Eleanor, half asleep over a cracked goblet of wine, tried to clear her soul of the gruesome images of the day. Beltran was agreeing with Hugh how little mercy could be shown or expected. Theodore, exhausted after his furious ride for help, was smiling at Eleanor over the
flickering glow of the fire.

  ‘Our cause is just!’

  Eleanor startled at Peter Bartholomew’s trumpet-like voice.

  ‘Satan walks,’ the prophet continued, ‘Satan rides like a great lord. We must arm ourselves against him, take up the weapons of salvation.’

  Hugh caught Eleanor’s gaze and indicated with his head that they should withdraw. Peter Bartholomew continued his prophesying as they both retreated into darkness. Hugh grasped her hands.

  ‘Eleanor, Count Raymond really asked us to join Bohemond so I could watch for something.’

  ‘What, Bohemond himself?’

  ‘No.’ Hugh drew closer. ‘Godefroi knows this as well. Do you remember at Radosto how the Greeks attacked as soon as Count Raymond left? How they seemed to know our movements? How they deployed so swiftly?’

  Eleanor nodded.

  ‘Well,’ Hugh shrugged, ‘this morning Kilij Arsan learned very quickly that Bohemond had become separated from the rest of the army.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Eleanor, we might have a traitor in our midst. Count Raymond now sees a bear behind every bush; perhaps the Poor Brethren of the Temple shelter one.’

  ‘Why us?’ Eleanor replied hotly. ‘Why not the Beggars’ Company? They provoked the Greeks at Radosto.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he replied, ‘but only amongst the Poor Brethren was it first known that Raymond had left for Constantinople. The rest learned much later whilst the Greeks were ready, just looking for a cause . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We know the Turks have spies in our camp,’ Hugh continued, ‘as we have in theirs. Count Raymond received an anonymous message that if he was looking for traitors then he should search for them amongst the Poor Brethren of the Temple.’

  ‘A lie!’ Eleanor countered. ‘Someone trying to create trouble.’

  ‘Count Raymond trusts us,’ Hugh replied, ‘me, you, Godefroi and the others, but as he pointed out, Alberic, Norbert and Theodore have wandered the face of God’s earth, so whom do they truly work for? Do we house a traitor, sister?’

  Eleanor reflected on Hugh’s question as she sat in that plundered pavilion and watched the flies dance in the shaft of sunlight piercing a tear in its cloth.

  ‘Mistress-sister?’ Simeon the Scribe stared around. The pavilion was now empty. Imogene had left saying she wished to share a cup of wine with the brethren. ‘Sister, a spy?’

  ‘You know, Simeon . . .’ Eleanor smiled. ‘I trust you whilst you can only trust me.’ She touched the tip of Simeon’s nose. ‘Moreover, you were not at Radosto.’ She gazed round. She’d welcome her own tent, poor and shabby though it was. This one reminded her of blood, the terrible massacre she’d witnessed. The army planned to march to Antioch within three days. She’d be pleased to leave here. There were too many demons, blood-splattered and wicked, clustered about.

  Part 6

  Antioch: The Feast of St Godric, 21 May 1098

  Vexilla Regis prodeunt.

  (The standards of the King advance.)

  Venantius Fortunatus, ‘Hymn In Honour of the Cross’

  ‘O Key of David! O Rod of Jesse! O Morning Star!’

  Eleanor de Payens shivered as Norbert and Alberic intoned the Advent ‘O’ antiphons. Outside Hugh’s tent it was black and cold. Inside a meagre fire and two evil-smelling candles shed a little light and warmth against the stink and the freezing cold. 1097, the year of iron and blood, was drawing to a close. When they left Dorylaeum the Army of God thought they would celebrate the great feast in the real stable at Bethlehem whilst their battle standards fluttered above the ramparts of Jerusalem. Instead they had marched on to the plains of hell and encountered Antioch, a city of iron and steel, a huge, dangerous boulder blocking their path. Antioch! The Army of God dared not go round it because the city controlled northern Syria. It could cut off their lines and sever any help from the Emperor and the west. Yet what help? Eleanor wondered as she stared down at her bitten fingernails.

  She tried to curb the wave of self-pity and stared round the tent. They had left Constantinople seventy thousand strong; now they were fewer than fifty thousand. A long trail of funeral crosses and burial mounds stretched back across Asia. An army of ghosts must now march with them. She closed her eyes briefly and gave thanks that at least those dear to her had survived. Hugh and Godefroi, Alberic and Norbert, Theodore, Beltran and Imogene, but, she stared swiftly around, they were all now grey people: grey-haired, grey-faced, grey-souled, ekeing out a grey existence in that sinister half-light of the year before the brooding mass of Antioch. Again Eleanor tried to check herself. There were those other grey shapes left along the dusty highways and roads. Little wonder wolves had come down boldly to the gruesome feast provided. Lions, scenting the rotten smell of decaying flesh, had slunk close. Bears abandoned their lairs for the feast and dogs the hovels they lived in, filthy beasts, soon joined by every creature that could smell carrion-tainted corruption from afar. Vultures, shadowy flocks of them darkening the sky, became their constant companions. These foul birds of the air so filled their bellies they grew too fat for flight, so trees, bushes and gorse became sprinkled with gore from their feathers whilst bits of putrid flesh and drops of blood fell on the trudging column. Were they cursed? Eleanor recalled passing a crumbling graveyard. She forgot which village in which province, they all seemed the same now, but she certainly remembered that one! A hag, a crone crawled out from between the rotting masonry of a cemetery; she was scrawny and squalid, her hair all matted and tangled. She danced round on the top of a table tomb screaming curses in a screeching voice until some unknown archer loosed an arrow straight through her throat. They left her sprawled in a pool of blood. No one cared, but had they killed a witch?

  ‘Eleanor? Eleanor?’

  She glanced up. Hugh, eyes all red-rimmed, stared down at her. She shook her head and got to her feet. Her brother grasped her hands.

  ‘Eleanor, you are looking well!’

  ‘Brother,’ she joked, ‘no better than you.’

  ‘This siege must be broken!’

  ‘How?’ she retorted. ‘Shall we sprout wings and fly?’

  Hugh released her hands, murmured something about Bohemond and walked away. Eleanor closed her eyes and whispered a quick prayer. She’d been too harsh. They were all hungry, cold and wearied. For a few moments she thought of other Christmases in their manor house at Compiègne: the crackling logs, the sweet smell of fresh meat, of goblets brimming with wine.

  ‘I must stop it!’

  ‘Stop what, mistress-sister?’

  Eleanor opened her eyes. Simeon the Scribe was staring at her.

  ‘I must have some meat,’ she retorted.

  ‘Not human flesh?’ he joked. ‘Mistress, we should retire.’

  She followed Simeon out of the tent and through the silent, cold camp. Here and there cooking fires flickered. Men, women and children grouped around seeking warmth and food. Standards, dirty and tattered, fluttered on poles. Eleanor glanced away. The very sight of her companions deepened her depression, the darkness in her own soul. When she reached her own tent, she asked where Imogene was.

  Simeon shrugged. ‘The same place! Beltran knows where food is. So, where food and Beltran are, Imogene always follows.’

  Eleanor sat down on the soaked cushions. Simeon cut their freshly cooked meat into small pieces, placed some on a scrap of parchment and handed them to her.

  ‘Eat, mistress, and look.’ He opened his leather jerkin, taken from a dead soldier, and pulled out a small wineskin. For a while, they sat sharing this between them. Simeon busied himself lighting a small fire, gathering twigs, pieces of rubbish to burn. The smoke smelt foul, but the weak flames provided some warmth.

  ‘Mistress, why not return to the chronicle? It is better than sitting here staring into the flames. I tell you, more souls have been lost looking into fires . . .’

  Eleanor, feeling better after the meat and wine, even though her stomach now hurt, nodded in agreement.

 
‘It’s best,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, it’s best . . .’

  They made themselves as comfortable as possible. Simeon, Eleanor reflected, had become very useful. Again she cursed her bitterness. Simeon was a friend. He’d told her a little about his life. How he’d lost one wife full of fever whilst his second wife and young son had been captured by Turkish bandits.

  ‘God knows where they are, mistress,’ he’d remarked. ‘Perhaps one day . . .’

  She realised that Simeon too carried his own book of sorrows, his own bag of pain. The scribe had become an expert at filching food, even the odd little luxury. He had responded to her protection with deep loyalty. He had also persuaded her to talk, describe what they had been through, insisting that she continue to write her memories down.

  ‘Others are doing it,’ he pointed out. ‘Stephen of Blois writes copious, detailed letters to his wife.’

  The depredations of the march and this long, dreadful siege had certainly curbed Eleanor’s enthusiasm for reflection, for memories. Simeon tried to prompt her with news, scandal, rumours and gossip. She recalled Hugh’s warning about a traitor, a spy, but as Simeon had pointed out, the Turks had a legion of spies throughout the camp. They would certainly be busy collecting news about the condition of the Franks, which would make the hearts of those in Antioch rejoice. Ugly rumours were also being spread. How an army was gathering in Egypt to march, pin the Army of God against the walls of Antioch and utterly destroy it. More importantly, Simeon’s sharp observations about religion had begun to influence Eleanor’s own attitude, though not her faith. She still believed in the power of the Mass, the Eucharist, prayer and the need to be shriven of one’s sins. Nevertheless, during the journey she had begun to question the truth about the Army of God and Urban’s great vision. Deus vult! Did God really want this? she wondered. Death, cruelty, rape and rapine? The barbarous greed of their leaders, lords constantly fighting amongst themselves over which cities and towns they should hold?